Devil Take The Hindmost •Sequel To Life Is But A Dream•

•The Hounds Of Baskerville: Part One•

Chapter Twelve: What Is Sleep?

A falling sensation thrills through my body. There is darkness all around me as I descent into the nothing. Eventually, I hit a hard surface, but am unaffected except for my fear. I am quick to my feet and start to run through the darkness. My breaths are quick and uneasy. Something is following me, I know it. Right when I see a speck of light at the end, I trip over something and fall. A hand wraps around my leg and pulls me away from the light at an alarming speed.
"No, stop!" I cry, but they don't. I then recognise the tight grip they hold.
"Can't escape me, princess." The maniacal voice of Moriarty sneered. I was alone now. He could come at any moment.

I run once I come to my feet, trying to control what chaos my body was being thrown into: shaking limbs, a weary head, and tears that refused to stop. Running was the only way I could escape this nightmare; the only way to stop me from collapsing and giving in. I want to stop. So badly. But, at the same time, I want someone to save me. I want light to break out and give me breath in this suffocating darkness. I want someone to call me, and me answer. I know though that it would make me seem more weak than I already was. That I would start back at square one.

I stop breathing, and fall. This time, the grip returned, and held on to me. I knew that this was something I would have to face alone.

I shot up from my bed, chills wrapping me in a comfort that I didn't enjoy. My hands, legs, and arms were shaking as I pulled my knees up and rested my chin on them. I desperately wanted to talk to Wyatt, but I made my choice. I had pushed away yet another person I cared for. The thought of being alone with no one seeped into my brain, making my weep into my knees.

"Stop." I told myself. The phrase had come out in between my quick breaths. I notice then that it was still dark outside, and John lay motionless in his bed. I needed some air.
Standing, I went out into the cool air of the flat, where only one man could be sitting, staring off and ignoring life.

"Go back to bed." Sherlock said to me, twirling his fingers about his hands.
"Bad dream." I stumbled. The first words I'd spoken in a week, since the incident with Wyatt occurred. John had questioned me for hours, until I had stopped responding completely. That day was one I would want to forget, but won't. My first kiss on that day.

"Dreams can reflect our subconscious, Aspen. I would try not to be upset before bed. It does worry John." Sherlock requested, but it was a statement that I brushed off. "I'm going out. Got a case. Expect me to return late tomorrow morning. If it's possible don't try to kill each other." He informed as I sat down and ran my hand through my hair, then put my chin in my palm.

"Funny word choice." I said, "kill. As if I would do that to my uncle." I chuckled. "Never. I would die before that could happen."
I stopped myself before I could say more. What the hell was I saying? It must be the fatigue. My head pounded my skull in attempt to make me go to bed.

Sherlock shook my words off, and before I could stand, he was out of the flat, coat and all. My book was on the table, a dead stem sticking out. I reached for it, and took out the frail and crumbly blue rose. A pang of sadness washed over me, and I felt my fingers crush. I didn't want to be reminded of those lies. In my lap were the dark blue leaves that crunched and flew down to my grey shorts.

A soft breeze blew in through the open window as I laid back and rested my head on the arm of the sofa. It's times like these I dreaded. When I was alone, and knew it. When I was alone with my thoughts. They were a weapon my mind used against me, along with memories. Combined, they both watched as I crumbled beneath their power. A fire danced in its hearth. The blazing orange reminded me of that light that I had. A light I felt could never return.

Time flew by, and I resisted the temptation of a good night sleep. It was a tug that would make me fall into yet another nightmare. Soon, I could spot the sky's colour above the buildings outside- the blues like my eyes, and oranges and pinks that prepared a sunrise. I smiled at the thought of that warmth, but another breeze brought cold air that extinguished it.

Not long after did I hear the hurried steps of John as he went into the kitchen. I quickly closed my eyes to mislead him into thinking I was asleep.
"Okay. She's here." I heard him tell himself.
He then proceeded to cover my cold being with a blanket that wrapped me in a comfort that was hard to come across. It sent a warm sensation through me, and all I felt myself drift off once more...

When I wake, not disturbed by any nightmares, it was nearly noon. John was reading the news silently when the door barged open, exposing a blood-splattered Sherlock from head to toe.