Anatomically Correct Heart

Hallucinations

dream

drēm/

noun

a series of thoughts, images, and sensations occurring in a person's mind during sleep

or

a state of mind in which someone is or seems to be unaware of their immediate surroundings

That's exactly what Sherlock was doing:

Dreaming.

He was back at his parent's cottage for Christmas- this time, with Eleanor. His mother and Eleanor were laughing in the kitchen while they prepared Christmas Eve dinner. Mycroft was moping at the kitchen table about some "national importance" he was missing for such a horrid evening. John and Mary were cuddling on the couch, reading a story to Amelia. His father had dozed off in the chair by the fireplace. It smelled of Christmas, which Sherlock would never admit was his favorite smell. Crackers sat in a bowl on the table, and Christmas sweets were nearly everywhere he looked.

Sherlock walked up behind Eleanor, who was chopping up some chocolate for a special pudding, and wrapped his arms around her small waist, placing his chin on her shoulder. 

"A begging puppy, are we?" She asks, setting the knife down and turning around in his arms.
She leaned back against the counter top.

"I'm bored," he says, pouting his lips.

"And you'd like me to fix that, yes?" She asks, twirling one of his curls on her finger.

"I-"

Sherlock awoke in a freight, sitting up in his bed. He looks around his room- it was only a dream. An illusion the mind plays on the heart. He sighs and lays back down, wrapping his blankets around him.

That's when he notices the other figure in his bed.

The small, fragile person lying beside him. Her hair was spiraled out around her in soft waves. Her breathing was a steady beat. Sherlock sat up just enough to see the face of the girl he had just been dreaming about:

Eleanor.

She took a soft intake of air, then shivered and turned around, huddling closer to Sherlock. "Sherl?"

"Hmm?"

"Sorry I woke you," she laughs quietly. "I had a nightmare... I couldn't fall back asleep so I... sorry."

"... s'all fine," Sherlock says. The pain in his chest started to grow warmer and warmer. Did he feel for Eleanor? Is that why he felt this way? Is that why he was dreaming about her? 

"Sherl?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you," she mumbles.

Sherlock feels his lips betraying him, forming the all unfamiliar words: "I love you too."

He looks over at Eleanor, then screeches in horror and runs out of the bed. "I-I you-"

James Moriarty cryptically smiles, wearing a wig the exact same style as Eleanor's. He tosses it aside with a flourish of his hand. His eyes even had the same color of Eleanor's: a toasty topaz color. He playfully crawled towards Sherlock on his bed.

"What? Don't like me in this form?" He asks, his voice slowly fading into Eleanor's. His manly features transform into Eleanor's, but his eyes stay cold dark brown.

"Do you not love me, Sherl?" She asks.

"You- he- I can't-"

"CAN"T LOVE ME FOR WHO I AM, SHERL?" She yells, edging closer and closer to him. "A MORIARTY? A KILLER? A WOMAN?"

"No, it's not- I do!" He cries, sinking into the corner behind his door. "I DO! I DO! I DO!" 

"YOU CAN'T ADMIT TO YOURSELF THAT YOU HAVE FLAWS- WELL YOU DO, SHERL! YOU DO!" She screams, suddenly in Janine's voice, Sherlock's "girlfriend".

"I HAVE FLAWS!! I DO, I KNOW I DO-"

"You're a liar- a fake," she says. "Your lips move but you're not speaking anything."

"NO! I'M NO LIAR! I SPEAK THE TRUTH! I DON'T-"

"You're nothing but an angel, Sherlock Holmes, nothing but a Samaritan," she says in James' voice.

"I love you," he whines, covering his face with his hands. "I love you so much, Eleanor."

She clambers closer, this time carrying a cane- John's cane- with her. She beats it against him. "You never love someone for who they are- never for who they come to you as. Always changing them- always making them who you  want them to be, Sherl," she says, repeatedly hitting him.

"STOP IT! STOP IT NOW!!" He screams.

"But you never change yourself, Sherl. Never stray to far from the psychopath you are."

"NO!" He exclaims. "I'm not- you're not-" 

"Sherl?"

"Sherl!"

"Sherl, move away from the door!"

A loud bang reverberates through the room. Sherlock looks up and sees Eleanor, gun in hand, looking at him with a concerned gaze. She tosses the gun aside and kneels down to Sherlock, putting her hands on his cheeks.

"Sherl?" 

"NO!" He exclaims, pushing her away. "I'M NOT A SAMARITAN- I DON'T CHANGE PEOPLE. JUST GO AWAY, MORIARTY- GO. AWAY."

"Oh, Sherl," she coos, pulling him to her chest. "You don't change people, Sherl; they change on their own. You only make people realize their flaws and then they decide to change."

"You were James.... he started.... you started... I love you," he says, hugging her close.

She hugs him closer. "It was all just a nightmare," she whispers in his ear, a shake in her voice. "James isn't here."

He takes a deep breath. "Thank you," he breaths. "Thank you for fighting for me."

"Sherl, I don't fight for you- you fight for yourself," she says. "I only cheer you on."

~