Sherlock woke up with the faint recollection of another nightmare. He frowned and shook his head to dispel the feeling.
The nightmares had started a few months ago, on the second of March, to be precise; at first, he had believed it to be a single incident. Normally he didn't remember his dreams, much less the feeling they left him with, even though he knew he, like other humans, dreamed every night.
Therefore he had not been worried when he woke up with a sense of foreboding and danger. His work was dangerous, and he and John had caught a particularly vicious murderer only the day before. He was astonished that his mind could still find this a reason to make up horrors, but he didn't doubt that it would be the only time.
He was wrong.
Soon, he woke up scared every time after he had gone to sleep – and he slept little to begin with. He had to retire sooner and more often because not only did the nightmares leave him unsettled, he also got less rest when he was experiencing them. John thought he was being "careful about his health for once" and he let the doctor believe it. He was not yet convinced that the nightmares were anything to be concerned about – after all, he had not had one since he was a child, and they had only been there for a few months; maybe his subconscious was trying to deal with all the experiences he'd had over the years.
And, if he was ever going to start having nightmares, he supposed that after the two lonely years of fighting Moriarty's web was the right time.
He hadn't told anyone about it. Not even John. There was no point talking about the past; it was over. He had done what he had to do. He had been alone, and he had committed crimes; he couldn't deny it; sometimes when the criminals had been untouchable by law, he had had to deal with them himself.
He had had perfectly good reasons for his behaviour though – but maybe his subconscious felt regret. He was human, after all, much as he had tried to deny it before meeting John and his other friends; perhaps the nightmares were his mind's way of adjusting to everything he had done, to returning home, and would stop over time.
He decided not to theorize for now. He would carefully analyze his moods upon waking, noting any change. If the nightmares didn't stop, he could still tell John. For now, he could handle. He didn't want the doctor to make a fuzz about what were only silly images his subconscious chose to scare him.
John had become an expert on watching Sherlock without him noticing. It had become necessary since the consulting detective was obviously lying to him – or rather, not talking to him about something that was bothering him. His posture was always tense, instead of relaxed like it had been after he returned, there were dark circles under his eyes, and during their latest case he had been distracted more than once when he normally would have focused on catching the killer.
Something was wrong with him.
After – Sherlock had been gone, John had often wondered if there had been signs, if he had missed something. Maybe that was why he was paying him so close attention now and had noticed that Sherlock was behaving oddly.
He didn't know whether he should talk to him about it or not. Knowing Sherlock, he would deny that anything was wrong and sulk until John let the subject drop.
He would have to hope that eventually Sherlock would talk; if not and he continued to get worse, he could ask Greg or Mrs. Hudson for help. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate it, but John wouldn't allow something to pass his notice again. He had learned the hard way to be careful.
So he didn't stare at Sherlock, even though he wanted to assure himself that he'd got a good night's rest, and instead occupied himself with making coffee and handing him a cup.
At least the dark circles were not as pronounced as yesterday, he realized with a quick glance at his friend as he sat down in front of his microscope.
He was ready. It had not been easy, but he was ready. Navigating through Sherlock's subconscious had been difficult at first; he had been in danger of losing himself, being completely immersed. While it would have had fascinating effects, without a doubt, he wouldn't have been able to enjoy them. He had struggled against the stream that was pulling him under, dragging him in all directions, feeling himself being transported through eons of a mind that was even bigger than he had supposed in the beginning, when he slowly became conscious of himself, locked away but still there, still dangerous, still ready to play.
It was the mind he had set out to conquer. He couldn't completely; the subconscious was too fickle, too surprising, too entertaining to ever achieve that, and he was fine with it. More than fine. If he did everything right, he would finally have a game that he could continue to play indefinitely.
His and Sherlock's battles in the real world had eventually grown boring. He had always been able to predict what the consulting detective would do; he had even contemplated the possibility that he could survive and pull down his web, but had been too annoyed and disappointed in a life without distractions that he had shot himself without regrets. In this new life, he would never know what would happen. Sherlock's subconscious would always keep him on edge. And of course there would be Sherlock himself.
He didn't know yet how he could capture Sherlock's conscious mind. It had be possible, however; he could no longer doubt it; after having felt the power of the subconscious, he was aware that everything was possible. There had to be a way.
The problem was that Sherlock's conscious mind was not one complete entity, as was he. He had been recreated, had been chained in a cell as Sherlock had perceived him.
But he was inside Sherlock's mind. A mind was not a coherent being, not an easy to grasp concept; it was shattered, some part memories, other theories, fears, emotions. He would have to bundle Sherlock's mind before he could attempt to trap him in his own head.
It was a challenge, but he had always delighted in challenges. Life had not given him many – he had been too extraordinary. Sherlock, outside, hadn't been, although he'd thought so for a time. But here – the mind had never been experienced in the way he was going to experience it. He would learn more than Freud and Adler had ever dreamed of; he would dive deep into his secrets and play with it; he would manage to control Sherlock.
The first step was going to be dreams, he decided. He had brought Sherlock nightmares while he had been searching his mind palace without meaning to; he had to be able to do it on purpose. A tired Sherlock was sure to be more easily manipulated.
So, in the darkness, he once more carefully reached out.
Somewhere, he had to find the centre of Sherlock's dreams.
It didn't get better.
Sherlock was getting worse. Two months ago, John had decided to wait. Now, he decided to get help, or at least talk to someone.
Sherlock hadn't complained, he hadn't mentioned it to John, and that terrified the doctor. Normally when something was wrong, his best friend would continually sulk, be angry, annoy everyone around him. But he was simply trying to act as if nothing was happening, and the last time he had –
John couldn't think about that. It brought up too many memories and feelings that would distract him from the problem at hand.
He realized he was thinking like Sherlock and decided to talk to Greg as soon as possible.
The DI called him later that day, so that he simply had to call out that he was going to meet him for a pint and wait for Sherlock's answering grumble before leaving the flat.
"Did you notice something strange about Sherlock lately?" he asked as soon as he had sat down next to his friend.
Greg raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
John shrugged and took a sip of his beer. "He's just – different". Quieter. The rings under his eyes more pronounced. Slightly slower in his deductions.
"He has been through a lot" Greg said after contemplating his statement. "We all have. And we've all changed".
"I suppose" John replied, not convinced. The unsettling feeling remained, but he had to admit that Greg had a point. Maybe he was too sensitive after Sherlock's return.
Over the next few weeks, he found he was happy that he hadn't pressed the matter. Sherlock apparently slept better, was faster than ever when it came to solving crimes, and there was a whole new energy about him.
In fact, there was a gleam in his eyes that he had never seen before.