A Plague Journal of sorts

A week or so ago I dreamed about the coronavirus. I was roaming around a multi-story building and found myself in an attic space where there were two circular trampolines. Resting on them were about three 2-foot circular things with three legs that looked like they were articulated, all in black and yellow diagonal stripes, like caution markings. These thingies, I knew, were coronaviruses. Then I woke up. And then the other night I dreamed I was in a Sherlock Holmes adventure. Sherlock had gone off to do Important Stuff and left the hapless Dr. Watson to his own devices. The bad guys sent Watson a message purporting to be from Holmes requesting Watson's immediate assistance. Of course he went right away — into a trap. And then I found myself in an empty restaurant with dozens of tables and about two feet of greenish water on the floor. Moving around underwater was a caiman. Don't ask how I knew that's what it was, but it was after me. I tried to run away from it, but it was faster than I. I climbed up on a table and just a few seconds later the caiman was on top of the table next to mine. Finally I found a way to prop myself with my back literally against the wall and my feet pushing against a tabletop, so we reached a standoff. And then I woke up. But wait, did that mean that I became Dr. Watson?