A/N: My muse is still hanging around so here's another chapter! Thanks a lot for your comments on the last one, especially about the smut-ish passage. Looks like I did it right after all.

John woke up feeling incredibly well-rested, which was a nice, for a change. He also reeked of sex and was half glued to the sheets, which was not so good, but worth it. So worth it. He could still picture Sherlock's blissful face as he came in his hand, grinding against him, and he wished he had a mind palace to keep that image safe forever. The second half of the bed was empty, unsurprisingly, and must have been for quite some time since the sheets were cold. Sherlock wasn't the type to sleep long hours and he certainly wasn't the type to lie in. Judging by the light pouring through the drawn curtains, it was closer to noon that he wanted to admit, so he slowly puttered into the bathroom in his rather unsavoury state, hoping he'd get clean before running into his boyfriend. It had been bad enough Sherlock had seen him straight out of his cell after his stay at Moriarty's B&B.

John was halfway through his shower when he was hit with the realization that maybe he had scared Sherlock off after last night. Maybe he'd thought it over this morning and changed his mind about their after they'd met: he didn't do relationships, he didn't do intimacy. Maybe he'd panicked after John fell asleep and ran out of the flat.

Breezing through the rest of his shower, John skittered to a halt in the kitchen.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said, sounding like he always did, serious and to the point. No trace of panic, awkwardness or regret. "Good, you're awake. We have a lot to talk about and organize."

He thrust a mug of coffee in John's hands, kissed him good-morning and took advantage of his surprise to give him the most salacious assgrab in the history of assgrabs. Okay, he could get used to that.

"So, erm, talk about what exactly?" John asked.

"Your Dream, John," Sherlock answered patiently, pointing at his opened Dream-journal where he could make out, in his most illegible script.

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

Key-words he vaguely remembered putting down, but that were more than enough to revive his memory of last night. He put his coffee down.

"From the beginning, then?" he asked, watching Sherlock nod across the table from him, his fingers steepled under his chin, waiting. John began, closing his eyes from time to time so he could draw out all the details Sherlock demanded of him. He was shaken up again by the time he'd finished. It wasn't real, it wouldn't even happen, but it still rankled him every time. It had been real enough for him when he'd watched Sherlock bleed out as he called his name.

"One week from now. That's not half-bad, ample time to prepare a counter," Sherlock said, his eyes crinkling as he added: "That was quite smart of my future-self."

"Complimenting yourself, Sherlock?" John asked, smiling despite his somber mood. "Really?"

"Someone has to do it."

John laughed. He hoped Sherlock was joking, but it was hard to tell when the man managed to keep a straight face no matter what. Sherlock probably wouldn't even bat an eye if Mycroft were to enter on his tippy toes in a pink tutu right then. Unfortunately John hadn't found a way he could possibly convince Mister Three-Piece-Suit-Mycroft to try out that theory for him. He'd need a lot of blackmail material.

They had a lot to do to counter the Dream. John had even made a list and it seemed the day would not suffice to get all of it done. Thank God they had a whole week to prepare. The most difficult part of their plan would be to foil Moriarty's trap by setting one of their own without alerting the madman that something was off.

"There's one other matter to take care of first," Sherlock said when they had thoroughly dissected every aspect of his Dream and John had it committed to paper.

He groaned, looking at his ever-growing list of 'Things To Do'. His apprehension only grew when he saw how unhappy Sherlock looked himself about this new item.

"I've been rather remiss in not realizing how much your visions affected your psyche, more so because of their undeniable verisimilitude," Sherlock started.

What the hell is he talking about? John thought, but was loath to interrupt Sherlock when he looked like he'd rather drop the subject entirely himself.

"I'm quite...careless when it comes to my own well-being, I'll admit," he continued, making John snort at the understatement. "I've never had reason not to be. Before."

"O-kay?" John replied, feeling a bit lost as to where Sherlock was going with this.

"Did you know Mycroft had appointed me a security detail when I first came to live in London on my own?" he asked out of the blue.

