Hey, guys! Long time no update!

Just got into Sherlock-gosh, you guys are a perfect fandom. Here's some fun for all of us BBC lovers. PLease rate and comment and all that fuzzy stuff. I'd love some prompts for Valentine's Day, as well. Anyway, enjoy yourselves :).

He'd anticipated that it would be more difficult to break into his own apartment for several reasons.

1.) Mrs. Hudson would have undoubtedly increased security measures at 221B, meaning more traditional locks on the doors and windows—and though genius he may be, lockpicker he was not.

2.) A disguise would never meet the inspection of his former landlady, and he didn't want to cause a heart attack.

He'd heard through the grapevine that John—

John.

Well, he'd heard that John had moved out of 221B. He didn't blame him. Why suffer through pain like that, constantly surrounding you, when you could start anew in cleaner lodgings with less bulletholes in the walls and toes in the fridge?

Not that Sherlock would have moved out. He preferred his pain focused, in a finite amount that he could handle and measure. He would have preferred what John had to deal with any day—a chair's worth of mourning. A coffee cup of loss. A couch full of longing. The mathematics of losing someone he so dearly—

Well. Sherlock would have preferred quantifiable amounts of missing someone who was lost to what he currently had to deal with. He was swimming in it. There were innumerable oceans of hopeless wondering, guessing, and deducing from nothing but memories.

Where was John now?

Did he still contact Mycroft?

How had he felt after he'd seen the…jump?

Was he making tea, now?

Was he having trouble sleeping?

Was he wearing his red jumper today?

Did he miss Sherlock the way Sherlock missed him?

He doubted that was possible. Somehow, after the fall, his brilliant brain had bubbled over and filled to the brim with John Watson, nothing but John. Sherlock had never been able to shut out the voices in his head that noticed every miniscule detail and made connections to the bigger picture, and he'd never wanted to. They'd made him superhuman. But it seemed almost as if the intense planning and work he'd had to do to plan his 'death' had shorted out the neural pathways until the whole thing shorted out.

The day after the fall, after falling asleep that night in a fight of worry and adrenaline and terror and guilt, he woke up with one thought that clung to him wherever he hid.

John.

John.

Some therapists might chalk it up to a near-death experience—he was finally realizing his priorities in life. It wasn't uncommon for victims of these situations to want to reconnect with family they hadn't recognized as important before.

Sherlock thought that was absurd. John was always a priority; that was the reason he'd jumped. It's not like he didn't recognize the importance of John in his life. It was more that he'd always taken for granted the presence of John, the quantity of their friendship, and the status quo in their relationship.

He wasn't quite sure where he stood anymore.

He didn't know how John felt, which didn't help the fact that he didn't have a clue how he felt. All he knew was that he wanted to be there for John, with John, by John, every second of every day, until John knew for sure that Sherlock would never leave him again.

For the man who always knew and could always tell, Sherlock didn't have the foggiest idea how he felt about John, only that he missed him and couldn't stop thinking about him. He wanted, more than anything, to tell him that he was alive.

So he'd decided to break into his apartment for two reasons.

1.) To retrieve any innocuous belongings that might be hanging around—he had no idea if his things had been confiscated or moved, and now might be a good time to find out. If they'd left his apartment the way it was, or had a new tenant move in, something of his would remain. He felt stifled by a sheer lack of activity, the boredom layering over every inch of his various hotel rooms and giving way to fountains of thoughts of John…

Getting distracted. Must move on.

2.) To eradicate this gnawing nostalgia, at least in some capacity. While Sherlock didn't necessarily mind the flood of Watson-centric worries, he needed some peace of mind to continue hiding.

He was really just planning on walking by 221B Baker Street, assessing his chances of breaking into his old flat, counting all the reasons he had been utterly reckless in this idea. Criticizing himself for being so inattentive, Sherlock let each step down the sidewalk echo hollowly in his brain with a resounding thump.

