Sherlock, as a rule, never out any stock in dreams--he made it a specific point to delete them from his memory as soon as he had them. No grounding in reality... useless, really, except in the same manner as a screen saver.

So when he woke, it was in a sort of muddy confusion, only half-able to remember what he'd been dreaming about and wishing he could get rid of all of it.

He was understandably a bit cross, to say the least.

Also, this wasn't the tube.

He all but leapt out of his seat, feet striking the floor with surprising force--six feet of long-bodied, dark-coated indignation. "What in hell is going on here?!"