Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and the title, In Dreams, is a song from Lord of the Rings, which I also do not own.

Hello, everyone! Welcome to exam week (yay …) So I have been trying for three nights now to write some hallucinations and let me tell you, I have struggled with it. It has not been easy. That being said, I finally got something I'm happy with. Just a bit of a disclaimer, I am NOT a Molly/Sherlock shipper. Just keep that in mind … that, and the fact that he as a high fever. Okay, I'm done. Enjoy!

Sherlock lost track of time after that. His body temperature continued to climb and he became delirious. Some of the dreams he had were memories of real events that had happened and some were the product of his subconscious and imagination. Some of them weren't even about him, but rather about John.

Sherlock was a young boy, about ten years old. He was in primary school, learning boring facts that he didn't bother to retain after he passed the test. Sherlock would literally learn a concept, be tested on it, and then delete it. Obviously he knew the basics of every subject, more or less, but anything after that was pointless. The only subject this didn't apply to was science; all science was useful.

One day, in class, Sherlock was honing observation skills – there was a hole in one girl's skirt, another was wearing two different barrettes. The boy opposite him had broken his glasses and glued them together, too afraid to tell his mother. The clock by the door was fast by three minutes and the second hand was inconsistent. The bulletin board had been redone but Sherlock noticed that there were now only three red tacks instead of four. A new white one was holding the fourth corner of a poster. The other red tack was now between the wall and bookshelf; the teacher had been unable to reach it when she dropped it.

"Sherlock, would you please answer the question?"

"What was it?" Sherlock asked bluntly. The teacher – Sherlock didn't even know her name – looked annoyed.

"I asked you to explain the difference between an adjective and adverb."

Dull. They had had an English test the day before and now they were reviewing material that was already covered. How stupid.

"I don't know." Sherlock answered. "It's pointless, I'll never need to know it so I deleted it."

This was the first time Sherlock had said his thoughts out loud but he was so sick of wasting time learning things he would never use. The teacher looked over the rim of her glasses – they were missing a rhinestone, Sherlock noted – with a look of disbelief on her face. She had never had a problem with any student so she had never had to exhibit an air of authority. Pursing her lips, she straightened, putting on her best teacher face.

"Mr. Holmes, please go to the hallway. I will be out in a few minutes to escort you to the director's office."

Sherlock stood, sighing. At least the director's office wouldn't be as dull as grammar class.

Sherlock was now in St. Bart's mortuary with Molly. He was leaning over a cadaver that had been left for science and Molly was standing back, dressed in protective mask and gown.

"Are you sure you don't want a gown, or maybe a mask?" Molly asked, watching Sherlock poke around the chest. "He hasn't been drained yet and what you're poking, it's liable to - "

Molly cringed as the tissue squirted blood onto Sherlock's front, hitting his white shirt and splattering onto his face.

"Oh, are you alright?" Molly sputtered, as Sherlock wiped his eyes.

"Fine." he said, accepting the towel she handed him. "Perfectly fine. Where were we?"

Sherlock had handed the towel back to her and was leaning over the cadaver again, a stunned look on Molly's face.

It wasn't till the point where he was leaving the mortuary that the memory altered itself, becoming a construction of his subconscious. Sherlock was shrugging on his coat, Molly watching.

"You missed a spot," Molly said, picking up the towel and after moistening it under the tap, she pressed it to Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock didn't flinch or move away, but let Molly gently scrub his face clean of blood. While she did so, Sherlock found himself looking at her eyes. He had never realized how beautiful she really was. Her eyes were a deep … wait, what was he doing? Was he actually thinking about Molly in that way? No. No. Sherlock Holmes did not do that.

Now Sherlock found himself as an invisible observer as John worked on a patient. He was still in residency and working a shift at the A&E. Sherlock was aware of the entire room, divided by curtains. It was loud and people were milling around everywhere, although no one seemed to notice him.

John was suturing up the arm of a young girl.

There was the noise of someone vomiting, a child crying, a woman screaming. A gurney was wheeled past Sherlock, its passenger a man in a neck brace who was covered in blood. John seemed oblivious to it all, completely focused on what he was doing. Sherlock leaned over his shoulder; John did nice work. John finished and stripped off the gloves, writing something on the chart before leaving and pulling the curtain closed. He went to the desk and filled out a form. While standing there, the A&E doors burst open and a woman carrying a small boy in her arms yelled for someone to "Help me, please! My son, he isn't breathing." John quickly abandoned the form and led the woman to an empty bed. Sherlock watched with interest as John checked for a pulse, a throat obstruction, and then began compressions. Another doctor joined him and together, they continued CPR until a crash cart appeared out of nowhere and John grabbed the paddles.

"Charge!" he commanded. "Clear!"

John administered the shock and Sherlock saw him watch the monitor intently before breathing a sigh of relief as the boy regained a heartbeat.

"Alright, give him some space," John said, pushing the nurses back with his arm. He leaned over and smiled.

"Hi, my name's John. Can you tell me your name?"

