It had started out normally, with breasts and moistened thighs spread around his hips. She didn't have a face but he knew instinctively that she was beautiful. Dreams were interesting like that. If he cared or paused to consider, she might have had three hands considering the places he felt touched and teased simultaneously. It really wasn't about her and so the details didn't matter. She was just something he'd made up from scraps picked up from the telly. She was tall but that was fine. Her long legs parted beautifully and she bent effortlessly as he took her on her side, straddling one thigh as the other pressed to his chest. He liked the way each thrust bounced her breasts as they rocked, liked the long stretch of her neck as she cried out at the clever ministrations of his fingers that expertly teased against her naked folds above their intimate joining. He was a god and she was a believer, exalting him with every breath that hitched and rose in timbre. The sweat on her leg made it harder to hold on to, his ring spinning with the lubrication of their efforts. And that was all it took. Just one thought, one notice, one rogue mention of the ring that even his sleeping mind knew would be there, and subtly things began to change-so subtle John hadn't even noticed. It was as if she'd never had breasts to begin with but then he'd been with rather flat chested women so the lack of an exaggerated bounce wasn't a sign in itself. The body was still smooth and lean and glistening in an exhaustive sheen as he drove his hips forward, belly bouncing against her thigh. A thigh. She might have been a blonde or red head before but she was definitely a brunette now with short curls sticking in sweat to skin. And then acclimation be damned. It was Sherlock. It was his voice calling out for sweet mercy, his muscles jumping under his skin in rolling pleasure just shy of ultimate bliss. It was his hands in the sheets and his eyes peeking through dark lashes to watch John with pupils blown wide. It was a cock in John's hand and it wasn't his own. He knew exactly where his was and he was loving it, teasing his lover with short thrusts then leveraging him tightly with his arm around his leg as he took him like a crash test, out then in at full force, striking hard with the sweet smack of skin. And he stroked him-not like he would a woman, more or less exactly as he would himself. Sherlock's voice was a panic of gasps as he fell back with no claims to control. He was John's; John had the power here and Sherlock granted it to him willingly and breathlessly as he prayed for more.

John did not wake immediately as he came. He luxuriated in it, making sure his partner was pleased by it. Only as the slow seepage called to his conscious mind did it seem something was the matter and needed to be seen to.

He was instantly awake the moment his eyes opened, and just as immediately aware of the wetness in his boxers that was excused by the warming glow that spread throughout him. It wasn't time to think, though, it was time to act. He threw his covers off and carefully maneuvered to the edge of the bed, not really wanting to have to wash the sheets if at all possible. The rug was a worry as well. He grabbed a pillow and removed its case, holding it between his legs to keep from dripping down his legs onto the floor as he got up and hurried to the much more easily cleaned wooden planks. Dear god, what was he, thirteen? The boxers weren't nearly absorbent enough to save him the trouble of mopping himself up with the pillow case as he dropped the soiled pants to the ground with a grimace of dismay. He was relatively sure he wanked enough to forgo nighttime emissions but there wasn't much use in arguing with semen spotted thighs. The buzz was nice, though. He could feel the creeping threat of guilt on the horizon but for as long as he remained irritated with his anatomy, there was quite a lovely thrill of satisfaction that made his senses prickle with relief. Perhaps it had been a long time in coming even before the bar incident. It had certainly been a very hands-on couple of months.

Not that the woman had been any of the three women he remembered from that night. Nor that the subject of the fantasy had stayed a woman, let alone a stranger. And ah, yes, there was the guilt ridding along the back of the bliss that was always far too fleeting to make the mess of his pants worth while. But the thought that came up first, the very first pause of concern to enter his mind after his uncontrollable actions in the night, was that he hadn't had Sherlock's permission to do that. Not that he needed it-permission to be used as wank fodder didn't exist and even if it did, it didn't extend towards acts in dreams. And that that should matter more so than that he'd just gotten off imagining himself with another man was only the second wave of uncomfortable consideration as he let the pillowcase join the boxers on the cold floor and walked unhappily towards his dresser for replacement pants.

That was sort of the limiting factor in their relationship, really. Trust to manage their shared livelihood and well-being? Yes, absolutely. Trust to handle their financial security? Yes. He could pull the plug and empty the man's savings if he wanted to. But he couldn't kiss him. He couldn't touch. He could ruin him but he couldn't pleasure him. It was a very strange taboo to exist in a marriage; forbidden fruit on a knowledgeable tree. That was the real appeal, he imagined. There was danger in that mystery more so than lust in its unveiling. Because as strange as it sounded, it wasn't a loveless marriage. That wasn't the part that made it unreal. It was the type of love that perverted the norm but not a lack of it. Love of a friend; love without lust was the general gist of it he imagined. The problem was that his imagination was far less under his control than he appreciated.

