So this was originally two chapters but it sort of just melded and I let it. Thank you so much for your support!
Several days passed. John followed his daily routine; shower, save, search. The Three S's he called it. Nearly every day returned the same results. Once, he'd found a small place on the outskirts of the city but he'd been too late. His casual search for a flatmate was unsuccessful, when he bothered to look. Honestly, he didn't want to find one. He liked his space and he liked everything the way he'd left it.
Today, as with every day, he was taking an afternoon break in the park where he'd seen Mike a few days prior. He sat on the bench and read the paper, then went home to try to blog, a homework assignment from Ella. God only knew what she thought it'd help.
The paper was mostly uninteresting and depressing, as always. One article caught his eye. Another one of the serial suicides had been found, this time in an abandoned house. According to the paper, it was exactly as before. The article came with a picture of the four previous victims and the newest one, a professional woman named Jennifer Wilson from Cardiff. But that wasn't the interesting part.
John knew her. She'd been in his dream that night.
He'd been called by the dark haired man to an abandoned building. It had been crawling with cops, all in uniform. He still wore that dark coat and walked with purpose, checking the ground obsessively. They talked with a few officers, the dark haired man insulting every one of them. They walked up the stairs to a room, the wallpaper peeling off the walls. But by far the most unusual thing was the dead body in the center of the room. She was dressed head to toe in pink. John, upon the dark haired man's suggestion, set to examining the body. It was unreal. It was John examining the body, of that there was no doubt. But he was also watching the scene unfold from a distance. He watched himself turn the woman over, examine her face, throat, hands, chest, check for a pulse. The standard check for your typical dead body. He'd turned to the dark haired man. They talked like they knew one another. John could sense there was more to the story when he woke up.
He'd written it off as watching too many crime shows before bed, but now it was different. That woman was real, and she was really dead.
Something was off though. Besides the real dead woman in his dream, of course. It took him the entire walk back to his apartment, and three breaks to rest his leg, before he noticed what was different.
In his dream, he wasn't limping. His hand wasn't shaking. It was as if the war had never happened.
He'd dreamt about people he knew before, but never someone who was real that he'd never met. And he'd never dreamt that he didn't limp. He always limped in his dreams, regardless of where or when they took place. And he'd definitely never dreamt of examining a murder (was it murder?) victim the very night the murder had occurred. And the dark haired man was there again. Could he be real too?
One thing was very certain: These were no ordinary dreams.
John Watson had always prided himself as logical and intelligent. Rational, that was a good word. That was why he couldn't believe it when he found himself in his therapist's office, telling her that his dreams were coming true.
He'd debated whether or not to tell her for days. It was his third dream that had decided him.
"How long have these dreams been going on?" Ella asked gently.
"How long have you been crazy, that's what she means." Watson thought to himself. "About a week." He said out loud.
"So not very long then," Ella made a note on her clipboard. "And what makes you think they are real?"
"Yep, she thinks I'm crazy." John thought sullenly. He'd heard that tone before. She was just humoring him. "I know I've never seen either of those people. I know it. And yet there they were and there she was, dead. The same night. I know this sounds crazy but that's gotta mean something." "Yup, crazy."
"Interesting." She paused again to scribble on her clipboard. John knew he wouldn't get another chance. He knew he couldn't convince her only by describing the dreams. He couldn't make her feel how real it had felt. But he could tell her this. Taking a breath, he said,
"There's something else, about my dreams." Ella looked up. "I wasn't limping. No tremor. Nothing. Believe me I noticed. And it wasn't like a normal dream." He rushed, cutting off the inevitable question. "I always limp in my dreams. Always." Ella continued to scribble, then set the clipboard down on the ground by her chair. She sat quietly.
"Do you truly think he's real? This dark haired man." Ella finally asked. It hadn't been the question John was expecting. He'd thought she'd ask about the limp or about the fact that he was dreaming dead people.
"I honestly don't know what to think. Everything else has turned out to be real. Why wouldn't he be?" John hadn't really thought about it before.
"Do you want him to be real?"
John didn't answer immediately, even though he knew the answer. He hoped with every fiber of his being that the dark haired man was real. What he couldn't figure out was why. His rational mind couldn't take it. This was emotion. Towards someone he had never met, towards a man he wasn't sure even existed. He couldn't explain it, but somehow, it felt right. In that dream, standing beside the dark haired man, he had felt whole. He'd felt like the man he'd been before the war. It felt like he was supposed to care about that man, and that scared John even more. He had no way to put any of it into words, so he settled for a nod. Ella nodded in acknowledgement.
"Then go find him. Find that thing or person that makes you happy, that completes you. Rejoin the world." John groaned internally. They were speaking in metaphors now. The man represented his longing for normalcy. At least she didn't think he was crazy. He curtly nodded.
"Well alright then." Ella said brightly. "Now let's talk about the blog." This time, John's groan was very audible.
The room was dominated by a large fireplace. The raging fire was the only source of light in the room. A figure sat in the arm chair in front of the fire, reading the paper intently. He seemed not to be bothered by the lack of light. Light danced across his face from the fire, identifying him to those who already knew him, but he remained anonymous to those that did not. He was the puppet master, behind a curtain, pulling all the strings and making his marionettes dance as he pleased. He controlled everything, yet he himself did nothing. Boredom was a constant companion, almost as constant as the stream of information his spies and informants brought him. He was the puppet master. He knew all. It was his job.
Footsteps alerted the puppet master to the arrival of his latest data. He folded the newspaper and held out his expectantly. A file was placed in it by a well-dressed man. No one of consequence, just a messenger.
"A transcript." The man said in reply to the unasked question. The puppet master smiled. He had trained his pets well.
"Of?" replied the puppet master as he lazily opened the file. Information rarely ran away, not like those who carried it.
"The therapy session of Doctor John Watson."
The puppet master flipped through the pages with a renewed interest. "That'll be all." He said. The messenger nodded and turned to exit. "Actually," The messenger stopped. "Bring me some tea. And call Moran. I'll have need of him soon." The messenger nodded and left the puppet master to peruse the file alone, with only the occasional crackle of the fire to break the silence he enjoyed so much. As he read further, he began to scowl. The good doctor was starting to remember.
"What to do, what to do," He muttered to himself, drumming his fingers ont eh arm of the chair. He could just kill him. It'd be a lot simpler, but a missing Afghanistan war vet with suspected PTSD would draw attention. No, he'd just have to distract him. Shouldn't be too difficult. He smiled. It might even be fun, a reprieve from the crushing boredom of average life. And it would give Moran something to do. He'd insisted on coming along and hadn't left his room since they'd entered a new reality. He hadn't been quite sure of how to react. Moran would be an excellent puppet. He'd done it before. But for now, he would watch and wait. No need to jump the gun.
Maybe the doctor would never find Holmes. London was a big city. And if he ever did, Watson would almost certainly be put off by Holmes's personality, not to mention his appalling personal hygiene. After all, there was a reason the man had no friends, and that reason was himself.
Look it's the villian! I think you'll like him ;) See you all next time!