Sherlock drifts in and out of his dream like a leaf flowing on the breeze, rising and falling again with the caprices of the wind – with the warm, gentle touches he imagines brushing against the back of his neck.
It takes him ages, entire eternities to focus his mind and take control of the dream. Lucid dreaming is an art he doesn’t bother with all that often; building the perfect dream tends to lose its attraction when one knows the dream must eventually end. Still, once in a while, it’s an allowable indulgence.
With what he plans to do later today, with the fear that grips him every time he reassesses his decision, the fear that he’ll lose the only true friend he ever had, trying to dream up the best case scenario might be just the push he needs.
In his dream, he rolls around, faces the man he wills to be here, with him, in his flat again as before, in his bed as he never was. In the sparse light of morning, John’s smile is a thing of warmth and gentleness; his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark, hold the same warmth but more lust than gentleness. There’s a strength to John, quiet but unmovable, and Sherlock brings that strength to the front as he continues to build up his dream then lets it unfold.
At a touch from Sherlock’s fingers to his cheek, John’s smile widens just a little more. He takes hold of Sherlock’s wrist and draws his hand more firmly against his mouth, sucking on two fingertips. Sherlock sighs, a quiet moan of John’s name.
“God, that’s gorgeous,” John says, his words low and sticky with all things sinful. His tongue flicks between Sherlock’s fingers. “You’re gorgeous. I should tell you how gorgeous you are every day for the rest of your life so you never forget.”
With a smile of his own, Sherlock shifts closer to John, bringing their bodies together, pressing his knee up between John’s thighs. It’s not quite lucid dreaming anymore; he wouldn’t put those words in John’s mouth.
Some true dreams can be better than lucid dreaming.
“I doubt I could forget that in a thousand lifetimes,” he breathes against John’s mouth before kissing him.
He explores his mouth slowly but thoroughly, his tongue touching everywhere and taking advantage of John’s passivity while it lasts – which is to say, not very long. Soon, John pushes back against him, and his tongue returns every touch Sherlock’s offered.
For a few moments, they trade turns, each of them invading the other’s mouth before allowing the same invasion, hands caressing faces, shoulders, chest – and lower still. With a thought, Sherlock could will the sheet that covers them away and reveal all of John to his gaze, but he resists the temptation. He knows it’s a soldier’s body that John hides under his bland jumpers, he has deduced every last inch of him – except for the scar he knows must remain on his shoulder, that scar John has always kept hidden. But for all that he knows about strong muscles and golden skin, he’s never seen John’s body and he finds himself reluctant to give it form. Too often already he’s imagined it, too often he’s felt empty, afterward; lonely.
He pulls back and throws an arm over his eyes, refusing to let the dream continue. What’s the point? If John hears him tomorrow, they’ll have this for real. If he’s less than receptive, they never will, and torturing himself with what he can’t have won’t help Sherlock forget he let himself fall into the unforgivable trap of sentiment.
“Sherlock? What’s wrong, love?”
A silent bark of laughter shakes Sherlock. His mind is a strange, strange place. Did he call up that word to John’s lips, or did his subconscious play that dirty trick on him?
“This is not real,” he murmurs.
“Of course it’s real,” John says, close enough to Sherlock’s ear that the words are a caress. “I know it’s hard but it’s real, Sherlock. Don’t ever doubt that.”
And then his lips find Sherlock’s again. His hand finds Sherlock’s cock. And hard is the word, indeed. Sherlock tries to fight it, but his body refuses to obey him, as does the dream. He stays still under that confident, knowing hand that strokes him to full hardness, playing in turns with his bollocks, his glans, his foreskin… then sliding lower, lower, until two fingers press, push, slide in where he’s already slick, already stretched. His subconscious at play again.
“Sherlock…” John breathes his name like a pagan prayer. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”
He shouldn’t. It’ll make everything harder, in the end. But those too clever fingers are short-circuiting his mind, and the words come out of their own accord on a sob.
“I want you. John, god, I love you so bloody much I can’t even—”
John’s lips returns, stealing the words out of Sherlock’s mouth. His entire body follows, heavy and yet familiar on top of Sherlock’s, his cock nudging at sensitive nerve endings then sliding where his fingers explored earlier. Sherlock’s legs weave their way around him, then his arms, and as small thrusts take John progressively deeper, it’s like their bodies are two puzzle pieces, always meant to fit together, finally united.
Sherlock looks into John’s eyes above him, twilight blue and full of stars and he wishes, oh, how he wishes—
“I wish I didn’t have to wake up,” he gasps, clinging desperately to John’s shoulders. “I wish… God, John…”
John’s rhythm falters; the light in his eyes dims. “Sherlock? You’re not asleep, love. This is real. This is us.”
A sharper thrust punctuates his words, and Sherlock moans, his back arching, his cock painting wet trails against John’s abdomen.
Wishes and dreams… He pushes it all away, focuses on the feel of John above him, inside him, around him, murmuring words of love as his cock, his hand push Sherlock ever closer to the razor-sharp edge of pleasure – to the end of a self-indulgent dream. To that moment when he isn’t Sherlock anymore. He’s SherlockAndJohn. He’s part of something he never knew he wanted to be a part of. He belongs to something, to someone, when he never knew what it meant to belong.
“I love you,” John whispers after, his mouth pressed to Sherlock’s neck, his entire body blanketing Sherlock’s, shared pleasure still wet and warm on their skin. “If you have to forget everything else, at least remember that.”
“I will,” Sherlock breathes, holding him tight. “I’ll never forget. I’ll engrave it right in the foundations of my mind palace. Just as soon as you say it for real.”
John says his name again, and it sounds like a heart breaking.
“Sleep, love,” he says, a hitch in his voice. “Tomorrow you can tell me you love me, and I swear I’ll say I love you too.”
Sherlock doesn’t sound like himself. He sounds like someone who came so close to touching the sun that his wings started melting.
“I swear,” John repeats, kissing the side of Sherlock’s face, then kissing his eyes shut. “I swear. I swear I’ll still love you every time you wake up and for the rest of your life. I swear, Sherlock. You won’t remember, but I swear.”
The words tickle Sherlock’s mind and he wants to ask… something. A question. But already he’s drifting toward another dream like a leaf on the breeze.