A one shot set during the new, and rather awesome, Sherlock Holmes film - A Game of Shadows, so spoilers if you read on!

It's based when Sherlock 'dies' on the train after escaping through the woods. In the short time before John managed to bring him back, did he dream of anything, or anyone?

I wasn't sure whether to put this up as I don't think it's my best work, but I hope you enjoy it all the same!

Thanks to FairyTaleRocker for reading it through for me :)

Please review!

Just a Dream

The train rattled harshly beneath Sherlock, but he hardly noticed. Simza's sweet singing drifted to his ears, but the sound was fading. In fact, everything was starting to dim, the world was getting darker, the sound of life getting quieter, the pain in his shoulder lessening. All the energy, the adrenaline that had kept Sherlock running through the forest was slowly dissipating, replaced with exhaustion and an overwhelming desire just to close his eyes and sleep.

The analytical part of Sherlock's mind that was still awake was telling him, almost desperately, over and over, not to fall asleep, he had to keep his eyes open. If he fell asleep now, he may well not wake up again.

Bt it was too late, Sherlock very rarely gave up on anything, but today was just too much.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the darkness engulf him.

...

He was sitting on a bench in a park. Sherlock recognised it, he occasionally sat in this park on a Spring morning to think, and there wasn't much different about it. It was strange though, he couldn't quite remember the name of this park, and if he gazed off into the distance, there was no distance. Everything beyond the park was shrouded in mist, disappearing into nothing. It was as if he was in cased in smoke. The world ended where the park ended.

Sherlock realised he was dressed exactly the same before he entered this strange place (but where was he before he came here? There was something about a train, a lot of bullets and explosions) only there was no blood on him (but why would he be bleeding?) There was something soft in between his fingers, Sherlock looked down and saw he was holding a handkerchief with the initials 'IA' sewn into it. There was no blood stain (but why would there be a blood stain in the first place?).

There was the sound of approaching footsteps, and a shadow was cast over him. Sherlock looked up to see Irene Adler standing in front of him, dressed as she had been when they had last met (when did they last meet? And why did this thought weigh on his heart as if it was the very last time they had met?) She gave him a knowing smile.

"Mind if I join you?" She asked.

Sherlock said nothing, as feeling suddenly shy, or this rare feeling of confusion had silenced him. He nodded, and Irene sat down beside him.

"Nice day today," she commented, looking up at the sky.

"I suppose it always is here," Sherlock mumbled. He knew what she was doing, making casual conversations in the strangest and wildest of situations as they often did together, but today, he didn't feel like joining in the game.

Irene looked at him, but Sherlock avoided eye contact, preferring to gaze around at the empty park. "Why are we here Sherlock?" She asked.

"Well, for me, I'm not sure, there was something about a lot of blood. But for you, something very bad happened, the only think is I can't quite remember it. I just know I wasn't there, and I think I should have been there. If I was there, you wouldn't be here." And I don' t think I'll ever be able to forgive myself for it, even in this situation, Sherlock thought to himself.

Irene sighed, "No Sherlock, I meant why this specific scene? Why the park?"

Sherlock stared down at the handkerchief, he could feel Irene's beautiful, dark eyes boring into him. "It was the place where, for the first time, we both stopped running. No guns, no drugs, no tricks, we just sat down and talked."

Irene smiled, satisfied that she had got the answer she wanted. "Very good darling." She said. She seemed to relax a little more, leaning back on the bench and gazing around the park.

Silence fell, and Sherlock had never experienced such silence. There was not a sound in the whole world. No rustle of leaves on the nearby trees, no scurry of a squirrel as it ran across the grass, no people walking by, their feet crunching on the gravel or their voices being carried through the air. He was so used to seeing, observing everything, but there was nothing to observe. It was just him and Irene, sitting in the silence.

The silence seemed to freeze Sherlock's mind, as if he didn't know how to think in such silence, as if he didn't know what to do in such an empty place. But then he came to himself again, and began questioning the world around him.

"Here is another good question," he said, abruptly ending the silence that Irene didn't seem to mind, "Out of all the people I know who are...dead," (why was it so hard to say that word, especially around Irene?) "Why are you here, with me?"

Irene shrugged, "I don't know," she smiled at him, "Maybe you miss me? Maybe when you finally stop running, I'm the one you want to sit with?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No, that's not it."

Adler rolled her eyes, some people never change. "All right, what's your hypothesis then?"

There was a short pause in which, for the first time ever, Sherlock wondered if he should keep his mouth shut. But it was too late for that now, and why shouldn't he tell her what's on his mind? What had been weighing him down for days on end? He took a deep breath. "Maybe you're here because I know I could have saved your life, because if it wasn't for me, you probably would still be alive. In this game of shadows, the never ending chase with Moriarty, he let others in my life get caught up in the blast, and I shouldn't have let that happen. You shouldn't have died that day." Something caught in Sherlock's voice, and he couldn't continue. He could picture Irene sitting alone in that restaurant, a shadow cast over her face as Moriarty stood over her, life draining from her as she gasped her last breath. He remembered why there was meant to be blood on the handkerchief.

