dreamnet | [Video] 001

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[Video] 001

[The camera feed kicks on to the familiar sight of replica 221B Bakerstreet- not so familiar, however, is the crew-cut blonde ex-soldier wandering aimlessly between checking the window, and trying to look composed.

John Watson has no idea what is going on.

His day started normal enough. He walked into the living room, went to grab his favorite mug, thought to check the weather-- and couldn't help but notice London was gone. As this was more than a bit not good; the man could now be seen muttering tersely beneath his breath, seemingly oblivious to the recording device on the adjacent table.]

Okay, John Watson, think...

[Had the lab in Baskerville triggered something? Even if an episode with this sort of effect was seldom heard of, random bouts of amnesia did not speak well for the sanity of a war veteran who supposedly had PTSD. Hmm... Well, if he is losing his mind, the best reaction will be to not react at all. Yes. He just has to wait this out; have a lie down in his chair. Resolutely, the doctor straightens his shoulders.

At last John's eyes narrow at the sight of the dreamberry. Hello Somarium.]

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[Uh, no, sorry Sherlock lets start about the part where you are suddenly injured.]

Sherlock? Jesus CHRIST, why are you in the hospital?!

[Your conversation is not going to wait. He left you alone for barely an hour, mate, an hour!!]

[Sherlock sighs. Why does John always insist on doing things the tedious ways. Sherlock is so close to getting the pain relief he desires, that he doesn't beat around the bush.]

I presume you've looked out the windows and so you are questioning what has happened to the view you are familiar with. Well, you're not in London anymore. Bring morphine to the me and I'll explain everything.

[Sherlock expects that John will be looking at his image carefully, clearly he's not faking his injuries. Sherlock sighs again.]

Punctured lung among other things. So, quick as you like...

[The sooner you get here, John, the sooner he'll explain it.]

[John stares for an expectant second, wondering if Sherlock could somehow deduce the fact he was feeling delusional-- and decides the relief of the idea is worth it too much to care.]

Oh thank god.

[He sags against the table, rubbing his hand over his face.]

Mm. Morphine. Right.

[In monotone he repeats the details, simultaneously trying to grasp it while also gathering his things and wandering about the flat. Hmm? Now where is his coat, he could swear he just left it over here??]

Punctured lung?

Don't be dull, John. That's what I said.

[He looks around to make sure no one can hear.]

The idiots here want me to use their 'healing arts' or whatever it is, so they're refusing to give me anything except paracetamol. I need more than that if I expect to get out of here.

[And by get out of here, he means, immediately.]

People don't just get punctured lungs, Sherlock.

[No, he just. He's not even going to touch what the hell you just said. This is too much, too fast. Seriously, where the hell is his bloody coat?!]

What were you even doing?

[Damn it, John, why do you have to be in Doctor Mode already? Just get here.]

True. I have a broken rib - fell and it punctured my lung. Why aren't you here yet?

Look!! I am! I'm coming; all right?! Just have a lie down. You're already at a hospital, apparently, doubt you can get much worse!

[John is still holding back in the incredulous urge to ask HOW?! God; did Sherlock get bored and throw himself out a window?! John must have been having some hell of a dream to sleep through that! The doctor rifles through another mess before throwing his hands up in exasperation.]

I swear, it's like the whole flat's been done over.

[Okay, Sherlock has had enough of this.]

John! Shut-up and listen to me.

[He gives John a moment.]

You. Me. The flat. This isn't London any more. If you goto Bart's things should be where you expect them, since no people are working there.

[Surprisingly, John does quiet at the outburst; of course the answer only gives him more questions: Fine, never mind the coat; how is he supposed to pay cab fare without his wallet?.. Except this isn't London? So no cabs then? How is Bart's here but no one works there? How is Bart's here when this ISN'T LONDON?!

Still, he trusts Sherlock. That is all that matters. The army doctor drags out a long sigh and forces himself to look at the map.]

Bart's first. Then hospital. Anything from the flat?

[It's a deceptive sort of distance but maybe he can run the whole way.]

[It is a deceptive distance. But nothing is terribly far here. Sherlock considers if there's anything needed from the flat.]

No. And I promise to explain everything once you get here.

[Whether he'll be able to explain things in a way John will understand is a different matter. But for John's own safety, he will explain.]

[John frowns, finally calming his voice.]

No. You are rather badly injured; maybe it's best you don't talk.

[Not to say, he doesn't want an explanation; but Sherlock's health comes first right now. If the detective really does have a punctured lung, he probably hasn't been doing any favors. John pauses as something offscreen catches his attention, and turns to look away.]

