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Like Ophelia in the river – Sherlock drifted, letting the currents take him where they may, but unlike Shakespeare’s maiden, he knew he would not be pulled under.
This wasn’t an observation, or a conclusion, or worse a guess – but some innate understanding he had of his circumstances, a truth within a silvered thread of the dream.
A dream… somehow, despite being a Heroic Spirit – beings forced to throw away the comfort of nocturnal illusions and incapable of such things… he was in a dream.
Impossibility – that became a possibility.
A singular, gloveless hand reaches up, water dripping from his fingertips like tears, turning silver before they splattered upon his face, forcing him to blink. Then as his eyes opened, a blue glow had lighted itself upon his fingers, spreading its wings.
He was entranced, as if he had never saw such a delicate creature before in his life, his lips parting in a child-like gasp of wonder. As the wings opened, the black eye on its lower wing turned from a silvery-grey to a vivid green before it catches in the rue-scented wind, sending the butterfly off - leaving only the bitter fragrance to remember it by.
Sherlock stared senselessly at where it had been, not a moment before as though the loss of that singular, brilliant color stole something more precious away with it, leaving an aching gap within his chest. With effort, far more effort than it would have warranted he pulls himself from the river’s clingy grasp, the scattered bouquet of lavender and marigolds petals tumbling from his body, having only been loosely held together by a spider’s ribbon.
Strange, he didn’t remember the flowers being placed upon him… or who they were for. That didn’t matter, he thought, as he searched the haze – where did it go? What did it want of him? What did it take from him?
The river sung to him to return to its sweet embrace – it did want not to drown him, it didn’t want to hurt him – it only wish to let him drift endlessly in bliss and without suffering. The waters became perfumed with poppy seed and opium sweet as he pulls himself out onto the shore, shivering with need, with fright, with the ache of some feral hunger before he finally pulls himself free, clutching at himself – the river roaring like a cascade as he forces himself to run, to pursue.
The air smelt bitter again, the wind blowing once more as he chases after the shadow of that butterfly, and soon found himself buffered by countless sapphire wings, staining his clothes, his hair, his skin with their color – only the green of his eyes remained untouched, unmarred by the ethereal color.
With a sweep of the swarm, the world was just white and the silvery mirror-like sheen of a still lake, the smell of rue strong in the air, as the lake cracked under his feet – spreading like cobwebs towards a figure, flocked by the fading butterflies.
Black became gold became gray, gray became blue, and the fluttering of wings for the moment obscures the stranger…
No… not a stranger, he did not see the face but he knew the man but he could not put a face or a name, or an identity to it, he just knew deep within that gaping hole in his chest - he knew. His lips parted, to speak, to ask, to cajole –
And instead he gasps as a blindfold of silvery thread fell over his eyes, hiding the man from him.
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The Detective jerks, alarmed by the darkness, before he realized that he had awoken with his hands covering his eyes. His mind raced, trying to catch the threads, but soon as he grasps onto an image, it vanished like a bubble upon a needle, fading away from his memory as if it never existed, and left in its wake a feeling of unease.
Holmes rubbed his eyes blearily and for a moment, he almost didn’t catch the azure in the corner of his vision. But soon as he turns to see what it was – there was only the darkness of his lightless room. Then the memory of that too soon vanished as scarlet, crackling whispers seeped into the edges of his consciousness once more.