I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.
Mycroft Holmes is dreaming.
At least, dear lord, he hopes he’s dreaming.
He can hear a sword clashing against dragon hide. He can hear a raven screeching (how he knows it’s a raven he cannot say. Deductive prowess, probably). He knows there’s a thorn forest beyond the tower where he lies.
When he tries hard enough, he can see himself lying in state, in a thoroughly ridiculous white suit--awful tailoring, really--surrounded by roses of all things. Fat lot of good being able to see that does him, it’s not as though he can actually move.
At least he can’t smell the roses. Mycroft is allergic to roses.
Sherlock and John are shouting at each other when Greg strides into their flat. Well, John is shouting, Sherlock is looking abashed while trying not to look abashed.
“What the hell is going on here?” Greg interjects, looking from one to the other.
Sherlock steps aside, and Greg sees Sherlock’s brother sprawled mostly in a heap on their sofa, undignified as he never is awake, suit bunched up and starting to wrinkle, drooling a little bit.
“Sherlock poisoned him,” John points out.
“I did not!” Sherlock shouts. “I just drugged him. He wouldn’t shut up! He’s trying to have me knighted again!”
I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.
His prince is coming for him.
Mycroft vows never to think that thought again.
His neck is sore, but he still can’t quite manage to move.
Lucid dreaming is usually far more fun than this.
“Well, someone has to fucking kiss him and I’m not doing it!” John screeches, waving his arms about.
Sherlock rounds on him, drawing himself up to his full height, puffs up like he’s about to start breathing fire. “Too right, John,” he replies, voice dark.
John steps back and blinks at him, too surprised for it to even register on his face.
Yes, I know it’s true that visions are seldom what they seem, but if I know you, I know what you’ll do.
Mycroft really wishes he weren’t stuck in this infernally uncomfortable bed. Mattresses have come quite a long way since whatever warped Medieval universe his dreaming brain has stuck him in.
That, and he’d really like to watch his Prince defeat his brother. As one does.
“Oh for the love of god,” Greg murmurs. “And you call me useless?”
You’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream.
His prince... is a silver fox. Damn.
Sherlock looks over to where Greg Lestrade is knelt next to their sofa, kissing his brother. For a moment, it fails to register that his DI is kissing his brother.
And his brother is kissing his DI back. Quite... erm... enthusiastically.
John stifles a giggle.
“Ew,” Sherlock mutters, wrinkling his nose.
Greg and Mycroft break apart long enough to speak in unison, “Shut up, Sherlock,” before resuming their kissing.