Taking a break (or deserting) from ongoing stories to write this one-shot. Usual disclaimers apply, hope you enjoy reading this.
ML
Sherlock Holmes wasn´t a man who paid attention to dreams. This was partly because he seldom had them - or of course he knew he had them like every other people, he just didn´t remember them – and partly because he wasn´t the type of person who believed in the supernatural or basically anything that couldn´t be explained through science. He didnn´t believe dreams were cryptic messages from the unconscious, or that they bore some other more elaborate meaning than the brain junk they obviously were.
The dreams he sometimes did remember he granted the attention they deserved – faint interest, something akin to crossing paths with a strange character on a street or listening to a beautiful melody – they were there,they intrigued him slightly but not longer than they were in his immediate surroundings. Once gone they were exactly that - gone - and he had never had the need to travel to the depths of the possible significance or trying to solve the messages hidden in odd allegories; no, Sherlock Holmes was a man who was in charge of his brain and did not feel it would – could – hold secrets from him.
On one specific morning, however, he woke up from a particularly clear dream the memory of which remained with him through the early hours of his day – the early hours of his day being somewhere around the middle of it for most people; Sherlock slept little, but when he did his rhythm didn´t follow that of the average office worker. When his body decided it was time to unwind a bit and switched his consciousness to unconsciousness, it was often in the wee hours of the night, sometimes well past the time when normal people had already gotten up. From there he then slept a varying amount of hours, sometimes only a few and sometimes, after particularly exhausting case or studies or whatever it was he had been straining his physique and brains for, several so that at times John had had to peek into his room and see the rising and lowering of his chest – Sherlock never used blankets when he slept so that task was relatively easy – to make sure the only consulting detective in the world hadn´t become extinct.
On that morning – well, day, it was 3 pm – Sherlock had woken up and immediately realised there was a memory of a dream with him, so vivid and real that at first he had to spend a few seconds to decide whether or not it had actually happened. He had been in a place he faintly recognized, perhaps something from his childhood but then altered by the brain so that he coudn´t be quite sure, and John had been there too. They had been solving a case together, Sherlock remembered a feeling of being satisfied with himself and with John, like they would have accomplished something important. He also remembered feeling very close to John, in a way which he didn´t recognize from his daily existence and interaction with him. Sherlock had felt something much deeper and pure towards his flatmate, something he wasn´t quite able to describe and something that now, in the light of the day and stripped bare from the protective omnipotence of a dream world, almost frightened him in its force.
Sherlock didn´t, simply put,feel that much in his daily life, and this was something he had never questioned. On the contrary, he had always found it relieving that he was not bothered by the strong, to him destructive and misleading emotions people so often seemed to use as false basis for decision making. Judged by his observations it was these very emotions that interfered with logic and resulted in the much of the stupidity that seemed to reign in the world. What he did feel was excitement, curiosity, annoyance, rage, joy, amusement, frustration - but love, hate, desire, insecurity - none of these emotions connected with human interaction on a so-called meaningful level he had never had to deal with.
Therefore it was extremely interesting and highly unexpected that the dream from which he had just woken up had placed these feelings in him - feelings he didn´t have words for. Feelings for John - a strong, powerful affection towards his flatmate, colored by a desire he could only categorize as physical. This was also new for him - Sherlock considered himself asexual as he had never felt truly physically attracted to another human being. The awkward teenage experiences when he had still been insecure (to an extent) and thought he should probably give sex a try - for the sake of research if nothing else - had convinced him that he didn´t require that aspect in his life. At all. And now, dreaming of John Watson, he had experienced the need to have him, and give himself in return. The need had been so strong he now for the first time fully realized the power of it and why people went to the extent they did when the things called love and lust were concerned.
It was fascinating.
He remembered how, in the setting painted by his brain he had looked at John and experienced an almost intoxicating mixture of different kind of emotions washing through him. He saw through the eyes of his dreams how John had stood there, holding his posture like he always did, a true soldier - and how John had smiled to something Sherlock had said, his slightly wry smile which somehow always hid more than it revealed. Like he knew something Sherlock didn´t - well of course that couldn´t be, but still he was never quite sure. It had been dark but there had been a light on John´s face, almost like it would have been a light source in itself. He had seen him clearly, more clearly than ever before, and John had been so there, so present, so real. And Sherlock had felt an ache in his heart and he had realized it was happiness; that he was in this vaguely familiar place where there was no threats or sinister characters so familiar to him, and John was there, John who smiled with his mouth and with his eyes, and Sherlock had been so happy he had just done what had felt like the most natural and proper thing to do - he had reached for him, placed his hand behind his neck on the skin that felt warm and dry and smooth, like a stone warmed by the sun. And he had pulled the shorter man closer to him, it felt like the most obvious and natural thing to do, to meet his lips in a kiss.
Sherlock closed his eyes to be able to capture the already fleeting scene portrayed by his brain better so as to be able to grasp the emotion awakened in him by John Watson. How his own lips had explored John´s, how exhilarating it had felt. The hunger he had felt. Sherlock´s hand behind his neck and head and John´s behind his waist, the grip of the soldier he was devouring steady and firm and almost demanding, pulling Sherlock´s lean frame closer to his own.
