"Is something wrong," Mary asked John when he got home that night.
John had his hands in the pockets of his coat and he was frowning at the floor. "I'm not sure," he said without looking up at her.
"Want to tell me about it?"
He looked up and smiled. She was wearing the white gown he'd bought her. The one with the lace top and his body heated up as he thought about the matching lace panties he'd also purchased. She seemed to recognize his expression, because she smiled in a most inviting way. "Are you wearing them," he asked, his eyes sparkling with hope.
"What do you think?" She playfully asked.
A large shutter of excitement ran through him. "I love you."
She squared her shoulders, which accentuated the shape of her breasts through her gown. "I know," she teased.
[-]
A good few hours later...
"So, he grew angry with you when you threatened to get him drug tested?"
John groaned. "Yes. I will admit, not my finest hour."
"You need to apologize."
"I know." He sighed. "I just don't understand what he was going on about."
She tapped his shoulder gently. "That why you need to talk to him. He opened up once. If he trusts you he'll open up again. It's Sherlock. You're lucky he told you any thing. Especially, with that kind of material."
"Yes, bright lights, blue, conversation. I've never heard him talk about any thing resembling dreams. Hell, I've never seen the man sleep before."
"Really?"
"Yes. He's always working on something. He's like the walking affirmation for workaholics and insomnia at the same time."
Henry's cries came over the baby monitor.
Mary smiled. "I'll get him."
John smiled as she pulled on her robe and he listened to the sound of her house shoes shuffling down the hallway.
[-]
John was surprised to find Sherlock asleep on the couch in the seating room the next day. It was too weird. He thought about waking him up and decided against it. He went down stairs and found Mrs. Hudson seated at her kitchen table. She offered him a cup of tea, which he happily accepted.
"How are you today, dear?" She smiled at him over the rim of her cup.
"I'm well."
"How are Mary and Henry."
"They're good. After we went shopping she decided it was Mommy Time again and shooed me out of the apartment."
She laughed. "I always knew you two would make good parents."
He added a lump of sugar to his tea and picked the small silver spoon up from the dish to stir it with. "Thank you. We're really getting on quit well. The only bad part is the crying, but once he's fixed up with a bottle or fresh diaper he's good again."
"That's great."
He pulled out his phone and brought up the Files section. Mrs. Hudson leaned over to see the screen better.
"Awww," she said. Henry was asleep in his crip. He laying with his face on his little blue pillow and his little diapered butt in the air. She giggled loudly. "He's so precious."
John felt himself blush as he smiled at the compliment. "He really is."
[-]
Sherlock gasped loudly and his eyes popped open. "Moriarty," he growled out. This changed things. No. "No it doesn't," he said out loud.
"Moriarty's dead."
It was just a dream. If that's what you called it when you saw blue, and bright lights and experienced some one else's pain as it played out in your subconscious. The moment of denial was quickly dismissed as he thought about the change he'd experienced in his dream. What ever had been stopping him from being able to understand what kind of conversations were going on had vanished.
Moriarty's voice had instantly become recognizable and he'd heard more of the conversation he'd been catching bits of pieces of for the last couple of weeks. He went to his computer and pulled up the file he'd been recording his dreams in.
Late Morning. 9 P.M.
The males voice is that of Jim Moriarty. The female voice is of someone young. I don't recognize it.
The conversation between them seems like Moriarty is asking for the young female to not do something, I'm assuming violent. To what avail, I don't know. There isn't enough data.
This was stupid. Why was he dreaming about Moriarty at all? With all the passion of a sociopath that couldn't help but to be intrigued he turned his attention back to recording what he'd seen.
Now that I've heard the conversation clearly (I suspect there's a lot more I haven't heard) I am led to believe that the random moments that red explodes across what ever subconscious world I go in to when this dream takes place is blood.
What did that mean? His first thought was that Moriarty was back to doing something involving blood shed, but that didn't make sense. For one, Moriarty was dead. For two, just the fact that he thought those specific words 'Moriarty was back to doing something involving blood shed' was strange. It was in present tense, as if he'd never died at all.
The conversation goes like this -
"Please don't. I can take handle this. No one needs to die."
There's silence. I assume the young female gives some type of motion (A nod, or another physical representation that they are taken in to consideration what Moriarty has said) and Moriarty says, "Thank you. Please don't interrupt me unless I absolutely need you to protect me. That means my asking you to do so." Then there's nothing. No sounds. Nothing to indicate more. Of course, there has to be more.
A conversation with some one else. I want to know what started the conversation to begin with. I know I previously mentioned the females voice. In this bit of the conversation she doesn't speak and for the life of me I can't remember any thing she's said in past dream sessions. I do know that I vividly remember her speaking, though.
I will add to this when I have new data.
He saved the update and closed the top down.
[-]
"Oh, you're up."
Sherlock was seated in his chair.
"And you're dressed. Going out?"
"No."
"Ok." When he didn't say any thing else he sat down in his own chair and looked at him for a few seconds. "About last night. I'm may have been a little..."
"Rude."
He snorted. How ironic that he would be the one to be called rude by Sherlock himself. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Exactly. I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it."
Beneath Sherlock's stiff posture and intense gaze John couldn't help but think that their was an underlying 'Don't worry. You didn't hurt my feelings,' or 'I don't have feelings to hurt.'
"So, do you want to finish telling me what you were talking about last night?"
"It's just dreams. I made too much out of it. You know how I can be."
John cocked an eyebrow. He did know how Sherlock could be, but he wasn't daft. He knew him better than any one and there was something he was hiding. He didn't know what it could possibly be in this particular situation, but there was definitely something there. Was it really important for him to know what it was?
If it had to do with dreams, good or bad, as long as it wasn't something psychologically damaging, he didn't think so. Resolved in his analysis of the situation he let it go.
"Ok, then. Have you landed any more cases?" The look he gave him hinted at his intense frustration. So, that was a NO! He didn't press.
"We should get out. I really need to do something." Being on fatherly duty and coming over here was all that he did any more and he really wanted to do something different for a change.
"What do you have in mind?"
He was surprised that agreed so easily. "We could go for a coffee. We could eat. I am kind of hungry."
Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Ok, food it is." He stood up and smoothed his hands down the front of his coat.
[-]
That night John told Mary about the fact that he thought Sherlock was hiding something from him. As he suspected, she told him that it was best if he waited for him to reveal it in his own time. He hated that he'd missed an opportunity find out more about his dreams though. He was now more curious than ever.