Sherlock paced around the living room once John had finished recounting The Fourth Dream. He was scowling furiously as he walked round and round the sofa where John was half lying under the blanket, muttering to himself.
"I wouldn't be that stupid," Sherlock finally groused, stopping his frantic movements.
"I wouldn't be that impulsive," John countered. "I- I killed you."
"I would have died either way. A bullet to the brain, a bullet to the heart, the outcome is the same. Your dreams have always been accurate?"
"Down to a T."
"We're missing something."
"Obviously," John forced a strained smile upon his lips as he threw back at Sherlock his most annoying retort back at him for once.
"How did he get us there? We wouldn't just walk willingly into a trap without any sort of back-up plan," Sherlock continued throwing his hands in the air.
"Yeah, we looked surprised. We thought we'd be meeting Lestrade. How does he usually contact you for a case?"
"A text, most of the time."
"A text? Just a bloody text? That seems... overly simple."
"I prefer to text," Sherlock said defensively, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down the length of his nose at John. "I don't have time to waste with useless chatter."
John rolled his eyes. No wonder everyone seemed to think Sherlock was some kind of asocial eccentric, and that was putting it nicely. "So anyone who got their hands on Lestrade's phone could have given you a false address to meet. Easier than kidnapping us, I suppose."
"Obviously," Sherlock smiled fondly at him. "But I don't understand. That dream is already invalidated since we both know about the trap."
"I'm afraid that's not how it works. I had the same dream all the time, even when everything was planned to take your murderer-of-the-day out, with a plan B and a back-up plan to boot."
"Have you ever tried to modify the Dream?"
"And how would I do that, Mister Genius? It's not like The Dreams came with a handbook or anything. As far as I know, they don't change. They just end once you're saved."
Sherlock rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his long fingers, thinking, no doubt, so John gave him some time to order his thoughts. It was already amazing that the man could function so well with as little sleep as he'd gotten lately.
"What were you wearing in The Dream?"
"I fail to see how that is relevant," John muttered, Sherlock having teased him about his jumpers more than once.
"Humour me."
John sighed and looked down at himself.
"Well, this jumper, actually. Are you needing a full inventory because I'm not so sure about my socks and pants," John said sarcastically, although it seemed to pass right above Sherlock's head who was looking at him, or rather his jumper, with a predatory gleam.
In two steps, Sherlock was looming over him, pulling his jumper over his head while John protested loudly but he did not fight back lest he hurt his ribs or cuts.
"Oi! Sherlock! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Saving our lives," he answered smugly.
"By getting me naked?"
Sherlock locked eyes with him and raised an eyebrow as if he was seriously considering the idea. John felt his face flush and he relinquished the lax grip he'd kept on the wooly item, abandoning it to its fate. "As tempting as it is, no. I'm creating a paradox," Sherlock declared and in no time, he had stuffed the captured jumper in the vat of acid where he'd disposed of Mycroft's spying equipment.
John looked on in horror as one of his favourite jumper began sizzling and smoking before disappearing in a big whoosh of unnatural green flames after Sherlock threw a match on top.
"That should do it," Sherlock announced, clapping his hands together.
"Have you ever heard of overkill, Sherlock?" John said, "I still fail to see how this helps."
"Simple, we'll know if we can modify your dreams. Your jumper is no more, ergo it cannot appear in a dream that shows the future. If there is no change, your dreams are unreliable. We already know we are going to be set up and there are dozens of ways we can avoid it by taking action before it even happens. But action that has a direct impact on reality. From your notes, I understand that before now, you've always skirted around me and the players of the Dreams carefully, not making any waves. I think we should do the opposite. If we can change what jumper you're wearing, we can change the outcome of the trap, or avoid it entirely, before it even happens."
"But I liked that jumper," John protested.
"And you have the gall to tell me I need to set my priorities right," Sherlock said, mussing up John's hair as he passed on his way to open a window. The smoke from the sacrificed jumper was a bit overwhelming and Mrs Hudson was bound to call the fire station if she thought Sherlock had set the flat on fire again.
John gasped as he woke up, pulled out by the intensity and despair of The Dream once more. Seeing Sherlock die when he hadn't known him had been bad enough, but he had been able to distance himself from it somewhat. He'd seen other men die in the war, good men, men he'd actually known and cared about.