He was hesitant to admit it but it had felt wonderful. Sherlock had never felt like that before, in the real world, and he wondered whether it was possible; maybe the chemical response created by his brain was something that couldn´t exist in reality? But then again, if his brain had formed something like that, there weren´t any reason why it couldn´t do so again.
There was really only one way to find out. After all, when one was forming a hypothesis which in this case was that kissing John Watson awoke a sensation in him he seemed to enjoy, one must put the hypothesis into test.
Sherlock got up from the bed, threw the closest thing on to cover his half-naked torso and left the room with the determination only a true scientist on a verge of a new find has.
Mycroft had came looking for Sherlock some minutes ago. Watson had told him Sherlock was asleep and that there was no way of knowing how long he´d be out and that he would be happy to give Sherlock the word his brother had stopped by. John felt slightly uneasy around the older Holmes brother; he knew he was even more brilliant than Sherlock was, and he lacked the air of acceptance John had from Sherlock. It was not that Watson felt inferior to the always-so-mysterious elder Holmes, he just didn´t like the feeling of being constantly observed and his brain picked. Mycroft was, after all, immensely interested as of why this John Watson was living with his asocial brother - what was the deal there, how did the seemingly ordinary if reasonably smart man manage in something Mycroft himself had so miserably failed - creating a relationship akin to friendship with Sherlock.
Mycroft had sneered to John´s offer of leaving a word; instead, he had glanced at his watch and merely said, "He´ll be up in less than ten minutes. I´ll wait." Without waiting for a reply, he stepped in and made his way to the living room. On his way up the stairs, without turning to the baffled John, he said with a nonchalant tone: "Perhaps you would like to keep me company?"
"Or perhaps not.." John muttered but followed the tall man anyway. If Mycroft heard him he didn´t react.
When John got to the room Mycroft was already sitting down, in Sherlock´s chair above all places, looking smug like a cat that caught the canary. John walked to the fireplace and remained standing there, determined not to strike up a conversation.
He needn´t, Mycroft had never been a man who lacked words. "So, John..You mind if I call you John?" He had called him John every time they had talked.
"Not at all." His voice didn´t reveal his annoyance but his posture might have. He stood his elbow resting to the mantelpiece, looking out from the window as if there had been something happening there.
"How is Sherlock, John?" No time wasted in the small-talk, then.
"Why don´t you ask him yourself? Isn´t that why you´re here for?"
Mycroft sighed and shook his head as only an elder brother disappointed with the younger´s behavior can. "He is so.. Sherlock. He won´t talk to me."
John moved his stare from the window to Mycroft. "And what makes you think I would?" Seeing Mycroft´s almost offended expression he added, "About Sherlock, that is."
Mycroft stared at him intensely and suddenly the room felt much too small for comfort. "I thought.. Since you are so close with him.. You would want to help him." Mycroft shook his head. "He doesn´t always know what is best for him."
"Close to him? Help him? Mycroft, let me assure you, I don´t know of Sherlock´s private businesses any more than you do." John was slightly annoyed; this topic was, after all, getting old.
Mycroft continued staring at him with his piercing eyes, and in an instant John saw a lot of his brother in him. "But you live with him. Surely you are close." Did he sound slightly jealous?
"I don´t know what.." He was cut off by Sherlock, dashing into the room wearing only pajama pants and an open robe flapping around his tall frame like the wings of some ancient bird, his hair ruffled and eyes strikingly bright.
"Mycroft." He acknowledged his brother without looking at him at all - how could he have when the intent in his eyes was focused solely on John. Before John or Mycroft had time to react to the sudden appearance of the half-naked Sherlock, he had already closed the distance between himself and Watson, who was still leaning on the fireplace - now seemingly frozen from the surprise.
Without saying a word Sherlock stepped close to John - very close - and for a fleeting second looked very deep into his eyes as if he had lost something important he was now trying to locate. Then, like it was the most normal thing to do, he grabbed John´s head with his both hands and kissed him directly on the lips. A deep, devouring kiss, John´s hair between his long, thin fingers, his surprisingly warm - half-naked, still - body touching every inch of John´s.
The kiss lasted a few seconds, after which Sherlock allowed their lips to part but still remained very close to John´s face, his hand still holding his head, studying him. John was frozen solid from the sheer shock caused by the sudden turn of events and couldn´t do anything but stare back at Sherlock, his surprise written all over his face.
There was a few more seconds of silence in the room. Then Sherlock, apparently satisfied, released John from his grip and stepped back. "Obviously." He gave John a look, something he wasn´t able to categorize at all possibly due to the shock and possibly due to the fact that he had never seen such an expression color the detective´s delicate features. Then Sherlock turned around, the flying robe adding to the drama of the movement, and retreated back to his room as fast as he had emerged from there. "Lunch, tomorrow, one o´clock." The information given, as a command almost, directed to Mycroft, was the last they heard before his door slammed close.
Mycroft stood up, straightening his jacket. He held his cool remarkably well, or maybe he wasn´t surprised at all."Alright, John, I´ll be going then." Seeing that John still hadn´t recovered his speech, he gave him a little smile. "I can show myself out, then."
As he was walking to the door, John finally found his ability to function. "Mycroft, wait, that wasn´t what it looked like!" He said it even though he had no idea how it had looked like.
Mycroft stopped at the door, turned around to look at him and smiled again. "It never is, John Watson.." He turned and left the room. "It never is with Sherlock."
Thank you for reading!