While They Last

"Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?"
-Alfred Lord Tennyson
---
"So," Lestrade says, crossing his arms. "What're we looking at?"

He's giving Sherlock that look, the same focus, curiosity, trust, and confusion he did the first time John met him.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, and his eyes flick away from the corpse for a second. "A body, Lestrade, I thought even you could discern that." He smirks at John's half-snort of laughter, then is completely focused on the scraps of something that was once human.

Lestrade doesn't respond, but watches each taut line of the consultant's form, bent over for closer examination. Sherlock's gloved fingers trace along the veins of the cadaver's wrist, gently skipping over the cuts carved into the arm.

The cuts aren't limited to that limb. This young man's body turned up in the morgue- laid out on one of the slabs, like the killer was presenting a challenge, like he wanted to be found- scored all over. Besides the damage overall, a deliberate pattern was sliced into his chest: a six-pointed star. As if in mockery of the law, the bloody knife was placed beside the victim, but that's already been taken for examination.

Finally, Sherlock straightens. His natural grace and ease with his surroundings is almost overridden by the excited excess of energy in his movements. The smallest smile exposes a glint of his teeth as he asks John and Lestrade, "What do you see?"

The two men exchange a glance. John shrugs, and Greg clears his throat. "Young man, killed violently." His men have already examined the body, but Sherlock sent them all out. "He was in terrible condition before they did this, most likely been living in the sewers for a while. Possible gang activity."

John's tongue flicks out to wet his lips. "Well, he didn't die from blood loss." He looks up at Sherlock for confirmation. "So...someone did all this to him, and then...killed him?"

The consulting detective remains impassive. "A lot of effort. Why would someone go to all that trouble?"

The doctor steals another glance at the body. "Teach him a lesson, I suppose. Make it more painful. Some kind of torture?"

Sherlock takes in an audible breath. "Good." The other two give him questioning looks, which he ignores. "I'm afraid you've got it backwards, though. I would've thought a doctor would notice, but-" He reaches out and delicately lifts one of the cadaver's hands. "Look how clean that cut is. They all are."

He's right, they're clean- in multiple senses of the word. It seems a minor detail, but every slash, deep or superficial, is straight, carefully made, not a hitch or rip. There's barely any blood, on or around the body, despite the fact that the damage must have been done right there.

"This man was dead several hours before he was brought here," Sherlock announces. He turns his focus to Lestrade, and John wonders if, even now, he's unconsciously deducing everything he can from the DI. "Which means his identity is of no significance; these cuts were made as a warning on a random body the perpetrator found."

"A warning?" Lestrade repeats, but his tone isn't doubt. He owes his career to Sherlock Holmes, and he's learned not to doubt the consulting detective.

"Obviously." Sherlock takes another swift look at the body. "The question is, to who?" He pauses, taking a second to look at the thin glaze of blood on his expensive gloves. "John-"

But his next words are lost, because in that instant, John Watson wakes up.
---
There's no drowsy moment, no lazy state of consciousness where John has one foot in the dream-world and one in this one, it's much more distinct.

John is asleep.

And then he's not.

He props himself up in bed, swallowing past a sandpaper-dry tongue. Every detail of the dream is vibrant and crystal-clear, and, unlike most dreams, it's completely logical. He feels like he's been yanked out of one reality into another, and it takes him a moment to remember the truth if this one: Sherlock Holmes is dead.

He's been dead for nearly three years.
---
Lestrade wakes with a start.

There's a moment of confusion, when everything from the dream is as fresh and clear as if he really was on a crime scene with Sherlock a second ago. But, of course, he wasn't: he's in the bed in the house that he still hasn't gotten around to selling. And Sherlock is six feet under. Funny, though- he doesn't normally remember his dreams, and this one has left him with an acute feeling of missing something.
---
Sherlock is jerked out of the dream so suddenly that it takes him a moment to remember where he is. Obviously, it was a dream; he's taught himself to recognize these things, but there was something very wrong about it.

Something that leads him to believe that it wasn't just a dream.

There's a stroke of realism, far too close to this physical world, that makes him homesick.