Bubbles streaming.

'HELP ME!'

Chlorine stinging his chest. Everywhere…water…drowning…breathe.

Breathe John.

Breathe.

John awoke, chest heaving loudly up and down like a weary machine. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before professing a silent groan. He hadn't even bothered side-glancing and looking at what time it was for he knew that it was a useless effort. Whatever the time was, it was definitely not the time for an exhausted man to be waking up. But, it wasn't like he could help it. No, it was almost…unavoidable.

The recurring dream had not receded, just as he had feared. Every night or so, he would be awoken by the same feeling of sinking. And he would wake up, drenched in sweat and breathing like he had not in a while.

And just like every morning, he could never get back to sleep. For, the dream itself had mentally drained him. Now, he wasn't even sleepy.

6:21 am.

Closing his eyes peacefully for a moment, John then sat up in bed and sighed. He rubbed his eyes and then stood up, slipping into his carpet slippers. He had might as well go downstairs since he wasn't going to fall back to sleep – no matter, how much he'd try.

Wearily, the man began to descend.

"You're still having nightmares, aren't you John…"

John stirred his cup of coffee habitually as his eyes wandered over to his roommate who sat smugly in the living room, obviously pretending to read the newspaper. John knew this because Sherlock had seemingly been reading the same story for about half an hour. He was no genius but…no story could be that interesting.

He took a quick sip of the drink, "No," John denied, feeling the caffeine immediately relax him, "Why would you think that?"

He wasn't sure why he was denying it. Sherlock was obviously not going to buy the lie anyhow. But, John was trying to mask his evident sleepiness. He even posed a smile.

When Sherlock saw this, he just arched a brow,

"You've drank about three mugs of coffee. I'm not one to judge, but, that's an unusually large amount of caffeine dosage for someone who slept well."

John blinked, glancing at his mug. Sod, He muttered in his head, I have drunk three…haven't I? Well…so much for the cut-down…

"Fine." He answered, breathing loudly in defeat as Sherlock returned to surveying the newspaper, "I am still having…nightmares. But, I didn't have one tonight. I did sleep well." The lie slipped out like a natural breath. John took another sip, fingers drumming on the worktop in an innocent manner.

There was a brief silence as Sherlock placed the paper beside him and crossed his arms.

"Fine…Now, raise your left hand."

John blinked as the question was passed,

"Excuse me?"

"Raise your left hand now!"

John found himself raising a hand but panicked as he realized he had raised his right. He instantly replaced it, hoping Sherlock hadn't spotted the mistake.

But of course, that was unlikely.

"See," Sherlock chimed, passing him a knowing nod, "Your reaction time has deteriorated considerably. Not knowing your right and left! Appalling! Do you not think I want to know about your nightly disturbances?"

The other man just sighed, knowing he had lost. As he had with every argument they've ever engaged in. "It's nothing serious," John muttered, "Just…don't like swimming pools now, that's all."

Sherlock leaned back on the couch comfortably,

"Alright, if you'd rather, you could stay behind on the next case to rest. I don't want your health to be a concern."

John looked at the other man curiously. He then smiled, "Oh shut up, Sherlock. You know you'd hate that."

"No," Sherlock said with a light scoff, "I know you would. Besides, I'm sure the lack of sleep wouldn't pose such a threat to you. I mean, look at me! I seldom sleep the full amount recommended and I'm perfectly fine!"

The other man just stared placidly,

"Perfectly fine, right." John repeated with a swift eye-roll, "I don't know how you do it. Really. I don't think I'll ever know. Do you put stuff in your tea or something?"

It was Sherlock's turn to roll grey eyes.

"Tea? Don't be daft," Sherlock responded incredulously, "I'm more creative than that!" He nodded, "Besides, tea is disgusting."

John's jaw dropped, "You like tea!"

"Not anymore," Sherlock said lifting his finger in a studious manner, "I crave…vanilla. Vanilla…ice cream." He nodded, "John, I would like some vanilla ice cream."

