John had been apprehensive about sleep after he'd saved The Man from certain death. What if the nightmares of his time in Afghanistan started haunting him now, like they did other soldiers? John almost hoped The Dream would continue regardless. It wouldn't be so hard watching The Man die over and over again every night now that he knew he'd saved him. It might be boring, but at least it wouldn't be traumatizing. Or maybe he'd be lucky and he'd see himself saving The Man instead, but he didn't hold his breath for such a break.

So John did the only thing he could think of, he put off his bedtime. He cleaned his wound first, which didn't take much time at all: the gash was long but so shallow it didn't even warrant a band-aid. Surprising, considering it came from such a large blade. John shoved his ruined coat and jumper in a dustbin bag because no amount of stitching would be able to save them, and he found the handkerchief he'd set aside, noticing for the first time the light blue piece of cotton was monogrammed, so he smoothed it out.

SH

John snorted. Now, really, who had monogrammed handkerchiefs nowadays? The Man must be incredibly posh, or strangely old-fashioned. Or maybe it wasn't even his, and he had pinched it from someone like Lestrade with his police badge. Either way, John didn't feel like dumping the handkerchief in the garbage with his ruined clothes, it didn't seem right, so he put it to soak for the night instead. He doubted the blood would completely come out, but he wanted to keep it anyway. Call him sentimental, but John wanted to keep it as a souvenir of is strange day.

He spent the rest of the evening and night occupying himself as best he could, cleaning out his small bedsit, browsing the internet, reading a book Harry had recommended but which he threw out the window after just one chapter, eating microwaved leftovers, doing the newspaper's crossword- that, on second thought, had been a bad decision because John more often than not fell asleep racking his brain for a particular word. This time he was stuck on 'Sturdy', 6 letters across, but he had probably gotten the word 'Cloudy', 8 letters down wrong because nothing fit and he was trying to puzzle it out… when sleep claimed him.

The Dream had changed. John knew that much. It was as it had been in the beginning: a swirl of colours, blurry images, distorted sounds… it gave John motion sickness at times but he appreciated the change and didn't wake up until late the next morning, feeling more refreshed than he had in the last few weeks, but afraid the cycle of strange dreams had not stopped upon saving The Man. However, all he could do for now was wait and see.

As he had feared, The Dream became clearer. John didn't know what to do: he still had no idea what was happening to him, or why. His research had yielded absolutely nothing of interest and he had no one to turn to.

Then, a few weeks later, John knew he had to save The Man. Again. What was wrong with the bloke? Did he purposefully put his life in danger? Did he get a kick out of getting in mortal danger and just hoped for the best every time he was faced with a life or death situation? And, you had to admit this one was pretty stupid too: The Man was running - no surprise there - and got flattened by a truck as he burst out of a dark alleyway onto a busier street without slowing down or sparing a glance around.

John knew it had to be London, there was no reason it wouldn't be and the dark street had felt like London and smelled like it too. Unfortunately, there weren't so many clues around this time and the darkness wasn't helping him any. In fact, he'd become so desperate for clues that he began sorting through the garbage littering the alleyway, hoping to find an address on some old letter or magazine. He cried out a heartfelt "Eureka!" when he finally found a large quantity of flattened delivery boxes belonging to a thai restaurant he knew.

All he had left to do was lurk at the end of the alleyway every night when it got dark to stop the idiotic man from splattering a truck's radiator grill like some overgrown insect. After a week of staking out, John was getting exasperated at freezing his ass outside and eating thai every night. He should get paid for this since it looked like it was beoming a full time job, so maybe he'd dream of lottery numbers in his next Dream. John chuckled when he realized he was accepting The Dreams as something normal, they were a part of him now. He was even willing to admit they had made his life better somewhat, giving him a purpose, getting rid of his limp, keeping the nightmares at bay… John couldn't actually think of a drawback to these strange dreams. Well, if you didn't count freezing your ass off in the middle of the night in a smelly alleyway.

