A/N Fair warning: this chapter DOES LOOK AT THINGS IN A MORE SEXUAL LIGHT. Ehem. I personally don't see sex as being the core of their relationship, even when it's full-on shippy romance, but I can still see something like this happening. So... yes. There be smutty references ahead. Tread carefully.

Thanks to johnsarmylady, MapleleafCameo, total-animal-lover, and Natalie Nallareet

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXXIX. Dreams

John imagines Sherlock's touch often; much more often, he guesses, than the consulting detective would ever suspect. Even if he grew up never being attracted to men, he can't deny that there's a subtle beauty to the detective, to his high cheekbones and long eyelashes and slender figure, that he can't help but be enraptured by and attracted to. Every time that the dark-haired man's breath comes up short in a moment of revelation, or whenever he lets out one of those animated cries of delighted understanding, John can't help but tense, imagining that voice twisted into new levels, sultry moans and piercing whimpers, weaving themselves into a tapestry of silky lust.

And it's not only the sounds that consume his imagination—no, it's also the taste, for surely Sherlock's lips must carry the flavor of London's smoky air, and perhaps a lighter uppercut of icy mint, a cool sensation that often wafts across the air on his breath, that John can't help but inhale with a bit more enthusiasm than can be considered typical. The very image of himself being able to run his tongue over those soft but strong lips, testing their perfumed taste, is enough to cinch his stomach, increase his heart rate and elevate the tug of his lungs ever so slightly.

All of that, of course, is not to mention the touch—and it's the touch that he dwells on the most, every time that the two of them brush by one another. Sherlock's skin is soft and cool, he knows this already, but he also recognizes the strength in those thin limbs, the lean muscles built into his back and forearms, the feline ferocity gleaming in the detective's intent green-grey eyes. And he knows that Sherlock would be powerful, would be more than a match for the ex-army doctor. John likes to be challenged, likes to know that his partner isn't relying on him to be the only source of strength, and perhaps that's what's so attractive about Sherlock: his independence, his self-reliance that somehow makes him even more vulnerable, even more in needing of the other half that John so desperately wishes himself to be.

He keeps the dreams in his mind, though, the faint whispers of the detective's deep baritone bent into a wordless moan and the invisible chills arching across his skin at the thought of Sherlock's light fingers dancing across it. His flatmate is ignorant, and there's absolutely no reason that things shouldn't stay that way—after all, John's too wise to act on his desires. He knows what he wants, he knows what Sherlock wants, and he's positive that those are two very different things, a truth that he has no cause to defy. He's happy enough with their relationship how it is. There's no reason to change it, not really.

But that doesn't stop him from dreaming, and dream he does, day in and day out, gripped by desire and pathetic hope that someday he might be able to move beyond fantasy.