"Lestrade will be here soon," John says.
Sherlock looks up. John's leaning against Donovan's desk. "Must've fallen asleep," Sherlock murmurs. "I'm dreaming."
John frowns at him. "I'm not a dream."
"Yes you are," Sherlock says. "You can only communicate with me when I'm asleep. Technically, you're a dream.''
John rolls his eyes and takes John-bear from his lap, sets him aside. Then he grabs Sherlock's hands and pulls him out of the chair.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks.
"I told you. Lestrade'll be here soon, but we've still got time for a few things," John says.
"Like-" Sherlock starts, but John interrupts him.
"I'll take you to that museum in the States you keep wanting to go to, the one with all the brains of murderers and the giant colon and the things people've swallowed," John says.
Sherlock lights up. "And the assassin's thorax?"
Scotland Yard fades away as he speaks, replaced by the very museum. It's better than Christmas, and Sherlock keeps hold of John's hands, pulls him around while John compares him to a kid in a sweets shop.
"Or to that church made of human skeletons in the Czech Republic, the one we watched a documentary on and you spent half the time sighing wistfully," John says.
The museum gives way to the church, but they're there for only a few moments before John's talking again.
"Or, hell, I'll take you ice skating on the bloody moon."
They're there, stars bright in the sky, Earth glowing blue and white above them. Sherlock's breath catches, his feet skid for a second before he adjusts to the surprise of wearing skates and being on ice. He's still holding John's hands, so he begins to skate backwards, pulling John forwards.
"Why ice skating on the moon?" Sherlock asks.
"You love ice skating," John says. "And I love watching you skate. God, Sherlock, you're so beautiful. And the moon – why not? I'd promise you anything at this point."
"This is marvellous, John," Sherlock says, spinning them on the ice. "But it does lend credence to you being a dream."
John doesn't reply, and they skate in silence. Sherlock doesn't care that it's a dream. He's – happy. John's alive, and it'sSherlock he's reaching out to.
After awhile, John stops them. "You look cold."
"I left my coat back in Scotland Yard," Sherlock says, and he is shivering a bit.
"Here." John shrugs out of his jumper and drapes it around Sherlock's shoulders.
It's warm, and it smells like John. Sherlock pulls it close. "Now I know it has to really be you."
"Why?" John asks curiously.
"My dreams aren't like this. This has to be you," Sherlock says. "You've never treated me so – romantically. You've never looked at me the way you are now. I've thought about it, wished for it, but my dreams aren't that kind."
John pulls him close, so close the tips of their ice skates touch. He runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, brushing it off his forehead. "There's something I need to tell you. Something important."
"What?" Sherlock asks, dizzy from John's near-ness.
John shakes his head. "I can't tell you like this. I want to, so bad, but I can't. Not when I'm not even sure if you can hear me."
"I can hear you, John, of course I can hear you," Sherlock says, and his voice sounds a little desperate.
"That's why I need you to wake up," John says.
Sherlock reaches for John's hands, tries to cling to them, but it's too late
YOU ARE READING
Waking You Up
Hayran KurguJohn dies and Sherlock blames himself, so much so that the guilt begins to affect his life. However, he keeps getting dreams of John talking to him and assuring him that he's not dead. Eventually Sherlock doesn't seem to know reality from dreams and...
