A/N: This one is more or less just an excuse to have Sherlock in that pose.

Word Count: 430

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, could be seen as one-sided I guess but it's not supposed to be.

Warning(s): Shameless fluff, aimless conversation rambles, and Star Trek. Contains acting-more-or-less-like-an-angry-twelve-year-old-with-a-crush!Sherlock.

Dreamology

"John, what do you dream about?"

John looked up from his computer, eyebrows raised. Sherlock looked back at him looking for all the life of him like an eager little boy with more curiosity than he knew what to do with. Such were the sights John failed to resist; he shut the laptop. "We've already discussed this before, 'Lock. Afghanistan, usually. Why?"

Sherlock ignored his question, rolled his eyes, and flipped around in his chair so that his legs were kicked up in the air above him, head lolling towards the floor. "No, no, John. Not your nightmares."

"Oh?"

"I mean dreams. The good ones." Sherlock peered up at him, eyes clouded with thought. Despite his fool-hearty pose his eyes were perpetually lost in thought. John shifted in his seat; he didn't think he'd ever understand Sherlock – just moments before the question they'd been discussing The Office and whether or not they needed new curtains. Still, John sat back and considered the question, smiling listlessly as he did. Sherlock stared at him, waiting.

"I don't know," John said after a bit. "Most of my dreams aren't that vivid, just kind of… random things? I'm pretty sure last night's dream had something to do with a goat, but I can't really be sure." Sherlock frowned at him, clearly not satisfied with the answer. "Why? What does the almighty Sherlock Holmes dream about?"

Sherlock scowled briefly and turned away, reverting his gaze to the television screen. "Don't remember," he said, shortly. John frowned; had the detective not been flipped upside-down like a giant, pouting twelve year old, he might have been concerned by the sudden swing of moods. Instead, he just laughed.

"Can't remember? That's a first," said John, grinning.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "Dreams are fantasies, John. There is no reason for me to attempt to commit them to memory any more than those ridiculous Star Trek episodes you force me to watch."

"…Sherlock, you remember every episode. You can quote Spock."

This was met by no reply. John sat and stared at him, perplexed for a good two minutes. When this staring method proved fruitless, Sherlock's eyes remaining firmly locked on the newest episode of The Price Is Right, John shrugged it off, tagged it under My Roommate Is Bonkers, and returned to his laptop.

Eventually John began his subconscious humming, a familiar tell that John was absorbed in his blogging once again; Sherlock looked up at him. Some day or another he'd have to tell John just what he dreamed about but, for now, he'd gaze.

Sometimes I dream about reviews.