[Author's Note: In general I find readers in this fandom to be wonderfully supportive and not-nitpicky, but this chapter contains so many egregious errors against neuroscience that I had to just proactively point out that — yes, they are all deliberate. I know this is not how memories work, and I know this is not how lucid dreaming works. If it helps you to think that this is elaborate hypnogogic hallucination rather than REM-sleep lucid dreaming, that might help explain John's lack of muscle paralysis, or, you can (to paraphrase Mystery Science Theater 3000) just repeat to yourself it's just a fanfic, and you can really just relax. ;-) John silently dreaming would make for a hell of a boring chapter, so they're doing this instead. Thanks again for all your support! We're in to the final stretch here...]
John and Sherlock sat on the bed, John staring into his second bottle of beer while Sherlock stared unblinkingly at John.
Sherlock had wanted to try the lucid dreaming right away, but John had finally convinced him that as knackered as he had been he would more than likely just pass out after the first beer. In retrospect, maybe waiting had been a bad idea. John had been on edge all day thinking about it, dread lying cold and heavy in the pit of his stomach. Now Sherlock's avid scrutiny was making it even worse.
"It's not going to happen right away, you know," John finally snapped. "It may not even happen at all."
"I understand that, John." Sherlock's eyes flicked from John, to the waiting whiskey bottle, and back. "It is just fascinating..."
"Dammit, Sherlock!" John's nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point. "I am not one of your experiments. Stop looking at me like — like I'm one of your bags of ears or something."
He drained the remainder of the beer bottle, faster than he should have, before slamming it down on the bedside cabinet.
"I know." Sherlock's voice was so soft, so unlike his usual confident tones, that John couldn't help but meet his gaze again. "This isn't an experiment, John. This is our lives."
Sherlock's hand reached out to grasp John's, so tightly it was painful. "This is us, taking back everything Moriarty stole from us a year ago." His voice grew tight with urgency. "This is me being able to hold you without worrying that you are going to get a bullet in your head. This is us finding our way home — back to Baker Street, John."
Sherlock's mercurial eyes were a vivid silver-green, staring at John as if willing him to understand. "I know what I'm asking of you," he said, his voice hushed again.
John swallowed down the lump of regret in his throat. He pushed in closer to Sherlock, leaning his head into Sherlock's chest. "I'm sorry, love. I know that this is important."
Sherlock's long fingers carded through John's hair. "I'll be right here. Even if — even if you see me fall again, John, I am still here. I came back to you."
John cleared his throat. He'd be damned if he was going to cry — he was only two beers in, after all, he had no excuse. "Right," he said, nodding firmly, trying to pull himself together.
He reached for the whiskey, and if Sherlock saw the tremor in his hand, he didn't remark on it.
"Sh'lock?"
John nestled closer into dream-Sherlock, sighing in happiness. For some reason it was hard to speak, but it was enough just to be close, enjoying Sherlock's touch...
"John. Can you hear me?"
Sherlock's voice was unusually strident. "Mmmm," John slurred. "Too loud."
"Excellent." John felt a rush of warmth at Sherlock's praise. He wasn't quite sure what Sherlock was praising him for, but that hardly mattered. He nuzzled in closer, running his hands up Sherlock's back.
"You're doing wonderfully, John, keep speaking aloud. Now, I need you to go somewhere, John."
Why was he talking again? There was nowhere else John would rather be. "Nnnn. Stay."
"John, this is important. We need to go to St. Bart's."
John shook his head. "Not gon' there. Kiss m' 'gain."
"John..." Sherlock's voice sounded amused for a moment, before it became sharp and intent. "This is important. I need you to go to St. Bart's, on the day...on the day that I fell."
"Nnno..." John felt panic start to well up inside him. Why would Sherlock want that?
"I'm sorry, John, you have to. Do you remember now? You left, but when you saw that Mrs. Hudson was all right you came back to St. Bart's to find me. You need to do that now — go back, John."
"Don' wan'..."
"John!" Sherlock's voice was harsh for a moment and John flinched. Dream-Sherlock wasn't like this, this was wrong...
He felt a soothing hand in his hair. "Please, John." Sherlock's voice was soft now, pleading. "For me."
For Sherlock. He would do anything for Sherlock.
He concentrated, still holding Sherlock tight, and then suddenly his arms were empty. He was standing in the street outside St. Bart's, looking up at Sherlock, his thoughts a riot of confusion and panic. "Don' Sh'lock...don'..."
"You're there. Excellent."
"Sh'lock...why..."
"Don't look at me, John. Don't look at the rooftop."
"Y'said...keep m'eyes...fix'd on you..."
