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It was a dream. He knew it was a dream because this landscape couldn't possibly exist in reality.
He was walking through ferns, massive ferns, coleus plants, things with wide, soft leaves. There were massive Baobab trees and a narrow, winding path covered in rich, tiny mosses. Somewhere, he knew, a waterfall existed and the sound roared in his ears. In his mind, he knew there were pools of water and light and green plants and derelict buildings with coral-like mosses and lichens growing.
There was something strange about this dreamscape though. Over all the visual and audio stimuli, he could hear something dissonant. Sometimes the sound was like low, sweet trumpets, or the far-off calls of miraculous birds.
Other times it was loud, a broken and painful sounding wail of his name that bade the trees to sway gently in the little breezes.
Sometimes, the sound was so distant, he wasn't sure if he'd even heard it.
He began to run, following the path that opened up sometimes to a world of water, land, green...
Sherlock...
He had to get to whomever was calling his name. It was imperative.
Sherlock...
Sherlock...
Sherlock!
He ran towards his name, never caring that his dreamself was dressed only in soft natural cotton pants and a long tunic of the same material.
He was Sherlock. Wasn't he? Days and weeks and months and years he'd been alone. Sometimes, he forgot his name. But this voice, so close, so far away. It called to him. He could feel it pulling on his heart, on his mind, on his body.
So he ran.
He ran until his lungs ached, his body broke, and his heart screamed for the person who was calling him.
Who? Who was calling for him, in this amazing place?
Before he woke up in this other land, this dreamscape, he'd finally killed the last spider, Sebastian Moran.
Not without consequences though. The stress and adrenaline and lack of care he'd given to his transport, never mind the various injuries he'd received in the fight to end the last of Moriarty's web. All he knows is that he staggered away from that warehouse bloody but victorious. Knew he took every back road and alley to avoid being seen until he could get...get...
Where?
Where was he trying to go? This place he was in, with the soft light, waterfalls, and plants...He could stay here, forever. This place with almost all the peace his mind could dream of. But it was missing something.
He knew he had to wake up to find that something but in the dream, he'd collapsed at the edge of an abandoned building, overgrown with plantlife, not a human soul to be found save for him. This building had to do with the Something he was meant to find, but he couldn't remember how to do that. So he crawled up the crumbling steps and let himself curl up on the tiny porch before the open, hanging door.
He gazed up at the building and felt sadness. Grief. This was a place that had once been full of life, joy, silliness and experiments and John.
John? What was John? No. Not a what. A who. Who was John?
John was steady hands, a grounding tree when Sherlock tried to fly too high. John was simple and complex. He was a resonating force, vibrating alongside Sherlock. John was light and laughter, exasperation and acceptance. He was defense and healing, like a gentle dog who would sit with him just to be near him and yet be ready, willing, and able to lay down his life to protect the one who cared for him, loved him, honed him to even greater heights than he'd already reached in Sherlock's world view.
John. John. John, joHn, JohN, JOHN! That was the Something he needed to find.
Sherlock!
The real world came thundering back like a tsunami, flooding his vision with all different sights and sounds and smells and Sherlock whimpered as heavy hands grasped his bloody, ragged coat and dragged him into a house that was not abandoned and overgrown, but quiet and dark save for the lamplight coming from the first floor flat.
Sherlock's head rolled down and his eyes took in the hands and he smiled, laughed a bit, like a little child and reached a trembling hand to the ones now checking his tired body over.
“John. My John...” Those hands paused a moment, one cupped the exhausted detective's face so gently and the man leaned into that hand.
“You great git. You nearly killed me with that stunt you pulled. Dying and coming back here. And I'm sure you had a perfectly good reason for all of it, which you can tell me about later, but right now, you need to get better and rest.” John rambled, relief filling him even more than his grief had, his heartbreak. He'd feel those again later, but now, Sherlock needed him more than ever. The detective had always needed him, John realized, after thinking for so long that the man had never truly needed him.
Sherlock grunted when those hands touched places that hurt, moaned as the pain wracked his body, whimpered when those hands drew away, sighed when they came back later.
Some distant part of his brain informed him that he'd been taken to a hospital (NOT St. Bart's) and was getting patched up.
Finally, he felt a gentle kiss against his temple, felt the hot breath against the shell of his ear, and heard the soft words his Doctor spoke.
“Dream. Dream and when you wake up, I will still be here.”
This time, when Sherlock fell into dream, to that wondrous dreamscape from Before, he dreamt he was resting with his head in John's lap, his eyes shutting as the smaller man carded fingers through clean dry hair. Instead of feeling like he'd had to choose, he now felt like he was a visitor to this great place. There were no more abandoned brownstones. Just remarkable nature and his remarkable John.
The past Sherlock was only somebody that he used to know. He was a different Sherlock now. Now, now, he could heal in peace with his John ever strong at his side. The dream was lovely but it was nothing without John there to share it with him.
Somewhere, in this strange world of water and air and light and green, he heard a distant voice say, “Sherlock. I love you”, and those four simple words were reason enough to want to leave this world and keep it only in his dreams.
Wherever John was, he would be there too. And that was good enough for him.