A/N: ATTENTION PLEASE!

When I started writing this fic, I had no clear idea of where I was headed. I knew it would be a Johnlock from the very beginning, but as for the rating, I had thought it would stay within the boundaries of a T rating and it has been rated as such until now.

So fair warning to you youngsters out there, this chapter is steamy and after careful consideration by myself and my dear friend Abe, we think it deserves the M rating.

However, if you think it belongs into the MA rating, please inform me and I will modify the rating accordingly. I'm not here to make anyone uncomfortable, and have bracketed the sex scene so you can just skip it entirely.

This is also my first real piece of smut (ish) writing, so your comments are more than welcome. Now, enjoy :)

Sherlock was the one making sure the other ate for once. He must have felt guilty about making him skip on breakfast when he'd already been deprived proper food during his captivity, because Sherlock had gone out himself, without any sort of prompting on his part, to fetch chinese take-out for a late lunch, and Angelo had only just left after setting dinner for two, and a candle.

"Eat some more, John. You usually eat a lot more than that."

"I think I'll need a bit more time before I build up my former appetite, Sherlock, but thanks. This is nice."

And it was. Just the two of them, eating together in companionable silence with only the candle light between them - admittedly because neither felt like moving all the way to the lightswitch to flip it on. But Sherlock was mostly pushing food around in his own plate and his green beans looked suspiciously like a tiny green model of the Eiffel Tower, so John pushed his plate away, feeling full himself.

"I'm not going to make myself sick by eating too much. That would defy the point."

"Good," Sherlock replied, pulling him out of the kitchen to make him comfortable in his favourite armchair. "Now we can get some work done."

John chuckled. He should have known they weren't just going to cuddle up in front of some crap telly like normal couples did. But before he could ask what he had in mind, Sherlock dropped the heavy leather book he had offered him to write his dreams in. That was actually a good idea. He should write the last Dream down while it was still fresh in his mind, especially if he had a different one tonight. And who knows, maybe he would remember another important detail that would help them defeat Moriarty, once and for all.

He thanked Sherlock and had even starting jotting down notes from his Dream, trying to get everything sorted into some semblance of order when he realized Sherlock had been carefully avoiding talking about his time under Moriarty's thumb. He'd waited until Lestrade had gone to ask Sherlock about it, but then he had ran off to get the food. By the time they had eaten, Sherlock had distracted him again by crawling into his lap and being all too lovable. Then he'd rushed off on some mysterious errand again, come back with Angelo late in the evening, and now the bloody wanker had succeeded in distracting John again.

Almost succeeded.

"Sherlock!" he barked, sounding affronted but feeling he had good reason to.

His curly head popped out of the kitchen with wide innocent eyes gazing at him through the over-sized plastic protection glasses.

"I'm in the middle of an experiment," he said.

"I'm sure it can wait," John countered setting his book and pen aside.

"It really can't. It's highly unstable and if I don't add the stabilizing agent at precisely the right moment, we may not have a kitchen anymore."

As if to prove his point, a chime sounded and Sherlock disappeared from view again as if he'd never even been there. How did he do that? John was fairly certain they didn't have a swivel chair, or anything else on wheels for that matter, in the kitchen. That room was dangerous enough as it was.

John sighed and took up his Dream-journal again. As much as he wanted to have this talk with Sherlock, he also enjoyed the luxury of owning a kitchen.

"You're still up?" Sherlock asked.

John's head snapped up and he cursed at the stiffness in his neck. How long had been been writing? Too long, apparently, if even Sherlock had finished playing in the kitchen, but he was satisfied with his work, and thought they might even have a couple of leads to follow through. However, John only now realized how very, very tired he was.

"I didn't see the time pass. As far as Dreams go, that one was quite long and complex," John explained, leaning into Sherlock's hand when he cupped his cheek.

"Your eyes are terribly bloodshot, John. Come to bed, now. It's late, or early, depending on how you look at it. You can finish with that tomorrow," he added, plucking the heavy journal and the pen from his cramped hands and setting them on the table, before pulling him up.

Dear God, he was exhausted! How had he not realized that? He could blame Sherlock for being a bad influence, but he could actually understand a bit better how the man sometimes got completely engrossed by his experiments or his mind palace.

"Yes, I guess it's past time I got some beauty sleep. Are you-"

ooo

John's mind felt like it had been flipped over like a crepe. Hadn't he just been talking to Sherlock? Awake? In Baker Street? But this, this was definitely a Dream…

Wasn't it?