Hang on a moment--

[The feed cuts out.]

It's been far more than a moment. Don't forget the morphine at Bart's.

[Sherlock isn't in the mood for any of this crap any more. And it's worse now that he knows John isn't from... when he is... He needs to find out when John is from...]

[Leave it to Sherlock to make his flatmate race about an entire foreign city instead of just giving an explanation. Once out of the doorway of 221B Bakerstreet, John felt the entirety of the situation assault him full-force; the only thing keep his mind ~~and legs~~ straight, the mission he was given.

It takes a fair moment, but sure enough the army doctor appears in the hospital hallway, keeping a wary eye out. It isn't very difficult. For a hospital this place seems rather empty. Not as empty as Bart's had been per say- and, really, that word did not begin to describe how unsettling it was to see a place he knew so well, for so long, so completely devoid of life- but understaffed nevertheless.

John knows what Sherlock wants, he marches right up to the drip with something unlabeled; and fixes the detective a strong look.
Trust him.]

Afraid I couldn't get anything much stronger than Paracetamol but this'll have to do...

[A lie; as Sherlock should soon feel the morphine take. A fairly diluted strain, yes, but effective nonetheless. You owe him for this.]

[The thing about Sherlock knowing Chemistry so well, is he knows the difference between the syringes of different medications. He just glares at John, until the medicine starts to effect him. When it does, he relaxes a bit. It's clear he's been in much more pain than he's been letting on. He pauses before speaking.]

It's a mild dosage.

[He takes a breath.]

Still... it's better. You have questions.

[It's easier to let John ask - Sherlock doesn't know what John has already been told by others.]

[Questions, of course John has questions, had so many he nearly begged Mycroft; but where does he even begin? John busies himself looking at the medical chart with a tight frown.]

I don't understand.

[So many injuries, treatment periods. Not something possible in the time span of just this morning.]

I was just with you.

Fine. I'll ask the questions.

[He takes a breath and sits up a bit more - the little bit of morphine is helping - but it's clear it's not quite enough. He's not faking, John.]

Our last case. What was it?

[John grows uncomfortable; fidgeting in his chair.]

My memory is fine, Sherlock.

[If there is one thing thought that unnerves him, it is being less than he should be. John refuses to accept there is a gap in his memory; but with the evidence stacking against him, it's getting harder to deny.]

You know what it was.

[Sherlock's getting annoyed. But there's one sure way to get John to answer.]

Maybe mine isn't! Answer the question!

[John barks back, mirroring the stress.]

Fine!! Henry Knight, Dartmoor, Dr. Frankland-- took an unfortunate step!! I haven't.. named it yet. I don't know, the Hounds of Baskerville!

[Excuse Sherlock as he doesn't know how to answer for a moment.]

Good.

[Well, that confirms it.]

How much do you know about this place?

Considering how little you've told me, not a whole lot!

[John grimaces, the tension from the outburst still dying down.]

I almost asked Mycroft, Sherlock.

[Mycroft.]

Someone mentioned it having to do with dreams.

Don't talk to Mycroft - he's only been here a few weeks and is doing whatever he can to control my life.

[Sherlock perks his ears at "someone." No matter...]

This place is called Somarium. People from different worlds are all pulled here - I believe for an experiment, though I have yet to discover what kind. A couple of weeks ago, we were attacked by... Natives, I guess, though I doubt anyone is native to this place. I arranged to be kidnapped, I was planning to become one of their side to figure out what was going on, but the other hostages decided to brake out.

Then the rest of the people here raided where we were held captive.

[And no that doesn't explain why Sherlock's in hospital, but it catches John up.]

[Okay there, Mr. deduction, one step at a time. Still, John's form grows less tense.]

Right, lets go back to that bit about different worlds.

So you're saying, everyone that is here.. they don't actually come from this, er, place?

[Sherlock nods - not as slowly because the pain isn't as bad.]

Yes. And some seem to be from different versions of Earth. When I first arrived, there was another Sherlock Holmes and John Watson here. Though, they were from the late 19th Century.

Okay.

[Oh-- hang it all; fine, he'll believe anything at this point.]

More than one version of us, sure, why not?
...And the dreams?

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[Private Video: Encrypted] Figure we'll continue after I get a bit futher with Subaru?

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[Action] Hope this works for you?

[Action] Of course it does <3

[Action] <333

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[Action] lol lovely icon words

[Action] Well it's APT considering what scene that is :D

hehe indeed

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