Sherlock woke up after what felt like only a few short hours of sleep. Bits and pieces of the dream kept coming back to him, making his sleep restless. The consulting detective groaned: what was wrong with him? One did not have those kinds of dreams about their best friend. And if that said best friend found out… Sherlock suppressed a shudder. He would hate it if John knew about the contents of his nightly vision. He would probably think Sherlock desired him. Sherlock Holmes, desire someone? Rubbish! He must have been spending too much time with the likes of Anderson and Donavan: remaining in the presence of world class idiots did reduce the brain's intelligence quotient, after all. Feeling slightly reassured, Sherlock got out of bed, slipped his robe on and went out into the sitting room.

John was already sitting at the table, sipping his coffee and eating his breakfast while reading the newspaper. Sherlock paused in his tracks, openly staring at his friend without realizing it. The image of the doctor touching him intimately appeared in his mind's eye and Sherlock roughly shook his head, desperately trying to get rid of the picture that was threatening to overwhelm him again.

"Sherlock?"

A flood of heat burned the consulting detective's cheeks as he heard his name being uttered by the man who had invaded that damned nightly vision. Sherlock frowned: he was blushing now? When was the last time he did that? The memory returned to him and he rolled his eyes. He remembered now, and it had been all Mycroft's fault. Damn him and his need to be the best. And he actually wondered why his younger brother refused to speak to him.

"Uh, are you okay, Sherlock? You look a little flushed all of a sudden," John said a little worriedly. Sherlock was able to sense his friend's instincts as a doctor flare up and he rolled his eyes a second time. He hated it when John – or anyone – fussed over him; it made him feel like some helpless child. He could take care of himself regardless what was ailing him, and he was determined to find out exactly what was attacking his brain.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock replied in his usual manner as he approached the table and settled himself into a chair. "And good morning to you too."

"Good morning," John said, eyeing Sherlock closely. "Are you sure there's nothing –"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, a little harshly.

"All right, all right. There's no need to bite."

"Then don't make it so easy."

John sighed heavily and shook his head before returning to his breakfast, his attention once again upon the newspaper. Light footsteps were coming up the stairs and Sherlock turned his head on time to see Mrs Hudson bustle in. That woman was always ridiculously cheerful in the morning, something that, despite himself, Sherlock found somewhat endearing. Mrs Hudson was very much like a mother to him and her motherly instincts almost never failed to detect something wrong with her boys, as demonstrated by the scrutiny she was throwing his way as she entered the kitchen.

"Good morning, you two," Mrs Hudson called from the kitchen. "Everything all right, Sherlock, dear?"

"All is peachy, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied indifferently, snatching the newspaper right out of John's hand.

"Hey!" John cried. "I was reading that!"

"And now I'm reading it. I need to be on the lookout for any interesting cases."

"See that pile of correspondence that you stabbed a knife into on the mantel? Go examine those instead!"

"I have one word for them: dull."

"Then why keep them?"

"Everyone needs a good laugh here and there, John."

"Laughing at other people's problems. Very nice."

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, no."

"You boys argue like a pair of teenagers at times. Sherlock, you look like someone who woke up quite suddenly in the middle of the night and didn't rest sufficiently afterwards. Did you have a nightmare?" Mrs Hudson asked with genuine concern.

"Children have nightmares, Mrs Hudson. I'm not a child," Sherlock said. The honest truth was that he didn't know if the dream could be called a nightmare. Whatever it was, the consulting detective wanted to forget about it as quickly as he could.

"I had nightmares when I returned from Afghanistan," John stated sharply.

Sherlock glanced at him. "You were a soldier. If you had told me that you suffered no posttraumatic symptoms upon leaving the war I would have been very surprised," Sherlock informed him.

The doctor simply looked at him. "Good save," he replied as he took a sip from his coffee, smiling a little into his mug. Sherlock couldn't help but noticed that, even when partly concealed, John had a nice smile. It lit up his features, especially his eyes. Those eyes were the first to gaze upon him in awe and wonder and not in anger and resentment when the consulting detective had deduced everything about the doctor. Sherlock remembered the small but powerful bubble of happiness that had swelled inside him at the admiration John had for him: it was – dared he say it? – nice.

"Sherlock? Are you still with us?" John asked.

Sherlock roughly shook his head and opened his mouth to answer. Before he could even make a sound a shrill scream came from the kitchen. Sherlock sighed as John widened his eyes.

