#and he finds out that remnant reacts differently based on the emotions associated with it

[soupmanspeaks]

Okay so I may be going a wee bit coocoo but fnaf magical girl au (WALK WITH ME HERE) where literally everything is the same except Mike, okay, he gets just tons and tons of remnant or something that allows him to have a sailor moon-esc magical girl transformation and through the power of Remnant, Love, and Lawsuits he makes it his mission to defeat his father, okay,and then he has a stand off with William at frights or something and he's like "father, through the power of my friendship and fire, I *will* defeat you, once and for all!" And then springtrap is like "Michael what the f### are you on about--what are you wearin-AAAAAAAAAA-" and then Michael blasts him with a magical beam full to the brim with remnant, friendship, and arson

[artemisegeria]

The Best Timeline

Title: The Best Timeline

Rating: T

Word count: 3599

Warnings: minor language and innuendo, ridiculousness

Summary: Wanda and Vision find a mysterious package on their doorstep. They open it to reveal a glimpse of their lives in another world. Endgame Spoilers.

A/N: It’s been weeks, but I’m still bitter about Endgame’s treatment of Vision. And it’s Paul Bettany’s birthday, so I’m giving him the recognition he deserves. While my underlying emotions are very real, I exaggerated some of my complaints for comedic effect (hopefully). This is not meant to be taken too seriously. Other than the essential point that Vision (and Paul) deserved better.

Also, some parts of the movie may be out of order/misremembered/omitted.

  Vision answered the door upon hearing the bell ring. No one was there. Instead, there was only a small package. He picked it up curiously to find a DVD. When he returned to the living room, Wanda asked, “Who was it?”

“There was no one there, but someone left this film called Avengers: Endgame. Very curious. The cover bears images of all our friends.” He handed it to Wanda for her to peruse.

The original six Avengers, of course, had the largest images in the center of the package, but Wanda also appeared on the back, along with a number of their space-based allies. Vision could only surmise that this movie came from an alternate universe where he and his friends were fictional characters. It was amazing that the actors chosen in that universe so closely resembled his real friends in his own universe. That would provide hours of fodder for speculation, but right now he simply wanted to see how events turned out.

He couldn’t help but notice that he was not featured on either side of the cover. That was perfectly alright. He was not upset in the least. Vision understood that there were many characters to take into account, but he still felt a pang in his synthetic heart that he did not merit one square inch of space. He was an Avenger after all, and a bearer of one sixth of the Infinity Stones. And his AI forebear had been important to Tony Stark far before that.

Enough time had passed that the worst of the pain surrounding Thanos’s attack had ebbed, but Vision was still concerned for Wanda’s well-being. However, she seemed equally interested in learning about this movie. “We should watch. Don’t you think, Vizh?”

“I agree.”

He slipped the disk into their DVD player. When he returned to the couch, Wanda cuddled closer against his side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

Clint Barton appeared on the screen. Vision watched Clint interact with his family, only to see them disappear into thin air. “What kind of monsters would show that?” Wanda asked. “Everyone knows about the Snap already, or at least the cover said.”

“I do not know. Perhaps it is a devious attempt at emotional manipulation, encouraging the audience to forgive Clint a great deal when he reacts to their deaths.”

Then a logo proclaiming Marvel Studios appeared on the screen. He wondered if it had any association with Captain Marvel in their world.

The image shifted to Tony and Nebula, adrift in the vastness of space. Carol soon rescued them. “I know that Carol is powerful, but the odds of her finding them are almost incalculable.” Another item to put on his list for another time. Vision did enjoy these problems in the middle of the night while the rest of the world was asleep.

“Yeah, I’m glad she did though.” Wanda and Tony were now on a much better footing. His role in bringing Vision back was a key step in helping them reconcile after Wanda returned. When Carol landed the ship in front of the compound, Vision could not help but tear up at Tony’s reunion with Pepper. They truly were a wonderful couple. He had been so happy to attend their wedding with Wanda after they had defeated Thanos, and to become a godfather to Morgan when she was born a year later.

They watched the faces of the Snapped people flash by. Vision held Wanda more tightly when her face appeared. She nuzzled his shoulder. “It’s okay now.” He nodded against the top of her head, but kept her close to him.

When the characters on screen started planning to fight Thanos a second time, Vision and Wanda truly started getting confused. In their universe, the Avengers and their allies all worked together for five years, preparing themselves for battle and gathering Infinity Stones, before attempting to face Thanos again. They absorbed alternate universe Carol’s idea to go after Thanos immediately. Carol in their universe was rightfully confident as well, but others had prevailed on her that they should wait to prepare a battle strategy and only fight Thanos at their full strength.

When the small contingent boarded the aircraft to travel to the Garden, Vision muttered, “This plan seems most unwise.”

“Mmhmm.”

Vision began to question his assessment when the group easily restrained Thanos and removed the Gauntlet. But when Rocket flipped it over to see the empty slots and Thanos explained what he had done, Vision felt a small measure of triumph. The scene ended with a somewhat startling shot of Thor cutting off Thanos’s head and walking away.

