That night, as he lie in bed, half-asleep, half-awake, John thought.

His mind (and his heart, he reminded himself, before realizing how cheesy that sounded) had been hijacked by Sherlock. John could only think of him, his porcelain skin, his twinkling gray eyes, how it felt when his thin hands entangled themselves in his hair. The detective's sweet lips on his own, never wanting to let go, wanting to become each other.

As he got closer to actually becoming unconscious, the thoughts turned more menacing. Now Sherlock's eyes were narrowed in disgust at John: John who couldn't move his legs, John who couldn't climb stairs, John who needed someone to push him up a ramp.

Then his closed eyes were bombarded with a storm of dead Sherlocks. The detective's eyes were open, staring into nothing, and the gray beauties were no longer twinkling, but blank and dull, so very dull. So very un-Sherlock.

"John."

His eyes snapped open to see the face of his lover. "Sherlock? What are you doing here?" John inquired groggily.

"Another nightmare?" was all the detective would say, and the doctor affirmed it with a sigh and a nod. So Sherlock pulled the covers up and slid into the bed beside the paralyzed man, then wrapped his long arms around his lover and pulled him close. John let his head rest on Sherlock's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He let himself breath slower, let himself drift away...

"Just think of me, John. I will always be right here, with you, and I will never let anything happen to you." It was whispered, and Sherlock made sure John was too far gone to actually hear and apprehend the phrase, though some part of him wanted John to know that he did really feel this way.

John fell asleep and dreamt of nothing but the heavenly feeling of being in this man's arms.

When Sherlock woke up, it was morning. The sun smiled through the windows, beaming onto him and announcing the start of the bright day.

The detective blinked, then looked down at the man who had his arms wrapped around him. John's hair was a bit mussed up, but seemed to give off its own sheen of golden light, mixed in with a bit of firey orange and the color of a pure halo outlining it. The doctor was still asleep, his face slack, making him look ten years younger than he actually was. He breathed in and out steadily, his eyes closed, and, although he was very much asleep, his arms were embracing his lover quite securely. Sherlock couldn't get up or move away without waking his lover.

Not that he wanted to move away.

Sherlock closed his eyes again and let his cheek rest on his lover's hair. How he loved this man. John couldn't see his emotions, because it was silly for his personal thoughts and feelings to be some display for everyone to see.

If they could all just feel what Sherlock felt for John, then they would understand.

Sherlock closed his eyes and relaxed. He and John, lying like this, entwined together, fit like two pieces of a puzzle that you hadn't thought of to put together before. Now that they were together, they were perfect. No awkward arms sticking out, no random foot coming out of the blankets, no smothering. Wonderfully relaxed.

"Mmm..." John grumbled, waking. Sherlock smiled at how...oh, it was wonderful that his thoughts were all his own...how adorable the doctor was at that moment. "What time is it?"

Sherlock smirked. Not his You're-A-Git-And-You-Sound-So-Stupid-Right-Now smirk, or his "I-Have-Just-Ultimately-Outsmarted-ou-And-Insulted -You-All-In-One-Sentence smirk. It was a brand-new, never seen before, minty fresh John-You're-Absolutely-Sweet-And-Adorable-And-I-Wa nt-To-Eat-You-Right-This-Very-Moment smirk.

"9:12. You don't have to get up-" Sherlock stopped himself. There wasn't any way John could get up. How stupid of him. Sherlock wanted the words to explode and never have existed, but it was too late.

But John just smirked his own smirk, one that didn't have a name, though it was wry and beamed irony. "Not like I can."

The two of them lie there for a time, until it was nearly 9:35, and John said,"Want breakfast? I'll make some tea." Sherlock agreed. "Yes, I'm actually a bit hungry. Cup of tea would do nicely." He turned to his lover. "Want me to make toast?"

John raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Sherlock Holmes offering to make toast? But it's so boring."

"Yes. It's simple. You take two slices of bread and press a button. I've got the easy job. And you can make the tea!" The detective prodded John in the ribs, making the doctor gasp and move away. His lover smiled and swung his long legs out of bed and to the kitchen.

John scooted himself over to the side of the bed where his wheelchair was. He had been working on his upper arm strength and it had payed off. With a few quick movements, John was in his wheelchair and making his way to the kitchen to make tea.

John's groggy smile grew when he saw Sherlock walking around the kitchen, wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, barefoot, his hair mussed up from sleep and absolutely John's.

"Tea cannot wait, John!" the detective announced much like a battle cry, an untoasted slice of bread threatening to project itself from Sherlock's mouth onto John's forehead. "Yes, yes, alright," the doctor muttered, wheeling himself over to put the kettle on. As they waited, Sherlock placed himself in his lover's lap.

"Yes, hello," John said, voice a bit muffled. "Although I do love you, it's a bit hard to breathe with your spine up my nose."

Sherlock swiveled around with as much grace as a crane, legs on either side of John's and his forehead pressing against the doctor's. "This better?"

John blushed. "Yeah..."

Sherlock was leaning forward to say hello to John with his lips when the kettle squealed and he jumped up to answer it.

"I thought I was making the tea?"

"Doesn't matter who does what, this isn't school," Sherlock teased. "And I do know how to make tea, John." He poured his lover a cup while John wheeled over to the couch, still a bit tired, and moved himself onto it, lying down and smiling at the smell of fresh tea.

He had nearly dozed off when someone set a plate and a cup down on the coffee table. John opened his eyes. "If you wanted to stay in bed, you could have just said so," his lover's voice announced.

"I didn't."

"Oh, well, then, let's have some telly, then. Anything. I've got your tea ready." Sherlock helped him sit up to eat and watch something that they didn't really know and weren't really interested in; but it wasn't that bad that they hated it. Soon, Sherlock was lying down with his feet resting on John's lap. By afternoon, John was lying on Sherlock, head on the detective's chest, listening to his heartbeat, knowing that he was alive. Sherlock had his arms wrapped around the other man.

They belonged to each other.

They fell asleep like that every night, most nights in bed, arms wrapped around each other, and there were no nightmares for an entire week while they were in love.

A/N: Wow, it's been a while. I am so very sorry for the months-long-wait for the updates, but I have literally had many auditions that I have been practicing for and freaking out over. Great news, though! I was accepted into a performing arts high school! I'm trying to be accepted into as many orchestras as I can, and it's easy since I only know six other people who play the double bass.

Next chapter is up immediately!

Fun Fact: Mark Gatiss, who portrays Mycroft Holmes also has also written two episodes of Sherlock, is openly gay. (My friend is gay and I openly support gay marriage! :D Hopefully soon in all 50 states!)