"Don't," Sherlock told him as John made a move to stand. "It's just an experiment, Mrs Hudson. And before you ask, I did not behead anyone."

"Another severed head in the fridge? Sherlock…" John said, sitting back down.

"What? You know I keep human body parts in the kitchen and so does our landlady. I don't know what the fuss is about," Sherlock replied indignantly.

"It's disturbing."

"It's science."

John huffed impatiently and crossed his arms. Sherlock smiled in satisfaction before returning to the newspaper. A few robberies occurred but they were far too commonplace to pique the consulting detective's interest; a murder down in Kensington that was so painfully obvious that Sherlock felt Scotland Yard would be shut down if they didn't figure out who the criminal was by the end of the day; an old house caught fire, clearly caused by an outdated heating system. Sherlock sighed again. Weren't there any decent crimes in London?

"I would like to have my newspaper back, please," John suddenly said.

Sherlock did not even spare him a glance. "I'm still reading it," he said tonelessly.

"I had it first."

"And now I have it. Wait your turn."

"All right, then. If that's how you want to play it then I'll just read with you."

Come again? Sherlock thought. He heard John's chair scrape the floor and became acutely aware of a presence hovering over him. John was leaning over his shoulder, reading the various articles. He was so close that Sherlock was not only able to smell the aftershave off him but also feel the heat he was radiating. The consulting detective shivered and his heart began to race to the point it became difficult to breathe, and he tried his hardest to calm it while almost panicking at what was happening; was he suffering a heart attack? John then suddenly extended a hand to turn the page and in the process he brushed his friend's hand. An electric current passed through that brief moment of contact and Sherlock sprang away from the doctor out of shock, knocking down his chair. His heart continued to pound hard against his chest and he could not think clearly. This was not the first time John had touched him so why this reaction? It had to be that damn dream messing with his mind; it had to be! Sherlock could see no other logic explanation to why being in such close proximity to his friend was making him react this way.

John was staring at him in astonishment and the clatter the fallen chair had made had lured Mrs Hudson from the kitchen.

"What was that noise?" she asked. She noticed the chair. "Oh, Sherlock! It's bad enough that you store human heads in the refrigerator but please try not to damage the furniture. It's not a difficult request, you know."

"I – I –" Sherlock stammered. Now he couldn't speak properly? What was wrong with him?

"Sherlock, are you sure you're all right? You're very agitated all of a sudden," John said worriedly.

Sherlock made a non-committal sound and rushed back to his bedroom before he could embarrass himself further. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it. He was shaking all over, and he could barely support himself. How could one dream do all this? Or was he slowly going mad? Sherlock was having a hard time trying to distinguish the two; if only he had a case to distract himself from this madness.

It suddenly hit him and the consulting detective almost laughed out of sheer relief: he was going through a serious case withdrawal. There had been no mind-boggling investigations in three weeks and Sherlock had been almost climbing the walls (he would have shot them if John didn't always keep his gun on him) due to severe frustration. His mind had never been able to endure stagnation and now thanks to this prolonged period of idleness it was trying to shield itself from the everlasting boredom by creating bizarre, complex scenarios. Sherlock needed to get down to Scotland Yard and see if Lestrade had something for him to work on. The consulting detective was willing to tackle even the weakest of challenges: anything to ease his mind once more.

Sherlock practically threw his clothes on and went back out. He made his way down the hallway and into the sitting room, where Mrs Hudson had now joined John at the dining table. They both looked at him and Sherlock tried to ignore them as he made his way to the door. As he was putting his coat on, he heard one of them stand up and he silently deduced who it was by the sound of the chair scraping the floor.

"Where are you going?" John asked. Sherlock could almost hear the 'You're not going anywhere' in that tone.

"Out," he replied coolly, tying his scarf.

"I think you should stay in," John declared firmly.

"And I think I need to go out," Sherlock said, straightening his spine. "Problem?"

"Yes, problem! You're acting abnormally."

"Which is exactly why I need to leave."

Before John could say another word, Sherlock stormed out. He quickly descended the stairs and stepped outside. The sun was shining high in the bright blue sky and the Londoners were all out and about, enjoying the lovely weather. Sherlock hailed a taxi and climbed into it as it slowed to stop in front of him. He instructed the driver to bring him to Scotland Yard and they eased into the traffic. Sherlock leaned against the seat and watched London fly by. Hopefully, the mental exercise he was desperately craving will bring his mind back to safer, more rational place.