Rating warning: still within a T, but technically more a T+. Given the nature of the third 'ghost', you'll understand why. Nothing too graphic, but be prepared nonetheless.

"Long time no see, Sherlock."

Part of Sherlock wanted to exclaim that perhaps it was Christmas indeed, even though none of his dreams, despite the Dickens premise, seemed to be about Christmas.

Part of him wanted to grab his gun, even though his rational mind told him that it would make no difference in this world.

Instead, he simply smiled. "Hello, Jim."

And it was in his instincts that he couldn't help the thrill that shot through his veins at that name, at those eyes, at that smile. This was his case. This was his living. James Moriarty was always the number one mystery to solve; he had thought he had beaten him, and somehow, he hadn't. The most interesting - and frustrating - thing was the elusive fact, and Sherlock had spent countless hours trying to figure out, perhaps like so many had before about himself, how the man had faked his death.

"I know you're not dead," he continued, rising to his feet. "Not so much a ghost."

"Why follow the pattern and be ordinary?" Jim drawled, sidling up to him. "I'm not a ghost, Sherlock. No. I am the demon lurking in your future."

Sherlock analysed his gaze thoughtfully. Same look, same ice cold, lifeless vacant look that somehow was still dangerous, still taunting, still playful. It was the same, old James Moriarty. A dream, but very much alive nonetheless, lurking somewhere, like he had said, in the future.

"That's as cliché as it is exciting," Sherlock said conversationally. "Come to take me into my future, then?"

"Your personal tour guide for a trip down Memories Yet to Come. It's delicious, Sherlock, really. The things I've seen in your yet-to-be's..." he trailed off. "Mm."

"Well, no time like the present." Sherlock paused. "Or should I say future, so I don't hurt your feelings?" he asked sarcastically.

"Your concern is touching, Sherlock, really it is. But you shouldn't worry about my feelings. Only yours."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Well. I'll defer to my own judgment until proven other-" He broke off as his bedroom door burst open, light flooding in from the hall. There were the sound of footsteps and two children ran into the bedroom. One girl and one boy, roughly seven and five. They careened right through Sherlock and jumped onto the bed.

"Uncle Sherlock, Uncle Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned around.

Another mirrored version of himself was in bed, although he appeared... again, roughly seven years older, going by the additional - albeit only slightly noticeable - wrinkles. His mirrored self was being rudely awoken by the children.

"Sorry, Sherlock, they're all excited for your birthday," John's voice said, appearing in the room a moment later, followed by Mary. "They don't even get this excited for my birthday. Why is it you guys are more excited for your godfather's birthday?!" he demanded teasingly, crossing his arms.

"Because Celeste and William know who spoils them more," mirror Sherlock mumbled, smiling tiredly as he accepted hugs from both of the children.

"You've got godchildren in this one, Sherlock!" Jim chimed in. "Isn't it such a sweet picture of familial innocence? Aww. Look at that smile on your face. Those kids are just too cute."

Sherlock studiously kept his own face blank. His mind was whirling. Godchildren? Godchildren? John and Mary had had two kids? And they'd even named one after him, even though real John would never do that nor would he actually probably let him. And... birthdays? Something he hadn't celebrated in ages, it felt like, after his own faked suicide.

His mind flickered back to Irene's vision, of John saying how excited Sherlock had been for the baby. This version of himself looked so happy.

"This is just too sappy and sentimental, don't you agree?" Jim gripped his shoulder. "Let's move on."

Jim's hand pressed down on his shoulder painfully. Sherlock choked on the breath he was taking as white hot agony shot through his body. His legs collapsed from under him; he hit his knees and struggled to breathe, all the while Jim holding him down. When he looked up again, he was staring into a gleaming tombstone.

Mary Watson

September 18, 1973 - January 15, 2015

His mind scrabbled to keep up with the happy dream to the sudden pain and the reappearance into a dark and desolate world; a cemetery, surrounded by gnarled trees and London fog, with a tombstone and the familiar name etched into it front of him.

"Mary...?" he gasped. Tears stung his eyes, although he didn't know what exactly what the initiator was, the pain or the loss.

"This is a better future," Jim said cheerfully. "Being dead is amazing, Sherlock. And this woman... tsk. Good thing she's away from John here. Oh, look over there."

Sherlock winced as Jim took hold of his hair, jerking his attention to the right.

Celeste Watson

January 15, 2015 - January 18, 2015

"Poor little Celeste, no seven year old wake up calls here." Jim ruffled his hair and released him.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. "What?" His voice came out unnaturally thin, choked for a grasp on the reality placed in front of him. He hadn't known Celeste, how could he possibly grieve her-

"Mrs Lies a Lot was shot. They performed emergency surgery to save John and her's poor girl, but." Jim clicked his tongue. "Celeste only survived for three days in the NICU. You were very, very broken up about it. John? He was shattered."

"... No." He wasn't aware that he had said it out loud until Jim responded.

"Yes. Let's go."

"Wait a-"

But the scene dissolved nonetheless. Sherlock was infinitely glad to see it go, but that didn't change the fact that he hadn't had time to process.

"I shouldn't brag about my own accomplishments, but I particularly enjoy this future," Jim commented.

Sherlock nearly fell over when the world settled; he reached out a hand to steady himself and his hand landed in a pool of blood. He was nearly loathe to look up.

It was his own body, blood travelling in thick, winding rivers across the pavement. This was real, this wasn't a faked death. This was John over him, repeating his name over and over.

There was a note nearby. It was too eerily similar. Sherlock squinted to read it.

Many happy returns.
x JM

"A future in which... you won," Sherlock ground out, pushing himself back to his knees, and then unsteadily to his feet. "... I know this one is fake."

