John blinked the remaining sleep from his eyes as he took in the familiar walls of his Baker Street room. That had been the oddest dream he'd ever had. He brought up his left hand, opening and closing his fist as he examined it. The odd blade had appeared in his hand as soon as he needed it.

He shook his head as he washed up, then he dressed before heading to the main room of his shared flat. His flatmate was laying lengthwise on the sofa, hands folded beneath his chin. Doubtful that the tall, lean man had actually slept. At least the "casual" foray into his mind palace was as good as a rest for his body.

"Bad dream?" Sherlock asked, his eyes on John without turning his head.

"More odd," John said. "It was like nothing I had ever seen before. I was standing on a finished stained-glass window. There were these . . . shadows . . . physical forms of darkness. Given three choices at various times. A strange blade that destroyed the shadows." He shook his head. "Never mind. Forget I said anything."

He entered the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. He paused for a moment, and flexed his hand once again. A faint voice whispered in his mind. "A 'keyblade'?" Shaking himself he set about making toast. A dream. Just a bad dream.

"You keep having that dream, don't you?"

John blinked at the conversation switch. They had just been leaving the resolution of a case, Sherlock expounding on the incredible nuances of it when he abruptly changed the subject. "Yes, almost nightly this past week," John answered. "And I keep recalling more on waking each time. But it still makes no sense."

"And you are certain you've never seen anything like it before?"

John half-laughed. "I'm sure I would have remembered seeing a stained-glass window featuring myself in the design."

"What?"

"Once we get to the flat, I'll sketch it out for you."

About an hour later, after claiming some Chinese take away, John was sketching out different items from his dream. The circular stained-glass platform featuring him wearing his favorite jumper, trousers, and shoes, his military pistol ready in his hand. But he wasn't at attention or wary. He was reclined against the outer rim, finger just outside the trigger guard, safety on. Etchings of Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Sherlock, and Greg occupied a smaller circle within the larger one.

He sketched the items symbolizing the choices he was given: a sword, a shield, and a wand. He captured the rough likenesses of the small shadows and the giant shadow. Then he drew the weapon, a keyblade. A keychain hanging from the hilt showcased the familiar RAMC insignia. Golden laurels formed the guards, while the shaft and hilt seemed to be a unicorn's horn of twisted silver-blue and white. The "teeth" appeared to be a sharp caricature of a serpent's head with a blue reptilian eye clenched in its jaws.

Sherlock studied each sketch, his face revealing nothing. "Perhaps a message of some sort? There's no other explanation."

"But that's impossible," John said.

"You have never come across anything like this before and yet you sketched it with a surety that relays their vividness. And since you are a man not accustomed to wild flights of fanciful imagination, this must have been otherwise planted in your mind. And as you know, I believe that once all possibilities have been eliminated save the impossible, then the impossible must be possible."

John released a long breath. Of course. He should have suspected that it wouldn't be as simple as something he ate. "So what kind of message?" he asked.

"Why don't you ask them?" Sherlock returned. "A voice speaks to you does it not?"

"Yes."

"Then see if you can talk with the voice. Maybe it will offer some insight."

Falling. He knew he had done so the other times, but now that he had decided to be more deliberate and proactive, he acknowledged the sensation. He spread his arms a little and flexed his fingers. It was like flying through water and diving through air.

The glow of the now familiar platform grew as he finally came within sight of it. Some unseen force flipped him over so he landed on his feet.

"You are more aware. You are closer to waking."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Sherlock says this is supposed to be a message. How can I know that message if you don't tell me?"

"Patience, John. Your power, a power long dormant for generations, is starting to wake in you. A message?" Light, tinkling laughter. "More a training ground in preparation of a coming darkness."

Somehow that felt right. "And now that I'm 'more aware'?"

"This will be your final choosing. You have now tested each combination of choices for your chosen path. Choose the path that rings true for you."

Three pedestals rose from the glass. "A power sleeps within you. If you give it form, it will give you strength. Choose well."

John looked at the wand, shield, and sword. He wanted to keep the shield, symbolizing a guardian, ability to help friends, to repel evil, if he recalled the details correctly. But it wasn't his first choice. He took the sword from where it floated above the pedestal.

"The power of a warrior. Invincible courage. A sword of terrible destruction. Is this the power you seek?"

"Yes," he answered. "And in exchange I give up the power of the mystic."