This was far different from what happened in their world. In their universe, Thanos could not resist the temptation of keeping the Stones intact. He bided his time while the worlds he destroyed struggled to carry on. The only precaution he took was to scatter the Stones throughout deep space, keeping their locations to himself.

Next, a black screen revealed that five years had passed. Vision watched Natasha face the holograms of their friends who were working across the galaxies to keep the universe together. They were having a remarkably similar conversation to one Vision remembered about a garbage scow and an underwater earthquake, but he wondered why he was not present. Both he and Clint, who had come back to Natasha and the Avengers after his family had disappeared, had called into that meeting. Clint had been stationed in the Midwest of the United States, infiltrating a local militia that was attempting to usurp the federal government in that area. Vision had been sent to the remnants of the United Nations in Geneva, Switzerland to act as a liaison once Bruce, Tony, and Shuri had revived him in 2020. Vision did not like to think about those days, but they were a part of him.

He watched Scott Lang detail his theory of how they could bring everyone back with time travel. Vision frowned. He remembered those debates that had endured for weeks about the feasibility of such plans. Firm lines had been drawn, confusion had reigned among those less versed in the science of quantum mechanics, and bitterness lingered long after they had decided that they would use a different plan. Fortunately, those feelings had been soothed by the time of the final battle, but Vision still did not want to dwell on it.

On screen Natasha, Steve, and Scott traveled to see Doctor Banner, now one with the Hulk. Vision had already accepted that the events in this movie were very different from what happened in their universe, but it was still odd to see the Avengers act as if they had not spoken to Doctor Banner for the full five years that had elapsed. In Vision’s own universe, Bruce had become an integral part of the team after the eighteen months spent merging with the Hulk. He had played a crucial role in bringing Vision back, along with Tony and Shuri. Working through the mostly successful project (in every way except that Vision had been left without any emotions) had been the catalyst to encourage the Avengers to trust and rely on each other again.

He still felt guilt over not mourning Wanda or any of his friends, though she insisted he could not help it. That is what Vision wished to forget, but maybe his emotionless logic had been necessary at the time. It allowed him to function without the grief that he would surely have experienced otherwise weighing down his thoughts and actions.

Vision forced his attention back to the movie. He and Wanda were even more taken aback when they reached New Asgard. Vision felt great compassion for that universe’s version of Thor. He was clearly struggling with guilt and anguish. Vision bristled when Rocket made a joke about his changed appearance. Rocket was not the most sensitive of companions, but whoever wrote his dialogue seemed to expect the audience to laugh at the joke. Thor’s depression was not something to be made the butt of a puerile joke.

It only grew worse as the writers continued to elaborate on making Thor a pitiful figure. What Thor had faced would be enough to make anyone turn to alcohol or food and to isolate one’s self from the world, but his character was unrecognizable from the one Vision knew. The Thor he knew continued to bear up admirably under the pressure of the Snap and had done everything in his power to help his people adjust to living on Earth. He had become a king in truth as well as name.

When the scene shifted to Tokyo, the rainy night suggested that it would not be a pleasant scene. Vision was still shocked at the blood and violence contained therein. Rhodes had mentioned that Clint was undertaking the murder of people he judged to be criminals throughout the world, but this seemed extreme even for him. When Natasha approached him, saying that she would not judge him for his worst mistake, Vision privately thought that the five years, more or less, of extra-judicial killings were far more than a mistake. Instead, it was an international crime spree that would take years to untangle in international courts, with so many countries battling for jurisdiction. Vision did feel vindicated in his assessment of the opening scene, comforting himself that none of this had ever happened. In their universe, Clint had tried to avenge his family by working to save what was left of the world and to bring them back.

When they reached the presentations concerning the Infinity Stones, Vision was once again somewhat affronted that they did not even mention him. This was the perfect opportunity to address his absence from the team and explain that his revival without the Mind Stone had left him without any emotions. Alas, they moved back to the time-travel debate.

Vision and Wanda watched as the teams split up, some going to Vormir, some to Morag, and some to New York in 2012. In their universe, everyone had hunted down the Stones together using a modified version of the device Rocket had used to detect Thanos’s second Snap. There was no more splitting up, only becoming a true team and unit.

Wanda shrieked with laughter at Scott’s comment about “America’s ass.” Vision frowned deeply, but he quickly smoothed out his features. He shifted his attention to the other events on screen. This section of the movie was a humorous look at the Battle of New York, though none of it had ever happened. Well, the events had likely happened in some universe if there were infinite alternate realities. He was drawn away from his contemplation when Captain Rogers started fighting an earlier version of himself and the camera focused again on his posterior while he admitted that it was “America’s ass.”

“Damn right, it is,” Wanda murmured with a smirk. Vision failed to hide his displeasure this time.

“I suppose it is aesthetically pleasing.” The tightness in his voice was clearly audible to Wanda. She paused the movie before looking up at him. She swung her legs over his lap and tilted his face down to hers, grinning at him.

“Not as much as yours.” She quickly paused the movie and leaned up to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around her waist to hold her in place as their mouths moved together. They finally pulled apart several minutes later.