Dammit, he wasn't sure anymore. He would be, if it had been the same Dream, the one in the swimming pool, or if he could see his doppelganger… Having two Johns in the same place was a definite give-away.

But, he might have been knocked out and then moved, which meant there was a slight possibility this was reality. Fuck! This was so confusing. The problem was that his Dreams had always been so real: his five senses were always completely fooled, until he tried to interact with the dream-people.

John spun around, searching for someone, anyone.

But it was dark. Night. Stars and a sliver of moon above, but no street lights. Where the hell was he? Where was everything? London? There should at least be the never ending rukus, blazing lights and stink of the bustling city. Unless he was in the middle of nowhere.

Dirt under one foot, grass under the other. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark… long, twisted black shapes detaching themselves from the night sky. Branches, trees, everywhere. Just...great. If this was reality, he was lost, pure and simple. If this was a Dream, how in heaven's name was he supposed to find the next place Sherlock was due to die.

But, be it one or the other, he knew he had to find Sherlock.

He took a few steps forward on what appeared to be a path when a gunshot rang out. He reflexively fell flat to the ground. Cold, just a little humidity and very little gravel… or maybe just stones. A natural path? Not something man-made? He filed all that away for later, just in case, and listened: very little wind but it still made that eery sound as it wound through the trees and then, a sharp crack. Someone had stepped on a branch and that someone was close. The shooter or the target? Or had he been the target? Friend or foe?

John decided he was way too much in the open and crawled to the side of the path, hating his slow pace and the noise he was making. He waited there for only a minute when another body fell heavily to the ground next to him, peering down the path and at the trees on the other side.

"Sherlock," John hissed, thinking his boyfriend had simply not seen him, but he was so completely ignored he knew that was not the case after all.

Just to check his theory, John reached forward, trying to capture one of Sherlock's wild curls between his fingers, but they became… insubstantial. He chuckled, relieved. His Dreams, he could deal with. Being thrown unsuspected into a dangerous situation without a clue of what was going on, where he was and how he got there, was quite another matter. However, it did mean Sherlock was about to die and he would detest every second of it.

Another body threw itself to the ground next to Sherlock, almost on top of John, who gaped stupidly at Greg. That was new. What the hell had they gotten into?

"John?" Sherlock asked, and he almost answered out of habit when Greg spoke.

Of course he wasn't talking to him.

"I don't know. He bolted for the other side with Donovan. I feel like we're being herded like animals, to be honest."

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

"This was a set-up. I told you the body was all wrong."

"You say that half the time!" Greg protested.

"Yes, and you know how much I hate repeating myself so you should-"

Another shot cracked through the air, whistling close by where the two men were hiding. John was almost certain it had wedged itself in the tree trunk right behind Sherlock. It had been a very close call. Lestrade was cursing like a sailor, having no doubt gotten the same impression.

"They must have known we'd get no signal to call for back up out here," Sherlock continued as if he hadn't just side-stepped death once more.

"Maybe John and Donovan will get away far enough to find a signal, or someone to send for back-up…" Greg said, peering into the darkness, his own gun out. At least they had that.

"Don't be an idiot, Lestrade. If this is Moriarty's doing again, and I have little doubt it is, then John is his main target. Although he probably wants him alive. I, on the other hand… Oh!"

"What? You have an idea?" Greg asked, sounding hopeful.

"No, I'll probably die here," Sherlock deadpanned and the DI's face fell.

"Don't-"

"Yes, chances are quite high. Especially if the shooter is who I think it is. But think about it, Lestrade. Think! If I die here…"

"Oh… You mean…"

"Yes. John must be here. He'll stop us from falling into this trap in the first place."

Greg looked around them, his eyes flitting right over John without seeing him there despite the fact they were so close John could see the permanent crease between the Di's dark brown eyes and the tiny freckle on his right cheek.

"Sherlock, I'm not sure about this," he said hesitantly.

"Understandable, but I am. John, today is the 29th of March and the local police of Maple Cross called Lestrade and I out for the body of a woman that has been set up to look like a beheading by a terrorist cell out of Syria. Keep us from going, Lestrade too, get-"

Another shot, but this one found it's mark and Sherlock's face contorted with pain, the muscles of his jaw and neck straining as he rode through it, trying not to cry out. John searched for the wound, Greg unintentionally helping him as he was doing the same: it had gone in through the shoulder. John grimaced, the angle was bad, much worse than the hit he had gotten himself in Afghanistan, and Sherlock was bleeding out profusely despite Greg trying to put pressure on it. John felt sick, he hated this. He hated seeing the man he loved suffer and die, over and over again, but he also knew he had to so he could live.

