All he wanted was a cigarette, now that he was awake.
He sat up, curling the bedsheets around him, and rose like a wraith, his face drawn and solemn, his fingers agitated as they grasped the hem of his sheet a little bit too tightly, a little bit too foolishly, a little bit too fearfully.
No. His fingers would not betray him; he had control over them, and he could will them to do something useful, even if they were as fidgety as static, even if they behaved like spooked horses, even if they were tense and pulsing with his quickened heartbeat.
A cigarette. John was still at the late shift. He could hide the smell and pretend he'd had no shameful relapse. An open window. A foul-smelling 'experiment' in the sink. Mint oral rinse. If worst came to worst, a bottle of lavender essential oils from his sock drawer.
John'd never be the wiser.
Now to find one.
To be fair, John did keep them to ease exactly these kinds of circumstances, for when Sherlock's adrenaline was disproportionate to what the realities of life required, for when Sherlock's persistent whinging just got overmuch on a tedious dreary afternoon, for when Sherlock's energy exceeded his own and the nicotine splurge was barter for a cuddle (as opposed to a romp.)
Enabler.
Or was he? Sherlock had thought there was a pack, wrapped in white paper, hidden in John's pants drawer. But that had been weeks ago. It now seemed to be gone.
He strode back into the living room, realizing that John - in a stroke of idiotic brilliance - was trying to be clever.
Now's not the fucking time for games, John.
But he found the pack again, too easily - zipped in the unused front pocket of his violin-case. (The first thing he saw leaving John's room.)
Like the easiest to catch of criminals, John didn't have a sense of subtlety. John, having two good ideas in a row, acted on both of them, not logically discerning which of the ideas might be the best. Or considering that the effectiveness of the second trick might be diminished by the cleverness of the first.
It was injudicious, but predictably so, and Sherlock was, for the moment, grateful. Despite the abhorrent gaudiness lent to the situation by John's resplendent irony. (He was always telling Sherlock to practice his music as a first recourse to nicotine.)
For the sake of pretending to try and take John's advice (or because of a more sentimental motive than he cared to admit) Sherlock pressed his shaking fingers into the strings, but only for a moment as he removed the plastic from the cigarette pack with his teeth.
He'd be useless at playing right now, anyway. His fingers were shaking with a vibrato that would be better suited to a cellist.
He lit the cigarette at his bunsen burner, because he didn't care to try and find a real lighter, and he stood there in the center of the room and willed the memories of the dream to disappear, letting the sheets dip off his shoulders just a fraction.
Even with all the lights on in the flat, he could still see the face of the man he'd killed in the Romanian airport lavatory, and it lingered at the front of his mind.
After all, how often was it that one came across one's apparent double?
Sherlock had never been much of a sleeper, but he had slept for almost two days straight after returning from that fateful, final mission. Returning to England after years of self-imposed exile, returning to a stunned Watson whose engagement dissolved within hours of his arrival, returning from the dead at last.
Returning with blood on his hands.
It wasn't as if it was the killing that affected him. Killing was simple to Sherlock - it was exterminating the vermin that threatened his home. He was the only beast they deserved to have in their lives, that long-suffering (oh, he knew they were long-suffering!) quartet of John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. At least he cared about them, though he pretended not to.
So of course, like the wild stray was fiercely loyal to the only human creatures that comforted it, he collected the corpses of the mice that plagued their pantries, unbeknownst to them. And he delighted in the meals they made him - a bounty price was on many of those heads.
But the last one - the last one - had given him indigestion, what with the marks' striking face, dark black curls, piercing-blue eyes, and elegant, condescending smirk.
He'd never known how little people looked like their mug-shot pictures until he saw this man in the flesh.
Of course, it all was clear to him instantaneously, as soon as they made their penetrating eye contact with each other - excellent plastic surgery.
It wasn't that much of a surprise. He'd known this was the man who'd played at looking like Sherlock Holmesto traumatize the ambassador's daughter. Sherlock had just thought the actor was a person who merely bore a passing resemblance, or who had worn a mask.
Wrong.
Moriarty had made this henchman a perfect duplicate. Sherlock's nemesis always did like to overdo things.