Ten days later, John ears perked up when he heard rapid footsteps fast approaching. He peered into the alleyway but from the lit street where he stood, it was pitch black. John looked into his street but saw no truck at either end. Strange. Then, he heard a scuffle in the alleyway and debated checking it out, when a rumble made itself known. The truck, and suddenly, a man he didn't know bounded out of the alleyway. John didn't try to stop him, he wasn't his problem.

John braced himself and shot his good arm out the second The Man jumped out of the alleyway, pushing him back against the wall while the truck rumbled past them at an unreasonable speed, honking loudly. That had been close. John was still fisting The Man's coat, preventing him from moving and pinning him to the wall. He took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of the build up tension from his brush up with the speeding truck, before letting go of The Man. He had his sharp gaze fixed on John, studying him. It was unnerving and John panicked, taking off without warning and running down the dark alley the two men had come from just minutes earlier. He should really plan an escape route in advance.

He could hear footsteps behind him, fast approaching. Fuck! The Man was much taller than him, he would be able to catch up without any problem. John would have to find a way to lose him. The tube station beckoned invitingly, but that would be as good as a dead end with his pursuer so close behind. A cab? A bus? Too predictable and, oonce again, The Man was too close, it was too risky.

Hide. Okay, hiding was good. He could do that. But where? He scanned the street as he ran and smirked when he saw a pub packed full with football supporters. He made a beeline for it, pushing people to get in, picking up a scarf here, a cap there and making it out the other side through the bathroom and into another alleyway, slowing his pace to a leisurely walk when he made it onto another busy street. He never looked back.

John was exhausted by the time he made it back, but he also felt exhilarated and a bit confused. Why did he run away? Sure, The Man was strange, never thanking him for saving his life, never saying a single word, in fact. Just staring at him with those clear blue eyes like he was seeing right through him.

Is that why he ran?

It was a useless thing to do, too. The Man was bound to catch him sooner or later. Unless John stopped dreaming of him, but he had an eery and unshakable feeling that it would never stop. And when The Man did eventually catch him, he would demand answers, John was certain of that too. Why wouldn't he? Saving his life once could be a fluke...Twice? Not so much. He was bound to be curious and John doubted The Man would like the answers he had to give.

Could John evade him indefinitely then?

He had used The Man's distraction the first time to slip away, and his surprise the second time to run off, but, if there was a third time, and let's be honest, John didn't doubt there would be a third time sooner or later because The Man was such a bloody trouble-magnet, then he would make sure not to let him go and get the answers out of him whether he wanted to or not. Just thinking about it made John's heart hammer wildly in his chest. What could he possibly say? What would be more believable: the bizarre truth or a well crafted lie? That was the big question, but John doubted being truthful was an option. He didn't fancy spending the rest of his life in a loony bin, thank you very much.

So he would run, again and again, and hope for the best.

A blessed three weeks went by while the new Dream progressively unfolded but remained jumbled enough that John knew he didn't have to worry about it yet. He wondered if The Man had gone on an extended holiday in the most boring, unpopulated, out of the way place on Earth.

But, eventually, The Dream did become clearer, and John had the full picture.

The Man wasn't running for once. He was standing in the middle of a crime scene judging by the yellow tape and flashing red and blue lights, talking to Inspector Detective Lestrade. Oh! So they did know each other after all. John wondered if Lestrade knew The Man had stolen his police badge. He must have, since The Man already had it in his possession in the First Dream and that had been weeks ago. Cops flashed their badges all the time, didn't they? At least, that's what they did on the telly. Maybe John could corner a drunk Lestrade again to ask him about it.

Suddenly, Sherlock moved to the side where a larger group of people were gathered: the curious and the journalists were held at bay by police officers and yellow tape, but The Man confidently walked over to an old woman who was sobbing. Next thing John knew, a shot rang through and the crowd screamed, running away in a panic or throwing themselves to the ground. All except The Man of course. That was the purpose of this dream, after all. The Man's head had been hit, taking out part of his skull, blood and grey matter dripping down his face as he fell limply to the ground, the only eye he had left staring into nothingness.