But now, he knew Sherlock. Christ, he even liked him, despite his many quirks. So watching him die every night, even knowing it was only a vision and that they were working to make it not come true, made him feel as if his heart was being squeezed dry from the inside of his chest. John rubbed it unconsciously with one hand, and his eyes with the other, trying to locate his alarm clock. Except that the room was all wrong. The bed too large, too soft. The room too dark and smelling of Sherlock. Oh, right. Sherlock. He'd insisted John take his room so he wouldn't have to deal with the stairs. It was logical, but John hadn't caved in until Sherlock had promised to take John's bed if he did eventually feel like sleeping, which he seemed to imply was unlikely to happen any time soon.
"Ten past four," came a raspy voice by his side, startling John out of his wits and setting his abused heart to pounding like a jackhammer.
"Sherlock? What the fuck are you doing here?"
"My bed," he mumbled, turning on his side to look at him.
Apparently, Sherlock had lied about not needing to sleep, as well as taking John's bed if he did feel like it. Not to mention his blatant disregard for the concept of privacy. Just more of Sherlock's little quirks. The worse was that past the first stage of bewilderment, John always ended up finding them endearing. Even now. He took a deep breath to steady his heart and get it to beating at a more sedate pace.
"Did it work?" Sherlock asked after a while.
The curiosity about finding out if his experiment with The Dream had worked or not was probably eating at him. John hummed, delaying his answer as payback for the fright Sherlock had given him. He shifted so he could get a good look at Sherlock who he'd never actually caught sleeping or even just looking sleepy, but he winced as his ribs protested against such a twist of his sore body and the moment was lost, Sherlock's eyes suddenly snapping open as he heard the pained hiss slipping through John's clenched teeth. Sherlock hurried out of bed and left the room, returning with his painkillers and a glass of water before John even had time to protest.
"Thanks," John mumbled, swallowing the pills. "And yeah, it actually worked, you mad genius."
John was a bit embarrassed at never having even thought of doing such an experiment. It should have been obvious really, and it only required the utter annihilation of a jumper to test. Sherlock grinned at the praise and, surprisingly, got back under the sheets next to John who didn't know whether to be angry or amused once more. He settled for a half-hearted huff and made himself more comfortable before giving Sherlock a more detailed report.
The Dream had been basically the same so they at least knew the choice of a jumper did not affect the world's destiny, butterfly effect be damned. The strange thing was that he wasn't wearing a jumper he owned either. It wasn't even one he would have picked for himself: a pale grey blue, hardly thick enough to seem warm but which looked softer than anything else he owned. Good quality then, and it had actually looked well cut. In fact, he'd looked damn good in it as it brought out his eyes and showed off his build rather than conceal it like his other jumpers did.
However, his birthday wasn't due anytime soon... He looked suspiciously at Sherlock who took offence at his narrowed eyes.
"What?" Sherlock said defensively.
"You wouldn't happen to have thought of buying me a jumper since yesterday?"
"I… erm… I already did. Buy one, that is. Online. While you were sleeping. Earlier, I mean," Sherlock's words stumbled uneasily out of him. He'd never looked so unsure of himself before, but just as suddenly as it had come, Sherlock's usual self assured face took over once more. "I did destroy your favourite jumper after all. It's only right."
"Well, ta," John said, unable to hold back a too wide grin at Sherlock's thoughtfulness. "It looks… It will look lovely."
Sherlock's eyes widened, then he laughed like that had been the funniest thing he'd ever heard and John had to coax the reason why out of him.
"It's just… People call me a freak. If they only knew how wonderfully strange you are. You're really one of a kind, John Watson. I can't even buy you a jumper without you knowing about it in the next few hours. How am I ever going to surprise you for your birthday, or any of those other days you're supposed to offer presents?"
John snorted.
"Knowing you, you'll find a way. Although we should probably be putting that big brain of yours to better use."
"I don't know," Sherlock replied thoughtfully and he was once again too close by social standards and yet, not close enough.
John's whole mind and body clamoured for him to come closer still, shocking him into realizing that he wanted Sherlock. He was actually attracted to a man. This wonderful and beautiful genius of a man.
"Seems a worthy enough goal," Sherlock finished before gazing intently at him like he did with his mold cultures, his face hovering dangerously close to his own.
John's breathing was getting heavy while Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease, and he stopped breathing entirely when Sherlock raised one of his long pale fingers towards him and gently brushed the side of his face along his temple and then his jaw, letting it linger there while John was fighting the urge not to lick it out of the corner of his mouth.
"Sherlock," he murmured, between a protest and a plea.
Despite the fond expression on Sherlock's face, John had a sinking feeling he was being used as a mere experiment for… something. Just another mold culture. So he cleared his throat after the silence between them had stretched for too long, trying to affect nonchalance, probably failing badly at it.