At the time, Sherlock had calculated the psychological profile of this man - this man who had been forced to bear the face (as per blackmail compliance) of a foreign celebrity he didn't know or care about. Who had been forced to use this face to kidnap a little girl, probably much like one of his own daughters, and threaten her with words he could not understand. Who was otherwise a small fish aside from his brief role in Moriarty's London drama - family man, native of Romania, professor of anthropology, author of some inconsequential papers about Romanian elders' use of herbal medicine. Primary criticisms of which papers were that he hadn't read English articles on the subject, and therefore was becoming outmoded.
He was inoffensive but deadly. He was armed. He knew Sherlock was alive. He was going to London to assassinate John. He was obeying the orders of his blackmailer, the orders enclosed in an email from a desperate man who had died almost immediately after sending the instructions.
It was an accident that wouldn't have happened if Sherlock had stayed to see the poison finish its dirty deed on the man who'd sent the email, but out of tedium and the exhilaration of having completed (he'd thought) his crusade, he'd wanted to go have a smoke, and he was sure that the man had no longer than a quarter of an hour to live, if that.
So he'd left the Italian villa (the scene of the crime) and stepped into the sunshine and found that he had no cigarettes (smoked them all) and glanced into the room where the man was vomiting, near-comatose on the Venetian carpet, and decided the victim was as good as. So he'd left. And come back ten minutes later from the corner store, victorious.
But only to discover that a laptop had been yanked, by its cord, unceremoniously off a desk into the pools of vomit (colored red by blood) and, blinking and askew, it displayed a Your email has been sent page.
It took only a good keyboard-wiping-off and a check into the author's sent email box to figure out the rest.
This information made it very easy to find the would-be assassin, certainly. Until jeopardized by his participation in this last desperate scheme, the man had retired into the woodwork after his first and only performance at the London school. He'd been safe until he'd received this last frightening email. And he didn't know he was currently safe, because the conniving author of the deathbed email cleverly forgot to inform the Romanian that he was dying.
Which meant that Sherlock was more than willing to let the man go free, unharmed. Happy to tell the poor soul that he would be forced to do no more jobs to prevent his wife from being told about his affair with a graduate student and to prevent his whole family from subsequently being slaughtered.
Sherlock had, for the occasion, even memorized a speech in Romanian, courtesy of one of Mycroft's information moguls.
But when they'd made eye contact in the airport, Sherlock knew they'd have no time to talk.
All of the rage a man could possess - caged and alone and bitter and angry - was in the Romanian's eyes.
And they were Sherlock's own eyes.
No doubt it was why they chose him - so easy to style everything else to be exactly like the features of Sherlock, but the quality of eyes was one difficult to duplicate.
This said, though their eyes were exactly the same in every way superficially, the Romanian's shone with a very human, feeling way, a way that Sherlock was certain he'd never seen in the mirror.
In addition, while they were eyes that contained a depth of wisdom and mental acuity that was nearly boundless, the only sensethat lay behind those eyes was the reason of the crazed, willing to justify any misdeed for the excuse of protecting his family.
The Romanian could do no wrong. His children were at stake. And he could trust no one but himself to protect them. He just had one assignment. And that was to kill the man who looked like him.
So there, in the airport, after the man's surprise (at seeing Sherlock there and not in London) instantly ebbed into anger, he drew his knife and charged the wandering detective. He wasn't well trained, which meant that Sherlock (with his experience in jiu-jitsu) easily pinned him. And Sherlock tried to reason with the man, in broken Romanian.
But there were no ears for Sherlock's story. The man was a tiger in a cage, disturbed by a monkey throwing fruit at it. So the Romanian smiled and pretended to understand, until Sherlock's hold loosened an iota, and then he wrested himself away and attacked more vengefully.
Someone was yelling for security, and Sherlock was regretting that, in his too-high optimism for a peace mission (later he called it denial), he'd brought no weapon.
He was soon in a lock with the man, and they struggled, and the knife got kicked away, and Sherlock was grabbing it, and before he knew what had happened he had stabbed the man through the heart.
And he'd leaned forward and looked, with awe, into his own eyes, listening to the gutteral, pained whispers coming from the man. There was so much there, Sherlock could tell, but neither of them spoke the other's tongue.
At least, that's what Sherlock had thought, until he realized the other man was speaking a few words of English.
