Story Notes:
"John?"
He doesn't know how long he's sat there in silence, staring out the window at the traffic passing by. He still doesn't understand how the world can just go on like this. Like nothing has changed. Like the world wasn't completely turned upside down just a few months ago.
Everyone else has moved on. Everyone but him.
He drags his eyes back to the woman seated before him, the woman who is supposed to help him through this. The woman who asks him to gut himself twice a week in the name of healing. He's not yet sure how that's supposed to work.
"The dreams. What can you tell me about them?"
He shrugs. "Nothing really. They're the same as always."
"And they still seem just as real to you?"
John closes his eyes and nods, almost imperceptibly.
"And the prescription sleep aid--"
"Did nothing." He opens his eyes and shoots her an annoyed look. "They may as well have been sugar pills." He pauses, frowns. "Were they?"
She scribbles in her notebook. "Of course not. I can give you a stronger dose, if you like."
"But," he says, scrubbing at his forehead .
"You tell me."
"It doesn't solve the problem. Look, I need these dreams to stop. It's making me--" He presses his lips together in a thin line. "I can't take much more of this."
She sighs and looks up from her writing. "We've discussed this before. It's completely normal to have dreams like these after losing a loved one."
"Is it." It's not a question.
"Has something changed? Have the dreams changed?"
He pauses, just a fraction of a second too long. He realizes his mistake the moment she shifts in her seat, leaning toward him slightly.
"It really will help if you talk about it."
But it won't. He knows that. It won't help to tell her that when Sherlock sits on the edge of his bed in the middle of the night, he feels the mattress dip. That the hand pressing against his hip is warm and solid, as if Sherlock was really there next to him.
"Does he still touch you?"
John closes his eyes again. "Yes."
"And?"
"And nothing." No good could possibly come of telling her about that.
"Are the dreams… sexual?"
"No," he says, far too quickly.
"That's completely normal, you know. Sexual activity in dreams doesn't imply sexual feelings in reality. It's often a sign of closeness, of things left unsaid, of suppressed feelings. When someone passes so unexpectedly, there are usually things left unsaid."
"Right, fine." He shouldn't feel this way. He should be happy to spill his secrets to this woman, shouldn't he? Her job is to help him, and God knows he needs help. But he just can't bring himself to tell anyone about that. God only knows what Mycroft would say.
"I'm so pathetic," he says, and laughs.
"I assure you, what you're experiencing is completely normal."
He nods. The fuck it is.
*****
The bottle is smooth in his hands, and he stares at it. Zolpedim tartate, 10 mg, take on an empty stomach. It should knock him out quickly, spare him the 90 minutes of staring up at the ceiling in this sterile room, listening to the sounds of traffic on the street below.
He might have been better off staying in the flat on Baker Street. In those weeks after, he couldn't bear the emptiness. He couldn't bear to be alone in those rooms. But now, 3 months on, he wonders if it might be better if he went back. Maybe he could finally sleep. Maybe in Sherlock's room, he'd find some peace.
He presses down and then pulls up on the cap, twisting it off. One small pink pill, downed with a glass of water. Lie back on the bed and close eyes. Wait.
He hates the Ambien dreams. They’re vivid, stark, disturbing, and the drug leaves him unable to rouse himself from them on his own. When The Dream itself finally comes, it's almost welcome. It always is: a relief, a break from the nightmare of the daylight. It's not healthy, he knows. He doesn't give a fuck.
He senses the presence in the room, and he exhales. For the first few weeks, it was only this, the watching. He felt those eyes on him, burning into him, and when he finally worked up the nerve to open his eyes and look, he'd seen a figure in the doorway. It always fled once spotted.
Until one night when it didn't. It stayed, and John had just watched. Watched the figure stand there and watch him.
"Are you real?" he'd asked after about a month of this.
There was no response, but the figure walked toward him and stood close enough that he could make out the shape of a chiseled face, an unruly mop of dark hair, that trademark coat. A hint of a smile. John had stopped breathing.
"Stay with me," he'd said. "Please." And the figure nodded, and John had watched until his eyes grew heavy and sleep took him again.
John knows he's there now, watching from the doorway. He can feel it in his bones, feel it tickling at the back of his brain. He won't open his eyes just yet. He'll wait.
The mattress dips, and there is a warmth at his back, and my God it's so real. Then there it is, a hand on his hip, stroking gently, and John turns.
The first time Sherlock (and John can only think of this apparition as Sherlock, even though he knows it's all in his head) touched him was four weeks ago. He'd stood over the bed, staring down at John, and on a whim John had reached out a hand. Sherlock had stared at his fingers for a long time as if considering, and then had taken it. John had closed his eyes and squeezed those fingers, so relieved that dream!Sherlock was flesh and blood and warm, not a ghost at all. On another night John had pulled that hand closer, and Sherlock sat on the bed next to him for an hour, their fingers intertwined.
