The Shadowmen

Chapter Nine

Sherlock knew who she was at once.

"The red-haired woman. Your friend."

The Doctor nodded, tears in his eyes, "Amy..."

He reached out his hand to her, and lightly gripped her jacket.

His eyes widened suddenly, and he jumped back in alarm. Breathing heavily, he explained to Sherlock, "Not Amy."

Sherlock slowly approached the woman, cautiously avoiding her to prevent her from stealing his memories. His words came out continuously, hardly ever stopping, with a sort of song to them, "That's how you do it. That's how you kill them. With painful memories. You take the things they most fear, or the things they most love, and you hold it against them. That's how you distract them, and then you kill them. And what am I, then? A memory gone wrong. You never meant to create me, no. You were using me against someone. How fragile they must be to you, so easy to harm, so easy to break. What are you, that you can do these things?"

"My name is Somnium."

"Latin, for dream." Sherlock translated.

The Doctor spoke slowly and quietly, "You chose Amy, over all the other people I've met, all the people I've loved..."

She chuckled, "Did you really think I was her? Oh, the look on your face when you saw it happen all over again. Her death, I mean. Not like it doesn't haunt you enough at night. I made it nice and realistic, just for you."

The Doctor shook his head, but his lips were pulled into a thin smile.

"And still so very, very Scottish." He said softly.

"Doctor," Sherlock warned, "You can't let her come into contact with you again. She isn't Amy. You know she isn't. She'll kill you."

"Oh Sherlock, did you really think I was here for him? Killing him would be child's play. Killing you, though- that's a bit of a challenge."

She inched closer to them, index finger innocently twirling around a strand of hair.

"You see, my strays, my 'memories gone wrong,' as you say; they aren't real. Well, not physically, anyway. I'd normally hold an illusion in place for as long as I need it, but when one gets too strong, it can form for itself a false existence. That's what you've done, Sherlock, you've created your own John Watson, your own Mycroft. Your own world. But none of it's real. You're the closest it gets."

Sherlock interjected. "I created for myself a false reality. But why? The pieces don't fit together. If I were already an idea, a thought in someone's mind, I would have existed somewhere-"

"Sherlock," the Doctor said, "there's something you aren't aware of."

"Well that's a first." Somnium remarked.

"What is it then?" Sherlock said, exasperated.

"There was a man. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle." The Doctor said, almost reluctantly, "He was an author, the writer of some of the most famous books ever created. The Sherlock Holmes stories. Your stories."