So, this is the part where I grovel and beg for mercy at not updating for a week. My life just got a bit hectic. Please forgive me. This one is extra long to make up for it. Hopefully I won't wait as long to post the next chapter. I'm really excited. We're getting into the fun part now! Enjoy!
It had been weeks since John's last dream, as if admitting out loud that he'd had them suddenly caused them to disappear. He'd watched the news relentlessly, looking for any signs of that last dream, but after a few days, he'd give up and concluded that his imagination had created the Chinese smuggling ring. But when the dreams stopped, John wondered if that meant the giant "Gollum" man, or whatever it was, had actually killed the dark haired man, and there was just nothing left to dream about. It wouldn't explain the dream he'd had about the shoes, though, but that couldn't have been related. The dark haired man hadn't even been in it, just an empty room with a pair of trainers in the center.
He'd taken Ella's advice to look for the dark haired man, even though she obviously hadn't meant it literally. The second dream had started from, presumably, where the dark haired man lived. It had been dark, but John had sketched out a pretty decent view of the street. There were some places that had just been too dark to see, like, conveniently, the number on the door the man had come from. In fact, it had been dark enough that he couldn't find anything distinguishable from any other street in London. So useless was this sketch of the street, at least for his purposes, that he'd simply taken to walking the streets with his original sketch of the dark haired man and scanning the crowds. He picked a different area every day. It had been a few weeks with no success. The man was so unique that there hadn't even been any close calls.
He'd also had to give in and call Harry. It had been an awkward conversation, what with her leaving Clara and the drinking, but it had been civil. She'd agreed to lend him enough money to stay on at least for a few weeks past what he could have initially afforded, but even that was close to gone, and his pride couldn't take calling his sister twice for money. The first time had been hard enough.
What he probably should have done was find a job, but there didn't seem to be much demand for an injured army doctor. He'd checked the local clinic but the doctor in charge of hiring wasn't interested. Sarah, her name had been. She'd been very nice, sympathetic even, but that hadn't helped John in getting the job.
He was in the apartment still, sketching. It was part of his routine now. He had to keep his memory of those dreams sharp if he ever hoped to find the dark haired man. He left the news on, just in case something important happened.
"…an explosion here on Baker Street today. No one seems to be hurt but the explosion managed to shatter windows of the buildings across the street. No official explanation for the explosion but a gas leak is suspected." John jerked around from the desk to stare at the television. The camera panned from the reporter's face to street to the buildings on the other side. The windows, had been blown out, she was right. But that wasn't what John was looking at.
The door. It was that door, that street. The dark haired man lived on that street. John knew it, he could feel it in his gut. That was the dark street he hadn't quite remembered. Which meant the man was still alive.
He squinted at the screen and could barely make out the number 221. 221. Why was that familiar? It was something from the shoe dream, he thought. 221C, maybe? That was where the shoes had been. John stood as hurriedly as he could and grabbed his cane. The shoes were connected to the man, which mean he was still alive. He shrugged into his jacket and hurried from the room. '221 Baker Street', he repeated to himself over and over in his head. '221 Baker Street, 221 Baker Street.'
He hurried to the street and looked frantically for a taxi. In the back of his mind he wondered if he even had the money for a cab. One pulled up shortly and he limped his way to it and slid in.
"221 Baker Street" he rushed out. The cabbie pulled away from the corner, so much slower than John would have wished. Why did everyone drive so slow in this city? Couldn't they see he had somewhere to be?
It seemed like the ride took ages, when it was only a matter of minutes. When John stepped from the cab and handed the driver the note he'd found crumpled in the pocket of his jeans, he was left there, alone, staring at the door. It was black, with worn gold numbers on it declaring it to be 221. Now that he was there, he didn't really know what to do. Did he knock? Did he wait for someone to come out? And how did he introduce himself. He hardly imagined that the truth would be the preferred explanation.
Taking a deep breath, Watson hobbled to the door and knocked twice. Why was he scared of this? He'd been in Afghanistan for God's sake, he'd been shot. But somewhere inside, he realized that he'd known what would happen there. Here, it was a total mystery.
His pondering was cut short by the door opening, a small older woman inside it.
"Oh hello." She said cheerfully. "Are you here about the windows or are you here for Sherlock?" So much for an introduction or an explanation. Watson stammered for a moment. Lie or guess? Who was Sherlock?
"Uh.. um… the second one." He finally managed to say. "I'm here to see Sherlock." Why had he just said that? The woman nodded.