He never speaks. And that's all right, because John doesn't think he could bear to hear Sherlock's voice, even in his dreams.
That hand caressing his hip has now moved to his chest, and John catches his breath. It's going to be one of those dreams. He both loves them and hates them. He mostly hates them in the morning when the bright sunlight washes the room clean of all vestiges of the night, when he has to face what a pathetic sot he's become. Living for these moments. This dream.
He sits up and tugs at Sherlock's hand. Dream!Sherlock's coat is gone, and he's already undone the top few buttons of his shirt. John slides his free hand up that warm strong arm, across a shoulder, stroking his fingers over the spot where he saw Sherlock's head bashed in -- no, not now, don't think about that now -- tracing his fingers over the scar that remains, something his mind has invented to cover up the brutal reality. He cards his fingers through the dark hair he somehow never touched when Sherlock was alive, and sighs.
"Let me just look at you for a moment," he whispers, and Sherlock stops, tilts his head quizzically. "I don't know why I torture myself like this. Do you?" Sherlock nods, and John snorts. "Of course you do. If you were real, you'd tell me about it in annoyingly excruciating detail, and I'd tell you to shut the fuck up and kiss me."
A hint of a smile plays at the corners of Sherlock's lips, and then he does just that.
The first kiss was three weeks ago, and it had caught John completely by surprise. Well, perhaps that isn't true -- John had become aware at some point that the dreams were fairly lucid, that he could influence them in any number of ways. He hadn't told his therapist that.
It still amazes him, this press of lips, warm and soft, and when John slides a hand around the back of Sherlock's head and pulls him closer and deepens the kiss, it's perfect. It's always perfect, and it's always incredible, and John wonders for the twentieth time why they never did this when Sherlock was alive, because fuck it's so good, this gentle slide of tongue and teeth and wet and hot.
John's hard in his pyjamas and groaning into Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock is silent as always. There is a hand on his shoulder and another on his side, stroking, so warm and real and now working under his tee shirt (why does he even bother to wear pyjamas anymore?) and the fingers on his skin are cool and teasing. He breaks the kiss long enough to pull the shirt over his head and toss it aside before he dives back in, pulling Sherlock down onto the mattress with him.
Their mouths crush together again and just as John starts to think about what he wants to happen next, a hand is working its way into his pyjama bottoms.
"Oh fuck yes, touch me," he says against Sherlock's lips, and that hand finds his cock and strokes. John's hands make their way down Sherlock's back, gripping his arse hard and grinding Sherlock's obvious erection into John's thigh. Those amazing fingers twist his foreskin a bit around the head of his cock, squeezing just enough, and he wonders how long he's going to be able to last this time.
"Please just let me--" He's desperate to touch, to stroke, to do something to make Dream!Sherlock react, but his hand is batted away before he can wriggle it between them. So not completely lucid then. His brain apparently wants him to be selfish, to let him come at the hands of his dead best friend without ever being able to dream about what his face would look like when he comes. It's almost cruel.
But then again, this is his dream, isn't it?
He summons his dream-strength and rolls them over in one quick movement, pinning Dream!Sherlock beneath him. John grins at him and immediately cups Sherlock's groin with one hand. Sherlock's eyes widen, and he reaches down to push John's hand away, shaking his head.
"I need this," John says, leaning down to kiss the tip of Sherlock's nose. "Please let me touch you. If you're going to torment me in my dreams, at least let me imagine I'm tormenting you in return, yeah?"
Sherlock seems frozen, and he closes his eyes. After a moment he wraps his fingers around John's wrist and then pushes that hand down his body.
John's breath catches in his throat. This is new. New is good.
He unfastens Sherlock's trousers and pushes them down his hips enough to free his erection. It occurs to him that he's never actually done this awake either, has never touched a hard cock that wasn't his own. Why he wants this one is a bit beyond him, but he learned a long time ago not to ask such questions when it comes to Sherlock. Came to. Not now.
Sherlock's cock feels undeniably real in his hand, and when he strokes he watches Sherlock's face. He's guarded, careful, eyes closed, biting his lower lip, almost grimacing on the upstroke. John wants to see him come so badly that he almost can't bear it. He'd do anything.
Anything.
He leans forward before he loses his nerve, and the moment his lips close around the head of Sherlock's cock, there is a sound. It's a soft sound, an intake of breath, and John freezes for a moment. Sherlock has never made a sound in all these months, never so much as a sigh. He's been eerily quiet, in fact, so much so that John had spent a great deal of time wondering what that silence meant about his own subconscious.
Of course, John is dreaming about giving him head, and if Dream!Sherlock was ever going to make a sound, this would be the most likely choice of moments. Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn't.