The voice sounded intrigued by his quickness. "You have chosen the path of a warrior and given up the path of the mystic. Is this the form you choose?"

"Yes," John answered.

His surroundings changed. He was in 221B again. Mycroft stood near the kitchen; Mike Stamford stood near his chair; and Donovan stood by the sofa. John approached Mycroft, already knowing what needed to be done.

"What is most important to you?" Mycroft asked.

"Friendship," John answered. He immediately turned to Mike.

"What do you want out of life?" Mike asked.

"To be strong," John said without hesitation. Then Donovan.

"What are you so afraid of?" she challenged.

"Being indecisive," he answered.

"You want friendship. You want to be strong. You're afraid of being indecisive," the voice said. "Your adventure begins in the dead of night. Your road won't be easy, but a rising sun awaits your journey's end."

Baker Street faded away so that he was once again standing on the stained-glass window.

"You have made your final choice. Now your training shall begin in earnest."

Three shadows appeared, twitching and sniffing.

John's hand flew to his hip. But his pistol wasn't there.

"Summoning your keyblade should be just as instinctive. Recognize that darkness and defend against it."

After some minutes of practice, he asked, "What did you mean by generations?"

"You are descended from two of the Old Masters. Long ago there were five Masters. One night, two of them came to know each other intimately. By the time the resulting child was born, their teacher, the Master of Masters, started saying that he would be leaving them. Fearful of the unknown future, they took the child to another world to be cared for by another family. You are a direct descendent of that child.

"You have inherited their strong heart and noble spirit. A keyblade has chosen you."

"What about Sherlock?"

"He may yet have a chance. We shall see."

John nodded. A chill swept over him. He whipped around, hand about to fly to his firearm before he summoned his keyblade. He was learning.

"The leaders of the Darkness will tell you lies."

"What sort of lies?" John asked, leaning on his keyblade after a scuffle.

"They will tell you the world started in Darkness, that Darkness is the heart's true essence."

"What's the truth then?"

"The worlds were created with Light by the Master of Lights and Glory. The hearts of the first beings were formed of Light. Only when the Usurper arose did Darkness start to infect the worlds. Thus while Darkness does invade every heart, it was not always so. The very youngest still have a veil of Light that protects them.

"But the Son of the Master took part in a mission that brought about the possibility of everyone being restored to the Light."

"That sounds like Christianity."

"It is in your world. In other worlds, they go by different names, but in most worlds that hold a version of England, the Master of Lights and Glory is best known as the Living God, Yahweh."

"And other worlds?"

"It is not your concern to know the religions of other worlds. What is your concern is your relationship with the Master in your own world."

Darkness surged. John whirled to meet it.

"I need lessons in swordsmanship," John declared. It had been a week since he started being more active in his "dreams." He could tell that he was better prepared mentally, but physically? He needed to establish muscle memory.

"Not fencing?" Sherlock asked.

"Fencing uses a thin rapier," John answered. "I need to work with a broadsword or a long sword, something more comparable to the size and weight of a keyblade. Would you happen to know where to start looking for lessons?"

"I do as a matter of fact."

John looked about in amazement. The gym Sherlock had taken them to was very high class. And his flatmate was very comfortable here, indicating he'd been here many times before.

"We'll start with practice swords," Sherlock said. "See where you are then go from there." He tossed a sword, which John managed to catch, even as the detective spun a second sword in his offhand.

"You've had lessons already, haven't you?" John asked.

"Of course, best way to play the part of a pirate," Sherlock answered. "Films are horribly inadequate material. Let us start."

For the next hour, John discovered just how sorely he was lacking in swordsmanship. Sherlock was correcting his stance, his grip, his attack, his defense, . . . everything.

"Not giving up are you?" Sherlock asked when John collapsed on a bench.

"Not likely," John ground out. He had been chosen for a reason, and he wasn't about to disappoint.

"What were the names of my ancestors?" John asked.

"Ira and Invi. Most have forgotten them. They are of a time before the first Keyblade War."

"What is this Keyblade War?"

"That is not for me to say. I am very much a part of you, and as such my knowledge is limited."

"But how then–?"

A shadow almost jumped him. He growled. He hated not finding the answers.

"You're a fast learner."

"Possibly comes with using these techniques in my nightly sessions as well," John said. He had been practicing swordplay for two weeks now and was proud of his progress.