John wasn't surprised. The man had tried to buy him out to spy on his younger brother after all, but only after having thoroughly investigated, kidnapped and threatened him. As far as big brothers went, Sherlock's was as overprotective and overbearing as you could possibly imagine.

"That obviously did not pan out as Mycroft had expected," he replied tactfully, because he thought he would have noticed if Sherlock had been trailed all this time by two hulking gorillas in dark suits and sunglasses. He wasn't near as observant as Sherlock wished he sometimes was, but he wasn't blind either.

Sherlock snorted.

"Not really. But I have to admit that if I still had them dawdling after me like a couple of winged monkeys, they may have come in handy to stop the suspect who tried to stab me, and to get me out of the way of the truck. You wouldn't have had to see me die that way, not those times. I can't imagine… If I had to witness you dying…" he huffed and reached over to take John's hand, linking their fingers together. "I'm not being fair to you. I'm making you unnecessarily suffer when there is an easy solution. Not a perfect one, mind you, but it should alleviate some of your burden."

John's eyes widened as he finally understood what Sherlock was proposing.

"You mean you'd willingly accept to be followed around by Mycroft's lackeys?"

Sherlock nodded, the corners of his mouth turning down. He definitely didn't like that idea, but he wanted to do it for him despite it. John was tempted by the idea, too. The thought of Sherlock having more armed and trained people looking after him, making sure he didn't do something as stupid as stepping in front of a bus or climbing in a taxi with a serial killer, was very appealing, especially because John couldn't always be there. He wanted to, but he knew better. He hadn't been there when he'd been held hostage by Moriarty, and he hadn't been there yesterday when he'd more or less been hiding in the flat, building his strength back, while Sherlock ran out for errands and food, which reminded him of something Sherlock had mentioned:

"I thought we already had extra security here because of Moriarty."

"Yes, but only on the flat. When we step outside, we're on our own."

"But you'd hate it. Being followed around 24/7."

"I would. Call it a necessary evil. I want to do this for you, John. It's the least I can do."

John nodded and kissed him.

"In that case, how can I say no?"

"But you're telling Mycroft," Sherlock warned, pouting as he crossed his arms over his chest like a sullen, six foot tall child. "I am not asking for his help. He'd never let me live it down."

"I can do that," John assured and hurried off to find his phone. The sooner, the better.

Can you arrange for Sherlock's former security detail to return? -JW

Mycroft didn't even bother sending a text back. In the next twenty seconds his phone rang.

"What has happened?" the elder Holmes asked in clipped tones.

"Nothing," John assured. "And hello to you too, Mycroft. How have you been?"

"John," Mycroft replied, and John could feel all the force of his condescension in the tone he used. "If Sherlock has not only told you about his former security detail, but also asked for their return, it must mean he believes he is in greater danger than even I imagine."

John hummed noncommittally, because it was actually the opposite. Sherlock thought the extra security could take care of the minor dangers such as armed thugs, just to avoid John a few bad Dreams.

"Unless…" Mycroft added, letting the word hang in the static air between them, causing John to hold his breath. There was no way Mycroft could know the true reason, but the Holmes brothers were unnaturally perceptive. "Don't tell me he's doing this for you? That Sherlock has developed some form of… affection for you?"

John glanced at Sherlock who was watching him intently, as if he knew exactly what turn the discussion had taken. John cleared his throat, adopting a cheery tone:

"Two grown men sharing a flat, Mycroft. Honestly, what did you think we were doing?"

John heard Mycroft choke in surprise and had to hold the phone away, covering it with his hand as he held back a laugh, seeing Sherlock smile wickedly back at him.

"Very amusing, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said stiffly. "Never matter. I'll be more than happy to oblige. I only had to accede to Sherlock's tantrum on the matter because he made his security detail cry and run back to me with their tails between their legs."

"Really?" John asked skeptically. What? Did Mycroft hire wimps?

