Falling In Love

by HiyaItsRach

A dream...of Sherlock? John can barely believe the unravelling emotions he's begun to feel for his partner before he's flung into confusion and Sherlock's bed where he'll have to admit his deepest feelings in any intimate way possible if he has any chance of saving his secret lover.

Falling... In Love

John's hand outstretched to Sherlock, gently caressing his shoulder, his eyes misty from held back tears.

'I love you' he whispered, too quietly for him to hear, as he took a step closer and pulled Sherlock in tight to his chest. 'It's just a shame you'll never know how I truly felt about you.'

He positioned his hands either side of Sherlock's thin, deep, defined shoulder blades and took a deep breath, looking out from the roof of the building onto the tall, dark silhouette of London that surrounded them. Time seemed to stand still, almost in anticipation like someone holding their breath, too scared to release it and make a noise. There was silence.

He began drumming a slow rhythm on Sherlock's back with his fingertips. Faint, gentle but constant, in time to his rising heartbeat. The pace quickened, his chest felt tight and uncomfortable and each breath became shorter and more desperate. His thoughts became fuzzy and difficult to depict...apart from one.

His eyes flickered open at the sound of the lamp being turned on beside him. Almost instinctively his head jerked in the direction of the noise, curious for the source. Sherlock stood beside him, his deep blue, doe like eyes focused on John with his face pressed against the hard chestnut surface and his arms sprawled across the top of the desk. In his hands he held a red, woollen blanket, partly hung over John's shoulders.

'I was just about to head to bed', he muttered, 'I didn't want you to be cold down here by yourself.'

John's eyes glanced up to meet his and there they remained. There was a silence, not uncomfortable or awkward, where the two just stared at each other, content. The deep flecks of blue running through Sherlock's eyes made them appear cold, baron, unreachable but John knew differently. He knew the man behind those eyes, he knew his story he...

Sherlock coughed to clear his throat, turning his head to the side and breaking the hold of their contact. John twitched, his eyes focused, his mind snapping back into a train of thought, his cheeks delicately flushed and his palms slightly sweaty. His breathing returned from a deep, thoughtful sigh to a steady continuous pace. With his hands tightly clenched and his stomach knotted he turned back to face the desk, avoiding his partners gaze and surveying the dark, period interior of the living room. Sherlock stiffly turned to give him a courteous side-on nod, his eyes managing to glance over him one final time and then promptly excused himself. As he turned to leave, his brisk walk flicked up the tailcoats of his black trench coat, leaving a prominent scent of lavender in the air. One that Sherlock always possessed and one that John always noticed.

He was unsure of how much time had passed as he lay back in the deep purple, sunken, leather armchair staring intently at the swirls of paint left on the ceiling. The sun had long gone down and Sherlock had long been upstairs but John couldn't sleep, neither could the butterflies that filled his stomach. He had been dreaming before Sherlock had woken him. He couldn't remember completely what about or who but he remembered something, vaguely. A tall figure with dark, tightly curled hair lying on a bed with an outstretched hand, appearing as an invitation to him. He shifted uncomfortably, he couldn't shake the feeling he knew the person in the dream. He couldn't put a name to their face or recognise where he'd seen them before but something told him...he knew.

He sighed, his head flopping lazily to the left and laying to rest just above the arm of the chair, his eyes glazing over the room until he caught sight of the door, still slightly open and moving back and forth from the breeze of the open window. He paused, his mind ticking over the previous event, the moment him and Sherlock had shared. He clenched his jaw in frustration. What had he felt? What was he feeling now? He felt weak, vulnerable to the sudden burst of thoughts in his head. He gripped the arms of the chair with swift, delicate but shaking hands and pushed himself to his feet, keeping hold just long enough to steady himself. He drew the blanket across his shoulders, pulling it in close to his body and steadily made his way to the door. As he reached it, he extended his hand onto the frame, pulling it back to reveal the darkened staircase leading to the upper portion of the house, and Sherlock. He hesitated, his eyes flicking from the floor to the stairs, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts circulating around in his head but he was unable to make them out, all he knew was he had to check. He had to check if he was right. He had to check if it had been Sherlock in his dream.

He lifted his leg, placing it on the first step and pushing himself up onto it. As he hesitantly ascended up the long, spiralling staircase his mind flashed images of what he may find at the top in front of his eyes. Despite all the control he could muster to silence his imagination, he couldn't help but hope, deep down, that he would be right. The knotted stomach sensation he had previously experienced had subsided and now instead been replaced by a curiosity, an eagerness that he was aware was the only thing pulling him up each step. And with this brought a new life to him, a new strength that urged him up the flight of stairs and down the remaining corridors until he reached the study. And from the study, there lead a door. The final obstacle.