Thump. You chose to investigate at night when you know the best place to hide is in plain sight—in a crowd. Thump. You wore your idiotic blue scarf—which you KNOW people will recognize—and didn't even bother trying to look like a normal Londoner. Thump. Moriarty's cameras and network are still out there, and cameras don't sleep. Thump. You don't even have the smallest vestiges of a plan.

Sherlock thumped his way past the apartment, a distinct buzzing in his ears from excitement and fear. He hadn't seen the familiar door of 221B since before this mess started. He jammed his hands into his pockets and tried to peek—just peek—at the door.

But there he was, walking right up to it and buzzing the doorbell and breathing off-rhythm, too excited to contemplate what he was doing.

No one answered.

Determined not to be so idiotic as to ring again, Sherlock gingerly tested the doorknob. The door immediately gave way and opened.

Either Mrs. Hudson was losing her precious mind or something infinitely more dangerous and interesting was afoot. Sherlock wanted to poke it with a stick. Investigation tugged him inside and up the stairs as his curiosity gave way to terror, wanting to protect Mrs. Hudson from any ruffians who had broken in.

But first he just had to go upstairs and check—just to make sure…

He bounded up the steps and ignored the voices in his brain, screaming that he was in serious danger. It was just up the damn rickety stairs, and he'd be home—that's all he wanted.

The door was unlocked.

The door to his old flat was unlocked.

That was dangerous, that was different, that was very, very bad, that was a sign he needed to run—he was walking in anyway.

The flat looked the same.

Interesting.

Nothing was in quite the same place as he'd had it, so someone had to have unpacked all his things. Look, there was his test tube collection—who'd put them in that order? That was the wrong order. And his books, and his revolver, all wrong.

But still, back in his home. Old 221B.

Nothing looked amiss, no one hid in the shadows. It was the same flat, same items, just a little more askew than he'd hoped. Still, it was better than it had a right to be. Mrs. Hudson had apparently packed it all up. The fact that it was put back in some semblance of order meant something.

"John—" he choked, tripping over a misplaced pile of files. A light, familiar snore confirmed his suspicions from the other room, alerting him that he was here, he was home.

The little voices started protesting, telling Sherlock to get out. Now. Before it was too late and John woke up, and everything was ruined. He couldn't put John in that kind of danger.

But a force stronger than those voices pulled him to his best friend's bedside. Sherlock knew it was reckless and selfish, but how, HOW could he resist—?

John looked troubled in his sleep, deep circles betraying insomnia to the consulting detective. He'd crossed his arms gruffly before going to bed, but in sleep he'd relaxed and rolled onto his side, arms crossed awkwardly in front of him. His cheek was squished against a pillow and the blankets were all askew, clueing Sherlock in to sleepless, restless nights spent alone.

Sherlock clucked his teeth in disapproval, partly at John for not taking stellar care of himself, partly at himself for causing this lack of sleep. Sighing, he gently sat on the side of John's bed, just content to look at his friend. Watching John's eyebrows furrow against the ridiculous happenings of some dream, Sherlock felt the unquantifiable pain he'd felt for nearly a year simmer down and float away. He could measure the pain now—it had the exact shape and size of one ex-Army Doctor, lying in fitful sleep six inches away from him.

He breathed again, shuddering slightly at the proximity, and unconsciously decided to spend the entire night by John's side, watching. He owed it to John to keep him safe after the suffering he'd put him through—tonight, he could ensure that safety with the revolver in his pocket and renewed eyes.

"Mmmf…" mumbled John sleepily, curling a little to the side. Sherlock couldn't help but reach out for his hand, but he pulled back instantly. He couldn't wake John up.

"I don't want you to leave."

Sherlock jumped, startled by the clear statement, but John betrayed no evidence of actually being awake.

He curled into himself a few more inches, repeating himself softly. "I don't want you to leave…Sherlock, please."

"I'm not leaving, John," Sherlock replied lightly, trying not to choke up. He'd never realized that John talked in his sleep, nor had he known that his sleep talking would be so deceptively conscious-sounding. "Not tonight."