"Well, you better come in. I'll take you up to him. He's with his brother, so I'm sure he'll love the distraction." She walked up the stairs that were directly inside the door. Unsure at first, John followed slowly, but as he realized she wasn't about to kick him out for being a fraud, he picked up the pace as much as his leg would allow. The stairs led to a door which was left open. The woman gestured towards him to enter. Cautiously, with his free hand inside his pocket holding the drawing, he entered.
The room was at once large and small, big enough to fit probably his whole living quarters and cluttered and full of everything useful and otherwise unimportant. There was a fireplace, the mantle covered in knick knacks ranging from a skull to what appeared to be a bat. There were two chairs, not matching, in front of the fireplace and a small desk against one of the walls, completely covered in books and what appeared to be science equipment. There were shelves everywhere, full of books but there seemed to be more books than the room could hold. On one wall was a moose head with head phones over its ears. The walls weren't one color, some places having one paper pattern, others another. It was ordered chaos. But that wasn't what interested Watson
In the red chair was a man dressed in a pinstriped suit, his hair thinning a bit on the top of his head, his face serious. By his chair was leaned an umbrella with an ornately carved handle, though John knew it hadn't been raining outside. He was staring intently at John, and he realized that he had barged in on a conversation. This stare, however, was nothing compared to the stare of the man who sat across from him. It was the dark haired man, clad in a dark blue dress shirt and slacks. He held a violin as if he had just been about to start playing. His hair was just as curly as it had been in the dreams and his eyes just as piercing. He stared at John as if he could see into him, taking in every detail of his existence. They were a blue John had never seen. The angles of his face were even sharper than they had been. He wasn't wearing the coat, but John noticed it laying over the chair at the small desk.
"It's you!" He spluttered. John really wasn't capable of much more than that. The well-dressed man cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, as if trying to understand this proclamation. The dark haired man stood and took three long steps towards John. He hadn't realized how tall the dark haired man was in the dream.
"Who are you?" Yep it was him. That was the voice.
"…John Watson. I.. uh…" Thankfully, the dark haired man saved him from having to finish a coherent thought.
"Whatever your mystery is I'm not the one to solve it. I'm a bit busy. If your wife is gone check for the gardener and if you're suing for compensation from the military I am not a lawyer." The dark haired man turned and went into another room which Watson could see was a kitchen. He poured himself a cup of tea and then returned to the sitting room.
"I'm not here for a mystery. I'm here-" John thought for a moment. "How did you know-"
"Pointless question that you no doubt already know. Or else why would you be here?" The dark haired man cut him off rudely.
"Sherlock, it is customary to let other at least finish a sentence." The well-dressed man said pointedly. He must be the brother. Which made the dark haired man Sherlock. Somehow the name fit him.
"I'm here because… well, this is gonna sound crazy but… you were in my dreams." Watson held his breath, waiting for the inevitable laugh, the call for the cops, any reaction that any normal person would have, really.
"I don't deal with dreams. I only deal in facts, Doctor Watson. Go find a gypsy fortune teller." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, not even looking up as he sipped his tea.
"No, I mean I dream about you… and they come true." No response. Time for a new tactic. "I dreamt about the dead woman in pink, the one who killed herself but I'm guessing she didn't really. And I dreamt about the body in the morgue, the one with the…" Watson didn't finish the sentence. For some reason, he felt that he shouldn't reveal what Sherlock did in his free time to his brother, if that's who the well-dressed man was. "And I dreamt about this smuggling ring and these shoes and-" At that Sherlock jumped up and rushed to Watson. He stared at him, not blinking.
"Shoes?" he said, still examining John.
"There were these shoes in a basement or something. 221C or something like that? I wasn't sure what they meant but you live here so I figured there was a connection…" He trailed off as Sherlock rushed from the room and down the stairs. John took after him, the suit bringing up the rear.
When they stopped, they found themselves at a door. 221C it said. Sherlock was trying to open it to no avail. When he sensed John had reached him, he turned and said, "How did you know about the murders? It was never revealed they were murders. And the pink." He turned away as John spluttered. "Mrs. Hudson, I need that key!" He bellowed. The small woman from before came with a key chain, muttering something about water damage and mold. Sherlock plucked the keys from her and inserted the key into the lock, then thrust open the door. He hurried down the stairs, John, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock's brother at his heels. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, John was shocked to find an empty room, like in his dream, and a pair of trainers, dead center.
"Well, Sherlock, this man seems to have solved your little mystery." The well-dressed man stated gruffly. John noticed he had brought along his umbrella on the journey.
"Yes…" Sherlock muttered to himself, staring at the shoes. "But what I don't understand is why."