Vision felt foolish for succumbing to jealousy so easily. “Thank you, Wanda.”

“Sure thing, Vizh. Ready to get back to the movie?” Vision nodded. The action resumed with Tony and Steve traveling even farther back in time. This movie’s treatment of time-travel was growing confusing even to his own advanced synthetic brain.

When everyone returned to the time travel platform and broke to mourn for Natasha, tears started rolling down Wanda’s cheeks. He clutched her more tightly. “It’s alright. Natasha is perfectly well.” She nodded against him, sniffling, and he handed her a tissue.

They finally reached the point where the Avengers prepared to use the Gauntlet. He did not understand why they were arguing over who should use it when the clear solution was the one they used in their own universe, distributing all six Stones among six individuals, reducing the negative side effects. He could recall the painstaking construction of their own version of the Infinity Gauntlet. Tony had made a chain that connected all six Stones. Each Stone fitting had another chain that allowed one of the chosen Avengers to hold it. Vision, Thor, Steve, Carol, and Bruce had been the ones chosen, due to their superhuman physiques, along with Tony. Alas, Vision could not communicate through the screen to correct their plan. Instead he was forced to watch Bruce’s struggle with the movement and the serious injury that resulted from it.

The results of their channeling the Stones’ power were similar though. Clint had smiled shakily upon seeing his wife’s face appear on his phone in both universes. Birds suddenly started chirping and a tree that had been Snapped out of existence reappeared. The most startling result in Vision’s universe had been that the Mind Stone had merged with him again, granting him his emotions. He shuddered a bit in memory of how the wave of years of suppressed emotions had crashed down on him at once, bringing him to his knees and causing him to sob. He was grateful for Wanda’s presence in this moment; he rested his head against her chest as she rubbed his shoulder. She paused the movie again, letting him breathe.

After several minutes, Vision finally raised his head to look at Wanda, cupping her face gently. He placed a soft kiss on her lips, and she smiled at him, her own eyes watering. He said, “I am ready to resume the film when you are.”

The screen showed the disguised 2014 Nebula leading Thanos into the compound. Wincing at the sudden destruction of the entire building, Vision wondered how the remaining Avengers would stand against such a force, whether what came next would approximate what happened in their universe at all.

At the time, the others had rushed to comfort him just as Thanos and his forces had appeared outside the compound, drawn by the energy signature of their second Snap. Vision had tried to join them. He had to do his part. But Natasha urged him to stay back until he had recovered himself while the others moved outside to confront Thanos. Vision would never forget the helplessness he experienced then, but the thought of his friends out there alone and the refusal to let the world be at that monster’s mercy pushed him into action within 3.65 minutes.

Thanos had just finished his grand monologue about being inevitable and coming to take back what they had stolen from him when Vision met the other Avengers. The out-sized figure sneered at him when he saw the Mind Stone. “I will enjoy killing you again, Living Machine.” Vision did not honor him with a response. Instead, Steve, Tony, Bruce, Carol, Nebula, Rhodes, Scott, Natasha, Thor, Rocket, Clint, and Vision all moved forward as one. Then, the battle had begun in earnest.

What occurred on screen was quite different. With only Steve, Thor, and Tony facing Thanos, and everyone else cut off in various parts of the facility, the battle seemed even more unequal. There was still the same pedestrian monologuing, but Vision was curious to see the resolution. He had no desire to ever pay any mind to Thanos again.

It looked as if the Avengers would truly be defeated once and for all when the crackle of static alerted Steve to a new presence “on his left.” It was thrilling when the first portal opened and T’Challa, Okoye, and Shuri stepped through. As more opened, revealing Peter, Stephen, and the lost Guardians, and many others, the swelling music caught Vision’s mind, even though he was certain about what would ultimately happen.

Wanda swung her legs back onto the floor and leaned forward eagerly as she flew through a portal with Bucky and some Wakandan soldiers. “I look awesome here.” Her powers did look majestic. Vision was awed once again that Wanda had chosen him when she could have had anyone she wanted.

“Always, dear.” He quickly shifted his attention back to the television, not wanting to miss a moment. The one remark that passed through his mind before he became completely engrossed in the spectacle was that it was fortunate that the villains were following movie logic and stopped completely while the heroes were still dramatically preparing themselves for battle. But that all faded away when he saw Wanda stand alone against Thanos. He would never cease to be amazed by her strength. And slightly aroused, if he were being completely honest.

Wanda glanced at him and smirked. Patting his knee, she said, “Later, darling.” Both of them had no more time to spare when Wanda joined with the other women on screen, and they all began to advance together. It was a compelling sight, though Vision couldn’t help but note that these women had barely interacted prior to this moment. It somewhat undercut the power of the image.

By that point, Vision realized that he would not be appearing. He felt a slice of disappointment run through him. It was petty, perhaps, but pettiness was part of humanity. He embraced it as he did all of humanity. So he allowed himself a few moments of bitterness.