A slow smile crept onto the sleeping man's face. "Good. You git." He shifted back to face Sherlock, clutching his pillow closer. "You're always leaving before I wake up."

Sherlock chuckled. "Why do I do that?"

"Why do you ever do anything, you sod? I always assumed you had a bloody good reason."

"Rightly, too."

A few minutes passed, with John's lulling snores calming the nerves of the man sitting beside him. If he woke up… Sherlock didn't want to think about that. John would be happy, surely, but so shocked and so betrayed—and in so much danger.

No. Better to let him dream while there were good dreams left.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

John grumbled, grimacing in his sleep. "You know."

He did indeed. "You were in danger. Everyone I love—I mean, everyone was in danger. If I didn't…you wouldn't be here, John."

John snorted rather unattractively. "Doesn't seem fair. I'm not special. The world can lose a few men like me. But there's only one of you—"

"Don't say that. Don't." Sherlock let his reason desert him and reached forward to grasp John's hand, holding it tight.

John's eyes fluttered open, blinking rapidly in confusion as Sherlock grasped his hand and held it to his chest, unwilling to let go. "Trust me. The world cannot stand to lose you, John. I did what I had to do to protect you, and I don't regret it for a moment. Arrogant sods like me are replaceable, but there is nothing I've found in this world that can measure up to you."

"Sher—" John cut himself off, groggily awake but disbelieving.

"It's a dream, John. That's all it ever is, isn't it? A dream?" Sherlock let go of his hand. "You dream that I'm here, at night. But I'm gone in the morning, like I always am when you wake up. I'm just a dream, John."

"You jumped—"

"I know. It's just a dream, believe me. You always have before."

John swallowed, wide awake and unaware of that fact. His eyes were shining, searching Sherlock's for truth, but Sherlock kept his poker face on. "I asked you…for one more miracle."

"I know."

"I asked you to not be—"

"I know." Sherlock grinned darkly. "How could I have known that, unless I'm just a figment of your imagination? You haven't been sleeping well—hallucinations are a symptom of a lack of sleep. I'm just your lack of sleep."

John nodded, trying to grip the new reality of his dream, and reached out to touch Sherlock's solid arm. "Feels real."

"Big imagination."

"Shut up. Just shut up," John ordered him, pulling Sherlock into a tight embrace and throwing his arms over his shoulders. "Shut up and stop talking and just shut up."

Sherlock chuckled and closed his eyes, relishing the satisfying feeling that the broken pieces in him were fusing back together due to a simple hug. John wound one hand up Sherlock's neck, petting down springy curls, and looped the other arm over his shoulders. "This is a dream, this is a dream, this is a dream…"

"Rather nice one, too," Sherlock laughed. He kept his hands at his sides. "I have missed you, John."

"Of course you have. No one else puts up with you the way I do."

"I don't deserve you."

"You're damn right you don't." John breathed a sigh of unbelievable relief into Sherlock's shoulder. His body seemed to register what his mind didn't—that he could relax, because Sherlock was very much alive and very much home—but his brain was content to live in a dream where he could hold Sherlock tight and breathe him in but know that he wasn't real. "It doesn't matter, though. I think I'll keep you, if it's all the same to everyone else."

"You're damn right you will." Sherlock gulped. "You know, you're the only person in this whole world who means something to me. You're the only person I wasn't willing to give up."

"So why did you?"

"Oh, you know, the whole your-life-or-his mess. What do you think I would have done if you'd died?"

"More efficient casework?"

Sherlock smacked him over the head. "Don't be absurd. I would have died, too."

John pulled away, confused. "Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose…" Sherlock trailed off, finding the right words. He pulled his legs to his chest and thought. "I suppose I don't want to live in a world without a Watson. To me, at least, a world with you means a world with a little more good in it. Without you, the world is just…not good."

John raised his eyebrows. "Not good?"

"Not good."

"Vocabulary of an encyclopedia, and you choose the words 'not good'?" John returned the slap on the head. "You got dumb when you died."

"Unfortunate side effect. Neural pathways, you know. They're dead, too."