"What-"
But before John could ask any more, a huge yawn assaulted him and he cursed the pills he'd taken for making him so sleepy despite the dopamine currently racing through his system.
"Sleep first, I reckon," Sherlock chuckled. "We'll set our plan into motion tomorrow."
The next morning, John woke up in Sherlock's bed alone. Sherlock had been in the bed with him, right? He hadn't just imagined it? Or that? He could still feel the ghostly sensation of Sherlock's finger on his face and he touched his jaw where his long fingers had rested, hardly daring to believe it had happened. It had happened, right? He hadn't been dreaming… Well, no, that couldn't technically happen since John didn't have normal dreams anymore. So…
John had a minor panic attack, not knowing how he was supposed to act now with Sherlock. And how could he have possibly fallen asleep after that? Damn those pills! John lingered in bed a little longer, listening for Sherlock next door but all he could hear was Mrs Hudson puttering downstairs. Had Sherlock left?
John had another minor panic attack, hoping Sherlock had not left because of what had almost happened last night. Or had he imagined all of it? John smacked his head with the palms of his hands. His brain would surely short circuit if he continued going round in circles like this. He should just get up and deal with whatever was going to happen like a man.
With renewed resolve, John threw the blankets off him, savouring the chill that jolted him awake and stood to his full height, puffing out his chest and ready to take on the world, and Sherlock. He regretted the foolhardy gesture immediately though, his ribs reminding him painfully that they did not appreciate the extra strain he was putting them through. John groaned and bent double, bracing himself against the bed.
"What happened?" Sherlock asked, bursting into the room and helping him right himself again.
"Nothing," John mumbled through clenched teeth. "Forgot about the ribs is all."
Thankfully Sherlock didn't comment as he helped him sit himself at the kitchen table, shoving his pills and a glass of water his way before returning to the microscope he'd obviously left in a hurry to go check on John's idiocy. He was a doctor for heaven's sake! How could he mistreat his own injuries, he should know better.
John chugged down his medicine, examining Sherlock's profile as he concentrated on the slide under his microscope. He seemed his usual self, nothing transpired of what had possibly sparked between them. John started to doubt himself again. He let his head fall in his hands while his mind cycled between the whole thing being a product of his own imagination running wild, Sherlock playing some kind of experiment on him that he'd gotten bored with or maybe he'd simply reconsidered his actions since last night and didn't want to go down that road with him. Not that John couldn't understand that. They had a peculiar bond, a unique one, and it was a risk to jeopardize it with romantic involvement of any kind. After all, Sherlock knew John had forsaken even attempting to date because of his Dreams and the sheer amount of time it took him to protect Sherlock, and Sherlock had mentioned dating not being 'his area', whatever that meant. But in that case, what had all that been about last night?
John startled when a steaming cup of tea was pushed between his arms, right under his nose.
"Looks like you need it," Sherlock said as he lifted John's chin with those damnably long fingers which had jumbled his mind so much last night.
Then, Sherlock loomed right over him, staring into his eyes as if he was reading something there, before he closed the distance to John's upturned face and placed a chaste kiss on his lips.
By the time John shook himself out of his shocked stupor, Sherlock was already back at his microscope.
All right. He had not just imagined that. Sherlock was making sneak attacks on him, leaving him wrong footed every time. He'd been so taken by surprise he had hardly had the cognitive ability to enjoy Sherlock's soft lips, damn him. That's not how a first kiss was supposed to go.
John slid out of his chair and placed himself right behind Sherlock, calling his name softly. Sherlock swiveled around in his chair, humming in response and John pounced, fully intending to snog the living daylights out of him. He crushed his lips to Sherlock's, relishing the surprised moan and the fluttering of his pale eyes as they closed. John slowly ambled his body forward until he fit snugly against Sherlock's, between his thighs. Sherlock's lips were indeed soft, but warm and supple too as they moved against his. Perfect. John closed his eyes and breathed Sherlock in, pushing his luck as he nipped at his bottom lip, then begged for entrance with a light flick of his tongue.
Sherlock's breath hitched, his lips parting ever so slightly and John took advantage of his surprise, with a swipe of his tongue around Sherlock's. He tasted so good that John couldn't resist entangling their tongues even more, moaning when Sherlock responded in kind, pulling away only when he felt like the dizziness he was feeling was as much do to lack of oxygen than to the heat of passion coursing through his body.