John woke up and bent over the side of his bed, throwing up the little his stomach still contained. Bile, mostly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and fell back down on his old threadbare pillow. Fucking hell, that had been disgusting, but worse was that one blue eye, usually so clear and calculating, that pierced right through him with that brilliant spark of intelligence and knowing. The Man's eyes positively vibrated with life, but in his dream the lone eye had just stared into nothingness. Murky. Dead.

Such a waste.

John sighed and got up to clean the mess he had made. He'd have to start looking for clues in the dream tomorrow. There seemed to be no logic in the delay between the blurry images, the clear picture and the realization of the dream. Well, he only had two dreams to go on but he wasn't about to take any chances when someone's life was at stake.

He also had to find a way of intervening in the middle of a bloody crime scene crawling with coppers from bloody Scotland Yard without getting caught and that would take a lot of thinking and planning ahead. It seemed damn near impossible, but he had to do it. John chuckled when he finished cleaning and headed for the shower. Right, easy peasy.

John had taken to writing down everything about his Dreams of The Man. It made things easier in the end, helped him sort through the sheer load of information to focus on the important parts. He'd have to remember to thank his therapist for the suggestion, although he wasn't technically using it for its intended purpose, it had turned out to be quite useful in the end.

John took out his battered notebook, dozens of pages were already scrawled through with places, dates, times, landmarks, events, description of people… even doodles of faces and buildings. He wasn't an artist by any stretch of the imagination, but it did help him puzzle out his Dream, so they were all messily laid out, picked apart and reorganized into a solution.

He turned to a new page and titled it "Plan D3", for dream number three. It could be useful if he needed to go back through his notes later on to have a semblance of organisation.

John had come up with a few ideas under the shower and would have to examine which was the best and which were unfeasible in the next Dreams.

1) Tackle The Man to the ground.

Pros: Success guaranteed

Cons: Get arrested on the spot by The Man and/or Scotland Yard

2) Stop the shooter

Pros: Avoid The Man and Scotland Yard

Cons: Get shot myself

3) Create a diversion

Pros: Confuse the shooter, he may give up

Cons: He shoots anyway or at a later date

Maybe if John created a diversion first and then tackled The Man to the ground? John scratched his head. There were too many variables, too many possible outcomes to consider, but it was a start anyway. After a moment's hesitation, he added:

4) Warn Scotland Yard, anonymous tip off about the shooter

Pros: I don't have to intervene directly

Cons: The cops are incompetent and/or don't believe me

Maybe he should just kidnap The Man and keep him from getting himself in a perilous situation ever again. Keep him locked up in his closet or something. John laughed and closed his notebook. One thing was for certain, he wasn't ever bored anymore.

John had briefly wondered that first day after the new Dream if maybe he was supposed to save whoever had died on the crime scene too, but was relieved - and promptly felt guilty about it - when it turned out to be just a severed head that had been dumped there. He had no leads on the head's identity, where its owner had been killed or even when, so he gave it up. That was not his mission, after all. For John, it was always The Man.

And tonight, after ten days of studying the Dream, John would save him again. He had arrived well before anyone else, except the head. God only knew how long that thing had been sitting there before anyone noticed. But, while John watched the scene from his vantage point, with the head positioned in a clear space surrounded by taller, run down buildings that were mostly empty, he couldn't help but feel like this was a trap, a bit like a giant mousetrap. The severed head being the bait, The Man being the prey of choice and the shooter being the hunter.

Finally, an old woman screamed her head off and disappeared, wailing and gesticulating wildly, returning only when police cars arrived. She looked like the old lady The Man had been talking to before he got his head blown off. John looked towards where he thought the shooter would be stationed but he wasn't there yet, but neither was The Man, so he wasn't worried. After a lot of hesitation, John had decided to combine his idea number 2 and 4, in that order. Take out the shooter and warn Scotland Yard. It seemed like the less risky option, considering the peculiar circumstances, for both The Man's life, and for his own freedom.

