Can't Love You {Sequel to "Not Sherlock Holmes"}

Chapter Three

Benedict's POV

I know that I'm dreaming, because my mother is with me. She is baking something in the kitchen. I must imagine the smell of chocolate. I'm sitting on a bar stool, leaning on the counter, and she turns to me.

"You know, you don't visit as often as you used to. Why is that? Have you found yourself a woman, son?" I shake my head.

"I'm sorry, I wanted to visit. Life just caught up to me, I suppose. And, well... I'm thinking about one..." but I'm interrupted by the sound of the bathroom door opening down the hall, and in walks Veronica.

"Nica!" I exclaim, surprised. My mother raises her eyebrows, but then laughs.

"Oh, is this your daughter?"

Obviously, this is a dream. My mother would have reacted with more than surprise if she thought this was truly my daughter. Probably anger. Rage.

Still, the question catches me off-guard.

"Uhh, no, mother, she's..."

"Oh, silly me! Nice to meet you Nica!"

Nica? She can't call her that.

"Mother..." But Veronica is smiling kindly, not at all perturbed by the fact that she was mistaken as my daughter.

"Well, you're old enough to be her father, you know," I hear from behind me, and I turn to see Mark Gatiss.

"What are you doing here? You're dead." Mark just grins and shakes his head.

"Oh, silly Ben. I told you not to get attached. I told you, and you didn't listen."

"Shut up," I demand, and I turn back to Veronica and gasp.

Veronica still stands where I left her, but her head has been replaced with Steven's.

"Distractions, Mr. Holmes. Distractions. Distractions. Distractions."

"Get out of my head!" I scream, holding my hands over my ears as I try to drown out the sound of Moffat's repetitiveness. "Stay away! You don't know my life!"

The earth is now quaking beneath us, and the Veronica/Steven hybrid falls through a crack in the floor.

"Veronica!" I call, tears falling down my face.

To my relief, I wake up.

------------------------

"You were calling out in your sleep last night. Were you having nightmares?" asks Steven as we sit down to breakfast. The oatmeal is cold, like this awful morning. Outside, it's foggy and dark, so most of us remain below deck.

"I don't remember what I dreamt about," I lie. He nods.

"Well did you sleep comfortably?"

"Not in the slightest." I don't bother asking how he slept. I don't honestly care. My mind is preoccupied. Officer Marsh walks into the kitchens. "I think something is up with this Officer Marsh. Did you hear the way he dealt with me yesterday? When I requested we all be put together?"

"I imagine he doesn't have time to deal with picky civilians."

"Probably," I mutter, but I don't think he's right. Those cold, grey eyes of his weren't annoyed when he denied my request. They were hard. They were angry.

Did I do something to him?

"Still," I continue. "I don't particularly like him." Steven chuckles.

"You don't have to like him. But he DID rescue us." I think on that for a moment.

"Yes, I suppose he did."

I still have a bad feeling, though, about all of it. About Officer Marsh. About this boat, and all the goings on. About the fact that not hours after the earth was hit was a series of natural disasters, there were boats patrolling, looking for survivors.

Is that really realistic?

However, I guess I can't complain.