"Then it is time for you to try these real swords and choose the one you feel is most like your keyblade," Sherlock said.

While Sherlock claimed a pirate-like cutlass, John looked over the various blades. He passed over the ones shorter or longer than a meter. He was certain that his keyblade was roughly a meter or so. He tested a one-hand hilt, swung a two-handed hilt, before trying a one-and-a-half hand hilt. He swung it through the air, lunged, held it in a salute. It wasn't perfect. But close enough.

"This feels about right," John said, adjusting his grip.

"Well then, now the fun can start," Sherlock said.

"The fun?" John turned only to find Sherlock's very real sword centimeters from his face.

"Engarde, brigand!" Sherlock cried. "No one board's Yellowbeard's vessel and leaves alive."

"Ah, pirates," John said, gamely exchanging test blows. "Can't say I really played them as a child."

"Well, considering you have a good bit of swordplay down, you must think of a name for yourself," Sherlock said.

"The Daring Watson?" John suggested with a smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Imagination, John. Something more original. Something to inspire fear in the hearts of rival pirates."

As they fought, John allowed his mind to consider it. There was Blackbeard from history. Dread Pirate Roberts of The Princess Bride. Captain Jack Sparrow from that Carribean series from Disney. But none fit him.

He considered his keyblade: Healing Warrior. No, doubtful that it'd strike fear into hearts.

Then his mind turned to a favorite classic from childhood, The Hobbit. Might one of his childhood friends lend a name? Oakenshield or a wizard's title wouldn't do. But what title might Bilbo have been granted, especially those who fell to Sting in battle. "Deadly Phantom," he whispered.

"What?" Sherlock asked, pausing.

John gave him what he'd heard some call his dangerous smile. "You have met your match, oh dreadful Yellowbeard," he said dropping into character. "For this day you face the Deadly Phantom!"

"I've never heard of such a name," Yellowbeard declared.

"Might you wonder why then?" Phantom taunted.

John lost track of time as they clashed and parried, tossing pirate insults and taunts at each other.

"To the plank, ye scurvy dog!" Phantom cried.

"Thanks to a stubborn healer, I've never had scurvy!" Yellowbeard snapped.

"A squid has more brains!" Yellowbeard declared.

"Ah, met Davy Jones have you?" Phantom taunted. "Get ready for a second meeting!"

Finally, Sherlock disarmed him, though surprisingly it had been a close thing. They sprawled on the gym floor, smiling and chuckling as they caught their breath.

"Good show," Sherlock said eventually, breathing hard. "Not bad for a first game of pirates."

"Watched films with pirates," John said.

"And what exactly is the connection between squids and Davy Jones?"

"Pirates of the Carribean. They portrayed him as having tentacles for his hair and beard."

"Ghastly. How is that even probable?"

"How can an entire crew live for decades if not centuries beyond their time because of some cursed coins? It's just part of the story. It doesn't need to make sense in the usual way."

They were quiet for awhile aside from their evening breaths.

"Have you learned anything more of your family?" Sherlock asked.

"Ira and Invi," John answered. "But I doubt we'll find those names anywhere. They could have dropped their child at an orphanage for all I know."

"So anywhere anonymously."

"Like any number of babies through the years. I might as well be descended from Oliver Twist."

"Highly unlikely as he is not only a fictional character but he also reunited with his blood relatives."

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock," John grumbled.

They were silent again. Then, "Have you tried summoning your keyblade outside your dreams?"

John sighed. "No. A part of me is fearful of some consequence if I do it too soon."

"Very well. I would love to examine the real thing when I am able."

"I'll keep it in mind."

It had been dreamless. Somehow he knew he hadn't been dreaming before this. He struggled to focus on the voice. "What?"

"It's here. I can help you no longer. It's here."

John sat bolt upright, panting. He couldn't explain the fear that filled him. He dressed quickly before heading downstairs. It was still dark out, and he didn't see his flatmate anywhere. He jotted down a note that he was going for a walk. He made sure he had his phone, then headed out into the streets.

He walked aimlessly, trying to clear his head and understand why he felt so afraid. What had that voice said? Why hadn't he trained before?

He stopped when his foot mounted a single step. He looked up to see a cathedral. Soft light glowed dimly from the windows. Ancient saints stood in shadowed alcoves.

