"Er, why don't we just watch some telly," he replied, refusing to look Sherlock in the eye.

Lestrade plucked the remote from the coffee table and turned the television on, flipping through the channels. He stopped when he reached an old football game that peaked his interest. It was one that he'd seen before but he remembered that it was a good one. He set the remote back on the table, just in case Sherlock wanted to change the channel even though Lestrade knew he wouldn't care. They sat and watched in silence for long enough that they both jumped when a knock on the door sliced through their peace. Sherlock stood up to answer it but Lestrade motioned for him to sit back down.

"It's just the food. I'll get it."

Sherlock dropped back into the chair and glanced up as Lestrade passed by him. He rested his chin on clasped hands, letting his mind drift away from reality. There was something off about the D.I. and it was so subtle. It could've also been nothing, he conceded to himself. A slip of the tongue, a stressed mind, Sherlock wasn't completely sure. He didn't feel like he was in a right mind to be deducing anything accurately. He was, after all, going mad.

The loud crinkle of paper cut through his thoughts, as Lestrade traded money for the stuffed paper bag. They exchanged as few words as possible before he shut the door and walked back into the room. He glanced at the table in the kitchen, cluttered with dirty dishes and old experiments, and then at Sherlock. The grungy detective was deep in thought and Lestrade almost didn't want to disturb him.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" he asked, half-listening.

Lestrade started to say something but stopped himself before any sound left him. He kept his thoughts to himself as he set the bag on the coffee table and removed its contents. He spread everything out, a choice of sandwiches from a small Italian restaurant, covering the space of the table that wasn't cluttered with papers. He grabbed one for himself and sat down, unraveling the sandwich from the protective wax paper.

"Sherlock, eat something."

"Hm? Oh." Sherlock seemed disappointed, having been pulled from his thoughts for nothing more than food.

He grabbed the one closest to him, tore it open, and stared at it. Just looking at food made him feel sick but he assumed that it might've been his emotions or extreme hunger affecting him. He glanced at Lestrade, who was staring at him expectantly, and surrendered, tearing a small bite from it. When he swallowed the first bite, his stomach roared for more. The noise startled him but he appeased his hunger by taking another bite. Sherlock polished off his sandwich within a few minutes but that was nothing compared to how quickly Lestrade inhaled his.

"Feel any better?" he asked, crumpling the wax paper in his fist.

"I feel less hungry," Sherlock stated, tossing his paper onto the coffee table carelessly.

"Well, you keep the extra. Think of it as stockpiling. You won't have to do any shopping for a few days."

"…Thanks."

"No problem."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair as he and Lestrade passed the hours by watching mindless television and half partaking in mindless chatter. As the night dragged on into the beginnings of the next day, Lestrade was the first to fall sleep. His head lolled to the side, resting on his right shoulder with a small amount of saliva glistening in the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock only stayed awake because his thoughts kept him occupied. He pulled the tags from the jumper, turning them over in his hand, remembering the short time he and John had together. He remembered the day they first met and smiled for a fraction of a second. John was an unexpected human being, so stupid and smart at the same time. The small amount of joy he felt from the memories relaxed him enough to lull him to sleep.

It felt like as soon as he closed his eyes, he was wide awake again. He groaned, attempting to move to a more comfortable position but there was a pressure on his chest that held him down. He squirmed underneath it but the pressure just moved with him. He forced open his eyes to a burry room, unable to see what was on top of him for a moment. It was a mess of color, blended together like a child's painting. He blinked a couple of times, his vision clearing with each blink, until the room shifted into focus. It was his bedroom, he concluded, and he was lying under the covers of his bed.

He tried to stretch out but his right side was pinned to the bed. He glanced down to where he felt the weight on him and discovered a head with short, dirty blonde hair resting on his chest. His heart raced, fear freezing his blood, because he knew that hair. He reached up with his free hand, brushing his fingers through it, almost brought to tears because it felt exactly as he remembered. He brushed his hand through it again and again, enjoying the feel of each strand between his fingers.