He pressed one hand gently against the frame and with the other he reached down to firmly grip the 1920's style doorknob, perfectly polished with light feathery detail on the rim. As he turned it delicately, he pushed his body against the door until it opened out into a dim, dusty room with a thin beam of light piercing through a gap in the curtains from a street light outside. It rested on a bed, covered in numerous silk duvets and pillows scattered across the surface. The room was mostly bare but a wardrobe sat in one corner with the doors flung open, clothes hung from them and draped across the front. The bed sat directly in the middle, connected to the back wall and acting as the main feature piece of furniture. At first glance it appeared empty and forgotten but as John peered harder and closer into the collaboration of coloured sheets, he noticed a small wisp of black, bedraggled looking hair protruding from the corner of the mess. He edged nearer, the scent of lavender almost overwhelming and immediately making his eyes sink in the essence of relaxation. As he drew up next to the bed, he trailed his hands along the covers, taking in the delicate texture of the silk. After he'd reached no more than half way up the bed the silk began to ruffle and shift away from his touch. Sherlock delicately drew back the covers but remained lying there, looking up at John, confused but accepting of his presence.

His glazed eyes told John he was tired without a word passing through his lips. Every faint line on his face seemed more defined in the dark, more sinister than his usual stern but harmless appearance. He'd been up most of the night traipsing through various case files too complex for John to even comprehend. He'd become more willing to share his knowledge as of recent months, frequently explaining and demonstrating his method of analysis to John over dinner in the hope he would pick at least some of the skill up. But right now he looked worn, exhausted, in a way that John had never seen him before and he didn't like the vulnerable appearance it gave him. At that moment, in one swift motion, Sherlock sat up and extended his hand to John. The dream. This was the dream. The realisation hit and John staggered backwards slightly, his breathing emphasising his exasperation. Sherlock was the hidden man and this was his invitation.

Without awareness of his movements, he extended his arm out to meet Sherlock's, gripping his hand and allowing himself to be pulled forward, towering over the bedraggled, vulnerable man that lay beneath him. Every movement he made to position himself next to Sherlock, buried amongst the duvets felt strange and yet somehow natural, almost as though it had been planned. He lay there for a few seconds, feeling the warmth radiating from the covers pre-heated by the man lying beside him. It all seemed surreal, what was he doing? Before he had any time to consider where he was or what he was doing, Sherlock had pulled the covers back over them both and turned to face him, his cheek bones appearing more prominent in the dim light. He was good looking, young, strong features and well built, even John couldn't deny that, so when he shuffled closer and leaned in to push his lips gingerly against John's, it was an offer he couldn't refuse.

It was gentle, withdrawn, in a way he couldn't imagine and yet forceful and desperate. It held for a few seconds but only long enough to initiate a sudden shift in the covers that left John pinned, paralysed with no control. The earlier confusion and uncertainty in his mind had been all but chased out by the excitement and uncertainty the night was now bringing him and before he was aware of what was happening, the night had become a blur, a symphony of fantasies, a warming embrace, a deep fulfilment beyond his wildest dreams and a long chorus of reciprocal moans. It all came to a close with John's body enclosed in Sherlock's arms, his head resting on John's shoulder and the faint noise of his breathing in John's ear. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the crumpled pillows and allowing himself to drift off into a deep, memorable sleep.

He was dreaming, he knew he was but he couldn't bring himself to wake himself up. His body ached, he felt cold and as he opened his eyes to observe his surroundings he noticed he was on a rooftop. A man stood before him, blurred and out of focus and another to his right. The man before him turned away from him, blocking him from seeing his face, looking out onto the muffled scene beyond the building. The man beside him took a step towards him, his face more visible than the other but still distorted beyond recognition. His mouth moved in an animated way that prevented John from hearing what he was saying, yet somehow he seemed to understand. A list of instructions each spoken in a specific order which finished with a plea. Unlike the other speech, this was clear, sharp like a knife cutting deeper into him with every word and it hurt. Tears rolled down John's cheek, he was frightened. It made no sense and yet it seemed so obvious. It was something that he and he alone must do. The figure beside him dispersed into water droplets hitting John's face as he disappeared completely from the scene. John turned back to face the hidden figure that stood before him, placed his hands almost instinctively onto his back and noticed he was cold. He remained so still, like a corpse, alive but not living. He pushed.