"I know what I said." Sherlock's voice was laced with pain. "You have to listen to what I'm saying now. Look around you, at everyone you see. We're looking for the sniper. Do you remember, John? We're looking for Moran."
Moran. The name made John shiver, even though he couldn't quite place it. Something was so odd. Sherlock was on the rooftop, wasn't he? But the voice wasn't coming from the phone in his ear. John twitched, a flash of bright light blinding him for a moment.
"No, John." A gentle hand covered his eyes. "Keep your eyes closed. You're safe. You're with me. You need to stay...where you are." John felt his body relax a bit at the warm touch.
"I know this is difficult, John, but you have to do this. It's very important. Someone is watching us. Someone who wants to harm us."
John felt something, a glimmer of memory. He looked at you through a rifle scope, John...
"M'ran."
"That's right. Moran. He's here, somewhere, John. You may not be able to see him now, but he's watching us. He's in a position to shoot you if I don't jump, so he has to have a clear line of sight to us both. He didn't have much time, he had to follow you back from Baker Street. Where would he be, John?"
John looked around, at the buildings, the windows. Someone coming from behind him, following his cab, and then getting a sniper rifle into position, in a hurry. A clear shot to himself, where he was standing, with a secondary line of sight to Sherlock...Sherlock, on the roof. Against his will John's eyes darted upwards and caught, paralyzed with dread, as Sherlock carelessly cast aside his mobile, balancing on the ledge.
"Sh'lock...don' do'it. Don' leav'me..."
"Concentrate, John. Not on me. On Moran. I won't leave you, John, but you have to think. Think!"
John reluctantly dragged his eyes from Sherlock. A sniper in a rush, so no time to break into a secured apartment or office. Stairwell, then. Within a thousand metres for optimal accuracy, trying to avoid sun glare...
"Listen very closely, John. This is vital. Look all around you. Look at all the people."
John looked at the sparse crowd of individuals. Some still going about their daily business, others stopped to look up at the roof. The roof...John steadfastly kept his gaze on the ground level, sweeping the neighboring buildings to look for anything important...the glimmer of sunlight off a scope, a flash of movement where there shouldn't be any...
"'kay..."
"Now, John, remove all the women. They don't exist. Just the men."
John started as the crowd thinned by a good half. That was actually...pretty amazing. Like something out of The Matrix.
"'kay..."
"Now the men. Moran is in his 40's or early 50's. Just to be safe, eliminate anyone younger than twenty and older than sixty. Can you do that, John?"
"Yeah." It took some concentration, but now only a few individuals remained.
"Good, John. Excellent. Now this is the difficult part. Are you ready?"
Now was the difficult part? John steeled himself. "Mmmhuh."
"I'm going to jump, John."
"Nnnno." John shifted, craning his head back up to the rooftop, squinting his eyes against the glare of the autumn sun. "Don', Sh'lock. Nnno. Love...love you. Don' jmp. Please."
"I have to, John, but it will be all right. I promise you. I'm not leaving you. Don't look at me while I do it, John. Look at the crowd. Everyone, all around you. While I jump, whlie they take me away. You were in shock, John, but you saw everything, you always do. Remember what we're looking for. A man, in his 40's or 50's. Watch all the buildings, all the passersby. He's going to leave the scene, John and you'll see him. I know you can do this. You'll know him when you see him."
"How...?"
"You're observant, John, much more than I give you credit for. A military man, a sniper? You'll see it on him. Look for his hands, his eyes, the set of his shoulders. Weathered skin, permanent tan. South African by birth but able to blend in. Someone cruel, someone accustomed to physical force. Maybe he's got the rifle with him in some kind of bag, maybe he stashed it and returned for it later, but you'll know him John. I know you will. Are you ready?"
Christ, no, he wasn't ready. I'm going to jump, John. How would he ever be ready for that?
John squeezed his eyes, tight, pushing away the confusion and panic. He hadn't ever been able to stop Sherlock from jumping, but this time he didn't have to stand helplessly by. He had a mission, a request from Sherlock, and he'd be damned if he didn't complete it.
"M'ready."
"Good, John. Here we go." John heard remembered fear in Sherlock's voice as well. "I'm jumping now. Falling."
John's stomach was heaving but he kept his eyes on the crowd. A few people came out of the buildings, more passersby stopping, some screaming, some just watching with mouths agape. He heard the sickening crunch as Sherlock hit the pavement. He knew what he would see if he looked, those beautiful eyes blank and sightness, red-black blood streaking the pale face as a pool of it spread through those ebony curls...
He kept his eyes on the crowd, on the buildings. Up there...was that an open window? Just half of a stairwell window, pushed ajar...
"Don' see..."
