Jena Williams ❤ Dr. John Watson (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} aheavyheart) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} thereincarnates,@ 2012-06-15 21:59:00 |
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What. Jena and Watson are plagued with dreams
Where. 221B, Baker Street
When. Friday night, June 15th 2012
Warnings. None
Nothing happens to me.
For a much more modern take on the character of John Watson, Jena found herself relating to those words more than she liked to admit. So did Watson, for completely different reasons, but for both of them it all came down to the same man. Sherlock Holmes. Nothing ever happened to them, before he came along and turned their lives upside down. Then again, that wasn't strictly true with Jena. Something had happened to her before she'd met Jonas. Something terrible. She'd lost her husband, and for awhile she'd lost herself. Jonas Aldred was the one who had breathed life back into her lungs, so to speak. Despite her best efforts, she’d never fully recovered from that
The world was in shambles again. Nothing new to Jena or the doctor considering the life he'd led, but it was their own life together that still felt curiously suspended. Like they were still waiting for a sign, only neither of them really knew what that was. Maybe what they were waiting for was an end. Every night she closed her eyes to sleep he dreamed of Mary, or the war. Jena often dreamed of the hospital, a war zone without guns but just as much blood. And for the first time in months? Jena no longer dreamed of Tom. It relieved her as much as it unsettled her, because without those to count on, it gave way to too many possibilities for a more unpleasant dream. The kind of dream that haunted her nightly after she'd come face-to-face with her intruder. Tonight's dream was no exception.
By all rights tonight was just any other night, except for the fact that she no longer slept in her own house. The second thing to happen to her. Her own house wasn't safe anymore, Moriarty herself had seen to that. Now Jena slept on a foreign bed in 221B, and the mattress felt too soft under her weight. A strange notion, considering she herself had never been in the army, but she seemed to share Watson's preference for a harder surface on her back. Sometimes she couldn't sleep at all unless she moved to the floor, a fact that she tried to hide from Jonas even though she was sure he already knew. Tonight she found her way to the floor, and the minute she felt her eyelids close, Jena was fast slipping into a deep, dream filled sleep.
"Who are you?" Jena's voice was strong but fearful, echoing through the caverns of her own mind inside her dream. It was the same every night, as it had been for the past few weeks. The same dream, the same man. A shadowy figure looming at the end of a hallway that she could never seem to reach, no matter how long she walked for. He never got closer, but there was something about him. Something she almost recognized but couldn't name. Or wouldn't. It was on the tip of her tongue, and then as soon as she felt that she remembered, she immediately shrank away from it. Ignorance is bliss, she would tell herself.
Even in her dreams she looked over her shoulder, always expecting to find somebody following close behind her. When she was awake and walking down the street, she always felt someone's eyes on her that sent chills down her spine. On those nights she slept with one eye open or she didn't sleep at all. And then there was the note.
Missing you always.
Those words haunted her almost as much as the photographed that had come with it, the burned through image of her husband's face left for her on her pillow like a gift. The handwriting was even Tom's, but she knew that was impossible. He was gone, and now she was the one with a red target around her head. That was nothing new for Watson either, and that wasn't what scared her. It was those cold, dead eyes that she saw in her dreams every night now, the same ones she'd seen in her house that night and maybe somewhere else. In those eyes, she could see her own death, and death had never felt quite so tangible to the good doctor.
Every night she woke up the same. In a cold sweat on the floor, shaking like a leaf and refusing to name him. "Nothing ever happens to me," Jena would whisper over and over again to herself, almost like a prayer. Nothing ever happens to her; except a dead husband, a detective and an intruder.