"It is not your concern to know the religions of other worlds," the voice echoed in memory. "What is your concern is your relationship with the Master in your own world."

As if drawn by an unseen force, John entered the looming building. He had grown up with many elements of the Christian faith. He even knew the darkness of the confessional box . . . and the empty dirtiness that still lingered after he left. Something inside him wanted more, but what? His military career had made it difficult to believe there was a god, even as his studies of the intricate human body told him Someone had to be behind such complexities.

He settled into a middle pew, his eyes roving over the lit candles and ornate crosses. Then his eyes settled on the central cross, the cross that bore a crucified man.

"I prefer the empty cross," Williams, an old army comrade, said. It was after a long trek and the boys wanted a distraction. So they turned to the man least like the rest of them. The one who kept his talk clean and never smoked or drank. A man who wore an empty cross beside his dogtags.

"Why's that?" Engel asked.

"Because my Lord is no longer on the cross," Williams answered. "He's not even in the grave they laid Him in. He's at the right hand of the Father, praying for me, for you, everyone. And He's waiting for us at the Gates when one of His adopted siblings come home."

It was only a week later that John found himself tending Williams, trying to keep him from bleeding out. His last words now echoed in his ears, the sounds of war faded. "It's alright, Doc. I can see Him. He's reaching for me. Calling me Home."

John trailed the gold chain through his fingers. He had claimed the cross to send back to Williams's family since they couldn't have his body. Only a couple days later, John had been shot and sent back. He had forgotten about the solid gold, empty cross until he'd found it tucked away in a pocket. Then his life had gone almost non-stop with running after Sherlock, leaving him forgetful of the necklace during the rare downtime.

He sighed, propping his wrists on the pew back before him. "Williams didn't fear death," he said quietly. " I doubt he would have feared this coming Darkness. How could he do it? I had thought myself a good man until I met him. He proved me wrong. What made him different?" He sighed. "Is it even proper to be asking you this without a priest or some patron saint?"

A Bible passage pressed on his mind. Finding a Bible in the pew he looked it up. "Mark 15:37 and 38," he murmured. "Ah. 'And Jesus cried with a loud voice, and gave up the ghost. And the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom.' The veil of the temple," he softly repeated, searching his mind. "The-the curtain that separated the people, even the priests from God's Most Holy Place. Jesus' death caused that division to be torn apart." He looked a little above the crucifix. "You mean, when Your Son died . . . there was no need for separation between You and mankind. No need for any other mediator?" A childhood memory came back. "Jesus came so He could save the world and give us all everlasting life. All we need to do is believe."

His eyes rested on the ornate cross for just a moment before returning his eyes to the plain, empty cross hanging from his fingers. "I may do this all wrong," he said, "but I heard Williams talk to You a couple times. Sorry if it was bad form. But I'm just going to speak my mind, like he did.

"I'm a bad man. I usually don't consider myself as such, at least until I remember Williams. I want what You gave him. I want that peace, that fearless face. I want You to make me a good man. I don't care about greatness. I want to be a good man.

"I don't know all the rules really, but I want to start. I'm not even sure I have the faith, but help me make up the difference. Something inside tells me, I can't face this Darkness alone. Please," tears leaked out as a presence settled around him, "please, take me into Your family. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

A familiar yet foreign presence wrapped around him, overwhelmed him. Yet as his throat stopped up, his heart took up the cry. Then between one tear and the next a relief, a lightness flooded him. The troubling scent of Darkness was washed away by an unseen, unfelt wind. "Thank you. Thank you." He smiled broadly as he lightly held Williams's cross up. "And thank Williams for me. His words and life bore fruit."

The presence lingered, not as strong as before. John breathed deeply, catching his spiraling emotions.

"Are you alright, my son?"

He looked up to see the priest. "Yes. My apologies for disturbing you, Father."

"No trouble," the elder answered. "How did you enter? I was certain I locked the doors."

John paused in standing. How had–? He faintly smiled as he looked at the cross in his hand. Looking up he said, "I guess the Lord opened the doors. He knew I needed to come in."

The father smiled. "And I can see in your eyes that you found the peace you needed."

