A/N: Written for this prompt: tl;dr? After a dream about Victorian Holmes/Watson, John realises how lucky he and Sherlock are and kisses Sherlock in front of half of Scotland Yard, if only to prove that they won't be arrested this time around. Previously posted on the meme. Also, totally unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with Sherlock, unfortunately :(
The room is dark, and different somehow, but Sherlock is still warm on his chest and so John doesn't worry too much. It's hard to worry about anything with Sherlock draped across him. "You were remarkable today," he says into the detective's hair, and he feels Sherlock smile into his chest. Sherlock shifts slightly, so he's leant up on one elbow. "You say that each time I solve a case, my dear Watson," he smiles, as sharp and beautiful as ever, and winds one of their hands together. "I will start to suspect you quite biased if you do not cease." Something is odd here, something in the shape of Sherlock's nose, and the way his hair lies, dark as ever, but flat against his skull. His face seems... off, this whole situation does, but that smile is Sherlock's, as is the teasing in his voice, so John only smiles back. "Perhaps it could be said I am biased," he admits against Sherlock's lips, and enjoys the feeling of his moustache brushing against the skin. Different again, but somehow not. Somehow right. Sherlock gasps against his lips, mocking. "The great Doctor Watson, leant in my favour. What would your loyal readership say if they knew?" John moves to push Sherlock down, one hand on his shoulder, so he's braced on top of this wonderful, wonderful man. "If they had met you at all, Holmes," he says, and then leans down to steal a kiss, "I imagine they would be unsurprised." Sherlock laughs, and it makes his dark, dark eyes light up. John can do nothing else but kiss him, again and again, until the lamp burns out, and the sounds of London mingle with their breaths in this room, their room.
John blinks himself awake, looks up at his ceiling, and feels Sherlock's curly hair tickling his nose. It had been a dream, then, about him and Sherlock except... different, looking different but still together, and he can't explain why he feels as though someone has taken his heart into their hand and squeezed it, tight. Why he feels slightly... hollow, as though something is very, very wrong.
"John?" Sherlock mumbles into his chest, and John realises he is squeezing his lover much tighter than is usual. He loosens his grip and Sherlock sits up, pale eyes already clear of sleep. The familiar sight settles something in his chest, but not everything. Something is still off. "What's wrong?"
John shrugs, and frees one hand from the duvet, runs it through Sherlock's messy hair, made so much worse by sleeping on it. Sherlock's eyes go half-lidded, but no less sharp, and John knows he's going to keep asking John to explain something he doesn't think he can, and then he's saved by the beep of Sherlock's phone. Sherlock's eyes flick to the phone and then back, and John warms at the question he sees in those eyes.
"Go on then," he says with a sigh, but he can't stop his smile. "See what Lestrade wants now, but we aren't leaving without breakfast."
Sherlock smiles back, brilliant, and then leaps out of bed, phone already in his hand. "No toast for me," he calls over his shoulder, and John rolls his eyes as he gets out of bed.
The odd, twisting feeling hasn't left his chest all day, and John can't put his finger on what exactly is making him feel that way. He turns his attention instead to watching Sherlock flit around the crime scene, like a frantic, morbid butterfly.
It's usually thrilling, to watch Sherlock walk around and know that no-one knows the truth about their relationship. To know that what they have is hidden and secret, that as much as people think they know about John and Sherlock they don't know this. They don't know that Sherlock presses him against wall outside crime scenes, reciting deductions into his ear, jerking him off slowly. They don't know about the long nights in bed, with no sleep, and the warm, fuzzy mornings, when Sherlock can be convinced to lie still and content on the sofa, eyes closed as John gets to play with that tempting hair.
They keep it a secret because it's none of anyone else's business, really, and there is something thrilling about keeping a secret like this underneath their noses. And they're doing remarkably well, because not a single person knows.
No-one knows. John blinks and he's back there, in that bed he dreamt about, that other Sherlock wrapped around him, and they're touching so much, pressing so close, because this is the only place they can. Because it's not allowed, this affection between them, it's something illegal and wrong, and he can't breathe, suddenly, at the thought of living like that. At having to.
"John?" he hears his name as though from far away, and he opens his eyes to find Sherlock looking at him, face close and curious. He has one hand lifted as though he wants to touch John's shoulder, but he hasn't, of course not, because as far as anyone here knows, all they are is flatmates. Well, screw that.
"John?" Sherlock asks again, eyes worried, and John replies by grabbing both of Sherlock's lapels and dragging him down for a kiss.
Sherlock makes a surprised noise against his lips and John swallows it, licks into Sherlock's mouth until he relaxes, warm hands gripping John's hips tightly as they kiss. He lets one hand slide through Sherlock's hair, and the other stays around his neck, feels Sherlock pulse racing. He pulls back and then gives Sherlock one peck, two, and then moves so their foreheads are pressed together.
"What was that for?" Sherlock asks, voice less than steady, and the fact that he can do that to Sherlock sends a thrill through him every time.
John smiles up at him. He can hear Anderson moaning about having to watch that, and Donovan complaining about having seen the freak's tongue, and Lestrade is asking them all to pay up, but he can handle all of that because he's allowed to do this, to show the word how he feels about Sherlock. He doesn't need to hide this away in their flat, think up excuses to touch the man he loves, and suddenly that's the best feeling in the world. "Just felt like it," he replies, and something settles in his chest for good when Sherlock just squeezes his hips lightly and then steps back.
"After the crime scene," Sherlock says over his shoulder as he bends back to the body, and John smiles at the promise in those words.