Vision was drawn from his brooding as Wanda clutched his hand when Thanos and his army began to flake away into dust. It was a supremely satisfying moment, even though much of the film was a complete fiction in their universe.

When the scene shifted to Tony’s funeral, Vision bowed his head for the fictional Tony. Though he supposed they never grew close in that universe, Vision thought of how his own universe’s Tony had eventually become one of his closest friends. He noted that he still was not present among the Avengers, so he supposed neither Shuri nor Bruce had repaired him yet. Later, the camera panned to a shot of only Clint and Wanda.

His own Wanda frowned at their conversation. “I know people react to grief differently, but I have no idea why any version of me wouldn’t at least say your name. And it’s weird that I didn’t mention Pietro either.” Vision had to agree. He knew that Wanda still felt her brother’s loss keenly, even after many years, but she still spoke of the happier times often.

“I do not understand it either.” He could not hold it against the fictional Wanda, as she was at the mercy of writers who had their own strange agenda, apparently.

His wife wrapped her arms around him again, and he returned her embrace. “I’m glad we don’t need to worry about that.”

“Indeed,” he whispered into her hair, breathing in her scent.

Vision checked the time. They were very close to the end now. The scene turned to Steve standing on a miniature version of the time travel platform from the compound. Vision murmured, “This all could have been avoided if they had done anything but time travel.”

Wanda elbowed him lightly, and he subsided. Mere moments later Steve was shown to be an old man sitting on a bench. They watched as he handed his shield to Sam. Wanda voiced her shock vociferously. “Sam deserves it, but I don’t think Steve would ever just leave his friends and the world he spent twelve years adjusting just to go back to a woman he had made his peace with.”

“I concur.” In their universe, Steve was alive and well. He had finally taken a leave to address the years of trauma that he had suffered and was still leading the team with aplomb.

They watched as Steve danced with Peggy and the closing credits began to play. “Well, I could see how certain audience members might find the ending pleasing, no matter how nonsensical it is.”

“I guess. That’s just not my Steve.”

“Nor mine.” The credits began to play, with highlights from each of the main cast members. They were particularly beautiful. Clearly the artists had paid great attention to detail, but he still did not appear. Logic dictated that that was the case, but it was cold comfort.

Wanda returned to the main menu. “Ooh, let’s watch some of the bonus features!” Vision was not feeling enthusiastic about watching any more, but he nodded agreeably. They played through the deleted scenes, where he was also not featured or mentioned once. Then, there was a brief history of all twenty-two movies in the franchise, where the actor who played his character was featured momentarily. Paul Bettany was also an actor in their universe. Vision loved his movies, and Wanda did like to tease him that the man bore a certain resemblance to Vision. He was gratified to have an actor of his caliber portray him. Though it made him bitter all over again that he was not allowed to be featured even once in the credits of the culminating movie in the franchise. He deserved it after seven movies.

Vision supposed that in the end it did not matter because in this universe he was alive and well. Wanda’s warmth was pressed against his side, and they had their whole lives ahead of them. He was truly living in the best timeline.

[bonnie-bug]

things half in shadow (and halfway in light)  Chapter 1

Sherlock fic, rated T, s4 compliant until tld, tfp fix-it fic, coma!john, psychic sherlock au, eventual johnlock

also on ao3 (additional notes on this verse are over there)

It had been a week since they'd seen each other last.

A week.

Things had still been a bit awkward between them, what with the detox and residual anger issues to work through, and before that they hadn't so much as spoken to each other for over a month, so it wasn't unexpected. They actually texted each other semi-regularly now, and made the effort to meet up for lunch once or twice a week, which was more than Sherlock had ever hoped for going into it, so. Things were better. A bit awkward, but better.

And now John was in hospital, a gunshot wound grazing his left temple, and in the depths of an inexplicable coma.

Sherlock sighed, shifting on the easy-clean vinyl of the visitor’s chair, and watched as the monitor quietly traced John’s pulse in jagged spikes.

Just over three days ago, he had been idly texting John, passing the time in between stages of his current experiment. Eventually, John had said he needed to leave for an appointment with his therapist, and Sherlock had sarcastically wished him luck. They made plans to meet up for some Chinese after John was done -- it had been a week since they'd last seen each other, after all.

Forty-seven minutes later, he'd gotten the call from Mycroft that John was en route to St. Bart’s, bleeding severely from a head wound and unconscious. Seventeen minutes after that, he was in the waiting room, berating every nurse he could find, demanding information. Two hours and five minutes after that, he was sitting in John’s recovery room, waiting for him to wake up.

He was still waiting, three days later.

They’d moved John out of the recovery room when he still hadn't woken up an hour later into another room on the same floor (a private one -- Mycroft’s influence, no doubt, done more for the nurses’ benefit than for Sherlock’s. A private room meant a reduced chance for him to annoy and insult them, after all). When, two hours and twenty-seven minutes later, it became apparent his failure to wake up wasn't just an unusual reaction to the anesthetic, they'd whisked him away for a multitude of tests and scans.

Eleven hours, forty-nine minutes, and thirty-seven seconds after he was first admitted, John was moved to the coma ward.

