bakerstreet | last night, i dreamt i was a muffler.

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last night, i dreamt i was a muffler.

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D R E A M S ~ M E M E

Dreams are difficult enough to understand. They range from embarrassing, to frightening, to thought-provoking, to just plain nonsensical. You may find yourself wondering what that was all about, or trying to forget about it as quickly as you can. It may be close enough to reality to confuse you, or dream logic may prevail. Whatever the case, the world of dreams is a way to delve into your psyche and deal with what happened to you that day, your fears, and whatever's on your mind.

Except... what's that person doing there?

Potential Trigger Warning!

How It Works:

~ Post with your character, name and fandom in the subject.

~ Others respond to your character.

~ Roll the RNG 1-6 for your situation, from the list below. That's the type of dream your character is having. Or, just pick the one you like the best.

~ The replier has found themselves in your character's dream, able to interact freely.

~ Have fun!

1. sweet dreams

Something like this might not happen too often in your waking life, if ever. You've found the world's largest supply of grape ice cream, you've won the lottery... or, perhaps, you're just having a really good day. Will this person share in your joy or ruin it for you?

2. nightmares

Your worst fears are being visited upon you tonight. Whether it's falling, losing those closest to you, insects, or something particular to you, there's no doubt you'd wake up in a cold sweat if everything went normally. Having this person there isn't 'normal', though. Maybe they can make things better.

3. sexy dreams

Isn't it so awkward when the person you're in bed with suddenly asks why you're dreaming about them in a schoolgirl costume?

4. bizarre dreams

It's hard to categorize this, but it probably seems perfectly natural to you that you need to find the smallest grain of sand in the world to stop an alien invasion up until someone points out how weird that is. And maybe it still seems normal to you even after that. They might be the ones being silly!

5. memories

The mind often revisits important events in one's life. For good or bad, you're back in time, reliving something that stuck in your head. But... that guy wasn't here before, was he? Or maybe he was, but hasn't seen it from your point of view yet.

6. combination/other

Dreams are many and varied. Mix up the flavors, or try something completely different. Wherever your mind will take you is game.

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[ The man writhes on the floor and Sherlock finds this easy to watch; after all, he dropped a member of the United States Secret Service out a window once or thrice for simply laying a hand on Mrs. Hudson. Had they done worse, he would have had far less survivable wounds befall him.

Of course, Sherlock hadn't put her in the line of fire. Not intentionally, anyway.

Approaching the fallen thug, he tilts his head to examine her handiwork. It will be slow and painful. The fallen criminal will likely beg and curse and plead until the bleeding is too much for his body to take, organs shutting down one by one until his heart slows to a stop. It is a ruthless. He's not the least bit surprised. ]

This was your retribution, then? Killing the man hired to murder the girl you sent to her death?

[Not that begging or cursing did very well with a broken jaw. She doesn't even bother looking at the man, though his burbling angry incoherent cries are easily audible.

There's still very little expression in her face, because she doesn't admit weakness. It's a battle to draw it out of her, and even when he hits the nail on the head, she refuses to acknowledge it. But there is something there, simmering anger in the set of her lips, in the hard look in her eyes as she stares down at the dying man.]

It's tying up loose ends.

[ The details here are different than what happened to Kate: these are not just blanks that have been filled. This is an experience. She stayed here until the unlucky hitman drew his last breath. She watched. Could he say he wouldn't have done the same, though? ]

Yes. I suppose it is.

[ Adjusting his collar, he turns his back on the man without a second thought, his plight easily forgotten as he focuses on his companion instead. Watching a stranger die - particularly one of unsavory morals - is no more startling to him than the plight of a drowning fly to an ordinary person. It's not even a blip on his radar.

Irene, however, holds his attention quite easily. ]

What's to say I didn't delete that song? It was only to pass the time, after all. A simple distraction of notes strung together and placed in a line on a page.

[She pulls her attention away from Moriarty's man and his burbling and arches an eyebrow at Sherlock. He is far more interesting than the dead man, and she already knows what will happen to him.

The shift in topic is better, and she smiles, the expression sharper, more like herself and without that touch of tension and simmering anger.]

Because you came to Karachi.

[Because he had written it as eulogy, thinking she were dead, and he had come halfway across the world to prevent it happening again. Because she knows with a certainty that only comes with knowing someone is of similar mind, similar temperament. Or maybe she doesn't know for certain and is simply remarkably good at knowing what he likes, or in this case, doesn't like.