More police arrived in a flurry of lights and sirens, John's cue to be sharp and steady. Luckily, he was a fair shot, and he couldn't hold back his grin when his shooter finally appeared, just where he thought he would in the building facing his, just one floor down. Perfect. The shot would be easy. John lowered his rifle and adjusted his aim through the sights. It had taken a favour from an old acquaintance to get his hands on such a weapon, something John hated to do, but felt it had been well worth it when he stared down the barrel of the tranquilizing rifle he'd borrowed from a former veterinarian.

The Man arrived on the crime scene next, but John ignored him because he had no intention to let events unfold more than he had to. All he had needed was for the shooter to arrive and set up, so the police could arrest him. John pressed the trigger, the tranquilising dart landing right into the other shooter's buttocks, and he observed, satisfied when the other man panicked, tried to pull it out and suddenly lumped forward. He'd be out for several hours, John had made sure of that. He glanced at The Man. He was still talking to Lestrade, alive and whole, blissfully unaware of what had happened. Mission accomplished.

Making quick work of taking the rifle apart, John put it away in a non-descript bag and left the building without anyone taking notice, a cap pulled low over his face. There was a phone booth not far, and he punched in Lestrade's number - it had been ridiculously easy to find thanks to his Dream. He just hoped the inspector would pick up, even though he was busy at a crime scene.

"Lestrade," the man growled. John decided he liked him better when he was drunk and giddy.

"You'll find a man in the building facing you, third floor, the flat with the open window. He's armed but sleeping," John said succinctly, trying and probably failing, to modify his voice so it sounded deeper.

"Who is this? How did you get my number?" Lestrade asked before talking to someone next to him and sighing before he added: "Who was his target?" as if he didn't even know why he was asking the question.

"The man next to you," John answered, hoping The Man was still near Lestrade and that he might get some useful information out of Lestrade this time around. "The tall one with the big coat and curly hair."

"Who? Sherlock?" Lestrade asked and John hung up.

He had a name and that was probably all he would get out of the Detective Inspector for now. Besides, he really shouldn't be lingering around, so close to the crime scene teaming with cops. He was already behind schedule. Taking in his surroundings to make sure no one was watching, John hurried down the street that would take him to a bus stop.

"John!" Someone shouted, the voice strong and deep.

John froze on the spot. Damnit. How? How did he know his name? John glanced behind him and saw that it was indeed The Man. He had finally heard his voice in the last dream and would recognize it anywhere. Fortunately, he was too far away and would never catch up with him, not this time, so John waved cheekily at him and sprinted off. Fuck the bus stop, he'd have to run all the way to a tube station and get lost in the crowd, taking detours to make sure he wasn't followed before returning home. On his way, John couldn't shake off the feeling he was being watched, but try as he might, he couldn't see The Man, cops or anyone suspicious looking his way. It had just been a close call, that was all. He was being a tiny bit paranoid because of the adrenalin rush. Still, the hairs at the back of his neck were standing on end, making him feel uneasy when he lost himself in the bustling crowd of central London.

John only let his guard down once the door to his bedsit was shut and bolted. He was stilll pumped up on adrenalin, a happy sort of giddiness taking over him to have succeeded once more. Try as he might, he couldn't get rid of the grin on his face. Damn, he needed to calm down or burn off all this extra energy or he'd never manage to settle down to research the name 'Sherlock' or even get to sleep. He paced his bedsit like a caged lion and had just decided to go off for a run, having not done so since being shot in Afghanistan, when someone knocked on his door. John wasn't expecting any visitors but he checked his phone to see if Harry had sent him a message telling him otherwise. Nothing.

"I know you're in there," came a deep voice.

John broke out in a cold sweat. It was The Man. At his door! Did he bring the cops with him? Could he be arrested for having shot someone with a tranquiliser dart? Even if that someone had been planning to murder someone else? John remained rooted to the spot in the small kitchenette, holding his breath and staying as immobile as he could, hoping his unwanted visitor would take the hint and leave.

"I'll just pick the lock if you don't let me in," his visitor continued, then sighed dramatically. "Tedious."