They still had no diagnosis.

The doctors were baffled. According to every scan and test they could perform, John’s brain was perfectly fine. The gunshot was merely a graze, hardly scraping his skull. It had bled profusely, and he'd have a nasty scar when it was healed, but there would be no real lasting damage.

Moreover, his brain wasn't acting like a normal coma patient’s. He would react to physical stimulus, his eyes would shift, his brain lit up all over in the MRI.

It was like he was just… dreaming.

Once they had exhausted every route medical science allowed them, they'd turned to the psychic sciences. Several telepaths had come in, but their diagnoses were just the same. For all intents and purposes, he was merely sleeping like normal. He just… wasn't waking up.

Sherlock could’ve told them that. It had been over three years, but he still knew what John's sleeping mind felt like.

He skimmed over John’s mind now, feeling around the edges for any inconsistencies. He'd gotten into the habit of reaching out to John’s mind these last few days, memorizing the feel of him slumbering and searching for any sign that he might wake up soon. For the three days that he’d been doing it, there hadn't been any change. Today was no different.

He sighed again, slouching down in the vinyl chair with a squeak, and shut his eyes. He lowered his mental shields, letting his mind drift up and out, tethered by a thin strand to his body. He loosened the second shields around his empathy as well -- normally he kept them even tighter than his telepathy-based shields, finding the emotional chatter even more distracting and annoying than the mental kind but it had been three days at John’s bedside, and he was bored.

He wasn't going to leave, but he was bored all the same.

However, it wasn’t just boredom that prompted him to exercise his empathy for once. After all of his time… Away, using his empathy had taken on a distinctly negative association, a psychological remnant of feeling nothing but hatred and bloodlust and despair for weeks and months and years on end with hardly a glimmer of hope of redemption. He was working on moving past that mindset, but it was difficult. The mind could be an obstinate thing when it wanted to be, holding onto negative perceptions and thought patterns far longer than it needed to -- even his own.

Especially his own.

And so, sitting here in the hospital, in this quiet wing of slumber and solitude, he forced himself to open up his empathy for the first time in weeks. It was the best spot for it, really. It was remote, removed from the hustle and panic of the emergency room and from the dread and desperation of the ICU, negative emotions that leached into the psyche like lead into drinking water. The patients here were subtle and vague, and their few visitors were typically quiet and somber. They weren’t positive emotions, of course, but they weren’t strictly negative, either. It was about as neutral of an emotional ground as he was going to be able to find outside of a dedicated psychiatric facility, and those neutral spaces always felt artificial and plastic to him, anyway, leaving a staticky sort of mental aftertaste on his metaphorical tongue.

Loosened from his physical body, he drifted around the coma ward, riding the currents of thoughts and emotions emanating from the staff and visitors. He stumbled about a bit awkwardly at first, a little out of practice, before finding his mental groove and moving with ease.

She was tinged sour vomit yellow-green dying grass. Worry about a loved one, obvious. It was a coma ward. He was dull grey cold concrete paint drying. Boredom, possibly from a routine job. A janitor, maybe, or receptionist. Scrapes on hardwood brownish red dusty floor, old anger left unresolved, worn to an echo of a grudge. An argument, interrupted by long term illness -- again, coma, obvious. Faded redpink chilled bedcovers standing on tables. Fell out of love, not because they fell into a coma, interesting, but because of a new, exciting affair. Yellowed grass concrete floor ice blue water drip drip dripping trapped behind glass, worry, boredom, anxiety, and helplessness all rolled into one, now that's different -- oh, that was himself. Drifted a bit too far, there. He really was out of practice.

Latching a little more securely to his body, he cast a quick empathetic glance over John’s mind, more out of metaphorical-muscle memory than anything else. Nothing, as usual, and Sherlock was about to move on and investigate the ward below when he froze.

He’d felt nothing.

Slamming back into his body with enough force to give himself a headache, Sherlock leapt from his chair before he even opened his eyes.

It was impossible to feel nothing from someone merely dreaming. People emitted emotions just as easily when they were sleeping as when they were awake -- they might be a bit muddied or nonsensical, but they still had them. Even the coma patients around him registered on his empathy; only the most brain dead of them were silent.

And that was the thing -- John clearly wasn't brain dead. Sherlock could sense him humming away in his mind, the half-dozen telepaths brought in had sensed him, every scan had come up with completely normal levels of brain activity.

So why wasn't he feeling anything?

He threw himself to John’s side, snatching up his left hand, the one without the IV. Skin-on-skin contact always helped to increase the conductivity of psychic powers, especially ones with as low of a rating as his empathy had. He was a telepath first, and an empath second -- an out of practice empath, at that. It was entirely plausible he had just missed something while floating around, and the solid connection would prevent him from drifting off by accident.

Shutting his eyes once more, Sherlock lowered his mental shields as far as they could go without getting rid of them completely, opening up his empathy as wide as he was able. He focused on John, concentrating on his mind until the rest of the world seemed to fade away into the background.

