give me time. and a crayon. (the_gabih) wrote in dressing221b,
give me time. and a crayon.
the_gabih
dressing221b

The Dreamscape

When we dream alone, it is only a dream. When we dream with others, it is the beginning of reality.
-Dom Helder Camara

Photobucket

For once it doesn't happen when your character opens a door or turns around or blinks. This time it's when they finally close their eyes and sleep. Maybe it's well-deserved rest, maybe they only closed their eyes for a second (honest!), or maybe they don't normally sleep much at all and this is a rare lapse for them.

But however it happened, they're asleep now and dreaming.

It might be about home, or some kind of wish fulfilment fantasy, or a nightmare. There's nothing unusual in the dream itself, per se. What is strange is how they might find that there are other people in the dream with them...

RULES:
- Make a comment outlining your character's dream - the setting can be anything you like.
- Visit other people's dreams - multiple threads are encouraged; if you can't break continuity in a dream, when can you?
- Characters are free to either be unaware they are dreaming or realise it however, due to dressing room magic, they cannot wake up.
- Dreams can be as silly or realistic as you like, and powers, etc. are okay as long as they’re okay with the people you’re threading with (i.e., no godmodding).
- Action, dialogue-based and prose-style comments are all more than welcome.

Photobucket


Screencaps by 
[info]sunnyringo.
Tags: meme: dreamscape
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[Irene is walking through a series of well-crafted forgeries.]

[One moment she's in Monet, the next, she's in Van Gogh.]
[Sherlock is looking over the paintings in passive interest. He sighs, only sparing quick glances over the forgeries as he gets steadily more bored and thus, restless.]

[He's almost to the end of the Van Gogh section when he spots Irene.]

[...Oh. He supposes he'll be somewhat less bored now.]

Irene.
[she's standing in the swirl of one of his haystack paintings. Her usual air of diva-like boredom is gone as she reaches out and makes the paintings move with her fingertips]

[at the sound of her name, she drops her hand]


Sherlock.
[Sherlock tilts his head and watches as the paintings move. It's either some sort of trick, or this is a dream. He can't quite remember how he got here, so dream it is.]

Hmm. [He's decidedly cavalier about all this now that he realizes it's a dream.]

[He vaguely wonders what the point of all this is, as well as what their dream-selves are capable of. He's contented for now watching Irene and waiting to see if she'll do something cool again.]
I suppose this is your doing, then? Some sort of psychological drug?

[when in doubt, blame Sherlock Holmes]
[Sherlock smirks.]

Why would I use such a thing on you if I had it?

[He's so smug at the fact that she doesn't appear to know what's going on, for once.]

Not to worry, though. You're always quick to catch on. I'm sure you'll figure it out soon enough.
Why wouldn't you?

[oh, she'd verymuch like to smack that smug look off of your face, Sherlock, but she'll take a breath and relax]

You can't know what this place is.
Because I'd keep it for myself. Obviously.

[He feigns interest in one of the paintings as an excuse to ignore her for a moment before he speaks again.]

Tell me, how did you get here?

[He sounds conversational, but this is him trying to prove his point.]
I----

[she looks back through the paintings, and realizes she isn't entirely sure]

Drugs? Something that would affect my memory?
Close. Well, no, not close at all, really.

[He sighs, casting a glance about to take in their surroundings.]

Just look. No one else is here. No doors, no windows, just this hallway. There's no gallery like this anywhere in London.

[He looks at her again, raising his eyebrows expectantly as he hopes for some sort of understanding.]

Don't you see? The only explanation is that this place doesn't actually exist.
One thing's for certain, John hasn't been getting enough sleep lately. Sherlock's tendency to keep him awake for days working on his latest case certainly isn't making matters any easier.

John's more sure than ever that he's got to find a way to explain to Sherlock that not everyone can function on three hours of sleep in as many days when he finds himself walking down a well-lit but mostly-empty street, late in the evening. The last he recalled, he had been sitting in front of his computer, attempting to make sense of what he wanted to write in his blog, and now he was here, without the faintest idea why or where he'd intended to go.

He can see vapour forming from his breath and shivers at the deep cold that works its way into his coat, lightly kicking at a shallow pile of first-fallen snow, feeling as if he is being jolted awake by the cold. He tries to rub the bleariness away from his eyes, only to realize that he's very aware, and more specifically his soldier's sense is making him distinctly aware that he is not alone...
[John blinks, and finds himself in Afghanistan. It's hot, dry, and he can hear the sound of mortars and gunfire in the background. So far, so usual.

What's less so is that he's standing in an empty mess hall, and he feels absolutely no desire or need to go outside and help.]