Chapter 2: Dreams are for Men with Hope
"I dreamt of him again… Last night, actually."
"Same dream?" John's therapist asked from across the room.
He hesitated, then swallowed the rather large knot in his throat and shook his head. "Not exactly."
She nodded keenly, writing on her yellow tablet. John could only assume it was her thoughts, or her judgment of his issues. Maybe she was inscribing word for word what he was saying, which made him feel rather uncomfortable with such idea. Aside from the obvious lack of privacy in keeping his most intimate secrets kept on a yellow tablet, there was one very unobvious reason. Mycroft. Sure, John didn't work with Sherlock anymore since his death, so why would Mycroft still be interested in him?
Well, Mycroft was Mycroft, and John didn't trust him as far as he could throw him.
Mycroft was a sneaky bastard who enjoyed invading a person's privacy and anything else remotely sacred. Besides that, John already knew Mycroft had somehow read his therapists notes once before. So he knew that telling the good doctor everything this afternoon would be… illogical and just plain silly. That meant he wasn't going to be talking about his sex dream staring the late and great Sherlock Holmes, especially if his brother had access to such information.
"Tell me about the dream, John. How was it different?"
He cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair. "Just different…"
Her dark brown eyes stared coldly at him. He shifted again.
"I just had a… conversation with Sherlock. And if felt… real."
She nodded, than scribbled.
"Like really—real." John continued. "As if he were actually standing in the room, talking to me. I can still hear his voice ringing in my ears now."
Actually what he really kept hearing were… moans. Loud and guttural, to whimpering moans. The really hot kind. The moans made when someone was about to get off. Orgasm… And he could hear it coming from Sherlock's mouth. His perfectly sensuous mouth as John kissed and licked, tasted and… sucked.
He felt his face flush and his skin tingle at the memory. Oh dear God, he thought in alarm. It was like being an adolescent all over again—having horrible wet dreams that made him wake up with an erection one saluted to. And he was having them about Sherlock! He should have been alarmed this morning when he woke up. But strangely enough, he wasn't.
He was simply content to lie in bed and think about the dream. Think about how his body had animalistically knew how to be with another man and how in comparison with a woman, was different, and so enthralling. Maybe it had nothing to do with female or male- and everything to do with the man in whom he dreamt about. John's heart accelerated in his chest just thinking about it.
He had made love to Sherlock in his dream last night and it felt absolutely, incredibly—perfect.
And how John would have given anything to have that night again, that dream again. Problem was, it was just a dream.
"Where do you think this comes from? These dreams of Sherlock?" his therapist asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.
John knew instantly. When Sherlock was alive, John was secretly and irrevocably attracted to him—in a very sexual way. He had always admired Sherlock's intelligence and wit, with his manic tendencies. Yet what drew John to Sherlock in the first place was the way that the air around him seemed to electrify. Sherlock had been a man with a purpose, a goal, one in which he would do anything to get and have. John appreciated that, acknowledging how hard it was for most people to just go after the things they wanted in life. So he befriended this deducing, murder-expert detective and his life was forever changed.
But not too long after their partnership began, Sherlock's infectious personality began to consume John and the stronger their friendship grew, the more he knew how he felt and it wasn't at all innocent, but rather lustful. He fantasized about them often, always keeping it to himself and never revealing it to anyone. Especially Sherlock. Who wouldn't know what to do once something like that was revealed.
Yet somehow people kept making the assumption anyway that they were a couple, which John had to politely explain otherwise, though sometimes he wished he didn't have to. Now it was too late to have any of his desires come to life since Sherlock was gone and he would never know the truth in regards to his dear friend—that John may have actually loved Sherlock Holmes.
John, as always, was too late and too cowardly to act upon his feelings. It vanished the moment Sherlock stepped off that rooftop.
He glanced back to his therapist. "I dunno… I thought you might have some idea why he keeps popping up in my dreams."
She set her pen down softly on top of her tablet. "Honestly, I think you miss him John."
He said nothing, incapable of speech all of a sudden. It was true. He was lonely and having Sherlock around kept him away from the demons of his past. Now, he was back to being his normal, nobody self again, without a friend in the world. No one.
"Maybe it might stem from all the things left unsaid between the two of you."
He stilled. "We were just friends."
"Yes, but sometimes even friends share their emotions to one another. And I think you missed that chance with Sherlock's sudden departure."
"You make it sound like he caught a train instead of died." He mumbled bitterly.
"I get the feeling that you're a bit angry, John. Is that the first reaction you have when you think of Sherlock's death?"
"He didn't have to die." John avoided the question. He didn't want to tell her that he'd been seething with this rage for quite some time now. Maybe it was because he never told Sherlock the truth? Maybe because Sherlock had been selfish, even in his final moments and jumped with so much left between them? Maybe John was just frustrated. Frustrated that his best friend in the whole world was dead. And it took his act of death, to show that Sherlock didn't ever really love him the way John needed him to.