He swirls his tongue around the head and sucks, and is surprised at the taste that floods his mouth. He's never done this before, so he has no reference, and the taste is nothing like that of a woman. Of course, his brain has shown itself to be quite creative where Sherlock is concerned. He takes as much of the shaft as he can into his mouth and works the underside with his tongue as he moves back up, and there it is again -- a gasp. A hand touches the back of his head and exerts mild pressure, as if to encourage him to repeat the move and so he does. He works even more of Sherlock's cock into his mouth, ignoring the gag reflex at the back of his throat (he really should be able to wish that away in a dream) and he's rewarded again with small sounds of pleasure.
He's actually going to do this. Sherlock is letting him do this. The hand at the back of his head fists his short hair and pulls up, pulls him off.
"Too quick?"
Sherlock nods and John stretches out on top of him again. Their cocks brush together and John moans, and then reaches between them.
The movement takes a bit of coordination, but it's worth it for the look on Sherlock's face. John presses their cocks together as he moves, and Sherlock pulls him into a kiss that feels more heated and desperate than any they've shared before.
"Oh my God," John whispers into his mouth. "Oh fuck," and he feels breath against his lips, so hot and so real that it's hard to believe this is only a dream. He pulls out of the kiss and stares down at Sherlock's dark eyes. "I want to see you come. I need to see it. Please. Oh God, I need it. I miss you so much and I'm probably going fucking mad but I need to know what it would have been like to see you this way."
Sherlock is panting as if he's running a race, his face contorted, but his eyes are open. He's going to let John see, going to let him have this.
He feels his own orgasm building, a slow burn in his balls, almost there, so fucking amazing in that way only dream orgasms are. Sherlock's hands tighten on his arms and John sees it in his face, sees the moment he comes. John feels him ejaculate against his stomach, rides it with him, his own orgasm teetering on the edge.
And then he hears it: a half-groaned word through gritted teeth, so slight he might have missed it if he weren't watching, observing.
"John."
That single word wraps itself around his heart and pushes him over the edge, and he comes harder than he can ever remember. He sees stars and he collapses against Sherlock's chest, now damp with sweat (oh how he loves his brain for that detail), and feels the sticky mess grow between them. Sherlock's arms are around him, nose against his cheek, and there are hands on his back, rubbing, soothing.
John buries his face in Sherlock's shoulder, surprised that the dampness there seems to be coming from him. He'd be mortified if this were real, but hell, it's his party, isn't it? He can cry if he bloody well wants to.
"I miss you," he whispers. "I miss you so fucking much."
Sherlock nods and soothes with the palm of his hand, and John shudders a sob.
He's going mad. This isn't healthy, and it damn well isn't normal. He's never heard of anything like this in any of the medical journals he's read. He's done a fair bit of research in the last few months, and nothing he's found indicates that this is normal.
But he doesn't care. If his sex life is going to be imaginary from now on, it could be a hell of a lot worse.
And Sherlock -- he can't bring himself to look up just now, so he enjoys the feeling of Sherlock beneath him, of arms wrapped around him, and he sighs.
"Why didn't we do this when you were alive? We wasted so much bloody time."
Sherlock rewards him with a small squeeze.
John turns his head and watches the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. How is it that John's never noticed the breathing until tonight?
"Stay until I fall asleep. Waking up alone is going to be hell, but at least let me fall asleep with you in my arms."
Sherlock shifts slightly and turns onto his side and John spoons against him from behind. He plants soft kisses against the back of Sherlock's neck and wraps an arm around his chest. It's perfect.
He's never going back to his therapist again. Going mad will be worth it if he can have this.
*****
The sunlight through the window is harsh the next morning and John waits as long as possible before squinting open one eye. He's spooning with a pillow and the bed is a wreck, and he's alone. Again.
He sits up, scratches at his belly, and grimaces: a very vivid dream then, judging by the sheer quantity of dried spunk on his skin. He ought to invest in a few more sets of sheets; he's been changing them faster than he did as a teenager. The details of the dream come flooding back, and for a moment he closes his eyes, remembering. He has a few blessed seconds of pleasure before reality crashes in once again.
Sherlock is dead. John is alone. He's falling in love with someone who no longer exists.
He scrubs at his face with his hands. Pathetic.
He forces himself up, to the loo. Piss and a shower. He's got a shift at the surgery today; it always helps get his mind off of everything. On the way to the toilet he steps on something soft, and freezes.
His shirt. He'd had it on when he went to bed. How had he managed to take it off while asleep?
His brain quite helpfully presents him with an image of Sherlock's hands running up under it, of him peeling it off and tossing it to the floor. To this very spot on the floor, in fact.
Something far too much like hope blossoms in his chest, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Mustn't think about that. He can't let himself think, not even for a moment, that it was more than a dream.
It was just a dream.
Sherlock is dead.
John takes a deep breath, and carries on.
*****
~ fin ~