To be reminded of having been beaten.

It could be that. A small likelihood, but possible.]

[ The way he begins to shift her attention away from the writhing, sobbing man on the ground is subtle, first with conversation, then with a slow turn to encourage her away from the memory that leaves her jaw tight and her eyes dark with a rage she clearly works hard to repress. It's a small kindness that he'd rather she not be aware of, as such shows of emotion go rather against his nature.

Irene may be different than others, but he'd like her to not lord that over him more than she already does. The scales are already tipped too far in her favor.

To her observation he offers a half-hearted shrug, one shoulder rising and falling almost imperceptibly. Her theories hang unspoken between them, hidden in plain sight within her words. He neither confirms or denies them, at least at first. After a moment he turns to look at a faraway point in the building, sensing the eyes of a man who would later discredit his genius to an entire populace... but he can't be seen, not from here. He wonders if Irene ever knew he was watching. ]

I've never had an ear for eulogies. The feeling behind them is lost on me.

[ Of course, six months of mourning says otherwise... but he stands by his statement all the same. ]

[She hadn't known Moriarty had been watching. But if he told her, she wouldn't have been surprised. She might even have been pleased.

Because Kate's death had been a necessity, but that didn't mean it hadn't been a waste.

Irene gives Sherlock a sidelong look, a hint of arch amusement in her eyes, in her voice.]

Still insisting that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side?

[Of course she remembers the exact words he used. They had been as sharp as the crack of a whip when he'd unlocked her phone and left her defenseless. And she'd thought they were true up until that night in Karachi.

Well, that night had changed a lot of things.]

I've seen no evidence to the contrary.

[ He remembers, too. He'd like to say that his revealing her, and his rather acrid choice of words, was vengeance for the destruction of Bond Air and any subsequent plans that would come after it; he'd even like to say it was entirely his bruised pride speaking, the shame of being so easily tricked into her web.

He'd rather not think about the fact that, deep down, he had felt betrayed. If that was what it was to have a heart then he would gladly toss it away and accept it as a waste of time and precious intellect. He would care no more for Irene Adler, never again speak her name, and move on with his life...

And yet he couldn't walk away from that. Not to the point of letting her die. The heart was a tricky thing, after all.

His gaze finally falls away from where he can practically feel Jim Moriarty's eyes burning into him, leaving his skin prickled with discomfort. The look he gives Irene is reproachful, but with that same confused affection he still can't quite wrap his head around. ]

I should hope you haven't made the same mistake with whatever new life you've created for yourself.

[She wonders briefly what in the distance had caught his attention, and tries to think back to that day. The sharpest memories are of vindictive satisfaction, the man's burbling death. Which she supposes isn't what's transfixed his attention.

She laughs quietly.]

I'm cold-blooded and I enjoy being alive to misbehave, Mr. Holmes. I save the sentiment for dreaming.

[ He tilts his head at her with the intent of making another snide comment -- before they end up locking eyes and he's left suddenly flummoxed. He too works to keep his sentiment under wraps, but they are both in whoever's headspace and by that logic, should be as sentimental as they like.

It's apparently not something he's quite sure what to do with.

After an awkward silence that drags on far too long he finally turns his eyes away, sniffing and trying to make it seem as though he wasn't just caught in some sort of emotional standstill. He'd been doing so well at the bravado until now, damn it all. ]

Well. That's... Yes. As you should. Clearly.

[ Yes, that dying man is now very interesting and Sherlock is more than happy to give him his attention. ]

[She smiles as he turns away to watch the dying man, and something in her own words tug at Irene's thoughts.

Yes, this was a dream, a memory with its holes filled in by imagination and deduction. but if she were lucid enough to realize it was a dream...

She frowns with a bit of concentration, and a spot of mud near Sherlock's feet wavers, the dreamscape blurring and reshaping itself. Grass... mud... indistinct brown blur... wood grain... curves... violin.

Interesting. She'd never thought lucid dreaming actually worked. And amusement snakes through her voice as she speaks, wondering at what point he'll stop staring at the dying man to notice the new detail.]

I'm glad you approve.

[ He notices the shimmer of existence straight away, watching it shift from one material to the next to the next all in the corner of his eye. Just because he's asleep doesn't make him any less observant, after all... and he's getting a bad feeling the more it begins to change into something more familiar.

When he drags his eyes away to look at it fully, there is a violin resting just beside his shoe, and he can't stop himself before rolling his eyes in a fit of dramatic and childish frustration. ]

Oh come on.

