Chapter One

They hadn't started right away – too predictable. If John had been a superstitious man he might have found significance in the eight days that separated The Day and the first Dream, but he knew better than to look for signs in meaningless coincidences. Besides, those eight days had been the worst of his life and he had no desire to link them to the eight, perfectly normal text messages Sherlock had sent him on The Day, or the fact that their last for-pay case had involved an unbelievably simple cypher based around factorials of eight that had made Sherlock laugh out loud when John had pointed it out. He'd been driving the Yarders up the wall, the murders had been so stylistic, the solution had to be brilliant, which meant Sherlock had to touch all the evidence, all of it, Anderson, now – but in the end it had been nothing more than a financially motivated killer who knew his way around discreet asphyxiation but very little about math.

"Obvious! So obvious. I could kiss you John, I really could."

His whole face had lit up, a rare sight but always guaranteed when John, ordinary John, got something perfect.

The Yarders smirked and Donovan's eyebrows shot up far enough to get lost in her hair, practically screaming "Gay!" but John had been too thrilled with his deduction to give a shit.

So no, he didn't see anything significant about those eight days. In fact, he didn't see anything significant about any of his days anymore, really. It was the that eight night, and every night since, that had become the most significant part of John Watson's life.

The first night. Sherlock had been lounging around in his usual chair, looking bored enough to shoot whoever walked into the flat next, never mind the wall, and considering that Mrs. Hudson was the likeliest person for the job John decided it was high time for the pair of them to get some air. He looked Sherlock over carefully, deciding how likely he was to be roused without a full out tantrum.

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, legs splayed out all too dramatically, one arm thrown around a cushion and the other hanging off the chair, fingertips barely missing the floor. Left leg? Completely still.

Good, then, he wasn't as miserable as he wanted to look. It was always the left leg; it gave a telltale twitch that for all the world mimicked a person flinching away from a particularly unpleasant smell. It never failed to make an appearance when Sherlock was well and truly pissed.

"Get up, we're having dinner out tonight."

"Dinner? Dinner? What for?"

Consulting five year old, John thought wearily to himself, then crossed over to the chair, leaning directly over Sherlock's face.

"Because food is necessary for survival Sherlock. Because of biology. Because I'm a doctor and even if I wasn't I could still tell you, quite accurately, that you are significantly underweight. And because Angelo's is free and you forgot to buy milk, again, along with all the rest of the groceries, and I really don't know how you expect me to cook anything when the damn flat is empty. Angelo's, now."

That had come out a bit angrier than he'd intended, but it wasn't exactly unwarranted. Sherlock, for his part, looked somewhere between properly chastised and amused. Well, it was better than the alternative. He got up slowly, languidly untangling each long limb until he was at his full six feet.

"Yes, sir." Sherlock shot back at him, the look on his face downright sinful. It was an expression he wore when he knew he'd really riled John up without quite sending him over the edge, a skill he seemed to consider a fine art form. The face was a look of sheer, wicked delight – on anyone else it would've read as bedroom's that way, not that you've got a choice, and did I mention the riding crop? But Sherlock, abstinent in favor of the work, was not a recreational whipping sort of man. The thought, frankly, was laughable, and John wasn't sure whether to do just that or blush at his thought process, which had just voluntarily grouped Sherlock, his bedroom, and the riding crop in an inexcusable order.

By the time they'd made it to Angelo's it had gotten properly dark, and the cloudless sky – such a rare site – was ablaze with tiny pinpricks of light. John stopped short outside the restaurant, tugging at the back of Sherlock's Belstaff to keep him from entering the restaurant.

"Sherlock, look at the sky. You don't have to know the moon from the stars, it doesn't matter, just look up. It's bloody gorgeous."

Sherlock turned to him quizzically. John knew he was being unusually sentimental; he was obviously a sensual man in certain respects, but he'd never been one to fixate on aesthetics unless other than those involving females (preferably employed by Mycroft). He gave a shrug and smiled, which seemed to settle Sherlock as he threw his head back to take in the glittering expanse above him.

It was the sort of sky that threatens to swallow you whole, so vast and deep that anyone looking properly feels themself shrinking away into nothing. John heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat, and smiled quietly. For all his lofty airs and brilliant deductions, enough for most people to rule him out of the species entirely, Sherlock was most definitely human and occasionally capable of accepting a reminder. "It's beautiful" he said softly.

Dinner was a quiet affair that night. The restaurant was crowded, but Angelo took it upon himself to personally 'encourage' the unfortunate couple at their usual window table to leave a bit sooner than they'd planned.

They sat themselves down quietly. Sherlock seemed far away somehow, lost in thought. It wasn't an unusual look on him, but they were between cases and Moriarty was finally disposed of - John couldn't figure out what where his head might be. He didn't even protest when Angelo plunked a ridiculous looking carved candle down between them, winking in their direction as he turned back towards the kitchen. John thought he might've even seen a little smile – but surely he had imagined that. The thought turned his cheeks pink for the second time that evening.

Really John, get a grip. He's an attractive man but that's no reason to make blushing a habit.

Sherlock stayed quiet throughout the meal, almost like he was waiting for John to put the words in his mouth for him. John, for his part, was trying to focus solely on his food instead of the curve of Sherlock's upper lip, which had suddenly become considerably more interesting than it had any right to be. He stared down at his pasta, determined to avoid being caught ogling his flatmate. He eyed each noodle intently, and tried to think of how best to coax Sherlock into eating at least half his meal. An ambitious goal, certainly, but not unheard of, and with Sherlock so subdued John figured he was more than up to it.

When he finally glanced back up at Sherlock - certainly not with the intent of testing if he'd memorized the lines of his cupid's bow, that would be ridiculous - he was surprised to see Sherlock forking his own pasta into his mouth with what could very nearly be described as enthusiasm. John's jaw dropped, and Sherlock smiled pleasantly back at him.

"I don't eat and I get severely reprimanded. I eat and your resulting expression is that of a person who has just seen a ghost. Not that such a thing could ever occur, as ghosts are clearly a fictitious coping mechanism for people inhabiting creaky houses who can't manage grief appropriately, but you understand the figure of speech. Really John, what must I do to please you? Do tell, and make an effort to stop gaping, you look approximately as intelligent as Anderson."

John promptly clamped his jaws together, gawked for a few more seconds at Sherlock's nearly empty plate, then burst out laughing.

"Alright, you tosser, you've got me there. I haven't the foggiest what got you to put away an entire plate, but I'm thrilled that you managed it."

"I work well when properly motivated John, and I aim to please. You, that is."

John turned properly scarlet at his words, delicately spoken with just enough suggestion to make John wonder if there was any sort of implication behind his declaration. Asexual, he reminded himself. Married to his work, and besides, you like flirting with women, not your bloody flatmate.

As they walked back towards 221B, stomachs full and the sky lit up above them, John snuck a glance at the man beside him. Sherlock was wonderfully tall and practically glowing from a combination of starlight and well-placed streetlamps. He was undeniably beautiful, and all the more so for the parts of him that couldn't be see – that unbelievable brain, and the all too well concealed heart. John's eyes lingered, appreciating everything beside him, when he felt Sherlock's gaze turn down to meet his own.

They looked at each other for a fraction of a second, yet somehow much longer. John felt something twist in some unnamed part of him, and he bit back a grin.

Alright, you're an idiot for it, but maybe it's time to extend your sexuality to include a certain genius. Women and flatmates, well flatmate at least – that's perfectly fine, isn't it?