This chapter is terribly johnlocky. I'm sorry, one of my dear reviewers said they'd love it if I took the Johnlock out of subtext and put into regular text. So I did. I swore to myself I'd resist the urge and keep this romance-free... but the Johnlocker inside was too strong. I hope you enjoy anyways.

If you're a non-believer and hate Johnlock. Then ski-... actually, I don't think you can skip this. It might be relevant later. I can't be sure.

As I drift off to sleep that night I dream, vividly. It's hardly a prophetic dream about what is to come or some dreadful nightmare of what might happen again, just an oddly real dream. I can't see anything, but the air feels real in my lungs and I'm almost certain that I'm buried in sheep. Sherlock crawls into the pile of sheep next to me. It vaguely occurs to me that he does so every night in this weird dream world. He wraps his eight arms around me and his forty fingers are drifting, clutching and entangling themselves where ever they can manage. A few of them tickle across my arms while others grab at my hands and one hesitantly creeps from my shoulder to my chest. I try to catch one of his hands in mine, but my arms are unresponsive. It dawns on me that I must be a mannequin. His nose buries itself in my shoulder and his feathery eyelashes brush over my neck like bird's wings.

"John. Can you hear me?" His voice is muffled in my shirt, but it's as solid and steady as ever. Even though I can feel his breathing shudder behind me and his fingers fluttering, shakily over my skin."No, don't answer. I know you can." Sherlock's voice softens in my shoulder. With a shuddering sigh, the ever present ice melts from his voice leaving an unsure, nervous quality behind.

"John, do you remember the dementor on the train? Of course you do. No one forgets a dementor. But- I got rid of it with a charm called patronus. I've... never been able to cast it... before then. And I've tried hundreds of times. It runs on a happy memory and I've tried every even remotely pleasant memory I've ever had and in every situation possible. But nothing worked. I even tried it in front of a real dementor and well..." His breath hitches and his nose buries deeper into my shoulder. One of his hands finds the pulse point of my wrist.

"I'm not telling you about that now. Or ever actually. But you'll probably find out somehow. Anyways, my point is, I had never been able to cast that spell before and I never knew why. Even as I cast it, I didn't know what I had done right. I couldn't track what I was thinking or feeling other than you were in danger and I couldn't let you- you couldn't-..." An icy diamond tear makes a snail trail down my neck.

"The other day I remembered that we were laughing just before the dementor came. Isn't it odd how that the darkest shadows always pop up after lighter moments. Anyways, I remembered what I was thinking of. It was the taxi driver case. The 'first case'. I was thinking back on the moment I saw you on the other side of the police tape... looking so ordinary and innocent after shooting that bloody taxi driver for me... Even though you had only met me that morning." His voice is barely a whisper. The silver puddle of tears forming on my pillow of wool deepens. I briefly wonder if there might be oysters at the bottom of it. Maybe I'll wake up in a bed of pearls in the morning.

"I'm afraid that I don't give you enough credit, John. I'm afraid that you think you're just a step above the skull, when you're so much more." I finally succeed in moving my hands and reach for his. It's cold when I find it. So very cold. Then again, I'd expect nothing else from a man made of marble. I drag the hand through the piles sheep's wool and over my heart, to warm it. Although, I don't know how much warmth I could give it, if I'm just a mannequin. "You're the one who gave me the ability to save someone. And you're the only one I've ever wanted to save. You're my friend and my bodyguard and doctor and blogger and morals. Even now, mostly unconcious, you are my diary. I know you don't know this, but nearly all my secrets are lying in your subconscious. Probably in your dreams. And I know I can trust you to keep them." I manage to pry one eye open when the weight distribution shifts behind me. Sherlock's looming over me. One hand still laying against my chest. Diamond clinging to his eyelashes "Do you know how I can be so certain?"

"Mmm?" He smiles so sadly. A blink dislodges the tiny gems onto his cheek. The sharp facets must be hurting him as they drag across his skin like that. But I suppose the hard marble of his skin can take it. It must be so hard to move so gracefully, with limbs made of rock.

"Because in the morning, you won't even remember I was here."

"No... Sher..." I reach out as he pulls farther away. My fingertips barely brush is shoulder before he's stand over me, folding my arm back into the cushions and pulling the heavy blankets over me.

"Shh John. My John. It's better this way. If you were fully concious, I'd be on the floor by now. Go back to sleep." He croons softly, long fingers running through my hair. I try to protest, but his voice drags me down like lead weights in the sea. My eyelids drop and my mind drifts away. "Sleep."

As day breaks in through the open window, I wipe the sleep from my eyes and pry my face from the wet spot on my pillow and stumble into the office.

"Morning Sherlock." I mutter at the violin-wielding silhouette in the window. Sherlock grunts back and raises his bow to continue his composition. Sweet and somber. It's going to be so hard to wake up this morning. I roll my shoulders and duck into the kitchenette behind the bookcase to go through the morning rountine of pouring two cups of tea.

"Do dreams have any significance to wizards? Do they... mean anything" I ask as I re-enter the room. The violin screeches to a halt as I put Sherlock's cup on the side of his desk. Sherlock's eyes widen where they were glued to the sunrise, but no other muscle on his face so much as twitches.

"Why do you ask?" He asks as his upper lip dips under the porcelain rim of the cup.

"I had a really vivid dream last night. It just made me curious, is all." I settle into one end of the sofa, relaxing into the haze of the early morning and one excellent cup of tea.

"Hm. Divination claims that dreams can predict the future..." His tone makes it clear that such claims are just as valid as horoscopes in the muggle world. I just- I just referred to the normal world as 'muggle'. Tht's so weird. He replaces his violin on his shoulder and raises the bow. "But I'd never peg you for a seer."

"If I am, then we have a lot of oysters in our future." I chuckle, wiping the moisture from my jaw. Ugh. I must've drooled in my sleep.

"Oysters." He says, his voice falling between notes of his song. "I never liked them. They're just slime in a shell."

"Well. You better get used to them. According to my all-seeing sleep sight, they'll invade the planet as we know it." I sip casually at my tea as I stare aimlessly at the moving pictures on yesterday's newspaper. I'm not sure what I find so fascinating about moving photographs. It's basically just a magical take on movies. But I those tiny waving people are just impossible to look away from.

"How long do we have, doctor?" He built up the tension on our little oyster drama with his violin.

"Judging by the reproductive rate of oysters and the current population... I'd say..." The violin shrieked to its climax. "God, I'm hungry. What do you think they have laid out for breakfast today?"

"Oysters, of course. We have to aid the combat of the invasion" We giggled all the way to the great hall.