A.N: If you enjoy reading this story, if you think it should be fixed, or if you think it's execrable and shouldn't be allowed, please review! All reviewers are loved :)

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xXx

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Chapter 28: Caring 2

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The room was dark; the light, bleak. A neon, probably. John didn't know. He could not move his head. Not up and down, not from side to side. Not at all. All he could do was look at the table in the middle of the room, where a man was lying.

Sherlock.

He was just lying there, still and naked. John felt a surge of anguish rush up his chest and throat and almost choke him because he was gagged and couldn't scream. Couldn't call his name. Sherlock was still and naked. Like dead people in a mortuary.

Fortunately, he soon came to with a groan, bringing his pale hand to his head. John could almost see it throb from where he was sitting. He wasn't very far, but too far to reach him. And John couldn't move.

Sherlock could, and did. Slowly he sat up, blinded by the light despite its greyish dimness. Under it, Sherlock's white limbs looked grey, too. But his eyes were blue when they stopped on John. Before he could say his name, however, the shadow of a man emerged from the darkness, his teeth shining in the gloom as he walked towards the neon light.

If John had not been so tightly bound, he would have killed this man with his bare hands. He didn't give a damn about the gun that was being held against his head. Even with a bullet in his brain he was dead certain that he would have ripped the man limb by limb, so intense was the loathing he felt burning him from the inside in this instant.

"Hello, sunshine," Moriarty said with a grin – addressing Sherlock, of course, and completely ignoring John.

Sherlock turned his eyes to him and glared.

"What do you want?"

"Aw, come on. Don't take me for an idiot. I don't take you for an idiot. I know you've already guessed," Moriarty purred, running his hand down the detective's exposed chest all the way to his legs, and parting his thighs. Sherlock stiffened.

"I don't guess," he said blankly.

"Good." Moriarty nodded and parted Sherlock's legs wider.

Sherlock glared as the muscles of his legs tightened and refused to be touched so casually. John felt the gun being pressed to his head. He didn't care. Apparently, Sherlock did. Moriarty's grin widened.

"Come on, be good. You don't want our guest to be disappointed now, do you?"

Guest? John seethed. Was he the guest? He was hit by a wave of nausea – the first of many to come. The warmth of the man's body standing beside him was making him queasier with every passing second. On the table before him, Sherlock's pearly grey body appeared to be made of ice and ashes. It looked so cold.

"Fine."

Sherlock's voice didn't break the silence; it thickened it. John struggled and struggled, but no one noticed, no one was paying any attention to him at all. If a gun hadn't been so obviously pointed against his head, he might have thought himself invisible. Right now though, all he wished was for the hateful man and his minion to disappear. He wouldn't mind exterminating the both of them.

"Now, that's a good boy," Moriarty commented with satisfaction, playing with one of Sherlock's curls. John's chest heaved with rage. Mine, he thought. Not yours.

"How do you want me?" Sherlock asked in an empty voice in which resounded the silence.

No, stop it, just stop it! John screamed in his head.

"Well, you'll have to show me this, if you want anything up into it," Moriarty remarked nonchalantly, parting Sherlock's legs wider and wider and staring at his entrance pointedly. This time, Sherlock did not stop him.

As he watched Sherlock spread his legs for his nemesis – a big, bare rag doll being played with by a fully dressed man – John thought that perhaps choking to death on his own vomit because the gag would prevent him from throwing up wasn't such a bad prospect after all. Except it would change nothing for Sherlock.

Would it?

What would happen to him once John was dead and he could no longer be used as his weak point? Would Moriarty become bored and let him go? Would he continue?

...Would he kill him?

But what John was witnessing now was horrible enough for even the grimmest prospects to feel surreal. The present was too gripping, the aversion and the dread too vivid to be coupled with any vision of the future at all. And all John could do was watch as nausea rose stronger and stronger in his chest.

"Won't you touch yourself for me now, beauty?"

Sherlock's gaze sharpened.

"Not in front of him."

"Oh please. He's the only thing in this room that can potentially turn you on. Why would you want him out?"

"Just take him out."

"Are you giving me orders, baby?"

"Please."

"That's better. But really not good enough."

And with those words he violently turned Sherlock around, smashed his face into the table, and pinned him down with just one hand. Sherlock was as meek as a sheep.

"I was trying to be nice, you know. But you're not making any effort, darling."

No! Don't you dare take my voice. Don't you dare take my tone, my words, my... my... GET YOUR HANDS OFF HIM!

