John had another dream. It was his own fault. Too much mulled wine. Inevitable really. And there he was back in the weird world of Watson. That strange dreamland where everything was familiar but not. Where the man he recognised as Sherlock, wasn't his Sherlock but someone else's. This Sherlock was still tall and lean, still all razor sharp edges and genius. But not his.
For the first time in his dream, there was a mirror. And John caught sight of himself in it. Only it wasn't him. Not really. The tall, burly, golden haired John Watson that looked back from the mirror was who he had always wanted to be. Not who he was. And he wondered if that was who the dream Sherlock saw when those green eyes came to bear on him. Some bulky, solid, bruiser of a man that could beat up the bad guys and be of some use. Surely this dream Sherlock would never look like that at the real John Watson? Little short stocky John Watson with his bad shoulder and occasional limp? Not likely.
But then there was that beautiful moment when John had rejoined the real world. When the face in the wardrobe mirror was his. And it was his Sherlock holding on to him. His Sherlock smoothing his hair down and telling him it would all be all right. And John felt sorry for the dream Watson, whoever he was. Because he would never get that, no matter how much he wanted it.
John pulled Sherlock close to him. Pulling his flatmate down tight against his small chunky frame. Never wanting to let go. Never wanting to admit that there was possibly another world where Sherlock and John never did this. A world so far away from this one that it scared John. Because perhaps one day he wouldn't make it back?
Sherlock was not quite sure what was going on with his flatmate. Dreams were so hard to deduce. He only had a feeling that John had been a very long way away, but now he was home.
"I missed you Sherlock."
"I love you too John."