I curse you motherfucker
said the man, but seemed to have met the limit of his knowledge of English, and he knew it.
I curse you I curse you I curse you.
And Sherlock had paid no attention, instead focusing on administering first aid, since it was clear the man was no longer a danger to him, and calling the authorities to bring an ambulance.
The man didn't make it; Sherlock had done the job too well, and even before an ambulance arrived, the Romanian had passed.
But moments before he'd gone limp, the Romanian had seized Sherlock's hand and carved with his fingernail some unknown symbol, leaving trails of red inflammation and white dead skin cells in this ominous marking.
Conferring with a local later about the matter, it was told to Sherlock that the symbol (diligently recorded) was the symbol of the devil.
Leaving the symbol on Sherlock's hand was a sign that he had, in fact, cursed Sherlock in the manner of Romanian witchcraft.
Not that Sherlock needed to be told this to know it; it was just a confirmation of his suspicions. The experience had been altogether too close to metaphysical for his own liking.
And not twenty-four hours after this incident, he'd found himself knocking on a door with John Watson on the other side of it for the first time in three long years, prepared to announce that not only was he back from the dead, but that he also figured that it was time to call off the I'm Not Gay and the I'm Married To My Work games.
He found John engaged to a woman, but all too willing to allow Sherlock back into his life.
Even though initially he refused to allow Sherlock into his bedroom.
But now...
Now...
It was almost exactly how it was six years before, the only differences (aside from the shagging thing) were that John worked a lot more (and enjoyed it), that Sherlock was bored a lot more (Moriarty being gone, and all), and that Sherlock was the one having bad dreams.
He'd never had bad dreams - at least as far as he knew. (He might have deleted them.)
But now here he was, standing in their living room when he had been sleeping, smoking a cigarette even though he knew he'd be raked over the coals for it later. (He acknowledged post-relapse that he was delusional if he thought he could keep John from knowing.)
And he kept thinking about John, and wishing that John was home and not at the hospital, and wanting to be touched by John, and wanting to be told, don't worry, it was all a dreamby John...
...and lo and behold, his cell phone beeped, and it was John.
remind me we need milk tmw
The pull of his heartstrings was so silly, so sentimental. He was beyond happy that John had texted this mundane, worldly thing to him at that precise moment - it was like those times that, when Sherlock was sleepless and pensive and depressed and staring at his sleeping partner and wanting desperately to be touched, John would dreamfully mutter something about spinach or ibuprofen and grab Sherlock's arm or wrist, stuff his hand under Sherlock's pillow instead of his own, or whack Sherlock across the nose without much enthusiasm.
So Sherlock was getting used to the sentimentality thing. Besides, in his waking moments, John had thus far encouraged it, insisting that feelings were good and Sherlock ought to open up more.
Ergo, now when given the opportunity to respond to this unconscious touch in the night, Sherlock couldn't help but reply. But because he was somewhat still conflicted about how delighted he was that John texted at that precise moment - well, conflicted mostly about the idea that synchronicities might exist and that in this possibility he might still have the capacity to be delighted,despite the knowledge that synchronisities could possibly invalidate many successful instances hitherto attributed to his own scientific and deductive prowess - he couldn't allow himself to be pleasant about it.
Tut tut, didn't even think to say 'sorry for waking you up,' it's three in the morning you know.
-SH
And he took a last deep breath from the cigarette, dashed the remnants into a petri dish, and lit another in the bunsen again.
He knew John would know it was an empty gripe.
yeah, like youd bother when smashing things at four am. : ) anyway ur clearly up. why?
Leave it to John to point out the obvious.
In my defense: I only do that when you're so far gone that smashing is the only thing capable of waking you.
-SH
He avoided answering the question initially, because he didn't know how much he should reveal, but he did answer.
And experiment. Obviously.
-SH
It wasn't necessarily obvious, in all fairness, since John had been gone nearly twelve hours and in that time only contacted Sherlock to tell a (poor) joke he'd heard and to mention some patient's distant relation to a client they'd had. But it might well have been obvious, Sherlock told himself, even if this was a lie.
what kind?
Oh. Well. John was either bored at work or more interested than usual. Collapsing on the couch as the neurochemicals in his brain began to respond to the nicotine, finally, Sherlock decided to come up with a boldly false reason that the place stunk of smoke.