[ He's fully capable of returning her gaze now, if only to properly display his soured disposition. Just can't let things drop, can you? ]

[Provoking reactions out of him, little slips in that facade of emotionless intellect, was part of what made this so interesting. And the fact that this was a dream, wasn't real just meant the provocation could be more overt, less restrained by the rules of the game and the need to give nothing away as she did so.

Which was why Irene's smile was just so terribly amused.]

Isn't watching that pathetic man burble and choke on his own blood boring you?

[ It's particularly funny that, out of all the people Sherlock has interacted with in his life, Irene is the one he acts the least like himself with. A great deal of effort is put into seeming... All-knowing. Awe-inspiring. Suave. These are not things that come naturally to a man with a penchant for adult temper-tantrums and a total lack of social capacity with other human beings.

Despite himself, some childish part of him yearns to impress her.

For a long moment he glares at her, nose turned up in annoyed defiance. He doesn't dignify her with a response at first, lips pressed together unhappily... before he leans down, picking up both violin and bow. He shifts the cheek rest on his shoulder and glares at her yet again, clearly not happy about how easily he's been swayed over this matter.

Without a word, he draws the bow across the strings and begins to play. ]

[She's surprised that he does play, because even in... whatever this dreamspace is, there's a part of her that still expects him to be stubborn and utterly unwilling to do what she wants, even if she has ample evidence to the contrary.

But as he plays the expression of amusement on her face fades into something softer, almost sentimental.

The fact that Moriarty's man is on his last breaths, that the memory is near an end, doesn't register]

I might call it poignant.

[ She doesn't expect him to play; perhaps that's why he does it, just to throw her off. Just to defy her expectations. Just to prove he can't be predicted as easily as she seems to believe and revel in the small victory he has over her. That's what their relationship is about, after all: each centimeter gained to surpass the other. Triumph.

At least, that's what he tells himself in this moment of raw emotion displayed, to help soothe his discomfort away, the bow drawing across the strings of his violin with purpose. The man mere meters and an entire world away gurgles in his death throes. Sherlock finds him easy to ignore. Each note is a piece of his heart and he feels genuine anxiety showing it to her even in a place such as this; his hand is tipped too far. Too much advantage.

So much for victories.

As the eulogy reaches its climax he closes his eyes, letting out a breath. Silence weighs heavily upon them after her words, and it feels like a lifetime before he opens his eyes and straightens, lowering both bow and body. His nose turns up with distaste and attempts to look reasonably detached. ]

As I said.

[The notes take longer to fade away than they would have in the real world, humming softly along the ether long after his words faded and verbal silence stretched between them.

Irene is rarely at a loss for words, but as the tune sinks in, weaving its way deep into her subconscious, she finds herself experiencing exactly that.

And it feels like giving in, like losing.

Silence stretches brittle until she has to break it and ,for her, the words are almost clumsy.]

It's everyone's dream, isn't it? To go to their own funeral and see what lies people tell about them?

Is it?

[ He tilts his head at her in genuine confusion; it's a thought that never crossed Sherlock's mind, at least not in that capacity. Would it be fascinating to dissect one's own corpse to determine cause of death? Most definitely. To hear the outpouring of words from people who presumed they knew what made you tick? Not even a blip on his radar. He'd up and leave the funeral himself straight out of the casket if he were stuck listening to such drivel.

Well, maybe after listening to John.

Despite his complete lack of understanding, he's aware that the song has had an impact on Irene and some part of him delights in the fact. Her pupils are dilated. Her expression is strained, distressed. With a sharp turn on his heel he closes the distance between them until they're nearly close enough to touch, staring down at her with interest. The hand that holds the violin's bow makes contact, fingers slipping around her wrist and pressing ever so gently.

Sherlock has studied the fundamentals of love and still he can't wrap his logical mind around it it; the emotions, the devotion, the obsession, it all seems like such a waste. He doesn't understand what most of it means, even with how his throat contracts at the sight of Miss Adler, or how his heart begins to pump just a little bit faster. He doesn't understand.

And so he takes her pulse. ]

[She remembers this too, and as Moriarty's man chokes on his last breath, the dreamscape begins to dim, the memory fades, and another takes its place.

The warm crackle of fire, the ornate wallpaper covering the walls of the flat on Baker Street. Another time he'd taken her pulse.

This time, however, she knows what he's doing, and she turns her wrist ever so slightly in his grasp, so his fingertips rest against bone rather than blood vessels.]