He was there, like always, quietly flickering away behind his own natural mental shields, the ones he and John had spent countless hours years before strengthening and stabilizing. Telepathically, there was nothing different about him.

Empathetically… nothing.

Sherlock swore under his breath and squeezed his eyes shut tighter, reaching up and pressing his free hand to John's temple. He stretched his mind as far as it would go, scrabbling around the edges of John’s shields, looking for something, anything. It was just as smooth as before, but before he hadn't been focused on his empathy, no one had, they were all paying attention to his mind, no one had noticed anything was wrong, they were all stupid, he had been so stupid…

… There.

Sherlock inhaled, clenching his hand around John’s fingers. There. It wasn't an emotion from John, but it was something.

It was a block.

Someone had gotten into John’s head and blocked his emotions. They had forced him into a psychic dream coma, but they had tried to be clever about it. They’d hid their tracks.

They knew the hospital would bring in telepaths, so they kept the paths to his mind clear. It wasn't simply a facade, it was his actual mind, so then they knew Sherlock was psychic, knew that he would recognize when the mind of his friend had been altered. They had counted on it, in fact, relied on the fact that he would see John’s unaltered mind and assume nothing was wrong.

What they hadn’t counted on was his empathy.

While a handful people knew about his telepathy, hardly anyone knew he was empathetic. His parents, Mycroft, and John were the only ones that knew for certain -- a handful of doctors and psychiatrists knew from his childhood, back when he couldn't control his powers, but they knew him only as an anonymous case file, and most of them had likely died of old age by now anyway.

He had never been more glad that his empathy was a secret.

Because it was a secret, whoever had done this hadn't known to falsify John’s emotions. Because there was a block, he knew someone had trespassed. A crime had been committed in his friend’s mind.

And there was nothing on earth that could stop Sherlock from solving it.

He buzzed for a nurse, reluctant to leave John’s side more than ever now that he knew he had been the victim of a psychic attack, illogical though it was -- the attack had already happened, he couldn’t retroactively protect John from it, but the mind was stubborn. Especially his.

When one finally came in (it was a coma ward, you'd think if there was a call for a nurse they'd come quicker, it wasn't like the patients needed the television channel changed or a new pitcher of water or something, clearly if one was called it was an emergency), he demanded that the psychic doctor in charge of John's case be brought to his room immediately. He then had to wait an excruciating fifteen minutes, spent fidgeting with the fingers of John's hand and rapidly shifting his weight back and forth in lieu of pacing. She finally arrived, and got no more than a cursory “Mr. Holmes --” out before he cut in.

“John has been the victim of a psychic attack,” he said. The doctor -- Hatcher, was it? Hatchem? -- blinked at him for a moment before stepping further into the room.

“How have you determined that?” she asked. “Obviously something is wrong with him, but none of our psychics have been able to determine a cause.”

“Yes, but that was because we were all looking at his mind telepathically,” he said. “I've looked at his mind myself countless times these past three days -- yes, I'm psychic, clearly -- and I never noticed anything that was wrong, either. Until today.”

“Today?” The doctor -- Hatching, that was it -- quickly stepped forward, coming up to the other side of John’s bed. “What happened today?”

Sherlock gripped a little tighter to John’s hand. For all of his life, he’d refused to reveal the truth of his empathy to people outside his family, but if it would save John... well. There was quite a lot he was willing to make exceptions for when it came to John.

“I'm a level three telepath, and a level two empath. Today I loosened my shields for a distraction and I noticed…” he paused. “John isn't emitting any emotions.”

Dr. Hatching stared at him.

“B-but that's --”

“Impossible, yes, unless John was brain dead, which he clearly isn't,” he spoke rapidly. “Obviously, someone has broken into his mind and put him into a psychic dream coma -- they knew I was telepathic and would know the feel of John’s mind, so they made the effort to keep his mind clear. They didn't know I was empathetic, and they knew the staff telepaths could only view his mind, so they didn't bother to falsify his emotions.” He pointed to John’s head with his left hand, keeping John’s left tightly clutched in his right. “Every crime leaves evidence, Dr. Hatching, even psychic crimes, and this is ours.”

“If we have evidence of psychic manipulation, this changes everything,” Dr. Hatching nodded. She made a quick note in John’s file, and started to move to the door. “I'll get an empath to come in and confirm your findings, and then we’ll have a dreamsmith come and see what can be done to determine what exactly is holding him in his dream coma.” She paused by the door, looking back at Sherlock still standing by the bed.

“You've given us a wonderful lead. Thank you,” she nodded, and he gave a sharp nod back. She glanced down at his hand, still wrapped around John's, and he gripped it tighter. She looked back up and gave a sympathetic smile. “He's going to be fine, Mr. Holmes, and he’ll have you to thank for it.”

Sherlock just stared at her until she left, and then finally dropped his gaze to their hands, running a thumb over John’s knuckles gently. She was right, of course. John was going to be fine.

He had to be.

