Sherlock Oneshots

One//Nightmares//Johnlock

"Morning, John." Sherlock says, as he hears his flat mate enter the untidy lounge. Sherlock doesn't have the time to tidy, there are much more important things in the world. Like John, for example. Ever since they met, there has been something special between them. Love.
"Want a cuppa?" John asks. He slips his hands into Sherlock's dressing gown pockets, and the taller man ceases his violin playing. He places it down on the armchair, carefully as not to break the strings. As he turns around, John's hands move from his pockets to his back, and they stay in this position until Sherlock finally gives in and hugs John back. John smiles; these moments are the ones he loves the best. He inhales through his nose, breathing in Sherlock's unique scent. He doesn't smell of anything in particular; but John would describe him as smelling 'warm'. He feels warm, as well, and as John listens to Sherlock's beating heart, it reminds him that Sherlock is human. Ordinary. Mundane.
'Oh, he is far from that' John thinks. Sherlock may be human, but he definitely isn't ordinary. Sherlock is like the chips at the bottom of the bag; usually ignored or left aside, but someone is always glad to see him. This 'someone' is of course John. His love for Sherlock will never end, and he thinks that Sherlock feels the same.
"Coffee would be great. " Sherlock replies, after a few moments engulfed in a hug, "Black. Two sugars."
"Coming right up." John says, and reluctantly breaks the hug. Sherlock picks up his violin, seemingly unphased by the cherished moment that just passed. On the other hand, John's pulse is erratic.

After the kettle has boiled and the two steaming coffees set aside on the table to cool, Sherlock sits in his chair, thinking. Thinking...about John.
"Sherlock...Sherlock!" John says, interrupting Sherlock's train of thought.
"What is it, John? I was busy." Sherlock replies, a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"No, you were mumbling words under your breath, and twitching. What's wrong?" John asks, knowing that even twitching is abnormal for Sherlock Holmes.
"Ah. No. I'm fine."
"Sherlock..."
"Well, now you mention it, there is something I meant to tell you."
"About the case?"
"About..." Sherlock draws in a breath, "us."
John stares at Sherlock, almost expectantly.
"The truth is...I never loved you, John. All those times we kissed, I... I thought it would be different. Love...sentiment...it's so glorified by the stories, that you expect miracles. You...you're not a miracle. You're normal...boring. I hate you, John Watson."
John's eyes are now closed, and his head is in his hands. "Sherlock..."
"John, nothing you can say will change my mind. I. Hate. You."

John's eyes flicker open. He is covered in sweat, and his heart is thumping against his chest. Realisation dawns over him.
It was just a dream.
No, not a dream.
A nightmare.

As his hand brushes the crisp white sheets, he realises they are cold. Sherlock has been up for a while. He smiles to himself as he drags himself out of bed, sliding on his slippers and pulling on his dressing gown. Yawning, he goes into the lounge to find Sherlock sat in his chair, sipping from a mug.
"Did you make me a tea, by any chance?" John enquires.
"You were deep in sleep when I woke up. I deduce that you would have been asleep for at least another half an hour, and by then the tea would have gone cold." Sherlock replies
"And that is why I love you." John laughs, only to receive a puzzled look from Sherlock. "You're amazing. You're like a magician: you can deduce anything about anyone, no matter the circumstances."
"I would tell you that magicians can't actually do magic, and it's all an illusion whereas my deducing is purely based on skill an experience, however Molly and various others have informed me that is impolite, so therefore I will thank you."
John smiles to himself as he flops down in his chair, still tired. Sherlock suddenly stands up, and John watches his perfect body move over to the stereo. Music begins to play, or more specifically Piano Concerto no. 1 in Bb minor by Tchaikovsky, John's favourite.
"Dance with me." Sherlock commands, and so John willingly stands up, and rests his hand on the taller man's waist. Together, they waltz around the living room, avoiding all the case files littered around the floor. They are so absorbed in the moment, that they don't see Mrs Hudson at the door, a huge smile on her face, proud of the two boys who have lived under her care for four years, despite the fact she was not their housekeeper, proud of the fact that they had finally admitted their love. After a few minutes, she leaves, letting the boys dance alone.

The music draws to a close, and the last note hangs on the air. Sherlock leans in close, and John leans even closer.
Their lips collide in a moment of fireworks and sparks, and all John's nightmares are forgotten.