"Yep." John bit his lip. "How 'bout you, um, lie down?"

"Lie down?"

"Yeah, lie down. Y'know. I imagine dead people get frightfully tired."

"You're taking this ghost thing too far. I'm a figment of your imagination, I'm not dead in your brain."

John considered this. "You've got me there. Um, this sounds stupid, but…I'd feel more comfortable if you were lying down. With me. I mean. Um."

"John Watson. Use your words."

John facepalmed in embarrassment. "You know what I mean. It's just…if we're both lying down, I can keep an arm around you and make sure you don't run off."

Sherlock gave him his sexiest smile. "Is this what trying to make a move sounds like?"

"I'm not making a move!"

"Well, it is your dream. We're only bound by the parameters of your imagination." Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to sound nonchalant. "We could shag a great many times before you wake up."

John's face went involuntarily red. "N-no, that's not—I just want to know you're here, damn it, Sherlock, don't—never mind." John stretched out on his back, landing on his nest of pillows with a 'humph'.

Sherlock considered his friend, lying on his back, and inched forward until he was on the bed, too, with his back toward the ceiling. He folded his arms as a makeshift pillow beneath his head. "Watson."

"Hmm."

"Watson."

"Yeah, Sherlock, what is it?"

"I'm lying down."

John cracked open an eye. "So you are. It doesn't make this less awkward."

The men were silent for a few minutes before John begrudgingly swung an arm over Sherlock's shoulder, keeping him firmly in place.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"You're thinking about shagging now, aren't you?"

John grumbled again, blushing all the way to the tips of his ears, but he made no attempt to hide it. "Now that you've brought it up, of course I am. It's like telling me not to think about a pink elephant. I'll immediately start thinking about a pink elephant."

"Oh, that's easy. You just change the color or the animal. Pink otter. Purple elephant."

"So…what, I just think about you, but as a pink otter?" John laughed aloud, a relaxed sound that sent chills down Sherlock's spine.

"Sounds about right." Sherlock rubbed a few fingers down John's sleeve. "So…do you think about it a lot? In dreams?"

"You would know, wouldn't you?"

"Well." Sherlock was sure if he could blush, he would—he settled for a smile instead. "It's your dream."

John looked up, thinking about it and propping his head on his hand. "It's not that I haven't thought about it. With you. Just that I don't know how I feel about it. Not that it matters. You're dead."

"So I am." Sherlock tapped his chin, amused. "Have you really thought about it?"

John grumbled, using the hand that propped his head up massaged his right temple. "I suppose there's full disclosure in dreams, isn't there?"

"Only if you're comfortable."

John sighed and stretched on his back again, looking intently at the ceiling. Realizing he had no hold on Sherlock, he quickly grabbed the detective's hand and held it over the covers.

Sherlock smirked. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Doesn't matter. Doesn't stop me from trying to keep you here."

"I suppose it doesn't."

John blinked a few times. "It's not that I—huh. Not sure how to say it. I don't know how I feel about you. It's confusing. I'm not—"

"I know. You seem to be afraid of saying it. Do you see it as derogatory?

"No—come on, you know that's not it. You know my sister, she's…"

"You still can't say it. Are you embarrassed?"

"No." John sat straight up in bed, still holding Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked up at him, head still propped on his other arm, and raised his eyebrows.

John looked at the blanket on his lap and accentuated his speech by lightly bumping the blanket with their entwined hands. "I'm not—afraid to say it. I'm not gay. I've fancied women my whole life, I've just never felt more than that. Fancying them. I don't feel attracted to men. It's just…you."

Sherlock nodded once. "Go on. Please."

John sent his gaze skyward, about to mutter the second most difficult phrase he'd ever had to say in his life, the first being, 'My friend, Sherlock, is dead.' Clearing his throat, he said it quickly. "Ithiminovoo."

"What?"

"I think I'm…inliwioo."

"Speak the Queen's English, John."

"I think I'm…you know…oh, damn it all. I was in love with you."

Sherlock sat up. "Was?"

"You're dead."

"Was?"