And yet all John did was sit there and watch. Watch as Moriarty simply poked Sherlock's buttocks until the detective got the message and raised it, trembling.

"That's better," Moriarty encouraged him, patting his rump as if he were a horse. "Yes, just like this. That's good. You're a quick learner. Or has the good doctor trained you?"

"Take him out of the room. I promise I'll do better still. Please..."

Moriarty burst out laughing and gave Sherlock a gleeful spank. Sherlock did not react, but John was sure he had seen him grit his teeth at the touch. The nausea was building inside him, yet seemed to be just another torture, for it wouldn't rise up his throat. It was only teasing him, never actually bursting so he would choke to death. Would they even let him anyway?

John was thinking he couldn't feel any sicker when he suddenly realized what was in Moriarty's hand: a dildo. John retched.

Moriarty began simply caressing Sherlock's thighs and buttocks with the dildo, apparently relishing every shiver that escaped the detective despite his best efforts not to let anything out. John could tell. It only made the nausea worse and he begged a God he didn't really believe in that this would stop, all stop, right now.

"Ooh, your little soldier is getting all excited over there. We shouldn't make him wait any longer now, should we?"

"Please take him out," Sherlock tried one last time, his voice weaker. Or perhaps it was just muffled because of his position.

"What, just when the best part of the show is about to start? How cruel of you! Turn him on and then leave him there unsatisfied... But that's just like you, isn't it? You like to play. You like to manipulate."

Turn me on? John was furious. How could this possibly turn me on, you sick, twisted MANIAC?!

But just as he thought this he felt it. His hard-on. His heart missed a beat and his eyes widened in horror. Moriarty turned to him with a huge, huge grin, before suddenly plunging the dildo between Sherlock's trembling buttocks. Sherlock screamed. He must have still been loose from the previous night, for his scream wasn't so much one of pain as one of pleasure mingled with shame and despair. It was a terrible scream.

"How do you like it?" Moriarty inquired, amusement in his tone, completely unfazed at Sherlock's torment. He turned to John as if he were only doing all of this for him, and asked with a mocking smile: "And what about you, Johnny boy? Getting your kicks all right?"

As Moriarty broke into chilling laughter, John's retching turned into a gasp and he opened his eyes to the whiteness of the sheet.

xXx

When Sherlock opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a brownish, appetizing nipple mere inches from his face. He blinked, and did the only natural thing to do: he kissed it.

Not quite alert yet, Sherlock did not even stop to think whose nipple that might be – it could only be John's, after all; could never have been anyone else's – nor did he wonder why it was there. It just was, half-erect and enticing, and soon Sherlock couldn't help but start to nibble and suckle, gently at first, then none too gently as he got hungrier.

Suddenly he remembered the previous night and stopped at once. A sense of wonder filled him. What was he doing? Perplexed, he moved back a little and stared at John's heaving chest. His face broke into a smirk.

After he'd fallen exhausted on the duvet and sheet spread across their living room's floor, Sherlock had hoped they could just lie there all night. But of course John had insisted that they move to a bed, or they would be very sore in the morning. Naturally, Sherlock had known he would be sore in the morning anyway. He'd grumbled, and had refused to move an inch.

"I don't want to," he'd moaned drowsily.

"Come on, I have to get out of you at least."

"I don't want that either," Sherlock had groaned, pressing John closer to make his point. Having John in him was ridiculously comfortable. Moreover, Sherlock was well aware that moving and losing John's warmth inside of him would inevitably lead to acute pain eventually, and he wasn't very keen on feeling that any time soon.

But John, who had understood his reluctance, had kissed him and murmured that it would definitely hurt the both of them much more if they were to stay like this all night. This argument, which was in fact a good one, and John's caresses, had finally convinced Sherlock. He'd let his friend slide out of him. But he'd refused to let him go any farther.

Still John had sneaked out of the embrace, taken off the collar and the leash and blown out all the candles before wrapping Sherlock in the sheet and duvet, endeavouring to drag him to the room like a big sack of potatoes – which had not pleased Sherlock very much. So he'd glared at his partner and after a while John had just left him there, halfway to the room in which he'd gone himself. It had not taken Sherlock very long to join him, although he'd still been muttering sullenly when he fell onto the bed next to John, wrapped in the sheet and duvet, and not offering to share. John had been too upsetting after all.

In the end, John had managed to sneak under the duvet close to Sherlock, and the detective hadn't been upset enough to deny him that.