So. He'd just had a glimpse of what it might be like to bugger Sherlock Holmes. That was... something. Not terrible. Obviously did the trick. Times like these he was rather thankful for possessing a medical mind that knew very well that such dreams weren't the realization of subconscious fantasies and he could have very well reached completion fucking a cantaloupe in the end instead. He saw a lot of Sherlock during the day so it only made sense he'd pop up in weird places in his dreams. Not worth having a crisis of sexuality over. He was almost proud of himself for how calmly he was accepting everything. No one had to know and it really didn't matter or mean anything. It was just... interesting. An exploration into realms unknown. Scientific, not sexual. He pulled on a fresh pair of pants and got back into bed and out of the chilled air after a quick check to see what sort of mess he might have made. Nothing worth bothering with, a small damp patch that could most definitely wait. He had enough room to not exactly have to sleep on it anyway. He curled back up under the covers and did his best to return to sleep, eyes closed and pillows switched out so the covered one laid beneath his head. He'd almost managed to drift back off before his eyes blinked open again, his mind too active to wind down and shut off just yet.

It had been the ring, he surmised. The ring was what had triggered this. Not his own which he could still feel against his skin but Sherlock's. It wasn't the first time the damn thing had kept him up at night though at that time it had been with its presence. Sherlock had lost his ring and apparently, somewhat surprising, the detective was okay with that. He didn't spend any real amount of time looking for it and didn't even make mention of the loss. It was John who asked and John who found himself keeping an eye out for the small trinket when he moved about the flat. He was the one who let Mrs. Hudson know it was missing so she too would know to say something if she happened upon it. Sherlock wasn't bothered. Months of wearing the ring and then it was gone and, oh well, such was life. It really didn't seem to weigh on him at all. John supposed that was how Sherlock had always intended it to be. It was just something he bought and put on one day, after all. Things got lost. Things with no sentimental value stayed lost.

It'd been weeks and still nothing. He supposed that meant it was gone.

And of course, John still wore his. He'd planned to take it off but with Sherlock's gone, it seemed... pointless. Most of the time, even if he did take it off, he'd find he'd slipped it back on as a force of habit before leaving the room. Like Sherlock, he imagined it would take the thing walking off on its own to finally leave his hand. He really rather liked it, though. It'd grown on him. If he did lose it, he might actually just go ahead and replace it with something a little less traditional just to keep that familiar weight. And with Christmas around the corner, and not much else up for consideration, John had half a mind to buy a new one for Sherlock.

Generally, he was impossible to buy for. If Sherlock wanted something, he got it. There wasn't a list of things he was saving for or hoping someone else might provide him with. John had got him a pack of special bulbs for his microscope one year with a pad of blank composition sheets for him to compose on as well. Having gifted him in both the subjects of art and science, there was nothing much else to do. Buy him a scarf? A board game? If he wanted either, he'd get them and they would be the ones he wanted. But as for the ring, John knew exactly what to look for and that no one else was going to think to fill the niche. It might be a bit weird but it was personal and would surely be appreciated. He'd certainly wasted more money on less.

He'd head out to the shops in the morning and see about the pricing. Cufflinks and tiepins were never going to be Sherlock's style but the ring had suited him very well. The more he thought about it, the more he rather liked the idea. Christmas shopping would be a piece of piss with Sherlock out of the way. He and Sherlock always went in together on something for Mrs. Hudson so they'd tackle that on an outing together. Bottle of wine for his mother and father, a tin of popcorn and a candle for Harry. Simple stuff. No girlfriend this year to splurge on and no real friends to speak of. Maybe a bottle of wine for Greg while he was at it. Tin of chocolates for Mycroft just to be an arse.

He rolled his face into his pillow, trying to slow the train down and get it to station back into sleep. He was brain-shopping at near four in the morning. He definitely had better things to be doing than this. A ring for Sherlock, maybe looking into a new phone for Mrs. Hudson, and he may as well just buy a whole case of wine to save him the trip later as occasions rose for the need. But he wasn't going to get any of it done now, not at this hour, and certainly not until he'd scrounged up enough laundry in the morning to warrant a quick load before things turned crispy. Just a few more hours of sleep was all he really wanted right now and the rest could surely wait.

And though he slept, he did not dream any further through the night. In all ways he was happily spent.