"And that's how you do it," John panted as he disentangled himself from Sherlock's arms.
They had snaked around him some time during the kiss and he hadn't even noticed. John walked away with an awkward gait to the bathroom. He'd gotten a bit too excited and was in immediate need of a cold shower before he scared Sherlock off by jumping his bones. John smiled to himself. He'd never thought he'd ever get to feel like this again, all giddy and his whole body on fire just from a simple kiss. It was like being a teenager all over again, he thought with a chuckle, touching his lips that still tingled from the kiss.
They would probably have to talk about all this, have a serious conversation, but maybe now was not the best time to do that. They shouldn't even be starting any sort of relationship considering there was a maniac out to get them right at this moment. Well, at least that grim thought had the benefit of getting rid of the stiffy John had been sporting and he switched the taps from cold to warm with a sigh of relief. John walked out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later in a cloud of steam and just a towel wrapped around his hips.
"Sherlock?" he called.
John had tried dressing his wounds himself but quickly realized he would need a hand for most of it. Something dropped behind him and he whirled around in a defensive stance, barely remembering to keep a hold on his towel, but it was only Sherlock, his mouth hanging open, and John relaxed immediately. He was way too tense, which was ridiculous since he knew Moriarty was not about to attack them in their flat. But Sherlock was still staring at him and John looked down at his battered body, his old and new wounds marring his skin. He suddenly felt self-conscious, he was no where near as young or perfect as Sherlock.
"I-" he started, his mouth dry. Gone was the cocky confidence he'd shown earlier. Now, he'd give anything to hide under one of Sherlock's tent-sized bathrobes. "Erm...Bandages?"
Sherlock nodded and followed him without a word back to the bathroom where he helped him wrap his left wrist and his knees.
"I don't like seeing you like this," Sherlock said in a monotone, making John flinch. "Hurt." Sherlock added with a huff and an exaggerated roll of his eyes when he caught John's reaction.
"I think we've pretty much established that's bound to happen when you have the kind of dreams I have. I think I've actually been pretty lucky so far."
"I still don't like it," Sherlock muttered as he trailed his hand lightly over the large bruise covering most of John's right flank where he'd cracked his ribs before it wandered over to his shoulder where the mangled scar tissue from the bullet he'd received in Afghanistan stood out like a sore thumb.
John shuddered at the contact. No one, apart from doctors and nurses, had ever touched him there, and even those had been cold, professional touches, not the loving, feathery caresses Sherlock was bestowing upon him.
"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked.
John shook his head but his breathing was becoming erratic again. If Sherlock didn't stop touching him like that everywhere… John all but fled the bathroom, his towel flapping behind him. but he groaned when he had to pause in his flight to his bedroom, belatedly remembering he had to overcome the narrow staircase to get there.
Once John had gotten his body back under control and dressed in his own clothes, favoring his warmest jumper and hoping Sherlock didn't set this one on fire, he went back down and puttered in the kitchen to put breakfast together. Sherlock had remembered to put food in the fridge instead of bodyparts, for which he was eternally grateful, not to mention surprised. Sherlock joined him in the kitchen soon after to help him out, which mostly consisted in staying out of the way since even with cooking, Sherlock tended to become a bit too experimental for John's taste. Sherlock made conversation instead.
The way Sherlock explained it, and the way John understood it, The Dream did not change by merely planning a solution. the way John had done before. Put otherwise, words are wind. You had to "actively modify the parameters beforehand" to make an impression on the vision, what Sherlock had called creating a paradox like the jumper experiment. Which explained why not only John had been wearing a different jumper, but that he had been wearing the one Sherlock had offered him as reparation. They had already brought about a second modification without meaning to, a kind of ripple effect, and Sherlock was now very interested in creating a larger ripple effect, more on the scale of a tsunami, in fact. John smiled, because, of course he would.
"Any idea of how you plan on doing that?" he asked with raised eyebrows as he tried to tempt Sherlock with a strip of bacon with his buttered toast.
Sherlock bit in the piece of bacon and grimaced, placing it back in John's plate.
"Several, in fact but it'll take some time to put in place. We still have time right?"
"We should have another week at the very least. But that's just an average of the previous dreams at this stage. There's no way to be certain. It could be happening tomorrow, for all we know," John warned sternly.
"I'll have everything ready by tomorrow," Sherlock promised and smiled snidely before he captured John's hand in his own across the table.
John blushed and felt very guilty a few minutes later when he had to explain to Sherlock that he actually needed that hand to eat his breakfast.