"No, Sherlock. Dammit! Don't do this to me, you bastard!" Greg ordered, white-faced and kneeling over the consulting detective as if he had forgotten there was a sniper aiming at them.

"Jo- John," Sherlock stammered. "Get… Mycroft to… Aah… to retrieve… body. Trap. Sniper."

"He's not here. He's not here," Lestrade was repeating. "This is madness, Sherlock. We have to get you out of here, or you'll bleed out. I don't know how-"

"Too...late," Sherlock ground out, a tear rolling out of his left eye as he turned his head, his eyes searching the darkness.

For him? John scrambled forward, trying to catch his hand but losing substance as he did so. He choked out a sob. He could only watch as Sherlock died, the light in his brilliant eyes dimming as blood continued to flow through the DI's hands. Greg himself looked about to break. John had seen that expression many times on the faces of his fellow soldiers when shit hit the fan.

"John," Sherlock murmured, barely audible.

His lips moved again, but no sound accompanied it this time, and the next instant, his body just seemed to suddenly let go of the tenuous grip it had held over life, while not giving any obvious sign it had done so. The absence of the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the lack of flutter of his eyelashes, the blood flowing ever more slowly out of the gaping wound of his shoulder, the release of his muscles that had been so tense as he fought against the pain… The absence of everything signed his death.

"Sherlock?" Greg asked quietly, but he knew, he knew. The tears were testimony enough and John was only too glad when his mind was allowed to escape from the Dream and take refuge into the real world.

ooo

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, trying to hold John still while he fought to break free. "John, stop it! You're safe!"

John was panting, looking around him like a wild animal, feeling that he had to run away as fast as he could and his legs doing a fair job of it as they thrashed about. Except… he didn't anymore. He was exactly where and with who he wanted. Out of that bloody Dream and with his Sherlock, very much alive, warm, and talking to him in comforting whispers as he held him in his arms.

"Pen," John demanded hoarsely and Sherlock jostled him a bit before the pen was thrust in his hand, his dream journal following seconds after, open in front of him at a new page, so he wrote with a trembling hand:

29 March, Maple Cross, beheading, terrorist, trap, Moriarty, sniper, send Mycroft

After that, he dropped the pen and turned into Sherlock's embrace, burying his head into the crook of his unblemished shoulder, finding it just a bit ironic that he was finding so much comfort where there had been so much pain just a moment ago.

"John?" Sherlock called softly, rubbing the nape of his neck in gentle, soothing motions. "Was it really bad?"

John nodded. They were all bad, as far as he was concerned. All his deaths were. But the more he got to know Sherlock, the more he got attached, the more he loved him, the more it hurt.

"I watched you… as you died. But I couldn't touch you, I couldn't comfort you. You were hurting, bleeding out, and you were talking to me as if you could see me. You called after me and-"

John could recall with crystal clear clarity Sherlock's unnaturally pale lips moving soundlessly, confessing those three small words to someone he couldn't even see, but believed was there, looking over him like some kind of twisted guardian angel, even as he died.

I love you.

Fucking hell. That was not when he'd wanted to hear those words for the first time.

"It's hard, Sherlock. Seeing you die… I'll never get used to it. It's so real. I can tell myself over and over that it isn't, but-"

"It isn't," Sherlock said firmly, cupping John's face so he could stare into his eyes and there was such unwavering certainty there, the same he displayed when he would rattle off his brilliant deductions at lightning speed that John was starting to feel foolish for being so upset.

Of course, it wouldn't come to pass. Thanks to Sherlock, they had more than enough information to not only avoid disaster, but hopefully catch Moriarty or one of his key men. So he nodded, because his words had sounded like a promise. A promise not to die from the death he'd just witnessed, but also all the others his Dreams would bring.

"Christ, I love you Sherlock, but I wish you'd be more careful with your life. These Dreams are getting completely out of hand."

"What?" Sherlock replied stiffly, instead of his usual, and rather posh: "I beg your pardon." that always had him smile fondly.

John replayed his words through his mind, wondering what had gotten Sherlock in a tizzy, and blushed. Oh well, he'd said it now, and it was unlikely he could persuade Sherlock he had misheard, or that he'd be willing to delete it until the time was right.

"You heard me, Sherlock. I'm not going to take it back, because I mean it, but I didn't intend to spring it on you like that. I know it's a bit...erm, early in our relationship for that. But I do," John babbled on, his chin lifted in challenge, daring him to say otherwise, to mock him for being a sentimental fool.