Microfilm burns.
-SH
The reply to this was unusually perceptive, for John. It was probably just the wisp of a hint of a relapse - anything burning made John think that Sherlock was trying to use a substance - that made his answer so urgent.
I'm on my way DON'T DO ANYTHING
Sherlock sighed, inhaled, and reflected on how treacherous he felt, smoking. And telling John that something was burning so bluntly - maybe, in metaphor, his self-respect? - it was, more or less, an order to return home. He knew doing this to himself would get John's attention. And he did it anyway, selfish dick that he was.
He should have just gone with his original plan - oral rinse, lavender oil, etc. and hoping that John wouldn't notice excess atmospheric carbon particles upon returning.
No hurry.
-SH
It was a paltry apology.
But he'd pay for this petty sin - now he'd be faced with talking about his feelings for an hour or two, and while he adored how John paid such close attention to his every word when they had such discussions, he loathed acknowledging and confronting and talking about his own sentimentality.
After all, being sentimental had too nearly caused the death of the person he cherished most. More than once.
In any case, John returned quicker than Sherlock could bother to move himself and clean up his mess - pounding on the stairs, the door swinging open frantically, a crisp heavy-breathed "Sherlock?"
"In here."
John's slumped shoulders at the smell was enough to make Sherlock close his eyes in denial. Not wanting to see how disappointed John was. Nor how concerned.
"Where did you get those?" asked John in such a tone that indicated he knew.
Sherlock didn't reply, but out of some sarcastic attempt at respect he dashed the half-smoked cigarette in his fingers into the petri dish. It hadn't been enough of a dose of nicotine, but it was something. Now, maybe he could coax a patch or two out of John. And, come to think of it, now there was more there for next time.
"From your violin case, no doubt. I knew it was tempting fate to put them there."
John sat down on the edge of the couch, removing his hospital coat and tossing it across the mess on top of the coffee table. He then wedged himself against Sherlock, who made room for him there alongside, with feigned reluctance.
Sherlock was so glad he was no longer alone, draping an arm around his lover, attempting to execute nonchalance, being betrayed by his shaking fingers and the closeness with which his arm pressed against John's body.
"Dare I ask if you want to tell me about it, yet?"
They had begun conversations about Sherlock's nightmares before, usually when he awoke in a cold sweat or when John awoke him mid-sleep-throttle.
Feeling as numb as a child, Sherlock shook his head, already craving another cigarette but being pinned against the back of the sofa by John created a problem; the pack was on the table.
Anyway, he didn't need it, not really, nor want it, not really, nor deserve it, not really. It was the continuous cycle he went through every time his compulsion came to mind. He just felt badly without it.
His muscles must have been making motions of their own accord, however, because John said, kindly, softly, "Don't. You've had enough for one night."
So he relaxed, consciously, breathing deeply for the chemicals still lingering in the air.
His body protested, but he had John now. And he acknowledged this by pressing deeply against his dearest friend and protector, trying to let every cell of their bodies that could touch communicate one-on-one.
"You didn't have to come," he said, though his gratitude that John had come was beyond compare.
John shrugged against him, a muscle movement that evoked the warm scents of Johnnessthat tugged from the cotton button-down and sweater-vest. "End of shift."
"An hour early?"
Sherlock could hear the smile in John's response.
"Well, I was bored."
"Don't be evasive," Sherlock replied grouchily.
"You don't be evasive."
"Fine. Missed you," he said.
Oh god, what an understatement.
He noted that he was feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes that he didn't want to acknowledge.
"What happens, in your dream?" asked John, because he knows just as well as Sherlock does that it is more or less the same dream.
"It's...just trauma," replied Sherlock, his voice too thick to form words very well. "Cyclical. Over and over, skewed reality."
He had in his mind the image of his hand engaged in vibrato, fingers extended and long, his wrist shaking with emotion he otherwise repressed except when playing his instrument - but not stopping. Paralyzed in its shaking. A never-ending earthquake of trauma being played out in his hand.
"Enough of the diagnoses. What's the content?" John was trying to sound detached and clinical, but only succeeded in sounding firm.
"Death."