There was a moment of silence as John composed himself. Of course, Sherlock's unendurable cravings. He always ended up buying stuff for him. But not this time! Definitely not. He looked like a zombie. He didn't need the whole world to see that.

"Okay, Sherlock. Let me just get it from this imaginary ice cream factory right behind me."

John acted out a short sequence of opening an imaginary door while Sherlock watched, rolling his eyes smugly.

"Oh…look, we're all out vanilla! Shame. Sorry Sherlock, you're just going to have to buy it yourself."

He was rather proud of that. Sherlock was looking less impressed.

John frowned, "Come on, Sherlock. The shops are not that far. Just get some. Are you afraid of the till or something?"

Sherlock still didn't answer and just stared, emotionlessly at him.

"Oh no," John warned closing his eyes, aware of this technique and its unmistakable powers, "That's not going to work! I am not going to get you your bloody vanilla ice cream!"

Wow, vanilla ice cream was damn expensive nowadays.

John shivered in the cold as he slipped the key and opened the door. He glanced at the shopping bag he was carrying. "This damn vanilla better be nice," He muttered, knowing very well he was probably never going to get a taste of it…or, get all of it. He could never tell. If Sherlock still had the craving now, he would devour it without John ever really seeing how…and if the craving had receded, the vanilla ice cream would be left to John to sickly swallow every last slurp.

As he was stepping inside, John paused as he heard a voice from behind him,

"Excuse me."

He turned, frowning, hoping it wasn't another tourist asking for directions. When his eyes did fall upon the person though, John found himself almost unable to answer back. For, the person was a woman.

And she was gorgeous.

In fact, he was sure that was an understatement as he found himself transforming into a small, fumbling idiot. She was so good-looking to John that…he actually felt self-conscious talking to her.

"Uh – hi…" Definite fail, John decided. But, he found himself unable to stop looking at the red haired woman in front of him.

Her hair was long, wavy and cascaded down her shoulders effortlessly. She wore a long, black, evidently designer coat that was so dark, it made her features striking. Her face was slightly bronze yet not natural and her eyes were large and green. She was smiling at him, red lips and all. Her body. Sod it. It was fine. Her eyes were the best part though. Green – inviting, seductive and so…John's favourite colour.

Probably thought he was a damn fool. Oh, but as long as she stood there. John was so allured by her that he almost forgot that she was replying.

"Hello," She swayed a little, grinning. John began to scratch his head, hoping that she hadn't noticed him ogling her. Yet, she would have to be blind not to. He supposed that she must've been used to it. He couldn't imagine being the only man who she had knocked speechless. Sod.

"Hi," She continued again, "I was…wondering if, a Sherlock Holmes lived here?"

John's grumbly composure melted for a moment as he stomached the name,

"Sh – Sherlock?" He watched her nod gracefully, "Um…yes, he lives here."

"Oh, well!" The woman chirped brightly as she took out an envelope from her coat pocket and handed it to him, "Please, may you pass this to him when you can?"

"Sure." John said, falling back into his moony façade, "Thanks."

He took it, not even giving it a second glance.

John stared at her for a moment before realizing that this was the part where he says bye.

"Oh – oh," He blinked, grinning awkwardly as she laughed, doing the little sway thing with her coat that he had completely fallen in love with after two minutes, "Um…bye then, thanks…I'll be sure to give it to him."

"Be very sure," She responded with a light giggle, "I'll see you around…what's your name?"

"John Watson," John blurted, realizing now that she was American. God. He had completely disregarded this obvious trait since he was too busy focusing on her looks. He was finding it quite hard to think now actually.

Sarah was not going to be pleased.

"Nice to meet you, John Watson." She passed him a sly wink as she pivoted and began to pave down the sidewalk.

John watched her leave, holding the envelope. He then came back inside the house and looked in the hallway mirror, hoping he didn't look as much of an arse as he first assumed.

Ah, well. He sort of did. But, good god. Thank goodness for Sherlock's vanilla craving.