His eyes drew open, the bright light of day now pouring through the gap in the curtains and onto the bed where he lay. He slowly reached up to rub his neck where he felt an odd ache when his fingertips grazed the surface. A figure lay beside him, loosely gripping his arm and nuzzling his ruffled head of hair into his chest. Faint chirps of birds could be heard piercing through the window from outside. What had happened last night? What would this mean? Almost as though his thoughts had been heard, Sherlock stirred and raised his head to look into John's blank face. Neither of them spoke, just taking in the warmth of the covers and the gentle hold they each had on the other. The room was warm, comforting and the now fading scent of lavender still relaxing and intoxicating. Sherlock's gaze never faltered to focus on John's weary eyes until he elongated his neck just enough to brush John's chin with his delicate lips. Neither one could remember the latter of last nights events but both remained curled around one another in an accepting and almost comfortable fashion.

It was late afternoon, Sherlock's fingers ran their way up John's sturdy torso, teasing him until they met his lips and then made their way to his jaw where they pulled his face in close to Sherlock's. 'You were good last night' he whispered 'A little inexperienced but we can soon sort that out'. His tongue snaked out to brush John's lips but only briefly before it retracted and Sherlock swiftly rolled over, out of bed and headed towards the door. John leaned after him, the words of begging him to stay looming on his tongue but he couldn't bring himself to say them. The images of his dream still fresh in his mind had rendered him speechless. He relaxed back into the sunken sheets, allowing them to absorb him and cover him, the pillows supporting his weary head. The door clicked shut, he closed his eyes, allowing the waves of his imagination to wash over him. It couldn't be Sherlock, not this time. Before had been a coincidence brought on by the silenced feelings he held for him. He clenched his fists, willing the thoughts to leave him. He would never let that dream come true.

A few hours had passed since Sherlock had left John alone his bed. The light outside had already begun to fade and he had slipped in and out of sleep numerous times. He stiffly forced himself up into a sitting position, allowing his eyes to survey the dark room until they came to a rest on the wardrobe door. A tiny white note, difficult to see in the failing light lay stuck on one of the hinges. It was small but there appeared to be writing on it. A mixture of curiosity and confusion led John out of the mess of crumpled duvets and creased pillows and up to the worn, ashy coloured wooden wardrobe. He delicately picked the note off of the hinge and opened it out. It read: Watson, didn't want to wake you. Police have asked me to investigate new case. Something about a suicide. Meet me at 44 Crescent Place this evening, before 9 if possible. Sherlock.

John's shaking hands hesitated slightly before laying the note to rest on the end of the bed. He jerked his head to the side to allow himself to see the clock that lay on the floor, mostly covered in a heap of violin sheet music and police files. His clothes also lay in a heap near to it, covering books on recent murders and dissembled parts to mobile phones. It was a hobby John had never been fond of Sherlock having. He lumbered over to where his clothes lay and reluctantly bent down to retrieve them off of the cold wooden floor. As he lazily began to get dressed, his mind flicked back to the night they had spent together. He was aware Sherlock had been fond of him but their conversations had never had much depth and had always resulted in an insult towards his intelligence. He had always found it amusing but it had never suggested anything besides a partnership that they shared. His cheeks felt hot, he reached his hand up and cupped his face in his palms, he was right, he was blushing.

His mind jerked back to the time, it was half past 8 and the sun had long gone down, he didn't have long before Sherlock expected him at the scene. He untidily threw the rest of his clothes on and grabbing his jacket from the coat stand in the study, he raced downstairs and out the front door. It had been raining, the ground was damp and the road glistened as the droplets of water reflected the light from the street lamps lining the pavements. A slight breeze in the air made him shiver. It was late November and the trees stood bare in the neighbouring parks. The roads were quiet and mostly empty apart from a few taxi's parked along the side of the road beside their house. John approached the closest one, delegated his destination to the driver and climbed into the back seat. The car pulled away from the curb and John allowed himself to relax back into the seat, his head resting against the chilled car window and his eyes following their journey by the buildings they passed. He felt quite alone by himself in the back seat, he didn't often travel by himself so he had become accustomed to the presence of Sherlock beside him predicting what they were likely to find at the next crime scene. He breathed deeply, his mind becoming engrossed in the subtle beauty of London surrounding them. The subtle beauty of an English winter.

It wasn't long before the taxi came to a gentle stop outside a huge, black building surrounded by police tape. All the police cars that John had expected seemed non existent, the neighbouring streets eerily quiet. John gratefully paid the driver and cautiously stepped outside of the car, staring up into the cloudy sky where the roof of the building could just be made out. It seemed to loom over John, making him feel very small and inferior. He took a deep breath, pulled his jacket tight across his chest and put his hands into his pockets as he began to make his way towards the buildings doors. As he approached nearer he realised the door was open, only slightly but enough to make it noticeable and as he reached out to push the door fully open he noticed a faint whistling could be heard echoing from inside. He stepped inside, calming himself and assuring his mind it was Sherlock. Just inside the front doors, there lead a staircase, similar to the one leading to the upstairs of their house but much larger and made of pristine white marble. He stepped closer, clasping his hand firmly on the hand rail and looking up to the ceiling of the building. A light could be seen very faintly at the top, shining just bright enough to be visible in the dark interior of the entrance. Steadying his breathing, John began the ascent up the spiralling stairwell, his mind eager to find Sherlock.