"I know it's been very difficult for you these past couple weeks. But acknowledging how angry you are at him for abandoning you—is okay."
She hit a nerve within his soul and all he could do was stare dully out the window. "You're right. If he was still here and I could tell him how this past month has driven me mad- I would. I would yell it." He snorted then, shaking his head carelessly. "Not like he would care, mind you. He had more important things on his mind the day he jumped off the roof than me. He didn't care. He never did."
"You think what he did was selfish?"
"Of course I do." John retorted. "If Sherlock knew how to do anything right, it was to show off. And why not make his career ruin end with the ultimate stage of death?" He felt his hand rake through his short blond hair. "I don't think he realized that his final act in life didn't get an encore."
"Are you saying Sherlock's death was a mistake? That he made an error in judgment? Because most suicidal people do, John. You must understand that he might have done it out of desperation or despair. His life was spiraling out of control and the only thing he had control over was his own life."
"That's where you're wrong." John got to his feet, pulling his coat on with jerky, abrupt movements. "Sherlock had more than that—he had me. He just couldn't see it from his own arrogance."
John was angry. He spent the rest of the afternoon trolling the streets of London, an untamable rage rippling beneath his skin. His thoughts were dark and bitter. He replayed the day of Sherlock's death over and over in his mind. Each time he saw him fall...
Sherlock left him. He didn't care what it might mean should he abandon his only friend. He didn't think about those things. That was too emotional, too sentimental. But he should have, John thought suddenly as the cold bitter London air nipped at his ears. Sherlock should have seen that his friend cared for him—loved him.
His dreams from last night were breath-taking and wonderful but it was just a reminder of what he could and would never have. Dreams were for people with hope. And John didn't have that anymore. His dreams needed to stay in the dark, where only the magical properties of hard liquor seemed to give them life. Time to lay off the booze and time to get out of Baker Street, John commanded himself firmly as he quickened his pace towards the flat.
Sherlock wasn't coming back and he needed to restart his life without memories of his past haunting him. He just couldn't stand it anymore. Last night was his breaking point.
The only thing John could rationalize now was getting his stuff out of 221 Baker Street as soon as possible. It didn't matter if he had to stay at a motel until he found a cheap apartment. He might even call some old military buddies and see if they would loan him some money, or a place to live…
John pounded up the steps to the flat and entered the desolate building. He was halfway up the stairs inside when his mobile rung. Unknown caller. He hesitated but answered.
"Yeah?"
"John," Mycroft's lofty voice spoke from the other end. "Good to hear from you."
The simmering rage John kept tampered down all day slowly began to rise. "Aw- Mycroft. I'd say it's good to hear from you too, but I'd be lying. What do you want?" He climbed the stairs once more, hand pressing the phone to his ear.
"I see you've adopted my brother's charm today."
"Get to the point, Mycroft. I've got boxes to pack and a new place to look for."
"Very well." Mycroft's voice tightened. "We have reason to believe that Sherlock isn't dead."
John's whole body froze at the top of the stairs, eyes widening in shock. "What information do you have?"
"Enough to know it's real. He's alive."
"But how…? I saw him fall—I saw the blood." As John spoke he noticed that the door to Sherlock's apartment was ajar. Frowning, he pushed open the door.
Mycroft's voice continued on the phone. "I kept tabs on that flat of yours, knowing that if Sherlock were still alive, that might be the first place he would go. Sentential value, I suppose."
"Sherlock doesn't know what sentiment means," he mumbled.
"Yes, well apparently he does."
"What are you saying…? That he's been here?" Impossible. John barely left this place, he would know if a dead man tried sneaking in.
"Yes, in fact we have surveillance from last night that shows him scaling the side of the building and sneaking into the open window of your flat."
John barely registered what Mycroft had said as he nearly went into shock the moment he walked into the living room. Sherlock Holmes sitting in his high-back chair, dressed in his usual black suit and coat with his right leg crossed over his left thigh and his fingers clasped at the tips in his lap.
"Hello, John." Sherlock said in a causal undertone.
John dropped the mobile, listening to Mycroft's voice bounce off the hardwood floor. He stared dumbfounded at the very man that had tormented his entire life for the past month. And all he could say was… hello?
An indescribable fury welled up inside of John and the urge to cave in those perfectly symmetrical cheekbones with his fist of the very much alive "friend", overwhelmed him. Rage dulled his senses and he would admit later, his intelligence. John couldn't help it. Sherlock had that effect on people.
Forgotten was the sexual fantasy that was his dream the night before, and forgotten was the mobile still echoing Mycroft's voice on the floor. John marched right up to Sherlock and without thought or reason, stared down at the arrogant face that was the man he thought he knew and… punched him.
TBC
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