"You do?" Sherlock asked instead, sounding genuinely surprised, as if there wasn't anything anyone could possibly love about him, the idiot. Then, his face, his whole stance in fact, became predatory, much like a giant prowling cat, the way it did every time he was about to pounce on him. "Say it."

John could feel the burn of embarrassment of his cheeks battling for dominance over his defiant chin. Those weren't words John had said very often. For such small and easy syllables to pronounce, they were incredibly difficult to offer. But this was Sherlock, the most brilliant, mad, caring and beautiful man he had ever met…

"I love you, Sherlock," he finally said, enjoying the pure joy transforming the man's face. "You idiot," he added, because Sherlock's own confession of love had been completely ruined by him dying on the spot. "And I know you do, too. Or will by the end of the month, so don't go giving me some crap about the futility of such sentiments or how it's only a chemical imbalance produced within the human body, or I will wallop you, love be damned."

Sherlock laughed, hugging John against him and kissing the top of his head.

"Oh, I do love you, John Watson, you impossible man. How could I not?"

John's heart soared and he couldn't fight the magnetic pull he felt towards Sherlock if he had wanted to. How did you fight gravity, anyway? He thought there might be a number of ways, he was fairly sure there were, but his brain was engaged elsewhere, focused only on Sherlock, his full lips, so soft and warm, his hot breath mixing with his own, his wicked tongue entangling with his own, he could get drunk on Sherlock's kisses, and his hands… Did he really only have two of them? Because it felt like they were everywhere on his own body, slipping under his clothes, tugging at the hems to get more access, gliding over the planes of his body and teasing sensitive spots he shouldn't even know about. Good thing they were in a bed, or his legs would have given up under the assault of sensations already.

"Wait," John mumbled, his mind stuttering at being in a place he didn't remember going to. "Why am I in bed? In your bed? I thought I was..."

John wasn't sure, which only served to confuse him more. He'd been...writing, hadn't he? In the living room. And Sherlock was there at some point. He frowned, frustrated at having his mind so muddled. His Dreams had never confused him before. Dream and reality had always been clear-cut in the past. He always knew where he was as he woke up because that's where he was when he fell asleep, it helped ground him in reality.

"Must we?" Sherlock asked, looking pouty, disheveled and deliciously sinful. "Now?"

"No, I suppose not," John admitted. "I'm just feeling… disoriented, I think. Never mind."

Sherlock sighed.

"No, I'm sorry. I should have foreseen you wouldn't be yourself. I got a bit...uhm...carried away just now."

He sat up against the pillows and pulled John against him. John wasn't sure whether to feel irritated at being handled like a teddy bear, or just enjoy this unexpected side of Sherlock. "I was conducting an experiment in the kitchen while you were writing in your journal. Do you remember that much?"

John nodded, recalling something Sherlock had said about blowing up the kitchen if he was interrupted.

"Good. I was just going to check up on you just before four, since you usually have your Dreams around that time. I was surprised to find you still up, to be honest, but I should have known your sleep cycles would be all jumbled after being kept in captivity underground."

He huffed, sounding exasperated with himself, which made John chuckle.

"You can't anticipate everything, Sherlock."

"I should. I'm a genius. Anyway, we were just about to retire for the night, when you just… collapsed. Right in the middle of your sentence. One second you were up, walking and talking, as alert as can be expected given the late hour, and the next," Sherlock made an aggravated gesture with his hands. "Completely limp and unresponsive on the floor. You scared me half out of my wits before I realized what had happened, and I carried you here so you'd be more comfortable."

"So my Dreams are non-optional, then. We're lucky it happened on a quiet night at home, I suppose. Imagine if it had been in the middle of a chase in London."

"I'll make sure to always have you tucked in by three o'clock from now on," Sherlock vowed solemnly.

"That shouldn't sound as appealing as it does."

Sherlock brightened up.

"So I can keep you in my bed?"

"I'm not going anywhere. It's late. Or early, I guess."

Sherlock hummed, his long fingers playing absently with the raised flesh of his shoulder wound.

"What about the following nights?"

John realized what Sherlock was really asking. He peered up at him, but Sherlock was looking straight ahead where he knew for a fact there was nothing more than a stretch of blank wall.

"You want us to share your room?" John clarified.

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.

"It seems more practical than going from one room to the other. Besides, mine is more comfortable."

John stretched up, and up, until he could catch Sherlock's lips.

"Of course I want to," he kissed him again. "Did you really think I'd say no?" and again. "I think you underestimate," and another. "Just how much I want you. All of you."