Jim stared back at him with widened eyes. "Oh, no, Sherlock. Don't be so quick to judge. None of these futures are for certain. All of these futures could happen. Any of them could happen."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, blinking sweat away from his eyelashes. "I thought-"

"That two of the dreams were real, and the other wasn't? I told you, Sherlock. I wouldn't be so ordinary."

"So then-"

"Oh, yes. They could happen."

No, no, no. Control, get a hold of yourself, Holmes! He shook his head violently, his murder scene blurring out before his eyes. "Futures can-"

A gunshot echoed through the air, making him flinch. The vision only came after the noise; Sherlock watched John stagger and fall as though in slow motion.

"John!"

He knew it was pointless to react; it was a dream, but it was instinct.

"Johnny boy," Jim echoed, watching critically. "He always was your weakness. You were always incredibly transparent when it involved him."

"Go back," Sherlock interrupted. "Go back. We started off so well."

"Maybe all of your futures are bleak."

"I don't believe that," Sherlock retaliated. "You're just choosing what to show me. You're just a part of my mind. You're just in my head. Show me what I want to see," he demanded, studiously ignoring the scene of John dying around him. "My choice."

Jim twitched his hand. "Dull. How many times do I have to tell you? You don't have to fear death, Sherlock."

"Now," Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, fine." Jim pouted. "You've gotten so soft." He snapped his fingers.

Sherlock's frantic pleading faded out in the background into the buzz of white noise, and then just a buzz, and then - were those bees?

"Meet Sherlock Holmes, retired."

Sherlock critically eyed the scene. This time, he was in his mid-sixties and surrounded by a multitude of beehives. "I retired to become a beekeeper." He didn't say that it seemed possible, apprehensive to give in to any whim of Jim's visions.

"Yes, moved to the country with Johnny boy. He's currently in the cottage, eating biscuits and scones and writing a book."

Writing a book... but wait, no mention of Mary. Maybe he hadn't gotten married in this future. There was no reason to take one version into the other. But...

He was getting so confused.

"Why would you choose to become so dull?" Moriarty trilled. "I don't like this future, either, let's move o- oh, crumbs."

Sherlock looked around. They were back in his bedroom.

"I was just starting to have fun!" Jim protested.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Oh, yes, barrels." He turned away. "I meant to ask, something Irene said. What exactly is the point here?" He turned to his window, staring out it without really seeing out it. There was nothing outside except darkness, anyway. Part of the dream or something of Jim's doing, he wasn't sure. "Apparently the book was about Christmas. These dreams aren't about Christmas and I don't need to have a change of heart."

"Oooh. You haven't figured it out yet." Jim's tone was all the mocking that it had ever been, but it seemed more lethal, more venomous than Sherlock had ever heard it.

He decided that silence was the best option. He doubted that it was important. He doubted that any of this was important. But this batch of dreams had ventured into nightmare territory, and he couldn't help shaking the feeling - one he hoped would go away with waking - of... what if that is my future?

"Oh, Sherlock, I've missed you, but do try to be more on your game when you and I meet face to face."

Sherlock stared out the window studiously.

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Those aren't lies," Jim said cheerfully. "Those are real. They can be real. They can be in your books. They might be right now, in fact, and - " A beat of silence. "You will never know which one will come to pass until too late." Moriarty gave a little laugh. "To be fair, though, most of them are death and darkness, so you have something to look forward to. With me back, I own your future, Sherlock."

Sherlock ground his teeth. "... The future is not set in stone," he said, as steadily as he could. He knew fighting his own dream was pointless, but he couldn't stop himself. He had never been good at stopping himself.

"Oh?"

"I don't believe in destiny." Sherlock met Moriarty's gaze in the reflection of the window. "I don't believe in a predestined path."

"You don't believe in Fate?" Moriarty asked. His voice was pure ice, and sickly sweet at the same time. "You met adorable little John Watson, and you don't believe in Fate?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared. "Not as such." He turned around, folding his hands behind his back. "Miracles, maybe. Fate? No. We will meet again, Jim. But my future will be very different from what you boast in these dreams. I have my own future," he said, crossing the room slowly. "Let me see. You dead, truly dead, me, still solving cases for the Yard. John and Mary, with as many children as they please, although hopefully just one or two. And... I'd say world peace, but..." He stopped in front of Jim, raising his eyebrows. "Strikes me as a little textbook."

Moriarty scoffed. "World peace would be boring."

"It would," Sherlock agreed. "But." He raised his hands in a what can you do? motion. "I think it's time for you to leave."

Jim smiled. Smirked, more like. "For now. Until next time, Sherlock."

When the bells rang through London again, so did the chill through his veins. Moriarty had vanished, but the cold fear prickling the back of Sherlock's neck wasn't a figment of his imagination. A façade was pointless when it was only himself, but he was loathe to admit to even himself how ragged these nightmares made him feel. Like pouring salt into an open wound.

When he woke up this time, his heart was pounding and he was drenched in a cold sweat.

He knew he was back to reality, though, because he wasn't waking up in bed. He was on the sofa, where he now remembered that he had fallen asleep. It was only dusk outside - he hadn't meant to fall asleep - but he had cuddled down with the blankets on the sofa to watch telly and had apparently fallen asleep.

He fought the blankets away impatiently, his shirt clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He felt cold and clammy and not well rested. He wanted to take some sleeping medication and go to bed and not dream, but... something stopped him.

Twenty minutes later, he'd taken a shower, changed into different clothes, and was out the door.

He told the cabbie John and Mary's address.

He told himself he wasn't going to see them because of the dreams. He told himself it wasn't because he was being sentimental.

Jim's futures are so dark and demented. He's a twisted individual ^^ One more chapter and this strange version of the Christmas carol is over. Don't worry; we're staying entirely in the present this time. Literally.

I do not own Sherlock. Thanks!