Hi, just wanted thanks for sticking with it this far, I hope you enjoy it!
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An Unwanted Dream
Sherlock sat, impatiently tapping his foot against the floor.
How dare, how dare he presume that I am unfit for work and then send me home, like I'm no one. And then, when I refuse, threaten me with my idiotic brother!
Some wonder what goes on in Sherlock's head, brother bashing is the answer.
As a result of the boredom that currently was infused into his every cell, by the time the first foot had fallen onto the stairs, he had a name for the owner.
'WHAT?'
'I've got some milk and biscuits for you dear,' Mrs Hudson, the land lady, called from the stairwell.
As she reached the open door she said, 'Now I'm not your housekeeper, but I thought you might be needing some essentials, but this won't happen again mind!'
'Yes, yes of course,' he waved a hand dismissively as she bustled round the kitchen.
Mrs Hudson, out of the goodness of her heart, felt it necessary to put Sherlock up in 221B until he had either a roommate (not so likely) or found a more affordable place to stay.
She didn't regret her decision, but he didn't exactly make it easy for her.
The jars marked with skull and crossbones backed up her point.
'Would it hurt to do a little cleaning Sherlock?' She crossed over to the living room and sat on the sofa opposite his chair, looking suspiciously around her, checking for any more dangerous or possibly disgusting items.
He regarded her with little interest, then rolled his eyes, his head following the motion until it lay on the cushion behind.
'Don't be so melodramatic dear, it's not attractive,' she said condescendingly, then more tentatively, 'Is there anything you want to tell me?'
She received a rumbling response, 'No.'
After a short period of silence, 'Lestrade spoke to you I suppose?' It was less of a question, more of a statement.
Again, Mrs Hudson didn't move, she merely sat, with her hands crossed elegantly on her lap, her posture welcoming and her eyes comforting.
'It was just a moment, a brief time of emotional lapse, I won't be repeating the action.'
'You can't stop feeling Sherlock, you can pretend, but these things are written in our blood. Your person was in a life-threatening situation and you acted how everyone would in the same situation-'
'But I'm not everyone.'
'That may be the case, but you are human, and you're allowed to feel helpless sometimes,' she knew he wasn't going to reply, so instead of waiting, she stood squeezed his arm and left him.
…
When Sherlock opened his eyes next, the sky was dark, with only a paint splatter of white dots to illuminate the night.
Outside, the busy streets were down to a quiet buzz, only the occasional late night cab and office worker were there to contribute to the noise level.
He considered playing the violin, but the last time he had done that Mrs Hudson had confiscated his skull.
As a result of having no cases or experiments, or anything to distract him, Sherlock was left to his thoughts.
Normally, Sherlock wasn't a 'deep' person. It didn't take a genius to figure that out.
But (apart from Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's mother and much to his annoyance, his brother) few took the time to remember that he did have a heartbeat, and a head, and even though he would flat out deny it, he couldn't always remain emotionless.
Rude, insufferable and inconsiderate, yes. Cold, cruel and spiteful…sometimes. Frustrating, aggravating, punch-worthy – Sorry, I'm getting carried away.
My point is that, despite his frequent attempts at doing something else, Sherlock would have nightmares, and these would scare him.
For the last few hours he hadn't moved an inch, this in its self wasn't so unusual, he had been known to go for days without so much as a twitch. But the reasoning for his comatose stature was somewhat more saddening.
Shortly after Mrs Hudson had the flat, Sherlock had slipped into a deep sleep. After depriving his body of any form of rest (other than sitting down to perform experiments), the sudden exhaustion wasn't unexpected by the detective.
What he had dreamed about however, was another story.
The room was musty and dank. A stream of light ran through the tiny bared window, small, yet sharp and strong. It provided only enough luminance to highlight a crouching figure in the corner, laying down another person to rest on the dusty floor.
Sherlock was sure he there, not just a watching eye like most dreams. He knelt down, a black trouser leg now with a circle of dirt on the knee, as he grasped at the sand, finding himself unable to pick up the tiny grains.
Frustrated, he focused more on the two people in the corner, on closer inspection he could see they were soldiers, but nothing else.
The man crouching had his back to Sherlock, before he knew it the man had stood and left, checking both directions before he ran down the pitch black hallway.
The other soldier was lying on their right hand side, their head resting on their right arm. The broken light from the window illuminated the back of their body, all sharp angles against the wrinkles and folds of their uniform. What would have been a soft glow out lining the soldier was turned into a halo of red, the blood oozing from his torn uniform around their shoulder was lit up like lights on a Christmas tree.
Cautiously, he crept closer the body. There was only enough light to be able to see part of them, Sherlock wanted to see the face that was so carefully wrapped under the arm of the soldier.
As he inched closer he saw a familiar emblem sewn to their jacket sleeve, a white band with a red cross.
So, an army doctor, he thought, interesting.
Peering through the rays of light, he attempted to get a clearer look at the persons face. Every time he grew further towards his goal, they would seem to move further away.
After a mere few seconds that felt like an eternity, Sherlock grew annoyed at himself, and forgot that he was dreaming.
'Wait! I can help you,' he leapt to his feet and attempted to run towards them, but to no avail, they continued to be unreachable.
Panting heavily, Sherlock stopped and fell to his knees. Remembering where he was, he took a few a few steps back out of the light, and watched.
They were still breathing, but barely. Every breath appeared to be a struggle, until the camouflage coat appeared to swallow them whole, leaving nothing but a ragged heap of clothes and a pool of sticky blood.
'No,' not only was he irritated with himself, but he couldn't understand why the soldier had left them there, wounded, and just gone off to fight once more.
Sherlock caught himself crying out for someone to help the injured soldier. He paused, and found himself awakening, consciousness dragging him out of his sleep.
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