An empath finally arrived nearly an hour later, and proved his diagnosis correct -- John, despite being very much alive and thinking, wasn’t emitting any emotions at all. The redundancy chafed at him, they were just wasting time, time better spent actually trying to save John, but he knew it was necessary; they couldn’t rely on a civilian diagnosis, not legally, and if he allowed them to do their job (however redundant), John would -- eventually -- get the help he needed.

It didn’t make it any easier though.

An appointment with a dreamsmith was scheduled for that evening, the earliest there was a free space, and Sherlock accepted it with a clenched jaw and a curt nod. There was nothing he could do to hurry it all up. Nothing that wouldn’t get him immediately thrown out of the hospital, anyway.

The empath stopped before walking through the door as well, reassuring him that John was “going to be just fine, Mr. Holmes, don’t you worry.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and barely refrained from voicing his deduction about the man’s predilection towards Japanese tentacle porn in his free time. Pissing off the hospital staff might make him feel better in the short term, but then they might ban him from the premises, and that was unacceptable. He had behaved with remarkable patience and self-restraint so far in his opinion; he wasn’t about to mess it up now that they were finally getting somewhere.

Lestrade came in shortly after lunch (not that Sherlock actually ate -- or anyone else in the ward), looking vaguely frazzled. He clutched a half-drank cup of coffee in one hand, black going by the scent and previously established drinking habits, and a thick manila folder in the other. He was in the middle of a case, clearly, and a difficult one at that, but had made the effort to stop by anyway.

John probably would have appreciated that, if he hadn’t been lying insensate on the bed.

“How is he?” Lestrade asked, thankfully foregoing any needless greetings and pleasantries.

“The same as he’s been for the past three days,” Sherlock replied tersely, bouncing a knee rapidly. He’d let go of John’s hand when he heard Lestrade’s footsteps in the hall, and his fingers itched to pick it back up again. Curious how quickly one can get used to something like that. “We’ve discovered evidence he’s been forcibly placed in a psychic dream coma, however.”

“Blimey, really? That’s awful,” Lestrade frowned sympathetically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Pop culture had vastly overdramatized dream comas -- it was a very difficult affliction to go through, obviously, but it wasn’t the neverending hellish nightmare of pain and suffering portrayed in movies and late-night medical dramas. Usually.

“Yes, it’s an absolute tragedy,” Sherlock sneered, ignoring how the words didn’t exactly sit as falsely on his tongue as they normally would have, if it had been anyone else lying on that bed. “They’ve scheduled a consultation with a dreamsmith later this evening --” in precisely six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and forty-nine seconds, “-- so John should be fully recovered in no time.”

“Sorry, dreamsmith? What’s --”

“A dreamsmith is a telepath trained in reading and deciphering dreams, as well as entering someone’s sleeping mind and manipulating their dreams and internal mindscape without harming them,” Sherlock rattled off. “The technical term is oneirologist, but dreamsmith is much more evocative, which is very important when dealing with matters of the psyche. They’re typically used in cases of extreme phobias or to assist with PTSD recovery, but they’re also the first line of treatment when dealing with psychic dream comas, for obvious reasons even you should be able to grasp.”

“Right, thanks,” Lestrade said, briefly rolling his eyes. “That’s good, though, isn’t it? That now you know why he hasn’t woken up, I mean.”

“For a given definition of ‘good,’ I suppose, yes.”

“How did they figure it out?” Lestrade said after a moment, sitting down in a chair on the opposite side of John’s bed. “I thought they’d said nothing was wrong with his mind.”

“That’s because there isn’t. Physically, his brain is behaving completely normal, and he can still be sensed telepathically. To place someone in a psychic dream coma, the paths through the mind are obscured or blocked completely. It’s how the coma works -- you cut off the mind, nothing gets in or out, and the victim is trapped inside. The paths out of John’s, however, were left completely open, and so the idiot telepaths here --” and he was including himself in that statement, for once -- “ruled out a dream coma entirely. His emotions, however, are still blocked. Everyone emits emotions, always, even when you’re asleep. John isn’t.”

Lestrade furrowed his brow.

“And they didn’t think to check his emotions at the same time?”

“They didn’t check because they couldn’t check,” Sherlock explained. “Hospital staff telepaths are typically only telepathic -- when you add in other branches, such as empathy or clairvoyance, it tends to weaken the strength of each branch. A strict telepath will almost always be stronger and capable of more precision than a split telepath. Occasionally you’ll get someone who is equally as proficient in two branches, but it’s rather rare, and even then they can have bouts of instability. Hospitals are unlikely to take that risk.”

“Then… how did they find out John wasn’t emitting emotions?”

“One of the nurses was empathic. As he was tending to John he noticed his lack of emotions.” It was a safe enough lie, the story believable. He’d asked to remain anonymous in John’s medical file, and Lestrade wasn’t the type to go digging further anyway.

Lestrade nodded agreeably, but then frowned in thought.

“Why couldn't you tell it telepathically, though?” he asked. “Since his mind is still clear. I know you can only catch surface thoughts, but surely you should've noticed what he was dreaming about by now?”

Sherlock sighed.

