Flying over London, gusting over Regent's Park, Scotland Yard, the scummy building that he's sure is a crime scene and he wants to go inside and look, not at the dead bodies – because there would have to be dead bodies – but at the man who couldn't avoid a crime scene, who sated himself on dilemmas. Black billows beside him, a fleeting thought of trench coats whips into his mind but no, instead when he looks he is greeted by spread wings, beady black eyes peering steadily at him over a curved beak.
Geography has crumbled, or maybe it got knocked down and put back together wrong because where the Thames should be there's a parched golden desert instead, and there are children building monumental sandcastles that the wind keeps gusting down, and there's bird's nest hair dashing along – but a closer look and it's just dark tumbleweed caught up in the destructive forces tearing apart granular masterpieces.
The wind is cold. It shouldn't be of course, not in the desert, but it is. And now the children are bored of sand, they are staring up with guns in their micro-hands. He's wondering vaguely if they can even stretch their fingers to meet the triggers when fat pellets zoom by, bad aim but so many it's no miracle that he is clipped and burnt gold rushes at his face, but then because it's cold the gold burns to white, hard-packed snow, and what is that twisting and writhing – a scarf? But no, it is a snake emerging from dead skin, dark and shiny and larger-than-life, jaw unhinged to swallow him down.
There's hissing, then, that he can hear and feel slicing under his skin; just that unbroken noise and darkness… no geography now, however skewed. He's lost, utterly lost, and the hissing is getting louder, coming to a crescendo, no longer a hiss but a whistle, a scream…
And then John found himself, bolted upright in bed. Because the hissing, whistling, screaming noise was not a snake's predatory warning but a kettle, running much longer than it should and shouting with the effort of maintaining such heat. And that was wrong, because John was the only one who made tea. If Mrs. Hudson does it, she always does it down at her own flat, then piles two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits on a tray and gives a tentative "yoo-hoo" in the doorway. Then they settle down to watch old talk shows and avoid discussing the absence that they're both always thinking about.
It couldn't have been Mrs. Hudson, anyways, because after John had assured her that he could manage on his own for a weekend, she had left to see her sister, who was ill. And so, because he was supposed to be utterly alone, and because he was certain he had locked the flat up last night, he pulled his pistol out of the bedside table before pushing the covers back and walking slowly out his room and down the stairs, skipping the one that creaked. The whistling petered off as his foot left the last step, and John tightened his hold on the gun as he silently rounded the corner, into the living room, then paused, head cocked. He heard a cupboard opening, glasses clinking – what kind of thief ransacks a kitchen, and makes tea in the meantime?
John's heart was pumping fast, partially a lingering reaction to his nightmare, but mostly due to a flavor of excitement and danger that he hadn't tasted in ages.The gun was steady in front of him as he stepped into the kitchen.
And the gun promptly clattered to the floor. Because what John saw defied his sense of logic entirely: the long lines of a familiar body leaning against the counter, two dark mugs gripped in white fingers. John's eyes shot up to cheekbones, clean, not bloodied like they had been the last time he saw them, and much sharper; lightning storm eyes stared calmly back. His wild bird's nest hair was different, too; it was a bit longer, just enough that it was noticeable. But it was impossible, all of this was impossible, because John could remember seeing the man's bloody and crumpled body on the concrete, and even in the time before that, in the months that they had lived together, he had never seen the man brew a cup of tea.
John clenched his fists, the tremor working its way back into his left hand, and he shut his eyes tight and let out a shuddering breath. He was still dreaming. For a solid week he hadn't dreamt of Sherlock - not concretely – and, at first, he had been pleased and had thought that maybe it meant he was moving on. After three years he was finally moving on. Two days into the week, he kept waking up with a tight chest; a crippling sadness overtaking him, simply because he had grown accustomed to seeing his friend in his sleep.
"You're awake."
John squeezed his eyes tighter and stood completely still as the familiar baritone vibrated into his eardrums. Dream-Sherlock hardly ever spoke, and never with this vivid a voice. Not like this; silk tearing in the air.
"John." He felt a hot breath against his ear…hot air, desert air; yes, he was still dreaming. If he opened his eyes the sand would be back, and they would both sink under. But he wanted to see, so he turned his head, blindly, then cracked his eyes open. And there he was: still, close, sharp, crisp lines with no hazy edges, wreathed by early morning light. If it wasn't so impossible, John could almost believe it was real.
The curl adorned head pulled back and a mug was thrust under John's nose. "Tea," the voice rumbled, and it was strange, because that right there, that was what John did; when he could offer up nothing else but a steaming mug of Earl Grey in the hopes of soothing Sherlock's frustration during an impossible case, when he hoped to melt one of Sherlock's icy black moods with steaming dark liquid; when tea was all that was feasible - the only solution.
The sight of it staggered him.
"You're in my kitchen."
"Our kitchen, John."
"But you're dead."
"All observable fact indicates otherwise."
