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Sherlock slowly descended the staircase, drawn to the ethereal blue-green light emanating from below. He was shocked as he reached the landing to see the entire ground floor filled with water. Small currents eddied and flowed and lazy lily pads floated past armoires and wing chairs.
Sherlock cocked his head and stared for a long moment, transfixed, then moved slowly down the last few stairs and took a hesitant step into the water. It was warmer than he had expected, like a stream on a summer's day, and came up nearly to his thighs. An eerie light refracted and reflected across his face as the water lapped gently against the ancient wooden sidepanels of his home.
He sloshed across the foyer, somehow drawn, though he did not know why, to his father's study to his right. Sherlock pushed open the door, struggling at the resistance the water created, then entered the room as if being pulled forward by an unseen force. His curiosity, always such a boon, felt somehow darker tonight. As if he was walking towards something he didn't wish to know, and could never unsee.
He glanced around the room. His father's study, though familiar, had always been off-limits in his youth. He tentatively moved further in, looking around for whatever had called out to him. He studied the bookshelves, the draperies, his father's desk, where he'd often hidden during elicit games of hide and seek with Mycroft in their younger days.
Nothing seemed out of place.
Then he stopped dead as he saw something dark rising up out of the water in the center of the room. He stared in earnest as a shape emerged. That of a body. Then it popped to the surface. A pale, waterlogged face, eyes shut, hair lank and stringy against her scalp. Beatrice. His baby sister. His dead, drowned baby sister.
Sherlock shrank back in horror.
The body slowly sat up and then, even worse, its eyes sprang open, meeting his gaze. The irises were black and bottomless, not his sister's at all, and the look she gave him was hard and accusatory. Sherlock couldn't move, frozen to the spot, stomach churning with fear. Then, lightning fast, the thing that couldn't possibly be Beatrice was in front of him, grabbing his arm. She pulled him towards her with an unnatural strength and Sherlock cried out as he tumbled forward with a splash.
Water forced its way up his nose as his face was submerged and his mind immediately panicked. He strained against the thing holding him, kicking his legs out, thrashing wildly beneath the water. Oddly they struck nothing. He was unable to find the wooden-planked floor he had just been standing on. The water seemed deep and dark now, endless beneath him. He tried to fight his way back to the surface but it seemed very far above him now.
He could feel the corpse-like Beatrice's small hand clamped around his wrist like a claw, holding him down, pulling him further below. He scrabbled at it, trying to dislodge her grasp, but it was tight as a vice and would not budge. Despite his fear and disgust, he reached out and pushed against her body, trying to get away. But it was no use. Whatever this was was supernaturally strong and had him tight.
Was this his punishment? His penance for letting Beatrice wander off by herself, to drown all alone? Why hadn't he just played with her? Why hadn't he just paid her any mind that day long ago?
All his fault. It was all his fault. He'd always known this. The whole family knew this. Clearly Bea did too.
He deserved this. Deserved to struggle and die, frightened and alone, tangled up with his sister's dead body.
Sherlock's lungs were growing tight now, burning as they ran out of oxygen. The eerie blue-green light that surrounded him was growing dim as his vision began to blink out.
Suddenly he felt another hand on his wrist, larger, warm and strong. It pulled him up forcefully and his head broke the surface with a sputter.
"Sherlock!" He heard a voice shouting in his ear. "Sherlock! Wake up!" Someone was shaking him roughly. "Sherlock!"
His eyes sprang open. He wasn't downstairs in his father's study. He was lying in his bed, tangled up in his sheets, soaked in sweat, not river water. James was hovering over him, hands wrapped firmly around his upper arms, shaking him awake.
Sherlock took a great gasping breath into his lungs, shocked to find he wasn't drowning. He looked around the dim room fearfully, chest heaving, searching the corners for the ghostly figure who'd tried to take him. But there was nothing there.
A dream. It had only been a dream.
He looked up at James, who still had his hands wrapped tightly around him. James looked nearly as shaken as he felt, concern etched all over his face, worried brow furrowed, eyes wide and studying Sherlock carefully.
Without thinking Sherlock threw himself into James' arms with a sob. The Irishman was taken aback at the gesture but he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him tight as his friend shook with sobs. He rubbed his back and stroked his damp hair, and even made an attempt at some soft shushing noises.
He didn't ask what had happened to scare Sherlock so deeply. He didn't demand an explanation for their current position. He just held him in the dark night as Sherlock cried like his heart might break.