John came inside, very quietly closing the door, hoping that Sherlock wasn't –

"Who were you talking to?"

Sherlock was descending from upstairs, just as John was performing the silent entrance. He looked up, looking absolutely guilty, inside and out.

The other man just arched a brow, putting his hands up in mock defence,

"Okay, sorry to disturb your espionage. But, the bag that you're holding is soaked. It means that the ice cream is melting. I'm thinking it's been in relapse for about thirty minutes. You've been in the house for fifteen. So, what was keeping you down?"

John just blinked, moving in and deciding to put away the ice cream first before mindlessly drabbling about the beautiful girl who talked to him outside.

Sherlock however, was not pleased by the silence. He followed John into the kitchen, who was evidently ignoring him.

It was here that he noticed that John was carrying something else, in the other hand.

"And, what is this?"

He swiped the item with a quick gesture. John turned, opening his mouth before closing it again,

"Oh, it's yours. She gave it to me."

Of course, it wasn't just a she. It was her. Conjuring her image in his head would probably be enough to make him flushed again and so, John avoided it. He distracted himself by watching Sherlock survey the envelope.

The reaction was not pleasing.

"Who gave it to you, John?"

"Her, I told you. The one I was talking to outside."

"No! Be more specific. Did you not get a name?"

John blinked, unsure what the fuss was constructing to. He thought of the question and realized that he hadn't actually…asked her.

"I didn't ask her."

"What? Did you tell her yours?"

"Yes."

Sherlock looked furious. "You never give your name to a stranger!" He was crumpling the envelope a little. John looked innocently at the corroding paper,

"Aren't you going to open it?"

John was given a, 'You just don't get it' look. "Oh come on, Sherlock. What is it? Who is she?"

The other man stared at the other for a few seconds before entering the living room. John obediently followed and watched as Sherlock sat down and elegantly opened the envelope with a small knife.

"Describe her to me," Sherlock muttered, grey eyes flashing, "Go."

"Um, she was –" Beautiful. John wasn't sure if that word was cheesy or not and so, decided not to use it. "Green-eyed. Tall. Red haired –"

"Red-haired?"

"Yes," John nodded. Sherlock bit his lip, pausing the letter opening ceremony for a moment.

"Must be the trend in prisons."

John's eyes widened just as he heard Sherlock utter the sentence. "Prison? Her? No, way."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes at him, wordless. He lifted the letter to his nose and seemed to…inhale it. John just watched this, confused. The reaction afterwards was a grim look. John was sure that the letter was too small to be a place to put a bomb. If there was a bomb in there, the woman would not only be beautiful…but also smart.

How, perfect was she sounding?

"Oh…oh, John. This is not good." Sherlock finally said, scanning the small piece of paper. John inclined his head to see, but was unable to.

"Please, Sherlock, tell me who she is," John pleaded.

Sherlock however was mumbling and not listening to a word he said. "Not good…" He muttered beneath earshot, "Definitely."

"She was pretty." John stated. This seemed to catch Sherlock's attention as the man's head turned, snapping like a large twig.

"Don't think about her, John." Sherlock snarled. At first, John saw the eyes of a jealous lover, but then saw that it was more of a warning look, rather than a threatened one. John felt his insides twist in confusion.

Sherlock seemed mopy. John considered leaving him for a few seconds.

It confused him. Sherlock's reaction to this letter was not normal. For, when Sherlock got a letter, he would normally bin it right away. Most letters were bills anyway. Sherlock had emails, but he supposed his inbox would be filled with people begging him to take their cases.

Heaving a calm breath, John blinked when he realized that the letter had been placed on the coffee table.

Sherlock was leaning back on the couch, head up, looking dormant.

And so, John sneaked a quick view.

And there, in the middle of the piece of paper, in perfect cursive writing were the following three words:

I'm home, Sweetheart

John stared at the words for more than he would've thought. Sherlock had resumed composure by the time that he stopped gawking.