"I'm still dreaming. Your scarf is going to turn into a snake and poison me, just as it always does."
"John." Sherlock reached out and seized John's shaking left hand, uncurled the fingers and wrapped them around the mug. "Drink it. I think you're experiencing mild shock." But John had darted out his other hand and caught Sherlock's fingers before they could slither away. They were bony, slender and firm against the palm of John's hand. When Sherlock didn't pull them away, John took a shaky sip of tea and found it perfectly done up, just the right glug of milk and only half a teaspoon of sugar.
The tiled floor still hadn't turned to sand, the birds were chattering happily outside the window, and he could hear children shrieking somewhere. There was no bullet spray, though, and the scarf cinched around Sherlock's neck stayed still. It never sprouted fangs and swallowed him whole.
John's possibly premature conclusion: this was real. Sherlock was real. Sherlock was standing in his kitchen, forcing milky tea on him as if it was the most normal thing to do after being deadfor three years.
John couldn't quite think of what to say, so for a while he sipped at his perfectly made tea. He got halfway through with it before he could speak again.
"You'd better have a damn good apology. I can guess what your excuse is, but Jesus, Sherlock, you could have called me. Texted me. Done something to let me know you were alive." John was breathing evenly through his nose, staring fixedly at the cup clenched in his hand.
"You've already accepted my apology." Sherlock gestured – freeing his hand from John's – towards the mug. John's eyes widened.
"You thought you could come back and fix it all with – with tea?"
"I-"
"Shut up, you idiot! You idiot!" He pulled his hand back, ready to let it swing forwards and make contact full-force, so he was surprised when instead it brushed open-palmed against Sherlock's cheek, then rested there. "Christ, you're not that stupid. I must still be dreaming."
"I thought I already cleared that up."
"Shut up," John insisted.
He let his thumb drift over Sherlock's cheekbone, into the dark curve beneath his eye. The thin skin felt real, warmed by the blood rushing underneath; the bones were hard. He ghosted his fingertips over Sherlock's smooth forehead, just at his hairline, then sloped them down his nose and rested them just above his lip, feeling the heat from Sherlock's measured breathing billowing over his knuckles. John had moved unconsciously closer, close enough that he could see the bits of brown floating in Sherlock's bright eyes, the mug now pressed gently between them.
"You've been dreaming about me?" Sherlock asked quietly, eyes pensive, brow wrinkling gently.
John tapped his fingers down against his lips, silencing him. He rolled the tips over the plush softness and they parted, breath saturating his fingers with moisture. He let his fingers glide from the corner of Sherlock's mouth to his jaw, then pressed them down along his throat until a pulse beat against them, a bit quicker than normal. He dropped his hand to Sherlock's shoulder and left it there.
"It is you, then."
"Yes."
"You know, I really ought to hit you. You're lucky that you made some damn good tea."
"I know," Sherlock said smugly.
"I probably will hit you after you give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack," John warned, sliding his feet forward a little bit, pressing the mug even tighter between their chests. "But I can't say I'm not glad to see you."
"You dream about me?" Sherlock repeated, head tipped forward, one curl falling loose and brushing over John's forehead when he looked up.
John breathed out slowly. "All the time."
"What am I like?"
"Never as good as this. Never as good – as real as this."
Sherlock's eyes brightened. "I'm good?"
John grinned wryly. "As good as this tea."
One of Sherlock's hands snaked over John's around the mug and raised it until it bumped his chin.
"Finish it," Sherlock breathed, still holding on as John tipped the mug against his lips and drained it, then he removed it from John's hand and set it on the counter behind them.
"There. Apology fully and totally accepted," John said, grin still in place on his lips. He was still grinning when Sherlock's mouth dropped down onto his.
The grin disintegrated into a gasp when Sherlock's tongue darted to the corners of his lips and then traced along the crease between them. He had dreamt of this a handful of times. And that, also, was not even close to as good as the real thing.
Sherlock pulled back an inch, licked his own lips. "I'm as good as the tea," he said thoughtfully, then darted forward and sucked John's bottom lip for a split second. "As good as the best tea that's ever been brewed."
"Bit full of yourself," John rasped, curling his hand into Sherlock's hair. "But yes. As good as that." And he pulled Sherlock back down and kissed him properly on his very real lips, sucked gently on his very real tongue and drank in his very soft, very real noises.
John broke away some time later, long enough to gasp out a repeated warning. "I'm still hitting you. Later."
"You would hit a good man?"
"Enough with that," John chided, "I was lying. It was the crummiest tea I've ever tasted."
Sherlock leaned back in and grinned against John's lips. "I beg to differ." And he slipped his tongue back into John's mouth.
John didn't fly in his dreams that night. He didn't see snakes or deserts. Instead he dreamt of milky apologies shared between mugs and lips, apologies that really shouldn't make up for three years of loss but, well, what was he to do in the face of an excellent cup of tea?