"Indeed. I had to relocate them to office jobs. Such a waste, they had been quite promising young men. I trust you will reign in Sherlock's temper in the future?"

"Sure."

"Good day, then," Mycroft said and hung up without waiting for an answer.

"Well, that went better than expected," John said pocketing his phone. "What did you do to make your bodyguards cry?"

"Oh, the usual," Sherlock answered with a dismissive gesture of his hand. "Tell me, was he very scandalized?" he asked, his eyes sparkling and looking like a mischievous elf looking for more mayhem to cause.

"As much as I've ever heard him be, but I don't think he actually believed me for some reason."

"Mycroft is often confused when you offer him the truth on a silver platter," Sherlock stated and John had the impression it was said as fact, that Sherlock had actually experimented on Mycroft's reaction to truths given freely. Those two must've had a very strange and unusual childhood.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, offering John his coat and then his arm. "We have a lot to do today."

John glanced at the top of his list. Two items crossed off, the next was Scotland Yard. They would have to convince the still skeptic Lestrade that John had some paranormal ability that could save all their arses.

ooo

"So you're really doing this?" Greg asked with a touch of derision, leaning back in his swivel chair with his feet up on his desk, the very image of relaxation.

"You still don't have to believe us, although you will when it does happen," John answered with a shrug. "Just remember to let Mycroft handle this when you get the call."

"Sure thing," Greg answered, sticking the piece of paper with the specifics of the call he would receive within a week amongst a stack of other scraps of similarly scribbled papers. "I don't suppose you could get me the lottery numbers next time though?"

John rolled his eyes and pulled Sherlock out of the DI's office before he took offence for John and started deducing the DI. Greg had been much less annoying in his Dream last night, but he did have a permanent crease between his dark brown eyes and a freckle on his right cheek, John had checked, just to be thorough.

When they were outside the building, John soon noticed they were being followed, but one look at Sherlock's annoyed expression was enough to reassure him that they were Mycroft's people: a man and a woman, dressed blandly enough that they melded with the crowd of Londoners without attracting too much attention, but holding themselves so rigidly that John had the impression he was watching two coiled springs, ready to be released at a moment's notice. However, as far as bodyguards went, those two were rather innocuous. Mycroft might be an annoying bastard, but he was a useful and smart annoying bastard.

.

ooo

John had the same Dream for the rest of the week. He wished he could evade them by not sleeping, but he now knew that was impossible. However, he was so stressed out knowing he would have that Dream that he couldn't manage to fall asleep, forced to collapse into it when it did come anyway, and he was too strung up afterwards to find sleep, even if he was exhausted.

Sherlock tried to help, he was there, holding him and whispering comforting words in the dark.

He'd even offered sex as a tested and proved method of falling asleep, but John had categorically refused to use Sherlock in such a way, despite the very convincing, very logical arguments his boyfriend was presenting. He wouldn't be able to look himself in the eye if he did that to Sherlock.

Sherlock finally recommended he take some sleeping pills, but John was afraid that would trap him in his Dream if he took them before. Some experiments were not worth trying. John did relent and start taking them after though, because he could just not function on no sleep the way Sherlock could.

As a result, he looked dreadful. There was no other word for it and everyone he met always used that exact same term when they saw the dark bags under his eyes and his grim expression. John had half a mind to punch them in the nose and comment on how 'dreadful' they looked today, but he thought that might just be the lack of sleep talking.

Sherlock was so worried he had finally offered to create a paradox. It wouldn't be difficult. They were skirting dangerously close to creating one by accident anyway with all the preparations they'd made, but that would defy the whole point of capturing one of Moriarty's men, and John had already lost too much sleep by then. He was stubborn and didn't want to give up when they were so close to their goal. He only had one more night to go through, he could do it.

"Why didn't we get Mycroft in on this sooner again?" John asked as they approached the Diogenes Club where Sherlock thought they might be able to corner his brother unawares.