"You can't love someone who's dead, now, can you?"

"…Was?"

John abruptly let go of Sherlock's hand and hugged his knees to his chest. "Fine, you git. I'm still in love with you. I don't know how it's possible, and I know you're gone, but I can't…get you out of my head. I love you. Now, sod off."

Sherlock looked down, feeling a little guilty at prompting John's confession. It didn't feel right; it made him feel worse. He'd already caused John so much pain, and now, just egging him on so he could hear him say what he knew now he'd been waiting to hear.

John seemed unsatisfied with the way he'd wrapped up the first confession of love in his life. Growling, he reached out for Sherlock's shoulder and put a steady hand on it, willing him to be patient. "Wait, let me start over. Please."

"Your dream, remember? I'm listening."

"I know. It started off as just being mates, I promise. I admired you so much—how could anyone not admire you? You're bloody brilliant. I don't know when things changed, but one day you were just Sherlock, and the next day, you were still just Sherlock…but somehow that meant everything. You meant…mean everything to me. I can't get a single annoying, irritating, distracting bit of you out of my head. And it's not…not a physical thing. Not that it's not—well, I mean, you're—blimey, look at you—I sound like an idiot."

Sherlock chuckled, sympathetic. "No, you don't."

"I mean, clearly you're very…you know, attractive."

"You do want to shag me."

"You're not making this easier."

"You're right, I'm sorry." Sherlock smiled again. "You know, you're the only person on Earth who can make me apologize."

"Doesn't count. I'm dreaming this," John continued. "I mean, while I do find you…attractive…that's not the first thing that made this happen. It's just you, all of you. I love all of you. You're…you're everything. All I think about. All the time. And I was happiest when I was with you. Even if you were alive, and we went back to just being flatmates and friends, that would be enough. Because I'd get to be around you." He looked around sheepishly. "That's it. I can't really explain it."

An awkward pause hung thick in the air, stifling John. He felt an acute sense of humiliation, despite talking to a ghost in a dream.

Sherlock let the confession sink in a little, ignoring the fact that his heart was singing. So what if it made him feel happy? At peace? Completely joyful and touched and triumphant? It didn't make this any easier.

He bit his lip, extremely frustrated. He had a problem with being happy. Here he was, sitting next to the only man he'd ever—only person he'd ever really—well. He was sitting next to John, who had just admitted to being in love with him, which Sherlock had known, of course. On some level. And Sherlock was happy. He was scared out of his wits, but he was happy.

But John was in love with a dead man. And he had a job to do, one that didn't involve a partner. And he had to keep John safe.

So what could he do?

Sherlock looked wistfully at the window. "I'll be gone in the morning."

"I know."

"I was never really here."

"I know that, too." John crossed his arms and looked up at Sherlock through his lashes. "I'm glad I got to do this, though. It felt good."

"It did for me, too." Sherlock swallowed quickly and changed to subject before John could ask why. "I thought you'd moved out. Thought this was all in boxes."

"I did move out. For about ten months. But…come on, Sherlock. It's 221B. This is our home, and even if it hurts, I'd rather have…focused amount of pain than letting it swallow me whole all the time."

The detective swallowed. "I understand."

"Thanks. So I moved back and I got your stuff out of storage. I know I can't leave it all out forever, but it made me feel better for the time being. I tried to put it all back where it used to be."

"You did a good job," Sherlock encouraged him. "Well, the books aren't in the right order. I'll fix them later."

"Great."

The men sat in uncomfortable silence again, made painful by both of them holding back out of fear of the other's reaction. Sherlock spoke first after several minutes.

"You dream about me."

"Sometimes. Never like this."

"But I'm always gone in the morning?"

"Always."

"Oh." He patted the doctor's hand awkwardly. "Sorry about that."

"Not your fault." John paused. "Listen, I'm sorry if that makes things weird between us—oh, what am I doing, I'm talking to a figment of my imagination, well done, Watson—anyway, I just wanted you to know that I care and I wouldn't have expected anything to come of it, because I know it's not how you feel, but—"

Sherlock silenced him by suddenly reaching forward, placing both hands around John's face, and pressing a quick but intense kiss to his lips before releasing a shell-shocked Watson.