As he neared the top, he could see the light came from a door leading out to the side of the main structure of the building. It was open and the whistling he now distinctly recognised as Sherlock's, eerie but familiar. He quickened his pace, swerving out the side door onto an open balcony. He froze, his heart leaping into his throat...the dream. This was the place. His mouth moved, trying to draw the attention of his partner but he couldn't seem to make a noise. Sherlock was stood, facing away from him, looking out onto the dark silhouette of London that was now surrounding them. John edged closer, a faint figure could be seen to his right, concealed by the shadows. As he drew up behind Sherlock, his hand outstretched in a desperate attempt to grab him, the figure emerged. Immediately, he recognised the figure. Moriarty.

With a panic stricken face, John turned to face him head on. Moriarty continued to draw nearer, a sly smile curving the corners of his mouth. He began to repeat the instructions familiar to John, those that had been delegated to him in the dream apart from this time there was no plea that ended his speech. Instead, he calmly met John's gaze and said, 'It's either me or you and if you were in his place, wouldn't you rather his face be the last thing you see?' Then almost as quickly as he had appeared, he turned and left through the door John had entered through and that was the last he saw of him. Rain began to fall, hitting John's face and leaving droplets running down his cheeks beside his tears that fell. Sherlock appeared oblivious to his presence, almost in a trance and as he reached out to caress his partners shoulder John's mind flickered once more back to his dream. The plea. It had been very muffled and hard to make out but as he focused, he managed to draw a single sentence from the noise. 'Please John, end it for me.' It had been Sherlock, it had always been Sherlock.

Fighting back his tears, John turned back to face him. Looking out onto the rest of London, he remembered how beautiful it looked from the ground but nothing compared to what he saw here, right now. Tiny snowflakes began to fall from the sky, landing on Sherlock's coat, prominent against the harsh black fabric. The familiar scent of lavender was gone and as John reached out to put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, the repetition of the dream was once again evident. He was cold, ice cold and eerily still, like a statue blended into the framework of the building. He shifted his hands to position them instead against his shoulder blades, his strong, perfectly muscular shoulder blades.

That was his last clear memory, this would always be his last clear memory. Him and Sherlock together on this rooftop. He cleared his throat, struggling to force back the tears bursting to come forth. He stood firmly, his feet apart just enough to steady himself, his hands resting on Sherlock's back. He closed his eyes, feeling each burst of wind through his greying hair. He prepared himself, mustering all the strength in his body...Sherlock turned, very slowly to face him, his eyes full of tears. 'I do know how you feel' he cried as he lunged forward in an attempt to press his lips against John's for the final time. The kiss lasted and as he pulled away to stand upright to once again face him, John pushed. As the tailcoats of his trench coat were seen disappearing behind the ledge of the balcony, John sank to his knees, tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes and cries of agony echoing and bouncing between the buildings. He raised his hands to cover his ears but not before he heard the final thud.

It was warm, spring had reached London much before its due time this year and as John strolled across the grass of Hyde Park, he struggled to think of anywhere he'd rather be. As he passed through the gate about 50 yards later, he cut across the next field until he came to a stop, delicately placing down his blanket and basket and arranging a bouquet of flowers next to the grave. 'It's such a nice day for a picnic today old chap' he chirped, a smile bigger than any he'd worn in a long time spreading across his ageing face. To any who passed him by, he seemed perfectly happy on that day but in the corner of his eyes, tears still remained. Tears for the one man he'd ever loved, the one man who now lay beside him, not visible to any passing by but visible to John.

He frequently visited to refresh the flowers placed on his grave and would often spend hours at a time sat on the grass next to him just talking in the fresh January sun. It would have been his birthday today, January 6th. He'd never wanted anyone to make a fuss about his birthday although John had often taken the liberty of buying him a cake and writing him a card. Despite his constant reminders of how childish card writing was they would usually end up on his study desk a few days later and so every year John would write another.

He packed up the leftover food into the basket and carefully rolled up the blanket, patting the gravestone fondly and pulling Sherlock's black trench coat over it. 'I'm heading home now, I wouldn't want you to get cold here by yourself' he whispered, shedding a single tear before turning and leaving through the open gate. He was all alone again as he headed back through the park in the direction of 221b Baker's Street, stopping one final time to turn back and read the engraving carved on the headstone.

'Sherlock Holmes

6thJanuary 1978 - 20th November 2008

Come along Watson'

'I'm coming Sherlock' he would often repeat to himself with a loving smile briefly passing across his face.