The Case of the Missing Heart

Chapter 1: Preparations

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."