"Mm. Sherlock, what're you doing?" a voice asked, muffled from being spoken into Sherlock's abdomen.

Sherlock stopped mid brush at the voice that soothed his ears. A voice he was sure he'd never hear again. "John?"

"What? What time is it?" he asked, propping his chin up on Sherlock's chest so he could see him.

Sherlock's eyes started to water when he stared into John's grayish brown ones. They looked up at him with tired affection, still glazed over from sleep. Sherlock reached out with a shaky hand and touched John's face. It felt solid, smooth, and strangely cool to his touch. He brushed the tips of his fingers across John's cheek to make sure it was real. His emotions were overloading him again, like frying an already worn out circuit board. John frowned, his brow furrowed, when he saw the first tear roll down Sherlock's face.

"Hey, are you okay?" John asked, concern consuming his features.

"Yeah," Sherlock said, smiling as his voice cracked. "I am now. It's nice to see you again."

"What are you going on about?" John asked, moving back on to his pillow so he could view him more comfortably. "Are you feeling all-"

Sherlock cut him off by grabbing his white shirt and dragging him into a kiss. It was the most passionate and expressive kiss he had ever allowed himself to give. His body was pressed to John's, his fingers entangled in that dirty blonde hair, but John was so cold. He was like a human ice cube, almost too cold to touch because it burned. It didn't click with Sherlock in that moment how strange it was, that John should've given off body heat or at least been warmed by the covers that surrounded him.

John was caught off guard and unsure what to do with his hands. They flailed in the air, searching for something to hold on to, until they decided to thread themselves into his dark, curly hair. Sherlock's breath caught in his throat at the icy fingers on his scalp. The kiss seemed to last a lifetime but it still ended too soon for Sherlock. John gazed at him with shock and awe.

"Wow," was all he managed in a husky, breathless tone.

Sherlock stared at John, expression intense. "I love you, John. You know that right? Please, tell me you know that."

"Of course I do," John laughed. "I love you too."

The detective sighed in relief, pulling John in for another, softer kiss. Those were the only words he needed to hear. They eased his soul just enough to dull the pain. He knew then that the words weren't real but he knew John well enough to know that they were true. He had pieced together why John was so strangely cold. It was because he was dreaming.

Sherlock held out his arms for dream John, inviting him to return to his sleep. John accepted happily, resting his head over Sherlock's heart, his skin like cold metal, and wrapped an arm around his waist. Sherlock closed his eyes in preparation to sleep, or wake up, he wasn't sure, but just as he was comfortable to drop back into consciousness, John perked up with one last message.

"You need to remember, Sherlock. I never left."

Sherlock woke with a start, almost falling out of his chair. The sun was bright, Lestrade was snoring like a chainsaw being fed through a wood chipper, and his neck hurt. He winced as he twisted his head from side-to-side to work out the knot. He dragged a hand from his neck down the side of his face and paused when he felt how wet his face was. He pulled his hand away, staring down at the glistening drops that covered it, and knew that he'd been crying in his sleep. He began to wipe away the tears on his face when a knock on the door made him jump.

He hesitated, looking to Lestrade, who was still sound asleep, until the second knock prompted him to stand. He walked to the door and opened the door just enough to see who was on the other side. Sherlock glanced through the gap to see the disapproving stare of his older brother.

The man before him stood with a straight posture, holding an umbrella under his left arm. His suit was tailored to fit him perfectly and was probably worth more than the average human life. Sherlock opened the door opened the door wider as Mycroft stared down his nose at his little brother, a sullied, sniveling boy. His hair was matted, his visage disheveled, and he was sure there was a pungent odor rolling off of him in waves.

"Little brother," he said politely. Sherlock was a sad, broken mess and he would care for him. It was his job and he always stepped up to do it out of love.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied shortly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You are utterly filthy. How long has it been since you washed yourself?" he asked, walked past Sherlock and into the flat.