Sherlock glanced worriedly at him. Had he already asked that question? Not today, surely? He'd remember if he had today, even if yesterday was a bit blurred around the edges.

"It would look too suspicious if I unveiled a plot to assassinate me a week in advance. I have a lot of ears and eyes out, more so in London than even Mycroft with his fancy cameras, but even I could not uncover such an elaborate plan so long in advance. Besides, it will keep Mycroft busy preparing a team to take out the sniper. Hopefully, busy enough that he does not question where I got my very reliable and precise intel from. Mycroft always wants to steal my toys, the greedy bastard."

"I'm not a toy," John growled, hearing in the distasteful word the echo of Moriarty's teasing voice.

You're just his little fuck toy.

John shook his head to get rid of the mocking, lilting voice that had slithered its way back into his mind.

"Ah- No. Of course not, John. That's not what I meant," Sherlock amended.

Was he fucking tiptoeing around him? Sherlock? Jesus, but he must have been in a foul mood lately. John huffed and squeezed Sherlock's hand before letting it go and pushing the door to the Diogenes Club open, holding it for Sherlock. A man in full livery, down to the immaculately white gloves, raised an eyebrow at Sherlock and strolled down a corridor, the two men following behind until he opened a door for them and left again. John found the whole thing very strange but Sherlock had warned him not to talk before Mycroft arrived, which he did a few minutes later, his face blank but a hint of curiosity slipping through the mask.

"Sherlock," he greeted stiffly. "This is rather unexpected. I've never known you to willingly seek out my company. Not since you were nine, at any rate." He turned to John and looked taken aback for a second. "John… You look…"

"I think the word you're looking for is 'dreadful'?" John offered with a fake smile plastered across his face, straining the muscles in his cheeks. He had been aiming for pleasant but sounded snarky even to his own ears. He leaned back in his chair and let the two brothers fight this one out on their own, he was too exhausted to intervene if it came to fisticuffs.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, staring at John.

"Nightmares," Sherlock intervened. "PTSD. You know how it is."

Mycroft's eyebrow only rose higher as he directed his gaze at his younger brother. He either didn't believe them, or was just surprised at Sherlock bothering to explain what he normally considered too pedestrian for him to even notice. But the elder Holmes was definitely becoming suspicious, so Sherlock hurriedly drowned him in all the information he had 'gathered' about the fake beheading case which was actually a trap to take him out. There was no need to inform him it was also a trap to get John back into Moriarty's unsavoury hands though. That's what Sherlock had deduced from the fact that they had been separated in the Dream, but John hoped that was one of his rare deductions he got wrong.

"You don't usually ask for my help," Mycroft commented, but he was already sending off a number of texts one-handed.

"I don't usually have a sniper after me. There's not much I can do against that."

"And you're sure the sniper is this Sebastian Moran character?" Mycroft asked, peering at a picture of the man on his phone, before flipping to another file cramped with words and numbers too difficult to read upside down at this distance..

"Based on John's description of Moriarty's right-hand man, and the files we sifted through together all week, we're fairly certain, yes. That should more than repay you for taking care of this small matter. You've been looking for an opportunity to gain more information of his organization after all. Moran should be a veritable goldmine."

Mycroft grimaced.

"If we can get him to talk. I suppose you've seen his service record?"

Sherlock grinned and poked an intricate bauble on the imposing desk that fell, ticked and twirled before becoming motionless again. Sherlock continued poking it, trying to get the mysterious contraption to tick again, until Mycroft pulled it out of his reach in irritation.

"That's not really my problem, now, is it?" Sherlock said. "Just remember: wait for Lestrade's call and don't take action until then. Don't even scout the place beforehand. Use one of your fancy satellites if you need to see the terrain. They might as well be of some use."

