[log] Imaginary Time [open]

[snowblindmods]

Characters: anyone
Location: in dreams
Date: nighttime during the event
Summary: A place to post your character's dreams.
Warnings: general horror warnings; please include more specific warnings in subject lines as necessary!

Comments

cw: mental illness/memory loss

[howdull]

"Morning, Sherlock, I've brought you some tea."

Sherlock opens his eyes and sits up, his back aches slightly which is his only indication that he must have been thinking in this position for at least a few hours, and picks up the mug to sip at the welcome taste. John is smiling at him; he looks tired, lines around his eyes and mouth suggesting that he's stressed at the moment, and yet his eyes are hopeful like a dog that's brought a gift to his master and hopes to be praised for it. Good old John, always the same.

"Thank you, John." For some reason, the words of gratitude make John's face light up like Christmas lights. Strange, it's not that uncommon for him to offer thanks for mundane tasks like this, is it? Perhaps he's just had a very trying morning and any friendly gesture is appreciated. "Have you already taken Rosie to school? Lestrade came by earlier and I need to talk to you about what he said."

John's expression lights up further, until he's beaming so hard that his cheek muscles must hurt from it. He looks proud, for some reason, and Sherlock can't figure out why. That's annoying, he doesn't like to look at someone and not know what's happening, especially when it's John.

"Yeah," says John, and for some reason his voice is slightly husky. "I dropped her off earlier, she said to say she misses you. What did-- what did Greg come to talk to you about?"

That's nice, that Rosie would think of him, but really overly sentimental. If she's going to miss them just for the few hours that she's at school, she might be getting too attached and won't develop her independence. He'll need to discuss that with John later, but there's more important things to talk about now. The game is afoot, and it's as deadly as it's ever been.

"Moriarty."

He says the name and he pauses for effect, only to see John's face crumple as if the strings holding his smile up have been cut all at once. "Oh, Sherlock." Suddenly John is all gentleness and caution, it's confusing and oddly aggravating, like it's happened before. "Listen to me, Moriarty is dead, remember? Years ago now."

Dead? That's absurd. He would remember if Moriarty had died, the two of them had been locked in a battle of wits for years now. He's always there, pulling the strings from just out of sight. That John would try and convince him otherwise sends a flare of sudden white hot anger flashing through his chest, and he reaches out to try and grab hold of his friend's arm to make him listen, to make him understand.

"No, John. You mustn't let him play your mind this way, I need you to think clearly in order to help me stop him. He's out there." It's frightening, because he's not just out there, he's inside as well. Always. "I can hear him laughing at me."

John is crying. When did that start? He looks old and tired and grief-stricken as he tries to gently prise Sherlock's fingers from his arm. "Alright-- it's alright, Sherlock, you don't need to cry. He's not going to hurt you, he's-- it's okay. Just settle down."

Cry? He's crying? No. It's John that's crying. Sherlock watches in confusion as John gets his hand free and backs towards the door, mumbling some nonsense about getting someone to help. The door opens and it's not a staircase like it should be, his front room at Baker Street opens out to a clinical corridor with Mycroft stood outside.

"It's not bloody fair," that's John, snarling as he punches the wall for some reason, while Mycroft just watches him with an expression oddly like compassion. "He's forty, for God's sake, he shouldn't have Alzheimer's already. He shouldn't-- not-- not him."

He listens for Mycroft's reply, but his voice is drowned out by the one always in his head. Moriarty, loose in his mind palace, the virus in the database. He sinks his head into his hands as all he's left with is the sound of laughter ringing in his ears.