"A few days," he mumbled, shutting the door and turning around to face him.

Sherlock appeared so small to Mycroft, smaller than he had ever looked before. He was a lost little boy, emotionally learning to stand on his own two feet. When Sherlock looked him in the eye in that moment, Mycroft knew how much he really needed him. His older brother's expression softened enough to be noticeable. Sherlock caught the change but he wasn't sure what about him was suddenly different. He eyed him suspiciously, arms still crossed, as his brother inspected his flat.

"Hmm, it's good to see that Detective Inspector Lestrade is doing his job diligently," Mycroft said, stopping in front of the D.I.

He grabbed his umbrella from under his arm and whacked Lestrade on the leg with it. The sleeping man was startled out of his slumber from the throbbing pain in his shin. His face contorted into a combination of surprise and agony. He reached down, rubbing the affected area while glaring up at Mycroft. The look he received in return was one of smug superiority.

"Thanks for that, Mycroft," he grumbled, standing from his chair as he fixed his wrinkled clothes.

"It's no problem, Gregory. Just doing my part."

Lestrade sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Thanks for coming down on such short notice."

"I would've been here sooner if work hadn't been so dire. I'm lucky I was able to wrap it up as quickly as I did. Thank you, Gregory, for keeping an eye on him."

"It was no trouble. I just hope you can help him."

"I'm standing right here," Sherlock whined.

"We know, little brother. Your scent makes you quite noticeable," Mycroft snapped before turning back to Lestrade. "Thank you again."

"You're welcome," he said, walking toward the front door. "Good luck, Sherlock."

The Holmes brothers watched as Lestrade walked out the door, shutting it behind him, and then turned to each other in unison. Mycroft looked Sherlock over, assessing the situation. There was something almost like a grimace on his face.

"First things first, you need to shower."

"That's the most important thing right now?" Sherlock asked, incredulous.

"Now," Mycroft demanded.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I am an adult an-"

Mycroft shot him that look. The stern one their mother would give them when her patience was at its breaking point. Mycroft learned well from her. Sherlock cursed and pulled the jumper from his torso, throwing it at the chair Lestrade had occupied. He ripped the trousers from his lower half as he walked, leaving them behind on the floor. He made a tantrum of it, huffing his way to the bathroom and slamming the door when he entered his destination.

"Stop being such a child, Sherlock," Mycroft called from the living room, where he had helped himself to a chair.

All he received in response was a loud thump on the bathroom door from Sherlock punching it. He both hated and loved his brother; he just wasn't sure which emotion was stronger. He rested his bare back against the cool door for a moment, losing himself in thought. There was something at the forefront of his mind about the dream he'd had, something John said. It didn't sit well with him, making him uneasy, but he didn't have the chance to figure it out because Mycroft interrupted him again.

"I don't hear any water running!" he called, his voice muffled through the door.

Sherlock sighed, almost sounding like a growl, and turned on the water. He waited until the water was hot, steam rolling from the shower, and stripped off his boxers. He left them crumpled on the floor, placed the dog tags on the sink counter, and stepped in. The water soaked his hair, dampening and straightening the curls, and washed the dirt and excess blood from his body. It did everything it was supposed to, he noticed, but only visually. He couldn't feel the water.

He was curious and a little afraid as he watched the drops trail down his skin, leaving streaks, covering every inch of him but he didn't feel a single one. He turned to the white tiled wall of the shower, stroking it to see if he could still feel at all and was relieved to feel the cool, slick surface beneath his fingers. The question was, why not the water?

He touched his hair and it didn't feel wet, just flattened to his head like it knew it should be wet despite evidence to the contrary. He stared down at the drain as the blood-stained water and grains of dirt swirled around it. Panic was setting in as he started to worry about his own sanity again. He scrambled from the shower and turned off the water with alarming speed. He peered down at his skin to see the water sliding down his body, pooling on the bathmat at his feet, but he still couldn't feel it. Something was very wrong and he couldn't explain it.