Sherlock didn't know why he had even revealed that. In previous conversations on the subject, he'd pretended to fall asleep again, talked at length about things as irrelevant as oysters and half-crowns, or just remained stoic. He'd not once described what he was repeatedly seeing.
Then again, talk therapy dreamwork during their period of separation had helped John escape the realities of his unconscious.
Maybe there was something to it, with the proper approach.
It had to be strong and effective, however. And quick. Because the stain of this dream was edging its way throughout the Mind Palace, coloring everything with its taint, and it was as formidable and eerie and inevitable as The Blob.
"Whose?"
Sherlock wasn't able to reply, but John was helpful.
"Yours? Mine?"
"Both," Sherlock managed to squeak out. And it did sound squeaky. The humor of it settled slowly, and soon they both were chuckling quietly against each other, Sherlock nestling his face into John's hair, John pressing his ear against Sherlock's heart (clearly taking Sherlock's vitals even when both were in repose).
"So, we both die," John said, once their little laughter died. "Together?"
"Far. Far apart."
"While you were abroad?"
How does he know?
"Rather."
"Um." John paused, shifting to chew his underlip pensively. "Could you be a bit more descriptive?"
"No."
I don't want to even talk about it.
Sherlock imagined himself shoving his partner to the floor and stalking to his bedroom and locking the door and sitting on the messy floor and dredging up from under a floorboard (where he'd kept it in his old non-Baker Street apartment, since vacated) a stash of the most brilliant white stuff he could afford and doing what he knew how to do so very well but hadn't since days before John.
This was the kind of hurt that the dreams inflicted on him. He'd not been high in so many years.
Most of that time, with John around, he hadn't wanted to be.
Even now, though, with John so close to him, Sherlock wondered if he could persuade one of his snouts to point him in the right direction of some first-class dope.
This was easier to think about than the thought of giving John a play-by-play of the dream.
But as he realized how grave a crime of thought he had committed, he wondered if he couldn't rise to the challenge of overcoming this demon.
He loved challenges, because he was so good at overcoming them.
But perhaps John was right, saying once that Sherlock put so much effort into solving other peoples' problems because the great detective didn't want to solve his own problems.
Much less admit that he hadany.
Well, that doesn't change the fact that I'm good at providing solutions.
All this went through his head before John could come up with something to say.
"I know how difficult this is for you, Sherlock - but if you don't talk about it, I think it will keep bothering you," John said.
...Difficult for you, Sherlock...for you...
"Why does it have to be difficult for me?" demanded Sherlock, his voice tensing. "How am I different in this matter from anyone else?"
"I swear to god, that better not be an honest question."
"I mean it!" Sherlock sat up and looked at his lover, straight in the eye. "It took you years to talk about yours, John, years."'
"Haven't you listened to me tell you how much I regret putting that off?"
John couldn't bear to look too deeply into Sherlock's eyes, so he closed his own, and Sherlock wondered mutely: if he had the eyes of the Romanian - ones that echoed meaningfulness and emotionality - would John find his eyes irresistible?
"Yes," John said, still closing his eyes firmly, "it took me years, Sherlock - of course you know that! But part of it was, as you immediately recognized from the start, an incompetent therapist! Malorie - she's marvelous. I've told you how marvelous she is, Sherlock."
"And so have innumerable other people, John, including my own mother, as you know - hence why I thought she would help you."
"There!" John opened his eyes and thrust his finger into Sherlock's pectoral muscle. "You're saying that because it took me years to overcome my shadows, it justification your brooding and bottling up your mounting issues, but at the same time you recognize that a competent therapist was the key to overcoming them."
"Not the key, John," said Sherlock quietly, "the key was accepting the help. I gave you her card the week we first met. And yet you persisted with your psychologist."
"I'd made a commitment to her. One I intended to honor. Until I realized how bloody unhelpful she was in helping me cope with the deathof my dearest friend."
The bitterness was still there, even after so many months after their reunion, and it pained Sherlock.
Even more than it pained him to think of turning back the conversation to where it originally focused.
"But the only reason you cared enough to notice that she was unhelpful is because you were no longer resistant to the idea of accepting help," Sherlock suggested, shifting his legs to wrap them around John's in what he hoped was a loving gesture. "For myself – my conceptualization of my body is that it is an appendix, and my conceptualization of my mind is that it is a well-oiled machine."
