Re: John's Midnight Garden (5/many)
anonymous
November 3 2010, 14:40:34 UTC
The next time he wakes up he is in a hospital bed, surrounded by off-white and beeping machines. From the sounds of it Sherlock is outside the room having an argument with Mycroft over the phone and, when John looks to the side, Harry is sleeping in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs.
Her lip is caught between her teeth, like it always is when she’s afraid.
John wants to reach out and take her hand, but his arms feel as though they’re made of lead and his head feels like it’s filled with feathers. It makes him giggle again.
“Which is heavier,” he asks the world as his eyes grow heavy again, “a tonne of lead or a tonne of feathers?”
“That’s a ridiculous question,” a familiar voice says and John opens his eyes to find himself standing in the walled rose garden in just his hospital gown.
The roses are in full bloom and the scent of them all is thick, heady and intense, but not unpleasant.
Most people can’t smell in their dreams.
Sherlock, or the younger version of him that John seems to have imagined, is standing in the gateway watching him.
“If there’s a tonne of both then obviously they both weigh the same,” he says, sounding as put out by the ignorance of such a stupid question as his real, grown-up self would.
His pocket moves and John blinks and stares at it for a moment, but nothing else happens.
“How did you get in here?” mini Sherlock asks, staring at him like he’s some sort of grand puzzle that he has to work out. John shrugs. “I’ve been outside the gate all morning. You can’t have come in that way.” His pocket moves again.
“I don’t know,” John admits. His legs feel unsteady.
“Mycroft says I’m too old for imaginary friends,” Sherlock tells him abruptly.
“I’m not imaginary,” John replies, “you are.”
“No I’m not,” Sherlock tells him quite seriously. His pocket is beginning to squirm, and John thinks he can hear squeaking.
“If you’re not imaginary,” John says, “then what are you doing in my dream?” He’ll be damned if a figment of his imagination is going to convince him he’s not real, even one that has decided to construct itself around Sherlock.
“I’m not in your dream,” Sherlock replies, quite seriously. “You’re in my back garden.”
“This is my garden.” John’s not sure why he gets to possessive. This is only a dream after all. But this is his garden. He’s been coming here since he was a child and this is his place, no one else’s. Sherlock isn’t going to take over this part of his life like he has done every other part (no matter whether John doesn’t mind it most of the time or not.)
Sherlock opens his mouth to reply again, but the lump in his pocket moves again and squeaks very loudly. He shoves a hand into the pocket and pulls it out again holding a mouse. He strokes along the brow of its head with one finger.
“Mummy found it in the kitchen,” Sherlock explains unbidden. “She was going to kill it so I asked if I could use it for my experiments.”
John feels a little queasy. The word ‘sociopath’ is whirling around his head and he has to wonder what it says about him that part of his subconscious has decided to model itself on one.
“What sort of experiments?” he asks, knowing that he will regret it.
Her lip is caught between her teeth, like it always is when she’s afraid.
John wants to reach out and take her hand, but his arms feel as though they’re made of lead and his head feels like it’s filled with feathers. It makes him giggle again.
“Which is heavier,” he asks the world as his eyes grow heavy again, “a tonne of lead or a tonne of feathers?”
“That’s a ridiculous question,” a familiar voice says and John opens his eyes to find himself standing in the walled rose garden in just his hospital gown.
The roses are in full bloom and the scent of them all is thick, heady and intense, but not unpleasant.
Most people can’t smell in their dreams.
Sherlock, or the younger version of him that John seems to have imagined, is standing in the gateway watching him.
“If there’s a tonne of both then obviously they both weigh the same,” he says, sounding as put out by the ignorance of such a stupid question as his real, grown-up self would.
His pocket moves and John blinks and stares at it for a moment, but nothing else happens.
“How did you get in here?” mini Sherlock asks, staring at him like he’s some sort of grand puzzle that he has to work out. John shrugs. “I’ve been outside the gate all morning. You can’t have come in that way.” His pocket moves again.
“I don’t know,” John admits. His legs feel unsteady.
“Mycroft says I’m too old for imaginary friends,” Sherlock tells him abruptly.
“I’m not imaginary,” John replies, “you are.”
“No I’m not,” Sherlock tells him quite seriously. His pocket is beginning to squirm, and John thinks he can hear squeaking.
“If you’re not imaginary,” John says, “then what are you doing in my dream?” He’ll be damned if a figment of his imagination is going to convince him he’s not real, even one that has decided to construct itself around Sherlock.
“I’m not in your dream,” Sherlock replies, quite seriously. “You’re in my back garden.”
“This is my garden.” John’s not sure why he gets to possessive. This is only a dream after all. But this is his garden. He’s been coming here since he was a child and this is his place, no one else’s. Sherlock isn’t going to take over this part of his life like he has done every other part (no matter whether John doesn’t mind it most of the time or not.)
Sherlock opens his mouth to reply again, but the lump in his pocket moves again and squeaks very loudly. He shoves a hand into the pocket and pulls it out again holding a mouse. He strokes along the brow of its head with one finger.
“Mummy found it in the kitchen,” Sherlock explains unbidden. “She was going to kill it so I asked if I could use it for my experiments.”
John feels a little queasy. The word ‘sociopath’ is whirling around his head and he has to wonder what it says about him that part of his subconscious has decided to model itself on one.
“What sort of experiments?” he asks, knowing that he will regret it.
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