Now as he caressed John's chest pensively, Sherlock could not help but marvel at the fact that the warmth was still there. He did not dare move yet, for he knew it would hurt. He didn't mind the pain so much; after all, he was already experiencing it in his injured arm, which he had rather neglected the previous night. But he wasn't especially impatient to experience more pain in another area of his body. Not to mention that John might feel sorry about it; and this, Sherlock certainly did not want.

John's breathing was rather ragged, so Sherlock tried to soothe him with caresses and soon, his mouth was back on the tantalizing nipple. He smiled as he felt John gradually harden against him and let his hands roam lower and lower. Suddenly John retched and awoke with a gasp, jolting. Sherlock jumped back, surprised, and sat up.

"John! What's wrong?"

Turning literally green, John mumbled an apology and pushed him back. He darted out of the room and into the bathroom where Sherlock heard him throw up. The consulting detective was astonished. Had he just caused this? Quickly, without bothering to put anything on, he rushed to the bathroom as well and knelt down by John's side, ignoring the burning pain in his lower back, patting John's shoulder awkwardly, at a complete loss. He didn't know how to take care of people. Never had to.

As he threw up the rest of what was left in his stomach, John kept gasping. His hands were trembling with something akin to horror and disgust, and all in all Sherlock could not decipher whether he was experiencing upset digestion or a panic attack. He brought his other hand to John's front and rested it on his chest, trying to help him regulate his breathing. But this only seemed to make John even more disgusted and soon Sherlock knelt back, befuddled. So he really was the cause of all this?

Once John had emptied his stomach – which didn't take long, even though to Sherlock it never seemed to end – the doctor stood, rinsed his mouth many times, washed his face, and finally began to breathe evenly again. Sherlock just knelt there, knocked out by the realization that obviously, it was his touch that had made John feel sick.

He tried to shake the horrible thought out of his head and stood up as well.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'd like to take a shower."

"Do you want me to hel–"

"Alone."

To John, this was the nice way to say: 'Get out.' He was so ashamed and disgusted with himself that he did not even dare look at his lover, not even at his reflection in the mirror in front of him. His gaze remained cast down, and so he missed the sheer pain that flashed across Sherlock's eyes.

Without a word, Sherlock complied. He stepped back, out, and closed the door quietly. He was cold. He stood there a moment, numb, until the searing pain in his lower back conduced him to move. Slowly, he went back to the room and wrapped himself in the already fouled sheet. The soft linen that had been warm just a minute ago was not as cold as his body. He barely felt it against his skin as he walked back down the corridor, listening to the buzz of the shower. He stopped in front of the bathroom door, leant against the wall, and waited.

He wished he could be in the shower too, under hot water, to get warmer and cleaner. The pain was quite distracting. Still, John showering gave Sherlock time to get a hold of himself. He became aware that since the Basement, he had been far too quick in his deducing, and often had come to the wrong conclusion because of fear.

He did not find anything attractive in his own body, and couldn't see why any sane man would; since John was in love with him, John did desire him, and it was all chemistry... but it also meant Sherlock had little power over it.

Consequently, he was terrified that one day John would stop being so infatuated with him and would see him for what he was. Naturally, he was also aware that this was some stupid insecurity due to the trauma. Just like when John had been kidnapped. Sherlock had been terrified that John would leave him after all, and so he'd come to this conclusion because he feared it, and had been completely fooled by Mycroft. Yesterday, he had been terrified again of losing John, since the doctor was now aware that Sherlock had manipulated him. And now, he was terrified that John would be disgusted with him after all, disgusted with himself too, perhaps, for having given in to such feral, basic instincts, and slept with a man.

Sherlock closed his eyes in concentration. Fear was a strange feeling. It was deep and gut-wrenching, something beating in the pit of your stomach. Something you could ignore, but which kept beating nonetheless. It wasn't a good fear either, vibrant and exciting and thrilling, like he felt sometimes during chases and dangerous confrontations with criminals. It was a sudden surge of hope that only made the threatening despair more acute – something irrational that Sherlock was unable to evaluate. Something that prevented him from thinking properly.

So as he waited by the bathroom door, not daring to move for fear that John would run away to get some air or to never come back before they could talk, Sherlock thought. He thought of John's reactions the previous night, and concluded that if he had only started to feel disgusted about what they'd done this morning, then he was very slow because he'd had plenty of time to realize his situation while putting all the candles out, dragging Sherlock to the room, giving up to tease him, waiting in bed for him, and finally sneaking under the duvet to snuggle up to him. Even John couldn't be that slow. Could he?