Mycroft sniffed, looking affronted at receiving advice from his younger brother, and pointedly bid them farewell, his eyes lingering a bit too long on John for his taste as he let himself be led out by Sherlock.

ooo

John lived through the Dream one more time. For the last time. It had not changed, he was relieved to see, so Mycroft's preparations must have been made as discreetly as he had promised. John sat on the edge of the path when he tumbled into the Dream and he watched the scene unfurl from further away than he had the first time. Far enough that he didn't have to see the life bleed out of Sherlock and hear his last exhale as he said his name, but close enough that he could make sure that everything stayed exactly the same as it had the first time around.

It had. Moriarty had no clue they had uncovered his trap, and they, in turn, had not created an accidental paradox. It was payback time for the madman.

John heard Lestrade's anguished cries and closed his eyes, ready to open them again in the real world.

Sherlock's face appeared in his line of sight, looking both worried and curious, and John nodded to answer both his unspoken questions.

Yes, I'm alright.

Yes, the Dream was the same.

Sherlock sighed and crawled into bed next to him, slipping his cold arms around him like an overly friendly octopus.

"Pills?" he asked, letting his curly head land on John's chest and John knew his wonderful boyfriend did it only because he knew it soothed him to play with his impossible hair after a Dream. It was something to keep his hand busy and his fingers from twitching nervously.

John shook his head, grimacing. The sleeping pills might help knock him out completely for a few hours sleep, but they also made him feel like utter shite the next day and he was frankly tired of getting drugged out of his mind of late. He hadn't liked when it had been forced on him by Moriarty's merry band of morons, and he certainly didn't like having to fall back on it because he was too much of a nerve-wreck to sleep on his own.

"It's okay," John said. "It was the last one, right? It'll be better after tomorrow. Just try not pissing anyone off into a killing frenzy for a while if you can."

Sherlock didn't reply and the silence between them was tense rather than comfortable, despite his teasing.

"Tomorrow…" Sherlock started, visibly hesitant, so John prodded him to continue. "If we… No. We won't catch Moriarty, you know. He's not the sniper, he has no such training, and no reason to be there. He will plan something else against me in retaliation, and you-"

"Will have bad Dreams. Yeah, I get it. I'm just being optimistic here." John let out a long suffering sigh and twirled one of Sherlock's curls around his index finger before letting it go, repeating the process over and over again. "But maybe he'll go for something grandiose for once and kill us on the spot instead of dragging it out like a cat playing with mice. A bomb would be nice. He could put it in the kitchen and everyone would be convinced it was one of your weird experiments that blew off in our faces."

Sherlock chuckled, the deep rumble vibrating against his chest.

"That makes for some rather maudling pillow talk."

"Uhm, sorry,.. But you can stop worrying, Sherlock. Even if the Dream cycle does start over immediately, I'll handle it better. This one just gets to me more than your other deaths did, that's all. It's fine, I'll be fine."

John leaned over to kiss Sherlock's furrowed brow and they whiled away the few hours remaining of the night talking about less consequential matters. John found himself engrossed in trying to find out how the animosity between the two brothers had started while Sherlock seemed fascinated that he'd never had such a rivalry with Harry.

ooo

There was a knock on the door right after lunch and the couple exchanged a puzzled look. None of the people they knew bothered to knock when they visited: Mrs Hudson yoohoo-ed, Mycroft was always preceded by the tap-tap of his umbrella, Greg generally ran up the stairs two at a time and… well, that's all of the visitors they usually had.

"A client?" John mouthed.

That was rather bad timing given today was the 29th and they would be too distracted on waiting for news from Lestrade and Mycroft. Sherlock shrugged. It was nice seeing Sherlock couldn't deduce everything from time to time.

"Come in," Sherlock barked, not bothering to unwrap himself from the two rickety kitchen chairs he'd taken over while John finished wiping the dishes. "Oh, if it isn't the winged monkeys," he grumbled upon seeing their visitors.

The female bodyguard entered, followed closely by her male counterpart. Sherlock spared them a cursory examination, no doubt deducing everything there was to know about their private, and very private, life, and had probably decided they were too tedious to deal with because he skulked off into the living room without a word and sprawled across the sofa to stare at the cracks in the ceiling.