“People’s minds work differently when they're sleeping,” he said. “You're deeper into your head, it’s more instinctual, time moves funny… The thoughts you project aren't so much thoughts as just proof of activity. Anything that slips out is…” he waved a hand, searching for the right words. “... muddy. Indistinct. It's like listening to a computer whirr -- you can tell what phase of sleep they're in by how active it all is, but you can't tell what's actually going on inside. Emotions are different. They're still foggy and hard to decipher, but they're simpler to begin with. Easier to pass through the layers of the psyche to the surface.”

“You sure know a lot about empathy for someone who’s just a surface telepath,” Lestrade smirked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It’s imperative for me to know about every variation of psychic ability in my line of work; how they function and how they can be disrupted, and what happens to the individual in question when they are. Not all of us can rely on a consulting psychic to solve their crimes for them,” he sneered.

Lestrade rolled his eyes this time.

“Yes, yes, I’m forever grateful that you deign to grace us with your psychic presence and vast intellect, whatever would we do without you,” he droned, deadpan.

“As long as you recognize it,” Sherlock smirked.

“Anyway,” Lestrade changed the subject. “Lucky for us that nurse came in, then. Who knows how long John would’ve been here if he hadn’t.”

Sherlock gazed down at John, pressing a hand to his mouth as he propped his elbow on the arm of the chair.

“Yes. Lucky us,” he quietly replied.

It takes an extraordinary amount of energy and finesse to place someone in a psychic dream coma. Only a very high level telepath could manage it, a level six or seven at the least, and that’s assuming they’ve studied oneirology extensively for several years to gain mastery of the dreamscape. Furthermore, when dealing with matters of the mind, it’s important to go through the path of least resistance as much as possible. It’s relatively easy to block off the mind telepathically; it’s much harder to block off only emotions. Until now, he would’ve said it was impossible. And so he hadn’t even bothered to check.

He had theorized before acquiring all the necessary data, and discounted the idea of a psychic dream coma almost immediately. And because of that, John had been trapped in his coma for three additional days. Three days caught in whatever deranged dream that psychic had cooked up for him, with no hope of escape, without even knowing that an escape was needed.

It was inexcusable. As soon as John had fully recovered, provided he was willing to allow Sherlock back into his mind, he was going to help John increase his shields’ strength again.

It was the least he could do.

He could feel Lestrade looking at him, but he refused to shift his gaze from John. After a few more minutes of silence, however, he sighed heavily and looked up.

“No.”

Lestrade spluttered.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“No, but you’re thinking it so obviously a psychetypical could've heard it,” Sherlock snapped. “I won’t take it.”

Lestrade sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Please, Sherlock. It’s a locked room murder-suicide with no weapon. We’ve got nothing to go on, and we’re desperate,” he said.

“That may be the case, but I still won’t come.”

“You’ve been here for three days!” Lestrade exclaimed. “You haven’t left for so much as change of clothes this whole time; haven’t you gone stir crazy by now?” he asked incredulously.

Sherlock just glared at him, crossing his arms. Yes, he had gotten incredibly bored of the bland, grey walls and cramped window two days and eighteen hours ago, but he wasn’t bored enough to leave. He doubted he’d ever get bored enough to leave John’s side, and that was saying something.

A long moment of silence passed, before Lestrade sighed again, passing a hand over his eyes.

“At least look through the file,” Lestrade pleaded, holding it up.

“... Fine,” Sherlock conceded with a sigh of his own. “Leave it on the table,” he gestured with his head to the tiny yet sturdy table placed at the foot of John’s bed. “If I get astonishingly bored, I’ll look through it.”

Lestrade nodded gratefully.

“Thank you,” he said, dropping the folder with a thick flop before standing up to leave. “Text me if you figure anything out, yeah? We need all the help we can get.”

“Yes, fine, whatever,” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, sinking further back into his chair. Lestrade walked to the door, but paused halfway through the threshold.

“Sherlock?”

“Oh, what is it now?” Sherlock groaned. Why did everyone feel the need to give a final parting shot at the door? First the doctor, then the staff empath, and now Lestrade?

“... Let me know if anything changes with John, too,” he said, nodding to his slumbering form.

Sherlock bit his lip, before giving a small nod. Lestrade nodded back, slipping out the door and letting it fall shut softly behind him.

Sherlock sighed quietly, reaching out and picking up John’s hand once more. He forgot, sometimes, that Lestrade was as much John’s friend as his own (however reluctant that conclusion initially had been), if not a better friend to John than Sherlock had been recently. Certainly a closer one, although they’d been fixing that. Trying to, anyway.

Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket, texting one-handed.

John would have appreciated your visit.

SH

A few moments later, the reply came.

Tell him you’re welcome for me then.

Sherlock quirked the barest hint of a smile. Message received. He set his phone aside, glancing around the room he’d long ago memorized, until his gaze fell on the file. He paused for a moment, and then shrugged, snatching the file and resting it on his crossed legs. He flipped through it with one hand, the other still gripping firmly to John’s.

He really was astonishingly bored, and the dreamsmith wasn’t due for hours yet. He might as well enjoy what little entertainment he could get.