John was dreaming, he was sure of it. A warm body pressed against his; long legs entwined themselves with his own. Rebecca? No, the body felt wrong. Warm, gentle hands slid up his chest to his neck, brushing against his jaw, the ghost of lips on his. Then, quite suddenly, hot passionate kisses replaced the ghosting lips. John recognised those lips; was marginally embarrassed to admit that he had sometimes dreamt of what it would feel like to kiss them.

Sherlock

The name escaped from him like a wisp of smoke. He heaved a pleasant sigh. The kisses continued, fervent and demanding. As quickly as they had started, they stopped. The light pressure of their tangled legs faded away. The warmth of the other body dissolved, and the gentle hands vanished.

John opened his eyes. It had been a dream. He rolled over onto his side and checked the time. 6:50am; ten minutes until his alarm went off. His mind raced and his heart pounded inside his chest. The dream was all too memorable, and more importantly, why had he dreamt of kissing Sherlock? They were best friends and he would do anything for his admittedly slightly sociopathic flatmate, and he inwardly hoped that Sherlock would do the same for him. John knew that he cared for Sherlock, that much was obvious…but he couldn't be attracted to him, could he?

John had always considered himself to be straight; despite the fact that all of his previous relationships hadn't worked particularly well, initially because he hadn't been emotionally attached enough, but more recently the failures in his love life had been to do with the man currently sleeping in the same room as him. Then again, Sherlock certainly was something else. He was an exception compared to any person that John had ever met. Maybe he could be the exception to his thus far heterosexual love life, he thought, but quickly drove the thought away.

He propped himself up and looked over at the sleeping consulting detective. He lay on his left side, so John could see his face. Sherlock's head rested on his left arm, and his right stretched out in front of him, elegant fingers splayed out on the white sheet. The duvet was pulled up right over his shoulder, and John could see a glimpse of his feet poking out of the bottom of the duvet. Damn the man was tall. The expression on his face was more peaceful and relaxed than John had ever seen before, and his skin, framed by his dark, unruly curls, looked as white as fresh snow in the early morning light.

The alarm on John's phone went off very loudly, and he almost jumped out of his skin at the intrusion. He reached for his phone and quickly turned it off. Sherlock groaned and pulled the duvet right over his head, bringing his knees up to his chest as he did so.

"Morning, Sherlock," said John brightly, though he felt far from it.

"Morning," came the muffled reply. Sherlock's voice was deep and raspy from sleep. He sat up, stretching and running a hand through his sleep-dishevelled hair. He leant back against the headboard, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up. "Mind if I shower first?"

John shook his head, welcoming the idea of spending a little longer in bed. "Not at all."

Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. John couldn't help but notice that his pyjama trousers sat relatively low on his narrow hips. Sherlock padded over to the wardrobe, selecting his clothes and then disappearing into the bathroom. John lay back down in bed, his head spinning.

Fifteen minutes later and Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, dressed in light grey trousers and a dark blue shirt. His hair was even darker than usual with the dampness of the water, and droplets ran down his face, following the chiselled lines of his jaw. John stared and immediately regretted it: Sherlock had noticed.

"Sleep well?" John's attempt to distract Sherlock was so obvious it was practically transparent.

The hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. "Yes, thank you. The wine probably helped."

"Yeah, you were pretty unsteady on your feet last night," laughed John.

Sherlock shrugged, nonplussed. "Lestrade was buying the drinks. I thought it would be rude to decline."

John rolled his eyes as he got out of his bed, picking his clothes for the day and then going into the bathroom. Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed and slipped on his shoes. He had woken up from a particularly unpleasant dream in which John married Rebecca to find his eyes felt like they were weighted down with lead, and his brain had felt distinctly fuzzy. The shower had helped, but Sherlock had caught John staring at him when he re-entered the room. John had tried to distract him, but Sherlock had already seen the dilation of his pupils and the faint blush on his cheeks. Not pronounced enough to be arousal, but definitely along those lines. Attraction? Sherlock pondered for a moment before deciding that it would definitely need further investigating.

They met Lestrade in the dining room for a full English cooked breakfast. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock didn't order anything, choosing instead to sip nonchalantly at a black coffee. John and Lestrade ate as much as they could, figuring that it was extremely unlikely that they would be stopping for a snack or lunch at any point that day. At quarter past eight, they returned to their rooms to brush their teeth and gather their belongings, and met in the car park a few minutes later. Lestrade had requested a taxi to drive them to the police station to meet Rebecca, and it appeared a few minutes later. The short journey passed mostly in silence, all three of the men lost in their own, very different thoughts.

When they arrived at the police station, Rebecca gestured for them to follow her into her office and take a seat. Her lips were pressed tight together, her hands clutching tensely at a file, which she placed on the table and slid across for the three men to look at it.

Sherlock seized it and scanned the pages. A low murmur of "Fantastic" rumbled from deep in his throat. John and Lestrade shared a puzzled glance.

"Dicello was killed because he was investigating money laundering through a restaurant," explained Sherlock. "Oh this just got exciting!"