M rating

By this point John was fairly straddling Sherlock, looking hungrily down at him. Sherlock's eyes, usually so pale, were dark, pupils blown wide with desire. His pale skin flushed, and his breathing fast and irregular, until it hitched when they locked gazes.

"John," he pleaded, his voice low and gruff, sending a jolt of desire all through John's body.

Just hearing his name said like that, with so much want… Oh God, yes. It was all the cue John needed to start unbuttoning his lover's shirt, ripping a couple of the tiny, annoying things at the end when his patience ran out. But far from annoying the shirt's owner, it only seemed to arouse him that much more, his hips rocking upwards and - oh! Friction. Delicious friction. John lost himself in it for a couple of minutes, as they rutted against each other through their clothes like two horny teen-agers.

John was already hard, straining against the thick material of his trousers, so he scrambled back to tear off his clothes impatiently, wanting, needing to feel skin on skin.

Sherlock made a strangled sound and John glanced at him worriedly.

"Too fast?" John asked, remembering all of this was new to Sherlock. John at least had some experience, even if being with a man this way was as new to him as it was to Sherlock. He wondered if that was a good thing or not. Probably not, he decided, feeling a little out of his depth all of a sudden.

"No," Sherlock finally answered. "More, John. I need you."

John understood that feeling well enough and he helped Sherlock out of the rest of his clothing, tugging off his trousers, pants and socks in one fell swoop, surprising even himself, but then his eyes fell on Sherlock's body and he could only...stare. His naked body long and lithe. His skin so white he could swear it was glowing in the darkness. So beautiful, and all his. He was still staring, but gathered it was all right, because Sherlock had, and still was, staring back. Cataloguing data, his mind supplied before Sherlock caught his hand and tugged him forward, and he found himself lying flush against him, skin against skin, just as he had wanted. He groaned, already too far gone to form intelligible words. Everything was just skin and hands and lips and teeth, Sherlock giving as good as he received, until John couldn't take it anymore, it was too much, too overwhelming, and yet he wanted more of Sherlock. So much more, like he had developed an unquenchable thirst for this man. He reached eagerly between them for Sherlock's erection. It had been stubbornly begging for his ministrations by poking his belly repeatedly and had been quite difficult to ignore, but John thought better of it when he brushed his own, and grasped both of their cocks together instead.

"Yessss!" Sherlock hissed, jerking his hips up into his hand, sliding their hardened flesh against each other, and into his hand.

Ah, this was rather nice… if only… yes, they'd need to buy some lube..lots of it, industrial quantities of it, in fact… All this glorious friction, and Sherlock under him, looking completely wild and blissful, his long-fingered hands sliding down to his bottom and squeezing-

"Sherlock," he gasped out.

He wanted more of this, to explore more of Sherlock's body, taste every inch of it, and discover all those secret spots that would make him squirm, or groan his name and beg for more, but he was already at his limit so when Sherlock's curious fingers joined his own, teasing even more sensations than he thought was possible out of him. John was hard pressed not to come right there and then. But he'd be damned if he let himself come before Sherlock. He wanted to see him when he did, look at his beautiful face-

"John-Oh-God-John," Sherlock said in a breath before warmth seeped between his finger, and John had been right, Sherlock's face as he came was priceless, enough so that the very sight of it made him come himself, crying out what he hoped was Sherlock's name but probably sounded like a discordant groan lacking all too many vowels.

/M Rating

John let himself fall back on his stomach next to Sherlock, boneless and utterly content.

And so completely in love.

John would have probably fallen back to sleep right then if he hadn't been graced with a prime view of Sherlock's face. He'd always thought post-coital glow was something of an exaggeration, but he now knew better. Sherlock looked radiant. He also looked thoughtful, too much so.

"You're adding new data to your mind-palace, aren't you?" John asked, grinning like an idiot, as he reached for Sherlock's discarded shirt dangling from the bedpost and made a rather poor job of cleaning them up.

Sherlock turned half-lidded eyes towards him and smiled lazily.

"Oh, yes. I'm adding a whole new wing. I have the feeling I'll need the extra space for all the experiments I have in mind."

John chuckled at his enthusiasm, hoping Sherlock would remember he wasn't exactly a young man anymore, and let him to it, knowing the rush of oxytocin and prolactin would catch up to his overactive brain sooner or later. He had good hope Sherlock would catch a few hours sleep tonight and felt just a little smug at being the cause of it.

"Love you," John mumbled, snuggling up to Sherlock's warm body, rapidly falling into what he knew would be a dreamless sleep.