John blinked, disoriented. "What the—"

"Sorry. Experiment." Sherlock scooted several feet away, focusing resolutely on the wall and trying not to flush with embarrassment.

"Experimenting on what, exactly?" John asked, touching his fingers gently to his just-kissed-mouth.

"Oh. You know. Normal, hormone-centric stuff. Seeing if it would feel as good as I'd imagined."

John was afraid to ask. "You've…?"

"Imagined us kissing? Don't be absurd. Of course I have. The dead can dream, too, you know."

"No, they can't. You've already experimented on that. Remember, the electrode probes on that one cadaver you convinced Molly to let you test?"

"How did I get her to do that?"

"You brought her coffee. She would have let you do anything." John smiled to himself. "You didn't pick up on it."

"I most certainly did. I just didn't reciprocate." Sherlock got quiet. "I can pick up on those things. I can reciprocate them, too, you know."

"Says the robot."

"You know that's not true. It's not…easy. But when has it ever been easy, for anyone? Especially someone…like me. But I am human, John. Apparently these things happen."

"I thought you saw it as a weakness. A distraction."

"Oh, it is. The worst kind there is. But according to my research, it is completely unpreventable and incurable."

John paused, biting his lip, and gently reached out for Sherlock. Placing one hand on his shoulder and the other around his ridiculously sharp cheekbone, John kissed him sweetly, trying to show Sherlock exactly how he felt, because he couldn't describe it adequately enough.

Hello.

I have missed you.

I think I may love you more than anything in the world.

You taste even better than I'd imagined. Is that possible?

Please feel everything I am trying to say.

Sherlock didn't respond right away, instead taking both of John's hands and holding them close to his chest. He broke the kiss with a sigh that John couldn't decipher—was it a happy sigh, or a disappointed one.

He slowly unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt, causing John to try and pull his hands away. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Just trust me." Sherlock stopped after two buttons and then tugged John's right hand underneath the silk, smoothing his hand over the skin over his collarbone. "Do you feel that?"

"Your heartbeat?"

"Elevated. 120 beats per minute, I'd say. Like a rabbit."

"Or a hummingbird." John pushed his hand a little further, aching to feel Sherlock's heart under his palm. "Wow."

"I assume my pupils are dilated, too. It's too dark to check. But then again, do we need to? The most important thing to test is one we can't ever quantify, unless we were able to measure the endorphins in my bloodstream every time I think about you, or see you."

"So…?"

"Use your brain, John. Use your beautiful, incredible mind. It's not exactly the mind of a Holmes…"

"Ahem."

"…but it's still a beautiful thing. The most amazing mind I know, the kind I could spend my life analyzing if I had the time. Use it."

John squinted, unbelieving. "You don't…it isn't possible that…you love me, too?"

"Take the signs you're seeing. Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be the truth. It's impossible that I'm reacting this way out of fear, because I'm not afraid of you. I've known you for too long now. My heart isn't fluttering like some absurd butterfly because of some fluke in my biology. What remains, John?"

John just kissed him again, more fervently, and this time Sherlock responded tentatively, unsure of what to do. He was gentle, letting John use his passion to mold his lips to his in foreign ways. Of all the things Sherlock had found useless to learn, kissing was something he wished he could go back and perfect, just for the sake of this moment.

"Overthinking it, Sherlock…" John smirked against mouth, tightening his grip over Sherlock's collarbone. "For once in your life, stop using your head…except for the mouth part."

Sherlock laughed into the kiss, trying his best to follow John's advice. This was alien, so strange to him. He assumed he was doing it wrong on principle, but he tried to open his mouth and catch John's lips with his own. "Like that?"

"You're doing fine."

"I don't want to do fine, I want to be extraordinary," he grumbled, pulling away for a minute.

John frowned. "You can't be good at everything on your first go…this isn't your first go, is it?"