Then Sherlock thought about the heaving chest and wondered if he hadn't mistaken nightmare for arousal. John's breathing had been irregular even before Sherlock had started to touch him – well, perhaps not before he'd kissed and suckled his nipple the first time. Sherlock was still sleepy at that time and hadn't paid much attention to John's breathing.

But then he had touched John, and John hadn't seemed to hate it in the least. He'd got aroused. In fact, now that Sherlock thought about it, what he intended to be soothing at first probably hadn't been very soothing at all, but rather teasing. Could it be that it had only made John's nightmare worse? But Sherlock couldn't even be sure that there had been a nightmare in the first place...

I lack data, he concluded with frustration, gritting his teeth. All he could do now was wait. And Sherlock hated to wait – especially when he had neither control nor insight on what was going to happen.

xXx

I'm unbelievable, John was thinking relentlessly. And disgusting. There was no way to justify what he'd done. His dream had brought him back right to square one, that square he had refused to acknowledge after the Basement for Sherlock's sake. Because there were more urgent matters, such as convincing Sherlock that it was all right, that they could still live with this, together. But there was no denying the fact that John had got aroused from his friend being tortured. Of course he knew the guilt was all part of Moriarty's plan to break Sherlock, but how could John deny the obvious facts?

Knowing that he was in love with Sherlock – badly – did not help. John shivered under the ice cold shower. Love was no excuse. And even if he was an idiot, it didn't take a genius to realize that there was something wrong, very wrong with the dream he'd had.

And what about the relationship itself? John mused gloomily. During all these months they had lived together, not once had Sherlock expressed the desire to be involved with John romantically or sexually. Quite the contrary, in fact, and in very clear terms too. And then after the trauma he would have suddenly started to want him? This did not make any sense, or if it did, it could only point to one thing: that John had taken advantage of the situation, even if unwittingly, to save himself from shame as he tried to save Sherlock from it, by making things official between them and act as if all this was normal.

No! he told himself forcefully, shaking his head in despair. That's not how it went! Wasn't it? Why did he get aroused when Sherlock was being tortured in the Basement? John swallowed with difficulty. He needed a clear head to sort things out, but right now he was so repulsed by his own attitude that he could not avoid the overwhelming sense of self-loathing. He could not shake off the impression that he was using Sherlock in the most horrible way. So he just waited under the icy water until his erection had completely died away and he was shaking from the cold. Then he got out of the shower, put on his bathrobe, and opened the door.

Sherlock was waiting in front of him, leaning on the wall. He must have been staring at the door the whole time, for the first thing John met upon opening it was his friend's intense gaze. He shivered.

"Why didn't you dress?"

"I'd like to take a shower."

"But it's cold. You could've put on your blue gown."

"I know you find it ugly, John, but I wouldn't want to soil it."

John blanched, realization hitting him. His eyes stopped on the dark stains over the sheet, which indicated more pain than pleasure.

"Oh God Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

How could he have forgotten Sherlock's condition? It had completely slipped his mind while he was berating himself for his lack of morals... How ironic.

"Does it hurt?"

What do you think? Sherlock thought with annoyance. "I'm fine."

"You can't possibly be fine after–"

"I said I'm fine, John. I will just take a shower and be perfectly cl–"

He was interrupted by John hugging him tightly, and froze in the embrace. A loud beat was hammering between them, in them, in the chest of one of them or in both. Sherlock could not tell.

"You've taken a shower," he pointed out quietly.

"Mm," John acknowledged, wordless.

"You're going to be dirty all over again."

"You're not dirty."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I did not mean it in any metaphysical sense, John."

John's embrace tightened an instant before he let go and stepped back. Sherlock was horrified to see something broken in his eyes. But just as soon John shook his head and it was gone.

"I need to examine you."

"What?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly. His brain had just registered how cold John was, drenched in icy water, and was presently figuring out what it could mean. That is, why John would want to take a cold shower, which automatically led to 'erection', and then to 'why would he have an erection?' and 'could it be linked to his dream, or to my touch?' and finally 'was it the discrepancy between the dream and my touch that made him sick?' He was listing the several possible answers to the latter two questions when John repeated:

"I need to examine you to see how much damage you've done to your body."

"Right. Wait, no. I said I'm fine."

"And I said you're not."

"Oh, and of course you'd know better about my own body."

"I'm a doctor."

"I know when I'm in need of medical attention, John."