"Keep looking, John. It will take him a moment. He'll want to confirm...see that I'm gone. He'll have to break down the rifle. You are trying to get to me, but they pull you away. They sit you down, but you push them away. You can still see everything, John."
John concentrated, scanning. A flicker of movement, and...oh. There. Just as Sherlock said, it was unmistakeable. The steady hands, the sharp eye. The set of a military man, but with cruelty in the turn of his mouth. Walking casually but quickly, not even stopping for a moment to take in the bloody scene, a nondescript black duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
"See...see'm."
"Excellent, John!" John could hear the excitement in Sherlock's voice. "Hold him in place." The figure stopped, as if suddenly frozen. "Look at everything about him, John. What he's wearing, his shoes, his watch, anything he's carrying. But most of all his face. Look at his face, John, remember everything about it. Everything. It is the key to finding him."
"Seee...seen..."
"Yes, John. Keep seeing him." Sherlock sounded distracted now. "We'll need a sketch artist, I suppose, or an identikit..."
"Nnnno." Sherlock wasn't getting it. John struggled, pushing the words out with all his force. "See...seen'm before."
"What?" Sherlock's voice was blank with surprise. "Around Baker Street? He had likely been surveilling us for awhile..."
"Nnnno. Long'go. Can't 'member..."
"Think, John!"
John made a noise of frustration, and Sherlock's voice gentled. "It's okay, John. Look at his face. Just his face. When you saw it before...tell me anything you can. Scents, sounds...anything."
"Al'cl..."
"Alcohol? A bar? Did you meet him at University..."
"Nnnn. R'bbng al'cl. Phenol. Inf'ction. Gangrene."
"Good, John. Excellent. A hospital. St. Bart's? During your training?"
"Nnn. Hear...'Mericans. Pashto. Dari."
"Afghanistan. But...not your regular posting. A hospital that treats civilians. Staffed by Americans." Sherlock seemed to be muttering to himself now. "Think, dammit...think..."
John stared at the face in front of him. He tried to imagine it in hospital bed, injured. No, that didn't seem right. Posing as a staff member? John tried to imagine the man in scrubs, or a uniform. Not scrubs, but the uniform...
"Oh!" Sherlock's voice cut into his concentration. "Kandahar airfield, the NATO hospital! Did you visit?"
God, Sherlock was brilliant as always. John had almost forgotten. A three-day training by a neurosurgeon there on in-field stabilization of battlefield injuries and decompressive craniotomy, but John had also accompanied the attendings on rounds.
Suddenly, clear as if he were there, John saw the man — Moran — slumped in a blue vinyl visitor's chair, straightening to full awareness the second they entered the room. His head clean-shaven, his eyebrows so light as to be almost invisible, emphasizing the deep furrows in his brow. And those eyes, light green and piercing above the firm-set mouth and square chin.
He was wearing a uniform, but not South African...John had a sudden memory of trying to bite back a smile. A beaver, of all things, in the insignia on the man's cap. Canadian civil engineering service. Two employees injured by an IED in Chora, one only superficially, the other quite seriously. This man stayed long enough to hear the poor prognosis of the other, and was gone the next day.
John tried to think back. They had walked into the room. John was looking at the patient's chart and vitals, but the attending had extended his hand to the visitor. He had said his name...what was it...what was it...
Sherlock was talking again but John tuned out even his voice. He took himself back again, to the door. The smell of the hospital, the woosh of the ventilator from the bed, the click of the attending's shoes...
"Major Pepin, let me update you on your colleague's condition. Unfortunately the concussive injury sustained..."
"Sh'lock." John tried to fix the alias and face in his memory. "Sh'lock...alias. M'jr Pepin. C'nadian."
"What? A — a name? John, that's incredible. Documentation, even if forged, would get us a picture for facial recognition..." Sherlock was babbling on, but John wasn't listening anymore. He had done his task, and now he wanted to be away from all of it — no more Kandahar, no more St. Bart's.
"John? You can wake up now, John."
"Nnnn. Baker Street. C'mere, love. Back t'me."
John felt his warmth all along his body now. Sherlock was back into his arms, the two of them crammed into the sofa on Baker Street, his body half-draped over Sherlock's languid form. John sighed in relief, nuzzling into Sherlock's neck. He felt Sherlock's hand in his hair, soothing him.
"Yes, all right, John. We're at Baker Street. Everything has been fixed now." Sherlock's voice was soft and wistful. "We're home."
John hummed in satisfaction, kissing the hollow of Sherlock's throat. "Love you."
"Yes, John. Sleep now." John felt himself drifting away, and then Sherlock spoke again, so quietly he almost could have imagined it. "I love you too."
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