"And your soul?"
That was the only problem with Malorie – she had a preoccupation with the human soul.
It was contagious, apparently, because the word occupied a much more fundamental place in John's vocabulary than it had pre-Malorie.
"Not my area," Sherlock said, "if only out of indifference. The ethereal..."
He waved his hand in the air above them and, as he thought about the immensity of the subject of the spiritual, he was awkwardly aware of his lack of expertise in the area, so he laid his hand down again to pat John's shoulder.
"Just not my area."
He didn't like not knowing, and of all that was visible and invisible, the invisible was certainly less knowable than the visible.
So he restricted himself to that which he could empirically observe and deduce, and what fit his definition of reality, excluding all other things – sometimes offhandedly dismissing them, but really just never thinking about them because they were terrifying and easier to call irrelevant than actually confront.
"You don't need to know everything," said John, picking up on this with that blasted intuition of his.
That was one of the amazing things about John that had attracted Sherlock so quickly and subtly – John had an appreciation for empirical reason, but flourished in situations that called for intuitive action. He was a balance for Sherlock's supreme faith in rationality.
He was, in some senses, Sherlock's heart, disembodied, too great and too fragile and too important to be carried in the abused shell of a corporal body that Sherlock called an appendix.
Moriarty had been right. And Sherlock had known it only after it had been pointed out.
"I'm not trying to know everything," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and letting his head tip forward onto John's shoulder. "I just know things."
"But you don't know what to do about your dream," said John, compassionate and thoughtful.
Sherlock nodded with the faintest movement of neck muscles.
"No. But I do know a few things about it. And understanding the nature of the beast is the second step to conquering it, after acknowledging that the beast exists."
(That was based on a rudimentary substance abuse counseling mantra.)
"What sorts of things?" asked John; of course asked John, he always wanted to know what Sherlock thought Sherlock knew. And then question it. It was fatiguing and exasperating, but only because it tested Sherlock. And he appreciated that.
"One: it's a reinterpretation of literal, real events," began the detective, succinct. "Two: it involves a bad situation gone worse. Three: I awake from the dream terrified and in desperate need of anxiety suppressants."
The fourth was less matter of fact, so he paused and took a breath.
"Four: I never have the dream when you're at my side."
John chose his response to this carefully.
"I think I had the same experience."
Yes, they had; it had been years ago now, when John had awoken one night after the sudden turn of a dream from nightmare to sudden nothingness, and the change of experience was so abrupt it shook him awake, and he saw Sherlock kneeling at the side of his bed, gazing at John with a look of fascination.
The shared look that resulted had been awkward and silent, and Sherlock had left with a hurry and strangely returned with a cup of tea that had mineral specks in it because he hadn't washed out the kettle properly first to get rid of the hard-water buildup and he gave this cup to John and it was super-sweet chamomile, something John would typically eschew but at that moment it was the perfect thing.
John had said as much aloud, and Sherlock had smiled vaguely, pretending not to hear, and begun an extemporaneous lecture on the patterns of Chinese pottery and the smuggling rings he'd encountered that were associated with the trade of said pottery.
And the occurrence hadn't happened again, merely becoming a part of the fabric of their interwoven experiences, unacknowledged aloud but present in their dynamic, if only because it was one of the first instances that had made John wonder if, possibly, his new flatmate did care about other people, after all.
John had dreamt badly many times after that instance. Sherlock had, as far as he knew, not intervened a second time.
John had always wondered why.
"Really?" Sherlock asked, and it was obvious by the slow lilt of his voice that he was surprised – and that he was flipping back in his memory to find some evidence to support John's statement.
It seemed he hadn't deleted the memory in question, because all of a sudden, he tilted his head and looked into John's eyes and whispered, "That night?"
"How specific," said John, a smile on his face so subtle that it was worthy of Sherlock. "Yes, probably whatever night it is you're thinking of is the one I'm talking about."
"I made you tea."
"That's the one."
They sat in their newfound appreciation of each other – John having learned that Sherlock hadn't understood the dynamics of that situation very well, if at all.
The reply on Sherlock's part was poignant. "So...what we were communicating...it was as simple a thing as gratitude?"