John was amused, despite his better judgement, and he was now certain it was only The Man he would find behind his door. No cops. The police would have kicked his door in by now, they wouldn't have the courtesy to pick the lock. Knowing this day would come anyway, and preferring their meeting to happen somewhere discreet and not in public, over a dead body or surrounded by policemen, John edged slowly towards the door.

Where could he go anyway? What else could he do? This meeting was inevitable. His bedsit had exactly one exit, and The Man was standing behind it. It had been a stupid error on his part, John saw that now, but he'd never really expected The Man to be able to follow him home. How the blazes had he managed that?

John was at the door now, he raised his shaking hand, cursing his heart for thumping so hard it hurt, and he pulled the bolt back, taking a final, steadying breath before pulling the door open. The Man smiled widely at him. It was a strange expression, he'd never done that before in his Dreams, or even aftet John had saved him.

"John," he greeted him as if they were lifelong friends.

John stepped to the side to let him in, feeling like his knees might buckle. How he could have nerves of steel when going against murderers, but be a total wreck when facing The Man was a mystery even to him.

Don't show weakness, he berated himself.

"Sherlock," John replied, hoping that was indeed his name. "You'll have to tell me how you found out my name,' John frowned. "And my place while you're at it."

The Man nodded, still smiling as he looked around John's small, almost empty, bedsit with that clear, calculating gaze of his.

"Not what I expected," he concluded, returning his gaze to John, who shifted uncomfortably. "But you're always so unpredictable, aren't you?"

John shrugged. he thought he was actually quite predictable most of the time, boring even, except for the strange nature of the dreams that had led him to the very man standing before him.

"So how do you do it?" Sherlock asked just as suddenly, the question John had dreaded hearing from him feeling like a slap across the face.

John found himself rooted to the place, mute while he tried to think of how to best answer it, his jaw working open once or twice but no sound making it out.

"Sorry," Sherlock said, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them. "Not good? I've been told my social skills could be better."

"Maybe some tea first, yeah?" John mumbled, glad his vocal ability had returned just in time to play the gracious host.

The man nodded and took one of the two rickety chairs that furnished the poor excuse of a kitchen.

"So…" John said, his fingers twitching as he reached for the kettle. "Sherlock? That's your real name? It's a bit unusual."

"Uhm? Yes. Sherlock Holmes. I thought you'd know that."

John shrugged again, not sure why he was stalling telling The Man… Sherlock, about The Dreams. They concerned him as much as they did John, all things considered. But what if he didn't believe him? What if he called him a liar or a freak, and left? Avoiding John and keeping him from saving him the next time he had a Dream.

"And how did you find out my name? Here I thought I'd been pretty careful but you already knew it on our third… erm… meeting."

Sherlock's whole face became animated when he told John about his search for the man who kept jumping to his rescue. He'd put the first occurrence to mere happenstance: a good samaritan who had seen a threat and neutralized it before disappearing. But then, he was saved again by the same man! And the Universe is rarely so lazy as to allow such coincidences, so he had set out to find the man in question. It had taken some time but a girl working at a bakery near the first meeting had remembered him as a former regular, until the incident happened, and she remembered his name was John. Same thing for a Thai restaurant near the second incident. Unfortunately, that was all he had to go by. One name, and a common one at that: John.

"I also knew you were a soldier, recently returned from the front, most likely from Afghanistan or Iraq," Sherlock added, missing John's confused expression. "But do you know how many Johns are enrolled? Too many. I've started going through the files but it's so dull. It's much more exciting catching you this way."

"Err… Sorry, but how in the world could you know I was a soldier back from Afghanistan?" John blurted out.

"Oh, so it was Afghanistan. Good to know. To answer your question, you hold yourself like a soldier and there's the haircut too," Sherlock explained while John self-consciously patted down his hair, wondering what was wrong with it. "No to mention the moves you used to subdue the man who tried to stab me, and the shot you took tonight. Your face and hands are tanned, but not above your wrist, which was obvious to see when your whole forearm was exposed after the first incident, so you've been abroad but not sunbathing and you always favour your right side even though you are left-handed which leads me to think you have been wounded in action, the left shoulder in all likelihood, and it explains your presence in this...place. Discharged from the army with a small pension. Soldier wounded in action in a sunny country: Afghanistan or Iraq."