The little boy's eyes focused on John and then drifted to his mother, who nodded encouragingly.

"It's alright, Sweetie. Answer the question."

The boy turned back to John.


"Well, Liam, you gave us quite a scare, but we're going to take care of you, okay? We'll figure out what's going on."

As John continued with Liam, Sherlock was surprised. He had never seen John interact with children, yet he was so naturally comfortable with them. Interesting.

Molly Holmes. Chloe Holmes.

What? Sherlock looked around his surroundings, unaware of how he got there. He was staring at a tombstone that read Molly Holmes and Chloe Holmes. Molly's birth date was listed, followed by the date of her death. November 14, 2028.
2028? When did it get to be 2028, Sherlock wondered. And who was Chloe Holmes?

Sherlock became aware of the ring on his fourth finger. When did he get married?

There were so many questions.

Something was tugging at his coat and Sherlock looked down to see a little girl with long red hair.

"Daddy, I'm cold."

Daddy? Who was this child? Why was she calling him daddy?

No, this had to be all wrong. John, where was John?

John suddenly appeared, looking much older and greyer than Sherlock remembered. Trailing behind him was a boy who looked to be about seven. The boy looked very much like Sherlock, the ice blue eyes (Sherlock realized the girl had the same ones) and the dark, curly hair.

"Do you want me to take them home?" John asked softly, joining Sherlock at the grave.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said in monotone. "What happened?"

John sighed.

"I did everything I could, Sherlock, but the labour was too early and too fast. She couldn't take it."

Oh. So Chloe had been their third (?) child and Molly had died giving birth to her. And now Sherlock had two nameless children to raise.

"John, I can't do this. I never wanted this, I didn't love her."

"I never loved her, John." Sherlock mumbled under his breath. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, concerned. He was bathing Sherlock's face generously, and had been for about thirty minutes now.

"No, I don't want to be called daddy," Sherlock said, pulling his hand into himself. "Leave me alone, please."

"Sherlock, wake up!" John said softly, trying to interrupt the dream.

"John, you have to help me. I don't know what to do."

Sherlock's voice was becoming clearer and he sounded genuinely panicked.

"Sherlock, I'm right here." John said, louder this time, and Sherlock's eyes flew open and his breathing became very rapid. The ice blue eyes were looking everywhere, trying to regain a sense of direction and location. Sherlock seemed to relax when he realized he was in his bedroom, even more so when he saw John.

"Bad dream?" John asked, replacing the compress. Sherlock swallowed.

"Nightmare. What time is it?"

"About three o'clock in the morning." John said, checking his watch.

"What are you still doing up?"

"Taking care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of. Go to bed, John."

"Your fever, Sherlock, it's dangerously high. In the forties."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Fevers were so pointless.

"Yes, and it'll still be there in the morning. High fevers are a symptom of yellow fever. Go to bed."

"Not till you take some more medicine."

"Fine, whatever." Sherlock said, just to get John out of his room. He needed to think after a dream like that. Sherlock hurriedly swallowed two pills, choking on the water. Thankful it didn't trigger a vomiting spree, Sherlock allowed John to replace the compress one more time before heading up to bed.

The moment John was gone, Sherlock removed the compress – he never had much patience for that particular method of nursing – and rolled onto his side, somewhat annoyed by the IV line taped to his wrist, although he knew better than to remove it.

The first dream, while he didn't know where it had come from, was a memory. Nothing special.

The one about John was interesting … he wondered if it had actually happened. Interesting, if it had, he'd have developed some sort of telepathy with John, then. He'd have to remember to ask.

The first one with Molly … it had been mostly real. He had gotten blood all over his face one day. The only part that had been odd was him noticing she was beautiful. And then the whole thing … Sherlock didn't even know what to call it … with the kids and Molly dying. That had come from who knows where and the idea made Sherlock's skin crawl. He trusted Molly, yes, but he would never marry her, nor ever have children with anyone. It was, as he had told John, a nightmare.

Sherlock tried to shift his thoughts away from Molly. He didn't want to think about her at all at the moment. He tried to focus on how he was feeling.

Arms achy, calves sore. He was drenched in sweat, which felt disgusting but he was too exhausted to even think about getting fresh clothes. His head was spinning slightly and his stomach was aching, although he didn't want food. He knew he should be drinking but even the thought of holding a cup to his lips, while sitting up, seemed too much. And although he was tired of sleeping, Sherlock closed his eyes and fell asleep, praying that he wouldn't dream about anything.

Let me just reiterate, I don't ship Molly and Sherlock … cute as friends but nothing more. The dream was literally meant to be the product of a high fever and a mind that ran away with itself. That being said, I hope you enjoyed his hallucinations!

Also, I'm still open to suggestions for scenes as Sherlock recovers, it's going to be awhile yet so I'd love to hear what you have. Credit given, of course =)

Third, it's exam week so I don't know if I'll get another chapter up soon or not … it's really a day by day thing for me now. I hope to but no promises.

Thanks, as always, for your support. Reviews are always appreciated!