Moved, but curious, John pressed, "Yes, what did you think it was?"
"I thought at the time that we were communicating about much more complex matters. If I'd been you, I'd have thought oh, jolly good, it's clear this bloke's got a humongous crush on me, if he's watching me sleep. Irrespective of the nightmare you were obviously experiencing. So that's what I was sure you were thinking. And – the reply I saw in your eyes was um, that's all fine, but it's not reciprocated."
John couldn't help but laugh, sadly, at this confession. "Well, it's a good thing you're a professional consulting detective, not a mind-reader."
"They're rather close to the same thing," said Sherlock glibly, wiggling down a bit so he could burrow his face into John's shoulder.
"So that's why you never said anything, either," said John, comprehension awakening within him. "You gorgeous idiot."
"Nothing further needed to be said, I thought – and, it seemed to me, my...feelings towards you were implicit," whinged Sherlock. "When did I get so bloody stupid?"
"See why it's so important to talk about feelings," said John with a laugh. "Though it's largely my fault. I thought about saying something for a long time afterwards – mostly just wondering why you never woke me up mid-dream again."
"I don't blame you," said Sherlock, "it was rather...awkward the first time 'round."
It occurred to him then that he hadn't wanted a cigarette for the past few minutes, what with this exciting new information at hand.
Of course, now that he was thinking about it, his craving was resurrected, but it did seem less imperative than previously.
"So, we could have had this a long time ago?" asked Sherlock, to which John gave a gentle laugh.
"Don't let yourself be burdened by regrets. I think I would have denied an attraction at that time, Sherlock. You also know how long it's taken me to accept being...other than 'not gay.'"
Sherlock took this reminder with gratitude.
"Point taken. As you've recently taken to telling me – everything that's supposed to be happens at exactly the right time."
Fingers became entwined in his hair as John comfortingly, adoringly, lovingly fondled it.
"Exactly right."
John nestled against Sherlock, kissing the closest part of his lover's exposed skin (which happened to be neck) and Sherlock closed his eyes, and they lay there a while in silence, synchronizing their breathing.
"So," John said, after some moments of blissful silence, "are you comfortable telling me about this dream of yours yet?"
"...Not quite," replied Sherlock, his pulse raising as he began to review the dream in his mind's eye. There he was, in the nightmare, killing the Romanian in the airport – successfully withdrawing the knife from the fatal wound - then realizing that the Romanian was not embarking a flight to England but disembarking a flight from England – then realizing that, in a Jekyll/Hyde fashion, the Romanian was not another entity but instead a disassociated second personality – then realizing that, in an even more unsettling stroke of intuition, it was not his own blood that seeped across the carpeted floor of the airport, not the blood of the Romanian, but instead the blood of John.
In the dream, not only was he too late to save John, but he was the Romanian who killed John, and in killing the Romanian he was actually spilling the blood of John.
It was far too much for him to convey that moment, so he swallowed, and repeated, "Not quite. But..."
(he hated himself for making the promise even before he said it)
"...but soon."
All he wanted now was to banish the thought of the dream, now that he was awake; all he needed now was John, alive and well and kissing him tenderly with the respect and love that John was wont to convey.
Decidedly, he needed John to be not bleeding or dead far, far away, but alive and throbbing with sexual energy that might not be appropriate for the situation but was present anyway, needed John to be breathing heavily and struggling not to give in to the animal urges that whispered to him, needed John to convince him of his own life and worth and meaningfulness...
As their entangled selves became hotter and hotter with the sudden efforts that were instantaneous, ignited, and inspired, an image came to Sherlock's mind that would later make him laugh.
John was a cigarette – hot, phallic, comforting, all-ensconcing, deeply-penetrating, fragrant, simple, pleasant, nuanced, delicious. Even wrapped in white, in his hospital coat.
And, when he could be found, John lit up very well en cue.
(No Bunsen required.)
The only difference – John was far from disposable.
So maybe – John was a pipe?
Sherlock, as he gasped for breath with delight between puffs, wasn't sure, though he was fairly sure that if John knew where his thoughts were, John would either be shocked or amused.
At least Mycroft seems to approve of this new mind-altering substance I've discovered.
Was he getting too sentimental if he hoped he'd never have it taken from him?