It’s all just a dream.
In nightmares the detective could convince his mind a good manner things. He imagined he could smell the damp, musty smell of a motel room, that he could taste the overpowering scent of decomposition, and that he could feel when his fingers buried wrist-deep in whatever body he happened to be taking apart for his own pleasure. Dreams were never quite as detailed nor vivid, and they never lingered long after he’d woken. The images blurred until finally, he couldn’t decipher them.
This was something else entirely.
At first, panic threatened when he drew in a breath, and he waited for the inevitable which did not come. He breathed just as easily as he so often did, and as the sense of calmness ensnared him, he took a tentative step forward, eyes narrowing through the clear water, his gaze quickly snatched by the reflective scales of a fish near him, brushing up against his cheek, but the King of Dreams himself, was a far more captivating sight.
Nestled in the back of his mind, the recognition which seemed more at ease while he slept than in his waking moments, and like dreams, the more he grasped at the thought, the finer the detail became, until it was unreachable.
“I’d ask how you’re doing this, but I believe you’ve already supplied me my answers,” He spoke, more at ease with the voice in his mind than he’d expect, “This is in my head, I’m asleep, aren’t I?” Yes, he remembered that, and he more than resented being all but poisoned in his own home.
*Something rare would occur. Something that the Dream King didn’t take much thought in doing, and didn’t feel the need to, infact, do. Drawing back his lips, and showing his transformed and pointed teeth, he smiled. Just smiled.*
You are indeed asleep. You are in my realm, Sherlock. Anything is possible here.
*His head would tilt backwards ever so slightly, hair following, and dissipating into the waters around him at the edges, as if smoke billowing away into the air. He’d turn around now, blackened fin propelling him a few feet away, and just drift there, raising an elongated and clawed hand to point a finger to the watery horizon.*
There, is my castle. Or rather, an incarnation of it. Would you like to see it?
*Hand coming back to look at the detective over his shoulder, his still black eyes would shimmer with star light for just a moment. Nightmares held the memory of most of his dreamers, but he was convinced that curiosity was what truly freed the other man. Curiosity and imagination. Such a precious thing to have. And something the Dream King truly respected. Beads would shimmer as he turned back around, reaching that hand towards the other as if an offering. A few more small fish would float by, with other various sea life scuttling along the golden, bleached white sand floor*
It’s all just a dream.
*The consulting detective would hit it hard. Not the couch. Not the floor. But unconsciousness. Falling into that darkened void of nothingness, warmth washes over the man, and takes him deeper into sleep. A deep sleep so quickly is a rare ordeal, and would leave anyone feeling abit lost. Especially when they open their eyes, and they are, infact, under water, surrounded by coral of all colors and fish of all types. There is no pain, or fear in this, only overwhelming calmness that the cerulean blue waters that embrace Sherlock bring. The small brown curls atop the detective’s head would ebb back and forth with the gentle current, as if caught in a summer breeze. A small fish caresses the well defined cheek bone of the sculpted man, and continues onward and out of vision, trailing it’s angel fish fins behind itself.
And as in dreams, a blink would be all that is needed for the Dream King to be infront of the other man, yet different and not so different at the same time. He has altered forms, his face elongated into sharpened streaks, hands disappearing into blackened scales that shimmer in the light that’s drifted through the surface, and bare chest giving way to a pointed, yet flowing fin reminiscent of merfolk. He’d look just as majestic as any dream would, black hair tumbling about back and forth as if dancing on unseen strings, and eyes glittering every color that Sherlock would ever imagine or hope to see. He would be edorned by beads and jewels over that white flesh, dipping down against that blacked fin that waved back and forth like a shark’s.
He’d wave his hand, and not with words that were heard through the water and by Sherlock’s ears, he’d be able to hear the Dream King in his head.*
Welcome, Sherlock Holmes, to The Dreaming.