"Don't be absurd. I've been kissed before."

John waited for an explanation.

"It was by a silly girl in Cambridge…when I was twelve."

John smiled lightly and stroked the hair around Sherlock's face. "This is my first time, too. With a man. It's surprisingly different in some ways."

"Different….bad?"

"No. I like it." He leaned his forehead in to touch Sherlock's. "And as far as I'm concerned, your kissing was extraordinary. But practice makes perfect."

Sherlock crashed his lips to John's, encouraged. The growl in the back of the doctor's throat gave the detective a bit of a clue that he liked what Sherlock was doing.

They continued to kiss, sitting up straight in the bed, making unexpected sounds of surprise and joy and desire while John would add words of encouragement to the quickly learning detective. They eventually both lay down on John's bed, tentative but blissful in their quick moments of passion.

After a while, Sherlock stopped, feeling embarrassed with himself for the first time in his life. For once, he felt a lack of knowledge and confidence, and he grasped in his mind for a foothold. All he knew were the mechanics of kissing, touching, having sex—and perhaps if he'd approached this obstacle for the sake of a case, he could have faked his way through.

But this was John. He couldn't afford to make a bad first impression, not for someone he—loved. Loved so deeply and so dearly. As much as he wanted to go forward, despite his hesitation and worry, John would wake up and think of this as a dream.

Smoothing John's blonde hair mid-kiss, he resolved to stop.

But then the good doctor's hands, shaking slightly with the same hesitancy and anxiety, pulled at more buttons on Sherlock's shirt and palmed the smooth skin underneath, intoxicated him, bewitching him into deeper kisses and more surrenders.

They continued until Sherlock finally did break away from the half-dressed doctor, breathing heavily and shoving hair out of his eyes. "Um." He cleared his throat. "Um."

" 'Um' isn't a word," John argued, pulling himself on top of Sherlock for a change of pace. Sherlock let out a guttural moan, trying to keep his mind in control. Difficult, considering everything going on below his waist. Some things down there had a mind of their own.

"Um…oh, John, that's—oh! Um, John, we need to…ahhhhhh…."

Sherlock was losing the ability to think. The blood just wasn't in his brain anymore, and he was really losing all of his reason. All that mattered was John's lips against his, causing sparks in his belly and fire in his fingertips…

"Leave the talking to me, Sherlock," John whispered urgently. "In fact, leave everything to me."

"S-stop."

"Am I hurting you?"

"N-no. Just, stop. Please. I need to think. And I need to, um, stop. Because this is important to me."

John posed, straddling Sherlock before he realized he looked a bit ridiculous. He laughed his way off and slid up next to the detective, panting with his shirt half off. "I'm done. I stopped. What is it?" He tugged a sleeve up Sherlock's arm. "Was it bad, or…?"

"Not in the least." Sherlock regained his composure, steepling his fingers. "John, I don't know how to tell you how much I enjoyed that. But I don't think we should do that anymore."

"Why?"

"Because you're dreaming and you're going to wake up with the biggest hard-on the world has ever known."

"You flatter yourself."

"Apologies. I'll try not to be so attractive next time." Sherlock sighed. "I really want this to be…important. For you. When we do this. But in the mean time, let's not spoil it in a dream."

"Where else can I have you?"

"Just trust me. Please." Sherlock sighed and pressed a tentative kiss to John's slightly disappointed lips. "I'm sorry, love."

"Love?"

"Oh, you know. You already know, you idiot. I love you, and that's why we should just go to sleep. So you don't have to wake up and realize it was all a dream."

"I was already going to wake up and deal with that. What's the harm in waking up a little happier?"

"Why are you the one pushing for sex?"

"It's…my dream."

Sherlock groaned. "Please go to sleep, John."

"Ugh, fine. Are you always right in my dreams, too?"

"Yes."

John slung his arms around Sherlock's neck. "Don't leave me. Not tonight. Not like you always do."

"Dreams all disappear in the morning."

"Find a way. Please find a way. If anyone can stay past the parameters of imagination, it's you. So find a way to stay with me. If you love me, stay."