John stared at Sherlock, completely gobsmacked, while the other man stared down at his tea, fiddling with the spoon.

"That was amazing! Bloody fantastic!" John finally exclaimed. "How can you know all that? Does it work on anybody? What else can you tell?"

Sherlock looked up, trying to hold back a full fledged grin by the looks of it, and he gave him other examples: deducing more about John's life from his phone, his flat, his shoes… it was a completely novel and fascinating experience for John. It was like Sherlock had a kind of superpower, and John finally understood why he had to save him over and over again. Sherlock was precious, a genius, one of a kind. A mind like his shouldn't go to waste, it should be used to do great things, and John would make sure it continued that way, protecting him from petty knife wielders, speeding trucks and vicious sharp-shooters until his last breath if he had to.

"Incredible," John said. "Extraordinary, really."

Sherlock's eyes crinkled again as he tried not to smile too broadly. John had never seen someone so blatantly failing at hiding a smile. It was as if the man had been starved for compliments, which was strange, given he was some kind of genius.

"So what do you do? Work for the police?" John asked, but Sherlock snorted.

"No! God, no. That would be atrocious. I'm a consulting detective."

"Oh," John replied as he racked his mind, but the closer he could come up with was a private detective. "Never heard of the job."

"That's quite normal, I invented the position."

John chuckled. There seemed to be a trend here: Sherlock Holmes just had to be different in every way. His chuckle turned into a laugh which started infecting Sherlock and the two had a hard time not setting each other off to return to their more serious discussion. Sherlock explaining what he did for a living and why he was chasing criminals all over London. It made much more sense now, except the part where Sherlock had stolen Lestrade's police badge, but John would come back to that later, if only to satisfy his curiosity.

"Why are you unemployed?" Sherlock asked next, making John grimace. "You've been back for a while now."

This was it. John should start confiding in Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't been holding back, answering without complaint or hesitation all of John's many questions about his deductive abilities and job, while John hadn't even answered the single most important question that had brought Sherlock here in the first place. It was only right that John started giving Sherlock the answers he wanted and hope for the best.

"Believe it or not, Sherlock," John said, trying to keep his tone light and jovial like it had been for the last couple of hours. "But keeping you alive is a full time job."

John held his breath while he watched Sherlock's facial expression change: a bit of surprise, satisfaction and finally puzzlement.

"Has there been more than these three times?" he asked.

John shook his head.

"No, 'just' the three, but it's difficult to find the right time and place. That's what takes up most of my time."

Sherlock's frown deepened, clearly unsatisfied by the vague answer, but John didn't know how to explain his Dreams. There was so much to say. Should he just blurt everything out? But that would take ages and even more time to answer all of the questions Sherlock would undoubtedly have, and John was knackered now that the adrenaline had worn off. He wanted his bed. He needed his bed. And his Dream. He wanted to make sure Sherlock was safe for now.

A yawn escaped John at the thought of his bed and he knocked over his notebook from the clutter of old newspapers and books left on the table. His notebook! Of course! He picked it back up and handed it to Sherlock.

"Here, read this. It's a bit messy. I hadn't actually planned on anyone else reading it, but you're smart, you'll get the gist of it. Then," John took in a deep breath to steady himself. "You can either return it to me by post, or come back to discuss it with me, and I promise I'll answer all your questions this time. Your choice."

Sherlock looked very puzzled now, and a bit excited because now that John knew him better, he understood Sherlock couldn't resist a mystery, especially not one that he was a part of. He carefully pocketed the notebook, as if it was something precious and not a low price everyday item from Tesco's, then bid John goodnight, promising he would be in touch.

John hoped he would, but once he opened that notebook and started reading about prophetic dreams, he might just change his mind.