Chapter 1

John was dreaming.

He knew he was dreaming because he was sat on a bed, but also on the other side of the room, watching himself; that odd, out-of-body-experience kind of thing that only happens in strange dreams. He also knew he was dreaming because sat next to him on the bed was Sherlock, and they were kissing.

Real-John watched, his jaw hanging slack somewhere near the floor, as the dark-haired man pushed Dream-John back against the bed, a small, triumphant smirk pulling on his bright, lush lips as he brought them in close to his ear, whispering something in low and husky tones that, although the dreaming man couldn't hear, made him moan with no restraint.

And then there was pressure. Only something soft, but definitely there, something that felt very much like a warm hand on his stomach, the sensation breaking through his subconscious and dripping down into his dream. Breathless, obviously-aroused and almost comically flushed from head to toe, Dream-John was already naked by this point and, of course, as he looked down, now so was Real-John; his length already hot, hard and aching against between his thighs, begging for attention. The ghost-pressure rubbed soft, soothing circles across his stomach for a moment, leaving a pleasant trail of warmth in its wake, before finallydipping down below his waistline and gripping him gently, almost inquisitively. Something - probably a thumb - trailed gently across the over-sensitive skin and his eyes fluttered, not quite closing, his dream making sure he could see crystal-clear as Sherlock, whose eyes seemed to be burning with some kind of hot, intense mischief, began to slowly push inside his dream-twin, whispering to him again. This time, the position of the words didn't quite seem to match the movements of his mouth, and John found soft breath tickling behind his ear as words made themselves known in that same familiar baritone that was constantly sending shivers down his spine, even though it was laced with groggy sleepiness.

"We'll speak about this in the morning…"

Looking at it now that was a life-time ago for John, back when they were still in Cyrodiil, a different life altogether almost…

Perhaps the beginning might be good place to start.

John Watson was a Nord through and through. Born in Solitude just after the end of the civil war, he had joined the Imperial Legion the day the turned eighteen - well, sixteen, but the Legion didn't need to know that - and had helped on the 'tidying up' side of things, capturing any of the small enemy settlements that were still dotted in the wilderness and clearing out the ruins of old forts to be used as defensive vantage points across the country. He was perfectly happy there, knowing he was fighting for the Empire, to protect his land, and he very quickly became a well-respected.
That was until he took an arrow to the shoulder, two days shy of his thirty-first birthday, while out on a patrol through the Skyrim tundra. An enchanted arrow.

It came from a necromancer - disgusting, twisted people - and John guessed it must have been some kind of paralysis enchantment because, even after the wound was cleaned and the arrow removed, his left hand shook profusely and, for the first few months, he couldn't walk without a stick. No-one seemed to have a cure, no-one accept Sherlock Holmes of course, but he and his enchantments happen later. Before Sherlock, it did get manage to get a little bit better, he could walk unaided - mind, he still did have a very obvious limp - after about two months, and could soon hold a sword again. Skip forward another six months and he was hiring himself out as a sell-sword, travelling all across the continent, from the forests of Valenwood to the shores of Morrowind, to feel the warmth of a bottle of mead in his stomach and hear the soft jingle of coin in his pocket.

It was during a job closer to home, over in the small town that was the remains of Winterhold, it's imposing college looming high above everything with the piercing gaze of a hawk, did he finally meet the insufferable, arrogant elf that was about to become so much a part of his life, he would one day scarcely be able to breathe without him there, Sherlock Holmes.

The 'scarcely being able to breathe' bit didn't actually come for a long while, until they were almost finished their journey from the college with supplies to sell down in the Imperial City in fact. They were already in Bruma by the time the 'Dream Incident' finally happened. John hated to call it that. An 'incident', as though it were some sort of mistake with embarrassing consequences, but Sherlock - who was always so precise in the way he categorized things - liked to call it that, so the name stuck. Either way, the inevitable event itself took a long time to come about, and John was ultimately glad it happened the way it did because, although he had been lusting after his employer like a bitch in heat since the man had given him one small glance and laid his entire life story out in front of him, as though reading points from a map of the Empire, he never would have had the guts to tell him, and in the end, coin would have been exchanged, hands shaken, and they would both have gone their separate ways, never knowing how empty their lives were without the other; the broken soldier and the genius Mage, a man so brilliant, surely he should out-live the stars.

Sherlock, on reaching the Imperial City and being able to collect the correct equipment also finally told John he could in fact heal his leg with a spell and accompanying tonic - "Why didn't you tell me that before?!" 'I didn't think you'd be staying around all that long. You weren't important at the time.' "You won't be staying around for long either if you're not careful…" - and set about making it the very next day.
Once they were both ready, John took the tonic and let Sherlock recite the spell, before taking his new lover's hand and guiding him up to the private guest's quarters to bed him properly for the first time.
Laying there in warm, post-orgasmic bliss hours later, his beautiful elf snoring softly next to him under the soft, silken covers, John, for the first time in his life, realized his was well and truly happy, and extremely excited for the wonderful, peaceful life he and Sherlock would share together.

Or so he though…

AN:

So, hi guys. I'm posting on here again. Yeah. Wow. If you see any mistakes (I'm crap at proof-reading, I'm sorry) just tell me.

Also… I'm going to promise slash.
I am. I swear. *She says, trying to hide the fact she is actually a huge pussy when it comes to posting slash*

So anyway, sorry if this was a little short, it was only an intro to get the backstory down. I think I'll be going from Skyrim to Cyrodiil during the duration of the fic… Not sure how I'm going to do that with how I have it planned out but hey, you live and learn!

Hope you enjoyed x