Sorry for OOC Sherlock, please

I thought. All day I sat in my chair, going through my mind palace. More specifically, I was analyzing John's wing. My avatar self ran a hand through my hair tiredly. I had been copying and moving things into a room labled: Evidence that he loves me.

There just wasn't enough. I wanted to pursue him. I wanted things to be the way things were in my dream. I just couldn't risk him leaving me if I did try to pursue him. Because looming ominously across the hall was a dark room, this one labeled: Evidence that he doesn't love me.

That room was supposed to be small. I wanted it to just be a closet. But there was just so much stuff in there! In the center of the room, the biggest piece, was the phrase "I'm not gay!" with a number 26 beside it. 26 occurrences. There was a small note in this room, stuffed into a corner somewhere, something about how denying it so insistently could be a sign of overcompensation, but it hardly mattered to me.

The best piece of evidence in this room was not even very impressive at all, but I spent a lot of time with it. It was a memory, the memory of me with my shock blanket, realizing that John had killed someone for me. He looked at me, and I knew then that he really cared for me.

I sighed again and left my mind palace. "So . . . boooooooooored. . ." It was only 1:18; John wouldn't be home for hours. Without hardly thinking, I got up and walked into my room, collapsing on my bed and wrapping myself up in my sheets. Maybe if I could get a nap, just maybe I could have another one of those dreams . . .

It took me a bit longer to fall asleep, my mind was occupied trying to guess what would happen, hoping for the best and fearing the worst, but I eventually relaxed enough to fall asleep. And, like before, I faded right through sleep to being awake on the other side: as it was, it seemed I was changing over from one world to the next.

The other world appeared to parallel the real one, approximately 12 hours behind, because there I lay, next to John in his bed, at 1:43. I stirred, rolling over so I could curl as much as my body into John's so he was wrapped around me.

"Sherlock?" he breathed. "Did I wake you?"

"No . . ." I replied just as quietly. He stroked my arm lovingly.

"Not another bad dream, was it?"

"No, not really, I suppose. Just dull. I couldn't wait to get back to you." John chuckled almost imperceptibly.

"I'll never understand you."

"You have to work in the morning," I observed. He hummed an affirmative.

"But I can't sleep. My head is so full of thoughts. Maybe I'll go downstairs and read a bit until I'm more tired." I scowled and wrapped my arms around his waist tightly.

"Noooooooooooooooooooo . . . don't go, Jawn," I whined. "Tell me a story." He laughed again, a little louder now.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Tell me about when we first started . . . you know . . . this."

"Like, being together? You already know, you were there!"

"Yes, but I want to hear how you remember it. Tell me like you'd tell someone who wasn't there, like you're writing it on your blog," I commanded. He sighed and rolled over onto his back, and I adjusted my position so I was cuddling his chest like a pillow.

"Well, let's see then. It was about five months ago, a bit more . . . beginning of November, wasn't it?" I nodded into him, having no idea. "You'd been acting strange for maybe three months. You were snappy to the girls I brought over, and you either avoided me as much as possible or you wouldn't leave me alone. You seemed almost . . . depressed, dare I say. I told Mycroft about it and – well, you know, he knew what was wrong but he promised you he wouldn't tell me. After a while, you started treating me . . . like, I don't know . . . like I wasn't your friend. Like I was your assistant that you didn't like very much. You only talked to me if it was related to a case or you wanted to make me tea. I was . . . hurt, to say the least." I noticed John's voice cracking a bit at the memory and held him tighter. "I thought you didn't like me anymore. Then . . . then I got into that accident."

I felt each of my muscles tense. "Accident?" John sighed impatiently.

"Yes, Sherlock, the accident. Don't tell me you want me to explain that." I snuggled into him hopefully.

"You don't have to if you don't want to . . ."

"Alright, alright. I was angry with you being so . . . cold to me. I was stewing over it, so I decided to go to work early just to get away from you. I got into a cab, and we were crossing through an intersection . . . I looked out the window, a truck was coming right for me. It hit the cab right where I was sitting. I blacked out immediately. I had internal bleeding and was rushed to emergency surgery. When I woke up, I was so confused . . . but I felt you holding my hand."

John wriggled down the bed so he could look into my eyes, and his voice softened. "You were sitting next to my bed, asleep, holding my hand, and there were dried tears on your face. I hadn't thought you cared for me enough to even acknowledge that I'd been injured, let alone cry at my bedside. That's when I knew that you loved me, and I loved you, too."

We laid quietly for a while, our breathing peacefully even. "Sherlock?" John finally breathed. "Are you asleep?" I kept still, and he kissed me on the forehead before getting into a more comfortable position.