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Mycroft Holmes was a busy man. Between keeping the world order intact and his brother more or less so, he hardly had time for items so pedestrian as sleep. It was perhaps for the best given how, under the lull of his REM cycle, his ordinarly iron-clap grip of his faculties...lessened. He found himself chilled by the disorder his mind possessed upon waking.
In short: Mycroft dreamed.
This was, as it often was, true for the oldest Holmes sibling one windy evening in October. Mycroft had just closed a rather important deal with the Canadian government and decided to treat himself.
That one windy October was going quite well until Mycroft fell asleep. He had allowed himself to be wooed by the excellent taste of Belgian chocolates and the subtle empowerment of Lady Gaga’s music. He wrapped himself in a silk robe after a bath of rosewater and oils fit for a handsome man such as himself.
That night, as the man tucked himself in, he was quite relaxed.
Unfortunately, his troubles were about to begin.
Mycroft opened his eyes onto a world very different from the one he had left. At first he thought it was flooded with light as he could only make out the structures of items--all the textures were...gone. Instead of the ornate furniture he filled his home with, he was in what appeared to be a longue of sorts. There was a homey couch and a rather old television set. The area seemed lived in, the type of place in which one might imagine a cozy family unit.
Mycroft turned his nose up in disgust.
It was at this point he caught the strangest sight: there, approaching him, was what appeared to be a white dog walking on its hind legs and wearing glasses which somehow were able to conceal the dog’s eyes beneath.
“Dogbert,” the dog said while hopping onto the couch. “Although ‘your lord’ is also acceptable.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the creature and settled across the dog on the couch. He was not the slightest concerned about how the animal was able to talk--he could, of course, tell he was in a dream. He was, however, disappointed in the dog’s American accent.
“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said. “Although I assume you know that.”
Dogbert snorted. “You assumed correctly. The real question is how.”
Mycroft frowned. “You are a figment of my imaginings.”
“Nope. I’m a figment of Scott Adams’ imaginings. Make sure you get that right or the copyright infringement will be hell.”
Mycroft tutted in irritation. “Why are you here?”
“Deduce it.” Dogbert had grabbed the remote and was beginning to flip through dull program after dull program.
Mycroft shifted in his seat. “You know as well as I do that I can hardly deduce in a dream!”
Dogbert sighed. “Let’s just say you seem to bear a striking resemblance to me in the mind of one rather awful fanfiction writer, who deemed it necessary to have us commune.”
Mycroft laughed derisively. “You mean to tell me this is fiction? And I suppose I am too?”
Dogbert, however, was not amused. “That’s exactly what I mean. You were derived from the mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, however this recent version is the property of the BBC.”
Mycroft snorted. “Ridiculous.”
The dog was unperturbed. ‘Look at the television. Notice how old it is? That’s because this entire living room is from decades before your time.”
Mycroft couldn’t help but tap his fingers against the chair in discomfort.
“Who are you? You say you are like me yet you live with such awful decor.”
Dogbert made a sound in agreement. “I have a strong say in world governments and some of the biggest companies, yet I live with an engineer. Hence the poor taste.”
Mycroft was stunned. ‘But...why?”
Dogbert met his eyes and Mycroft felt his stomach swoosh in response to those blank glasses. “Because it's what the narrative demanded. Why do you spend all your time cleaning up Sherlock’s messes?”
Mycroft was affronted. “I do other things.”
Dogbert cocked his head. “Do you?”
Mycroft scowled and shook his head. “He’s my brother.”
Dogbert ignored him. ‘’You don’t have to anymore, you know. The show’s over. You only exist in the minds of the fans now.”
Mycroft’s frown deepened. “...meaning?”
Dogbert smiled. “Watch TV with me.”
Mycroft sighed after a moment of contemplation and settled in for some proper make-believe television.