John nodded. "Good night, Father." He tucked the cross in his pocket as he walked out. Descending the outer steps, an image pressed upon his mind's eye. The familiar platform, yet it seemed to glow a touch brighter and there were now two figures. John, himself, but now he stood, his pistol in his right hand and his keyblade in his left. And shoulder to shoulder facing up and outward, a Jewish Man in His early thirties wielding both a great, shining sword and a shield large enough to protect the both of them. His eyes twinkled despite their seriousness even as His laughing mouth betrayed the deadly consequences of crossing Him.

John smiled, touching his heart. Everything was changed.

He jolted as his phone sounded off. "Hello?"

"John! Where are you?" Sherlock demanded, worry touching his voice.

"I went for a walk." He looked about. "And apparently lost my way. I'll catch a cab back."

"Head over to New Scotland Yard. Did you bring your gun?"

"Uh, no," John answered, failing to find it.

"I'll grab it for you," Sherlock said.

"What's going on?" John asked as he hailed a cab. He gave the cabby the destination as he settled in.

"Lestrade says something odd is happening," Sherlock said. "Refused to give details. I'll see you at the station."

John took a deep breath as the call disconnected. Something in his gut told him it had started. "Well, Father, it's started, and I'll no doubt need You beside me."

John stood half-frozen beside Sherlock as he stared into the blocked intersection. They were real, no longer just creatures from his dreams. Shadow Heartless twitched all over the roads. A few dozen at least.

"They just appeared out of nowhere," Greg said from the other side of Sherlock. "And we're starting to get reports about missing people."

"You're looking at them," John said. "Shadow Heartless formed from the Darkness in people's hearts."

"What?" Greg asked.

"John has been receiving special training," Sherlock said. "I've also been researching. Apparently a gaming company in Japan got insider information. These Shadows are a weaker form of Heartless, though there may be stronger forms to come or in other parts of London. They are searching for the heart of the world in order to drag all into Darkness."

"You've gone mad," Greg said in shock.

"Unfortunately, he's quite sane," John said. "I've spent the last two months preparing for this because apparently I have the credentials to deal with them." He glanced at Sherlock. "Have your sword?"

Sherlock looked at him as though John had called him stupid. "Of course I do."

"A sword?" Sally demanded.

"Feel free to try your guns," John said, flexing and shaking his left hand. "But considering my own weapon, I doubt it'll do much." He turned to Sherlock. "Where's the heart?"

"That I haven't deduced," Sherlock said, taking his sword from the box he had insisted on bringing with them in the police car. "Considering it's in London, I'd say one of the tourist attractions is the location."

"Greg, have people keep a watch on such locations as Big Ben, Tower of London, the Eye, and Buckingham Palace," John said. "We should probably call Mycroft and get him on surveillance as well. We need to know where these creatures start congregating."

"We also may have Nobodies wandering about, the deformed husks," Sherlock added.

John nodded. He took a deep breath and released it as he closed his eyes to concentrate. His dream made it so easy.

"Wait!" Sally demanded. "We're killing them?! We're killing people?!"

"No," John snapped. "We're destroying the monsters that took over them."

"Once both Heartless and Nobody are destroyed the person will be restored," Sherlock said. "It's either destroy these beasts or more people will fall prey to them. John, let's go."

John reached to his heart, summoning his heart's strength. A familiar grip and weight settled in his hand. Healing Warrior looked even more magnificent then he ever saw in his dreams. He ignored the stares as he turned to Sherlock. "Observe it later," he said. Then he swung over the concrete barrier.

The Heartless weren't as easy to cut down as in his visions. Sherlock took twice as long to defeat them. The bullets from the police force helped them decrease in strength. It was possibly a good hour before the area was cleared. But John refused to let his guard down. This was just the beginning.

Author's Note: Wow. Didn't realize just how big this first chapter was until I spied the word count. But there was also a lot of ground to cover.

I studied a couple clips from Kingdom Hearts to get John's final choosing right, and then I threw in a reference to Martin Freeman's other popular role just cause I could. :-) If I got something wrong concerning Pirates of the Carribean, it would be because my knowledge only extends to the series' involvement in Kingdom Hearts.

And a special thank you to my friend, GoodShipSherlollipop, who inspired me to be unrepentant for including my faith in my stories. Anyone interested in Sherlock stories, especially featuring Sherlolly, go visit her and read her awesome stories.

None of this is "Brit-picked" though I did my best. Please tell me what you think. Hope you enjoyed.