You are going to have to do better than that, Mr. Holmes.

[ There's a flash of disappointment in his eyes, very brief, before it's quickly covered with something more neutral and less... revealing. This may be a dream somehow, but it would not behoove him to offer her more than he already has -- and it appears she feels quite the same. Her slender wrist falls from his grasp as he turns to set both violin and bow atop the nearest side table, feeling that strange sense of disconnect one has in familiar places constructed by the subconscious: it looks like home, but it just doesn't feel right.

John isn't here. Neither is Mrs. Hudson. It simply isn't Baker Street without them.

With an overly dramatic spin Sherlock tosses himself down into the worn leather of his chair, fingers steepling together and a guarded smile pulling at his lips. His gaze falls to John's chair across from his own, inviting her to sit. ]

So tell me, Miss Adler: What new life have you made for yourself, now that you're well and truly deceased in the eyes of the world? I doubt you've managed to really avoid getting yourself into trouble.

[She doesn't take the invitation, instead lingering by the mantlepiece, running her fingers along the edge. Remembering the time she'd left her cameraphone right there, on the left side.]

If you really wanted me to behave, you'd have had your brother lock me up. [She glances over her shoulder at him with a wicked smile, and the hard vowels of a Midwestern American accent filters into her voice.] Would you believe I've gotten myself into an American witness protection program?

[ That gives him pause, his eyebrows taking a brief trip up towards his hairline. ]

...I guess Mycroft's little lie came from some good ideas, after all.

[ Though thinking that she's found a place to thrive is a comfort, if one that's bittersweet. Briefly he considers the idea of taking a case in America, flying over for a little while, just taking a day aside from his work... but no. The world must think Irene Adler is dead, and where he goes, some aid or another of Mycroft's will follow and see with their own eyes that she is not. It's not worth the risk.

Even if he'd really like to see her... just one more time.

The thought is pushed down hard and away, his gaze switching to the mantelpiece instead. He remembers the night he found it. He remembers how he felt the six months after. Nothing about it was a very delightful experience for him. ]

I'm sure your sort of work is right up their alley.

[She laughs a little at that, running her fingers along the mantelpiece before sinking into John's chair, tucking her feet beneath her as she does so. Her gaze never leaves him, as if she's reading his thoughts on his face.]

Good ideas, but not really my cup of tea. [Her smile is almost teasing.] They're a bit straight laced for my tastes. [Still not answering his question.]

[ A pause before he realizes his mistake: he bought into it way too easily. A brief look of annoyance passes over his features, though more at himself than anything else. He should know better than to trust her, even after everything that's happened -- or especially after. He smooths himself over with something cooler and closed off, reassuring himself with the fact that it really is best he doesn't know where she is or what she's doing with herself.

It's better that way.

Uncomfortable with his idle hands, he plucks up his violin again to hold it upright on his lap, fingers sliding across the strings. He finds its body easier to look at than the one sitting across from him. ]

Here I thought Americans were rife with the depraved and uncouth. Plenty you could relate with there, I'd expect.

[ He saved your life, Irene -- but that doesn't mean he doesn't remember being burned. There's no hiding the hint of petulance to his tone. ]

[No doubt that had been meant to hurt, but Irene doesn't even bat an eye. There had been only once he'd managed to really hurt her, only once he'd managed to humiliate her, and it took something far more intimate than sniping about her professional choices.

So that same amused smile stays exactly where it is, and Irene shrugs.] And nowhere near as refined in their tastes for misbehavior. It'd get boring.

[She tilts her head, still watching him as he studiously avoids watching her.] You can relate, I expect.

Hardly.

[ Having his boredom related to hers is... bothersome, somehow. He revels in their similarities, dazzled by how easily this woman, this mad and amazing woman, can come toe-to-toe with him and even best him when the situation plays out right -- but at the same time, it makes him skittish and uncomfortable, anxious like a rabbit sensing the snare before it's sprung.

Even after the blow he dealt her, Irene Adler still has a hold over him. The realization is stomach-clenching at best, and beginning to show the longer they're forced to interact. ]

As I've made perfectly clear, your form of entertainment is really not my area, Miss Adler.

[ So what if he's not looking at her? So what if it's obvious? The agitation is evident in the sharpening pulls he makes against the strings, abusing his violin to ease his own displeasure. ]

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womanwhobeatyou - 2012-04-26 15:01 (UTC) - Expand

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