Welcome to Baker Street

1. Baker Street

Do you know what the worst part of a nightmare is? When something clicks in your mind and you suddenly realise that you are inside one. It doesn't happen often, but sometimes we have a glimmer of lucidity, even in the darkest dream. It might give you the impression of being finally in control... Wrong.

When you recognise you are having a nightmare, that is when the scary part truly begins. Now you are trapped. You consciously understand that nothing of what is happening is real; nothing will affect either you or your life. And yet, there is no way out. How do you wake yourself up?

When you realise you are dreaming and caught in a nightmare, you'll try everything to make it stop. But no matter how smart you are, in your dreams, you are always a slave of your mind. The nightmare draws you into its narrative. It wants you to keep going; it doesn't let you escape its claws.

In a hotel room, a tormented woman tosses and turns spasmodically in her bed, as her forehead is beaded with cold sweat. She is fast asleep, yet in the realm of dreams, she is perfectly sentient and aware of being cornered by a product of her imagination.

She knows she only has two options to escape her lucid nightmares. The first way is simple: she just has to kill herself to wake up. It works every time, but it's a dangerous game. The mind plays tricks on you, and you start doubting, wondering: how can I be so sure that this is actually a dream? Can I trust my own senses enough to affirm that this isn't real? Or am I taking a step I can't take back?

Nightmares are not for the faint-hearted.

Still, there is another way to awaken oneself: crying out loud—as loud as possible. She has always thought that if she shouts loud enough inside her dream, her body will do the same in real life, and her mouth will let out a high-pitched sound, waking her up. It might work, and it's worth a try.

The panicked woman jolts awake and sits up in her bed as a yell dies in her throat. Another nightmare, another cry for help, her mind quickly reasons.

She falls back and plunges into the pillows, panting heavily. It'll get better, she thinks. From now on, everything will be alright. She takes some deep breaths and tries to focus on her surroundings: an anonymous hotel room. Where is she again?

If you don't recognise the bed you wake up in, you likely had quite an eventful night. But beyond some alcohol-induced confusion, normal people rarely have a hard time remembering precisely in what part of the world they fell asleep the night before.

And yet she does, and that's disturbing, she reflects, grumbling at the slowness of her mind. To be fair to herself, though, she must admit that her confusion is understandable. She lost count of all the countries she has been shipped to in the past year, wandering from city to city, until now.

This thought sparks a sudden realisation in her. That's her second day in London, more than a thousand miles away from her home—assuming there is still a place in the world she can call home. London, UK: the beginning of her new life.

Not a great start, after all, she considers, staring up at the ceiling through a tuft of hazelnut hair. She closes her eyes and mentally summarises her to-do list:

First, University Orientation for her PhD

Second, Book shopping (not a real priority, yet it still feels like it's not high enough on the list).

Third and last point, finding accommodation and leaving her nomadic life behind.

She climbs off the bed and paces the small room, noticing a note on the floor by the entrance. Someone must have slipped it under the door during the night.

She bends down and takes it in her hand. Below a phone number, there are just a couple of lines:

As per your instructions, you are on your own now.

Whatever you may need, don't hesitate to contact me.

M.

She frowns, and her eyes linger on that single letter: M., the man who helped her settle in London and provided her with the means to start over. Now, with that note, he is giving back the freedom that someone else tried to take away. M: just one letter, not even the complete name.

All she knows about him are whispers and overheard rumours from his subordinates. She has never even met him, only exchanged emails, but she trusts him anyway. After all, he has kept her alive for the past year. She owes him that chance at a new life.

The day goes by quickly, and after the successful accomplishment of the first two points on her list, she decides it is time to deal with the last burdensome matter. She wanders around the city examining five different houses with a disheartening result: some are far too expensive, and the potential flatmates in the others... Out of the question, the dullest people she has ever met. That scavenger hunt is proving to be a complete waste of time.

She sighs and looks down at the creased paper in her palm. Below all the crossed-out houses that were suggested by the people she met at the university earlier, there is one last address, possibly her last hope: Baker Street.

By the time she arrives in front of the black door with the gold number 221, it is getting dark and chilly. She is about to knock when the door bursts open, and a man with a shocked expression on his face rushes out of it, bumping into her. He mumbles something she barely catches, then runs away. She shrugs at the weird scene and walks through the open door, peeping inside.

"Good evening. Anybody in?"

A kind lady with a warm smile walks up to her in the darkened corridor. "Hello, dear. May I help you?"

"Yes, please, ma'am. I'd like to have some information about renting—" She is cut short in the middle of the sentence by the sound of footsteps coming frantically down the stairs.

"Good heavens, he has no respect," a corpulent woman complains before marching out the door.

At that moment, a dirty-blond-haired man appears on the landing at the top of the stairs and shouts out, "Wait!"

But the woman has already disappeared into the night.

"Oh, John, what has he been doing all day?" the old woman asks him, bringing a hand over her heart like a grandmother regretfully witnessing her grandchildren's ill manners.

"You know him, Mrs Hudson: just being himself," the man snorts.

"I lost count of everyone that's been here today. Including the two that have just run away, how many potential tenants has he scared off? Six?" she asks, darting a glance at the front door that was just slammed.

"Seven. God help me." He rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair before looking down at the confused woman standing in the hall. "Is she the next one?"

Mrs Hudson nods and eloquently arches a brow at him before whispering to her, "I think it's your turn, dear. Go on upstairs. They're waiting for you."