Dreams that weren’t nightmares? John had to stop and think about that. How much was he willing to share? It wasn’t as if he had any sexual dreams about the man or anything like that, far from it, but John was rather private when it came to personal matters like these. Sure, he could talk about his past relationships till the cows came home, all of his stories were relatively entertaining and more often than not, he ended up laughing at them.
The topic of dreams, however, was a completely different matter. They were glimpses into his subconscious, they revealed things about him that he didn’t want the world to know. His words were slow when he spoke to the camera. “A few,” he started. “When he was gone, I had dreams of us when we were on cases.” He stopped, unable to go further without reopening old wounds.
It didn’t matter that Sherlock had returned, the hurt of his abandonment would still be there and would be there for a while yet. Having Sherlock around simply lessened that sharp stab into a numb sting. An improvement, yes, though present all the same.
Realising that he hadn’t said anything for a good twenty seconds and that he was still recording, John switched off the camera and sighed, doing his best to push away the familiar feeling of emptiness that crept up on him. What was he doing, really? Everything was okay now. Everything was… John’s molars clenched onto one another and he took a deep, shuddering breath. Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere. He was here.
Why didn’t he feel reassured?
Sherlock stood at the threshold of the living room, mug of tea in one hand as he watched his flatmate. He remained still, unsure of what to do to. Social norms told him that at times like these, it was perfectly acceptable to go over and hug the man; but he’d been trying to ‘tone it down’. To give John some breathing room, so to speak. Understandably, there were relapses, especially when a person threatened to take John from him —his mind supplied him of images of Greg Lestrade and he felt his blood boil, but on the most part he’d been keeping his hands to himself.
He wanted to comfort John, to make him happy and he endeavoured to do so. Though there was something that lurked at the pit of his stomach that replaced that innocent want with something hungrier, carnal. Sherlock wanted to go over to John, to push him back in that worn armchair of his and to claim his mouth over and over again. To taste those lips he had only touched once before, to completely ravish him until those thin lips swelled under his ministrations. He wanted to re-enact those sweet, torturous scenes available only in his dreams, in which he slowly took John apart and put him back together as he pleased. He wanted John’s eyes to be fixed solely on him, to have those bursts of sapphire filled with want and need. He wanted—
Sherlock took a deep yet shaky breath. It didn’t matter what he wanted, did it? This was all about John, it was always about John and it will always be about him. Clearing his mind of fantasies that would never happen, Sherlock forced back the reoccurring ache in his chest and made his way to the kitchen.
He’d make John some Assam, it always made him smile, didn’t it? For now, that’d be enough.
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