"And I know you're hurt!" John insisted. Then he added with a softer voice: "Please. Won't you just come in the bathroom and let me have a look?"

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John for a moment. He saw the concern of a doctor and the dedication of a friend. It was funny that John would completely forget his own issues, whatever these were, to only care for Sherlock. What Sherlock also saw there was an opportunity. It took him approximately three seconds to make up his mind.

"Fine."

John let out a sigh of relief and leant in spontaneously to kiss Sherlock, but stopped himself at the last moment and quickly walked back into the bathroom. Not quickly enough, however, to prevent Sherlock from seeing his pained gaze again. The detective's eyes turned to slits as he watched his partner's back. He followed him in and let the sheet fall to the floor as he expeditiously bent over the sink to get the examination over with.

Resolutely ignoring how embarrassing this was, he focused on the coldness of John's hands in order to think about the problem at hand – and by that he did not mean the state of his anal membrane. After a while John grumbled something and cursed, and with a caress told Sherlock that he could stand up again. Sherlock was so surprised by the gesture that he turned towards his friend, who seemed to realize only then that he had stroked the detective, and fumbled:

"You'll have to take a butt bath."

Sherlock blinked.

"A what?"

"A butt bath. It means you sit in lukewarm water, ideally with antiseptic soap."

"You're joking."

"I'm really not."

"No."

"Sherlock..."

"You want me to sit and wait in a bathtub doing nothing?"

John sighed in exasperation.

"Look, you're the one who went all wild and suddenly thought it was a good idea to..."

He trailed off, gulped, and stepped back. His face fell.

"I'm sorry. I'll just go and get some antiseptic soap."

"But I don't want to take a bath," Sherlock groaned, now definitely seeing an opening and intent on not missing his chance.

"Don't be ridiculous! You just said you wanted to take a shower."

"Yes, but not a bath."

John stared. Sherlock thought he should move on and stop pushing his luck.

"If you take a shower with me first, I'll take a bath afterwards," he offered. "I need assistance with showering anyway, remember?" he said, pointing to his bandaged arm. Then, tilting his head to the side, he added: "I'll even let you wash my hair if you want."

John gaped in disbelief.

"God, how old are you?"

But since Sherlock was still very seriously waiting for an answer, John shook his head and gave in.

"I'll get the soap and be right back."

Sherlock was so glad he had to repress a triumphant smirk. He was still terrified and felt like he was walking on thin ice, but he was determined to get John to talk. And when supplementary data was needed, Sherlock was quite unscrupulous as to the means to get it.

When John came back, Sherlock's eyes fell on the bottle he had brought down. As he stepped inside the bathtub, he commented:

"It's new."

"What?" John asked, puzzlement in his voice.

"The antiseptic soap."

John looked at the bottle, then at his friend, and shrugged before taking off his bathrobe and following him in.

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Did you buy it for... this?" Sherlock inquired more hesitantly, not so sure of the brilliancy of his plan now that John's cold body was so close to his.

"Yes," John replied without looking at him. "But for me."

He could feel Sherlock's questioning gaze, so as he turned the water on, he developed:

"I thought you might want to do it, but the other way around. And if one day we both got into the mood, I didn't want us to... you know, give it up just because we didn't have the right things."

"You mean you could imagine us both wanting it... you could imagine you wanting it the other way around?"

"I don't know. Here, the temperature's good I think."

"Too cold."

"But it's not cold."

"Not warm enough, then."

"It is warm, Sherlock."

"Then make it hot. You're frozen."

John was certainly about to protest when Sherlock turned up the hot water himself and oriented the shower head towards his smaller friend.

"That's too hot!" John exclaimed.

"It's really not. You're just too cold."

Sherlock was, of course, right. Soon the water stopped burning John and he felt his body get warmer and warmer. Slowly, with a gesture tinged with tentativeness and not devoid of a certain gentleness, Sherlock turned John around so the smaller man would be leaning back against the tiled wall, and rested the shower head on the nape of his neck. The liquid warmth sent a shiver down John's spine and he sighed, closing his eyes and trying to block away all images of Sherlock screaming under neon lights.

"Better?" Sherlock asked.

"Much better," John admitted. As far as the cold is concerned. Sherlock smiled and discreetly moved closer to his friend. "But you have to get under the water too," John went on. "I already took a shower after all."

Sherlock moved closer and held the shower above their heads, angled so that the water would not fall on his bandage.

"Why was it cold?"

"Mm?"

"Your shower."