"Have you ever seen such horrific words on paper, John?" Sherlock asked him offhandedly, seemingly better than he had been a few minutes prior.

"I – I don't know…what to say," John choked out, passing Sherlock a deep look, "Are – is she your – " He blinked to conclude the sentence.

Sherlock caught the drift and scoffed,

"Oh, no. Definitely not. Well…"

John gasped at the revelation. "You – how could you? Her?"

He wasn't sure why he was sounding so shocking. Perhaps, it was because he just didn't think Sherlock was that guy. He didn't think the bloke liked women. Or at least, beautiful women like that stranger. He just thought work was consuming. Sherlock barely had time to eat let alone…charm women like that.

"I'm afraid, John." Sherlock affirmed at John's completely slack jaw.

"W – Why? She's – Huh?" John scowled loudly, "Stop with the cryptic gumbo – who is she?"

The detective was silenced for a moment as he let John calm down.

He did. Eventually calm down. John took a breath and he was fine. But, after glancing at Sherlock's face, he knew he was going to be even more cryptic than before.

"I do not mean to be dramatic, John," Sherlock sighed, eyes falling on the letter again before seemingly wincing, "But she. She is the death of me."

"Not dramatic at all," John said sarcastically.

Sherlock seemed to ignore it as he continued to muse,

"Oh…but, she is going to return."

"Return where?"

"Home." Sherlock gestured quickly towards the letter, "Look at the letter."

John sighed, knowing it only looked obvious in Sherlock's eyes, "Where is home exactly? London?"

The other man groaned, "No, John! Don't be stupid! I'm home! Can't you see? She's coming home to me."

As if that could take off any confusion that John already had prior to that revelation. John felt like bursting. The suspense Sherlock held was unendurable.

"I don't get it." John admitted, collapsing on the couch opposite, deciding to take a quick breather, "I really don't."

"You don't have to." Sherlock replied back detachedly, "You'll find out soon. John, you see. The woman outside…she is like a lost child. A runaway."

Once more, John failed at picturing this.

"Explanation on how that fits her?" For her designer clothes didn't exactly look like something a runaway would wear.

Sherlock chuckled, noise void of much joy,

"A lost child only comes home for a reason."

He sighed, making John's brow arch a little. "And the reason John…her reason is seldom good," He shook his head before passing John a tired smile.

John blinked at this uncharacteristic flash of emotion,

"What?"

"I knew I should've gotten that vanilla."

There was a brief, stunned divide that followed. Sherlock was musing to himself and John didn't let his eyes stray. His mind tried to make use of what was comprehensible about the situation.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"She's not your ex-wife, or something, right?"

There was an intervention of laughter. And then, the grim face followed, "No, no. Definitely not. Commitment is unnecessary, and to a woman like her," He seemed to grimace, "I could not imagine being with her for more than a few days."

John still didn't understand. Evidently, Sherlock was not ready to tell.

"I didn't think she could find me," He continued, scratching his head - a habitual manner when he was irate, "But then again, she is herself. She always finds me."

Sherlock sat up, gleaming eyes looking up at John's stone cold gaze.

"Can you at least tell me her name?"

John glanced at the piece of paper.

"Adler," Sherlock breathed the name out with an air of detachment, "The most irritating creature, existence has ever created."

It was almost inevitable for John to come to the woman's defence, "Oh, come on Sherlock. How could you say that?"

Sherlock blinked at him, groaning a little,

"See! She's already hooked you...and you know nothing about her!" He seemed to growl beneath his breath, "She is a puppeteer, John. And trust me, the moment you get in her theatre, you shall not be able to get out."

"Boys!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice called out from downstairs. John instantly averted his glare to the wall. Sherlock seemed to relax once more.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson!" John responded, knowing very well that Sherlock wouldn't answer back.

There were a few footsteps up the staircase.

"A nice girl is at the door! She says she wants to see you!"

A/N - This shall be brief, but please, feedback will be nice. Update this A/N tomorrow. Thanks for clicking and sticking with me! x