John rolled his eyes and called their guests into the kitchen, if only to get them out of the sulking detective's hair.

"Tea?" he asked, already setting the kettle to boil, because who in their right mind refused a cup of tea in March?

The woman glanced at the mess in the kitchen, her hazel eyes lingering on one of Sherlock's most colourful experiences to date that was either a new species of fungi crossbred with a rainbow, or a bunch of skittles that were impersonating the Hulk in one of his rages.

"Sure," she said, shrugging.

She was a bodyguard so it probably wasn't the worse danger she'd been confronted with. Her surly companion nodded too and John set out four mugs on the table.

"I suppose you know who I am," John said, not expecting an answer. "But I know absolutely nothing about you."

"It's better that way," the woman said. "But you can call me Clara, if you must."

John smiled.

"Oswald," the man said with a straight face when John looked at him.

"Clara...Oswald," John repeated and barked a laugh. "Dr Who fans? Okay, I can deal with that. I suppose Mycroft asked you to keep a very close eye on Sherlock today in particular?"

They nodded, looking nervously towards the living room. John wondered if they had heard what had happened to their predecessors, or if they were just weary of Holmeses in general.

"Don't worry, he doesn't bite," John reassured them, pushing a mug of tea towards each of them. "Much," he amended after a moment's thought. "Tell you what: I'll get him to work on one of his experiments in the kitchen - I'm sure I saw a few toes left over in the fridge - and then we can watch reruns of Dr Who all afternoon. It should make the wait more bearable for everyone."

The two Whovians on his couch were total nerds who could quote whole passages of any given episode and had two of the most contagious laughs John had ever heard. Clara's resembled more a snort and made her dark ponytail flick uncontrollably when she laughed, while Oswald was much too high pitched for a man who looked like he had been chiseled out of a solid block of dark granite. They even managed to lure Sherlock out of the kitchen when he heard John wheezing from laughing too much and declared they were making too much noise for him to be able to conduct his experiment satisfactorily. But instead of storming back into the kitchen, he joined them and started listing everything that was wrong with the show and why a screwdriver couldn't be 'sonic'. The look of horror on the two bodyguards lasted for all of two frozen second before they started arguing vehemently with Sherlock. It was the most surreal afternoon John had ever witnessed, and he'd had some pretty strange ones since meeting the man.

However, when they heard heavy steps rushing up the stairs, the two bodyguards sprung out of their seats, covering the front door with both their guns drawn and ready to shoot before either John or Sherlock could tell them it was only Lestrade.

"Erm...hi?" Greg said, holding a pack of beer in one hand and waving awkwardly with the other.

Clara and Oswald put their weapons away, and stood at attention, apparently waiting for instructions. That's when John realized all eyes were on him.

"Join us?" he offered, pointing at the couch and introducing the two bodyguards to a rather bewildered Lestrade.

"I got the call," Greg told John in hushed tones, leaning over towards his armchair when the three others resumed their argument about the possibility of a whole subculture living in the bowels of the Earth. "Exactly as you said. I'm sorry I doubted you."

"It's okay. I wouldn't have believed you if you told me you could fly, or shoot lasers through your eyes."

"Until I jumped out a window or glared a hole through your thick skull?"

"Exactly," John said, handing him a beer. "You staying for dinner? I don't know how long it will take before Mycroft gives us word of how the plan went."

"Sure. It beats eating at my desk," Greg muttered, looking gloom.

Ah. Still not back with the wife, then.

"We have a spare bedroom if you fancy sleeping in a bed for a change, too."

"Yeah, you do, don't you?" Greg teased with a lecherous grin that made John blush to the roots of his hair.

Suddenly, Greg received a solid pillow-throw right in the nose from Sherlock, making him spill 'perfectly good beer' on Clara and Oswald who had unfortunately been sharing the couch with him. No need to say, it was a raucous and distracting evening that only got more interesting when Mycroft finally made an appearance.