A glint of suspicion traversed John's gaze, but it did not linger.

"To wake myself up. Here, let me take care of this."

Gently, he took the shower from Sherlock and moved it over his friend's torso. "Turn around," he murmured, and Sherlock complied. As he felt the warmth spread across his back, he wondered whether this position would make John more comfortable and less self-conscious. Perhaps this was a good time.

"What was your nightmare about?" he asked, as quietly as John had told him to turn around. The movement of the shower head came to a halt and Sherlock could positively feel John stiffen from the tension it conveyed to the water through the shower he was holding.

Sherlock turned back, facing a frozen John and blatantly moving closer to him until he was holding him against the wall. There was just enough distance between them for the detective to look his partner in the eye.

"It was a nightmare, wasn't it?" he asked in his deep baritone voice.

"Yes," John murmured, as if mesmerized.

"Was I in it?"

"Yes," John continued, a hint of despair in his voice, but still in a trance and somehow compelled to answer Sherlock's questions.

"Did it disgust you?"

"Yes," John replied even more weakly. Then he saw the pain in Sherlock's gaze and his eyes widened in horror. "No! Not in that way... It's not what you think! I wasn't repelled by you."

Sherlock intentionally averted his gaze, and intensified his pained expression. Of course, this was just acting for the sake of making John talk and reveal everything about his dream. There was no real pain. Sherlock wasn't scared in the least. The fear he was displaying on his features was not real. Not at all.

Even if it was it did not matter, for in any case Sherlock rejected this awareness to the periphery of his consciousness, only to focus on John, and John alone. There was no time to analyze his own reactions. It was irrelevant.

For a moment, John just stood there, voiceless. Then Sherlock looked up and their eyes locked.

As if on cue, the words started falling from John's lips in an irrepressible flow, sometimes tumbling over each other, sometimes interrupted with long pauses, as John sought to find his voice again. He told Sherlock everything; he depicted the dream in its every detail. The nausea swelled up in his chest again but he ignored it. His gaze remained cast down the whole time, his fists clenched and sometimes trembling. Sherlock had a right to hear this and to realize how wrong it was, yet John could not bring himself to observe his reactions and see the pain fill his clear pupils – pain, and perhaps, even a sense of betrayal. So he stared at Sherlock's chest while he recounted his nightmare, desperately wishing that he could embrace his friend and just listen to his heart beating. But he really had no right.

The words fell from John's mouth like the water from the shower head, relentless. But John found no release in it. And suddenly it stopped. He had told Sherlock everything.

John closed his eyes for a second, gathering his courage. Then he looked up into his partner's eyes.

Sherlock's gaze was unreadable. Perhaps he'd had the time to hide whatever emotion had flickered on his features, or they had died out long ago already. John found himself facing the clearest eyes he'd ever seen on Sherlock, and stared in amazement. He could make no sense of it.

Finally, a small smile twitched at the corner of the detective's lips, and a sense of relief graced his face. John seemed even more confused. Deliberately, Sherlock leant in, closer and closer, and suddenly kissed John on the nose. John's eyes widened. His lips parted in bewilderment and Sherlock took the chance to kiss him and slip his tongue in. This was just too much.

"What in the world?!" John exclaimed, pushing his partner back, completely lost.

Sherlock sighed.

"So you would rather do the talking first. Fine."

"Were you even listening to me just now?! Didn't you... I..."

John was terribly frustrated that Sherlock seemed to completely disregard the issue he'd had such a hard time acknowledging himself.

"Of course. I think I liked it better when you had nightmares about the war. I certainly do not like Moriarty slipping into your dreams in any way – but then again, you are more responsible for this than he is."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock frowned.

"It is your dream after all."

John blanched.

"I get it," he said, trying to get out of the bathtub, more disgusted with himself than ever.

"No you don't," Sherlock cut in, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him back forcefully, pinning him against the wall. "It was just a dream, John."

"But I reacted in the same way in the Basement! And that was real, Sherlock, very real."

"Was it? I really hadn't noticed," Sherlock answered dryly. John fell quiet. "There is something that has completely escaped you."

"Is there?" John replied bitterly. "Enlighten me, then."

Sherlock scowled, but thought he should be tolerant. John had forgiven him many an attitude after all.

"I want you to picture your dream again – exactly as you remember it. From the beginning."

John stared, speechless. Sherlock insisted: "Do it."

"But–"

"Please." He pressed John's arm and pinned him with his gaze. "Trust me."

xXx

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tbc