"I can't."

"Please. I'm not going to be able to stand it in the morning. Not after this."

Sherlock automatically wrapped his arms around John's waist, burying his face into the doctor's shoulder. He couldn't stand causing the man pain after everything else he'd put him through. He'd been selfish. He'd wanted to see John so badly, and he'd gotten what he wanted and miles more. He'd gotten John to admit that he loved him, and he'd gotten his first real kiss, and he wasn't sure that this entire night wasn't a dream for him, too.

He'd gotten in too deep. He'd let himself go. And John was going to suffer because of it, because John was going to wake up alone.

John rubbed the back of Sherlock's neck. "Don't make me beg. You've been dead. Can you just stay for the morning?"

"How?"

"You're a smart man. Somehow break out of my imagination and come back to life."

"Go to sleep."

"Sherlock…"

"Please, John."

"Don't leave…"

"John."

"I…don't want to wake up…not without you."

"You're very emotional tonight."

"I know. Sorry."

"Don't be."

"I'm an idiot."

"Yes, you are. And I love you. It would be so boring to love someone as clever as me. So many mind games. Headaches."

But John was already asleep.

Sherlock refused to relax into John, even if a small part of him wanted to. Now was the time for rationale. It was 1 in the morning, and in six hours, John Watson would wake up from a truly beautiful night, only to think that he'd made it all up.

That it wasn't real.

He couldn't stand that he was the person that continually caused John pain. It was despicable that he was the one to keep doing this to the one person in the world that he loved.

See? He already transitioned to the l-word. Earlier that day, he hadn't even been able to form the word in his mind.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand—John, wrapped around his form in a heavy sleep, would wake up disappointed. Alone.

And it was his fault.

It was morning.

It was morning, and John Watson knew he didn't want to wake up. The sheets felt heavy around his waist, thick with hazy memories of deep kisses and surprises and talking with his best friend again.

Memories of being annoyed with his best friend because he was an irritating sod. Memories of admitting what he'd never been able to say when his irritating sod was alive. Memories of…a lot.

He heard the kettle whistling in the kitchen, and he jammed his eyes shut to keep out reality for just a second longer, because when he opened his eyes, everything would vanish. For one second more, he clung to the barely-there scent of Sherlock's hair on his pillow, then rolled himself off his bed and straightened himself up for another day. Mrs. Hudson must have put tea on for him.

He followed his morning routine, going to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, putting on his dressing gown. It all seemed so useless, so tedious and idiotic.

"Mrs. Hudson," he called from the bathroom, "you don't need to worry about me. I can make myself the tea."

No answer from the kitchen, just the sound of the toaster popping. "Shit," a male voice whispered from the kitchen, a voice John recognized immediately, but couldn't place…couldn't believe…

John trudged into the little kitchenette, toothbrush still in hand, and saw a sight he never, in a million years, could believe.

"I stayed for breakfast." Sherlock wrung his hands, nervously presenting John with a plate of burnt toast and a cup of hot tea. "In fact, I made it this time. Maybe not Mrs. Hudson's Sunday brunch, but…I made it for you."

John stuttered and choked, dropping his toothbrush on the floor. "Sh-Sher—I—what—"

"I stayed, John. But now I have to go. But I had to stay…to prove to you. To be here for you in the morning, like you need."

"I can't—Sherl—She—Sh—"

"I have to go now," Sherlock said, very choked up but trying desperately to hide it. "I won't be long. Your imagination is big enough for the both of us until I come back. And I will come back."

"Sherlo—Sh—wha—" John tripped backward, trembling beyond belief. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be real. He'd seen him jump, he'd seen his body, he'd seen him dead. He was hallucinating. This wasn't real.

"Words, John." Sherlock walked right up to the doctor, placing both hands on his shoulders to steady him, and pressed a swift kiss to his lips. "Try and learn to use them by the time I return."

He kissed him once more on the forehead, feeling a hot tear slip, out of sight, down his face, and then he walked out of the apartment without looking back.

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!