There was another pause, in which Irene took Sherlock's hand in hers and gave him another, slightly smaller smile. "I was the one who worked for Moriarty in the first place, I was the one who sent his messages and did his dirty work and ultimately failed him, it wasn't your fault. If anything, I was the one who put you in danger, and believe me, I never wanted that."

Sherlock sighed, he supposed this was a good time to be honest. "Although maybe both our hypothesises are correct. Maybe you're here because, despite after all we've been through, it's you I want to spent the whole of eternity with." The detective tried hard not to pull a face, was this what romance sounded like? He must remember to try and do it less often, he was suddenly grateful that only Irene was around to hear that.

Miss Adler had gone back to staring at him again, she couldn't quite believe what Sherlock had just said. If Sherlock was going to continue his theme of honesty, he couldn't quite believe it either. But what's the point of lying now? He might as well tell the woman that he had loved her. Always had, always will even, if they were going to spend the rest of eternity together.

For some reason, Sherlock didn't particularly mind that thought.

But before Sherlock could say how he truly felt, Irene spoke first.

"What do you mean, eternity?" She asked suddenly.

Sherlock was taken by surprise by this question. "Well isn't it obvious?" He said, gesturing at the world around him, "I may not be able to quite remember where I was before this, but I know it's definitely impossible for me to just suddenly end up in this park, and it's a very strange park as well, it's not...alive. I know wherever I was before here I was in a lot of trouble, and I close my eyes for a few moments and find myself in this impossible park surrounded by fog? There is no earthly place like it. Also I know for definite that you're...dead," (it was still hard to say that word about her, despite everything,) "so what other conclusion can I spring to? I must be dead as well."

Suddenly, Irene laughed. It was a beautiful sound that filled the empty air, but Sherlock stared at her in amazement, wondering what could be so funny about being dead.

"Oh Sherlock," Irene said when she had finally stopped laughing, "even you can jump to conclusions too quickly." She pointed over his shoulder, "look over there."

Sherlock turned to where Irene was pointing, and saw that a bench a few feet away from them, was surrounded by pigeons. Yet a few minutes ago (if this place had time) there were no birds at all. Sitting on the bench was a well-dressed man in a top hat and beard feeding the pigeons - Moriarty. Sherlock frowned. Moriarty was definitely not there before, and he was pretty sure Moriarty was not dead, if he was he'd just...know.

Irene spoke, her soft voice close to his ear, yet distant. "You've come very close to death Sherlock, closer than ever before, but you're harder to kill than you realise, and death has not caught up with you yet. This is just your imagination."

Hope suddenly engulfed Sherlock when he realised Irene was right. Imagination was not consistent, and why would the world of the dead reflect the faces of the living? But he was not hopeful for his own life. He turned and stared at Irene. "Does this mean you're not dead either?" He couldn't hide the hope in his voice, the spark in his eye that returned at the thought she might not be dead.

But Irene shook her head sadly. "Time has run out for me Sherlock, but trust me, I know you're going to live another day." She stood up, and somehow forced a smile despite the sadness that filled her eyes. "You know these sort of things when you're dead."

"Wait, where are you going?" Sherlock demanded, as Irene stood up.

"I'm not really needed here anymore," she explained with a slight shrug. "Your time here is almost up. Don't worry my love, we won't be seeing each other again for a long time." A sudden look of sadness flickered across her face that she could not hide behind one of her dazzling smiles.

"But-" Sherlock began,

"I'm sorry, but there's only one thing you can do for me now," Irene interrupted, as if she knew what Sherlock was about to say. She bent down so her lips were close to his ear, and she spoke in a whisper. "Stop my killer."

And with that, Irene stood up straight, turned and walked away. Sherlock thought he caught sight of one of her devilish smiles before she turned her back on him. He watched her leave out of the corner of his eye, knowing that, for once, there was no point trying to chase after her.

Irene disappeared into the mist, fading slowly away as she left the park. Sherlock felt a deep sadness within him, something he had only felt after he had heard Irene was dead. He wished she could stay a little longer, and he still didn't manage to say a proper goodbye. Did he even say he loved her?

The handkerchief fell from his limp hands and drifted to the ground. Sherlock stared down at it, and then realised he was being watched.

He looked up to see Moriarty staring at him, his eyes filled with darkness and cunning, his hand filled with bird food hung frozen in the air, still stretched out to feed the pigeons. His eyes continuously dug into Sherlock's chest as he stared back.

Suddenly, a sharp, severe pain thudded right over Sherlock's heart, making him gasp. He felt like he had been stabbed. Moriarty continued to stare at him as the pain in Sherlock's chest seemed to bring memories flooding back. He remembered what had happened, he was not meant to be here. Blood started dripping from his hand again, he was feeling a terrible aching pain all over his body, every muscle screamed. Screaming one message: he was alive!

...

Sherlock's eyes shot open, he gasped in the cold, musty air of the train, gulping it down like a fish out of water. Before he thought about what he was doing, he leapt up and rushed across the carriage. Unknown people surrounded him, but slowly he began to recognise them - Watson's concerning eyes and Simza's confused face. But he didn't care about those faces, he was looking for someone else. He knew Irene Adler was here, she had been sitting next to him, she had been talking to him, she had smiled at him. She had to be here!

Then Sherlock remembered, with a pang of his heart, that he would never see Irene Adler again. It had all been just a dream.