Author's Note: This creation is meant to be a bit disturbing. I mean honestly, what do you think that Sherlock would dream about if John died? I am writing this using the idea that Sherlock is indeed asexual, and he and John have a completely platonic relationship. Or perhaps had? You can pretend John isn't dead if you'd like. He may not be dead actually. This could be just one of those revealing dreams where the dreaming person dreams of how they would react emotionally if something they cared for died. Even in dreams I believe Sherlock would only care so much; he is a high-functioning sociopath after all.
Lean over and stare.
There is an ethereal aura to the situation, and so this is socially acceptable if only because I want it to be. The scar is lovely I think. Touch it? Don't touch it? Touch it only for a moment. Maybe if I do it will disappear, heal itself, and then He (The human. Like me, but not the same.) will be perfection in the flesh. (Not that he isn't far from it now.)
The scar came from a bullet.
How do I know? I am uncertain about that so I search my mind. The world flickers for a frighteningly realistic moment, and so I come to the conclusion that that is not good thing to happen and therefore assume I was told by Him at some other time and stop my thoughts from straying farther inside of that dangerous territory.
He and I must be close, and so I deduce that touching the scar is fine. After all, if the scar does disappear then He will presumably thank me.
My hand goes through Him and hits the metal inside his top right rib.
How? How? H—
How this happened doesn't matter now I decide. Suddenly I can not only feel, but also see the supposedly removed offending object. The bullet isn't supposed to be there anymore! I try desperately to pull the thing out, but can only watch as it begins to devour Him. He doesn't seem to notice, but I want to scream. Loudly, so the sound will drown the reality.
I cannot make an outward sound, but He must hear it echoing through my mind…
I settle for retreating, unusually horrified by the occurrence, but once I do so I cannot see Him anymore, just the bullet. Because He has become the bullet, and then the bullet has become much more important than a bullet has any right to be.
That is my fault of course. The fact that I cannot remember the other parts of Him anymore will always be my fault because even though He was made for me, I was made for the bullet.
It had my name on it after all.
I decide this isn't real, there are too many flaws, and for once I cannot let the answer be the only remaining possibility. I exist both physically and mentally in 221B Baker Street once more. My phone buzzes and lights up the previously dim room. Its Lestrade, I figure; another way of saying it is time to go outwit childish people again at an insanely fast rate because there hasn't been anything stimulating to deduce since—
I don't want to finish that thought so I delete it and the dream.
There are too many flaws.