Sherlock fandom
Am I Dreaming?
Sherlock doesn’t know what’s real and what’s imagination anymore. Everything is a blur of sleep deprivation, thirst, hunger, and excruciating pain. Whenever his jailer and the torturists are leaving him alone, he sighs relieved, but he soon panics when he starts to think about their return. It’s then a vision of John appears before him.
“You can do this, Sherlock. Don’t you dare give up; you hear me? I need you to come home to me, alright? There, now, shh, I’ve got you. Stay strong, Sherlock. For me. Please.”
John’s voice is commanding at first, urging Sherlock to get a grip, but it always turns tender when Sherlock can’t hold back his sobs. He wishes John would touch him, so he could feel his warmth and be comforted by those steady hands that have healed him so many times. Before Sherlock jumped off a roof.
In the early days of his capture, Sherlock was able to see himself from above. Taking stock over his misery and the cell, desperately trying to find a way to escape. The longer he was jailed, the more his brain failed him. It became mushy, the sharp observation skills left him, and he was unable to soar anymore. His only comfort was John’s visits.
Sherlock knows he’s about to die. Before he met John, this wouldn’t have bothered him at all but now…now it’s an unbearable thought. Never to see John again? Not be able to explain why he had to jump. Why John couldn’t know that it was a magic trick. To beg John’s forgiveness. To tell John…
The door to his cell opens and Sherlock steels himself for whatever gruesome punishment the Serbians have installed for him. A familiar voice gives orders to someone. Sherlock’s eyes are blindfolded, but his hearing is still excellent. That voice…no, it can’t be. The person speaks Serbian, and to Sherlock’s knowledge, Mycroft doesn’t speak Serbian. Unless he’s learned it sufficiently enough to rescue Sherlock. No, that doesn’t make sense. Mycroft doing legwork? If Sherlock wasn’t so exhausted, he would’ve laughed. It comes out as a cough, which sends a sharp stab of pain through his entire body.
He must’ve blacked out, because when he wakes his cell is gone. At his right side there’s a small window. Sherlock’s brain is too dizzy to comprehend where he is, but he realises something. He is soaring again, but what he sees underneath is impossible. London. Sherlock is soaring above London!
“Am I dreaming?” he whispers and closes his eyes as tears start to form.
“Brother mine,” Mycroft says softly at Sherlock’s left side.
Sherlock keeps his eyes firmly shut. He can’t bear if this isn’t real.
“You are not dreaming, Sherlock,” Mycroft assures him.
Is his voice trembling?
Sherlock feels a hand on his shoulder. It’s warm. He opens his eyes and there he is, Mycroft Holmes, his arch enemy and big brother. They’re on a private jet, Sherlock discerns. Before he can ask, Mycroft lifts an eyebrow and nods.
“I will let him know.”
Sherlock sighs relieved and falls asleep while the tarmac comes into sight.
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