John, wake up. "Please"

What dreams are made of

Sherlock woke groggily from his sleep, looked around, lying on the staircase, this was new.

He groaned as he pulled himself to his feet, this brought back memories, his spine was most definitely not made for the stairs.

What had happened the night before?

He's halfway between Mrs Hudsons flat and their own, so he must have got through the door and then on his way up the stairs he had collapsed and fell asleep.

Interesting.

Where's John? Sherlock decided to call for him as there is no sound upstairs.

"John?" He calls and is surprised how weak his voice sounds. "John!" He calls again and his voice cracks at the end.

He drags himself to his feet, noticing the vomit around his hands on the staircase. Where is Mrs Hudson? Ah yes, visiting family.

No Mrs Hudson, no John, what about-- "Rosie!" Sherlock gasped as he pulled his body from the stairs and vomit that clung to his clothes. He ran despite his weakened limbs. He raced for his life.

He got to the flat, the stench of his own clothing making him want to retch in a way beknown to himself, along with the panic that was settling in his chest, constricting his threat, making it impossible to swallow.

"Rosie!" Sherlock called, no answer, he wasn't entirely sure if he'd even been expecting one, to have received one would have been a reaction of relief but also awe at having learnt to reply at such a young age. He pushed the thought aside.

First he checked the living room, no Rosie and no John, then he checked the kitchen, then John's bedroom, then the bathroom and finally his own.

His pacing across the floorboards must have disturbed something or someone for there was a cry of fear and he began to hunt, to detect what he had missed. Out of his bedroom, back in again, the noise was strongest here, walk more, one particular creaky floorboard, he inspected the floor where he saw a minute scratch, further examination along the floor and under his bed lay a screwdriver (phillips head). He picked it up before going to the mark in the floorboard and levering it between the two planks of old wood and pulling with all his adrenaline induced strength.

The cry cane again, much louder this time and there lay a bundle of blankets along with what appeared to be John's coat.

"Rosie?" He asked, and his voice cracked in fear.

"Er'ock?" The tiniest voice questioned back and Sherlock didn't feel the tears that streaked down his face.

"Rosie!" He whispered, and he began to cry properly, as he pressed her against his chest in a defensive manor willing to give his life, sacrifice himself so long as the child in his arms stay protected.

He managed to get Rosie into the living room and gently placed her in her crib, he pulled off his soiled suit jacket and noticed the puncture hole to his shirt leave to his arm beneath. Syringe of some sort. Drugged.

He began to scavenge clues for John, tried to hint him out in all the mess that he had found since he woke up.

He scavenged the kitchen again, checked the cupboards, under the sink, the whole bathroom even in the bath and behind he curtains. John was nowhere.

Back to John's room, move the discarded dressing gown and slippers off the floor and out of the way. More scratch marks. A hammer laying near by. Pick up hammer, no fingerprints, no clues or evidence.

Get the pointed end of the hammer into the cracks between the floorboards, use his own weight as leverage. He's feeling sick now. Please god let John be okay.

His name had become a mantra, johnjohnjohnjohnjohn cmon John!

The floorboard loosened, a hollow bang throughout the flat as it was dislodged. Move it aside.

He felt sick but his body had froze. He couldn't breathe. "Jesus no! God no!" His voice broke, he didn't care, no no no no no no!! "JOHN!!"

He lay there crippled, the floorboards had covered him in dust and wood sharpening. He'd been crushed between the floorboards. Bled out between them. John was--dead!

"John no no no no no, John wake up please, please" he began screaming frantically, he was shaking.

"How sweet, turns out the sociopath can live after all" a voice sang, an Irish drawl, he turned around, there stood Moriarty, west wood suit immaculate but a bloodied hole around his head. He blinked.

The hound. "No get away from him! Get away!" The hound came closer, snapped back to Moriarty, back to hound, a schizophrenic werewolf. The wild snapped at John's broken body. He continued screaming as the werewolf began to feast off John's body, then he saw a bloodied baby grow, his eyes snapped shut and he was screaming, he could feel the windows rattling. The walls closing in, when the wolf was done it approached him and he accepted death, didn't want to live anymore.

"JOHN! No no no no no no!!" He screamed, begging it to be a lie! "Rosie no!" His voice broke, a shattered whisper.

His eyes opened, he felt something firmly shaking him.

"Wake up Sherlock! Please! For the love of god wake up!" And the dreaming continued and so did his own, his own gut wrenching sobs. Open his eyes again, the wolf will be there, no keep them shut. "Sherlock open your eyes look at me!"

He knew that voice. John!

He opened his eyes, the light blinding him, and he sobbed in relief. He sat there, slightly tan skin, blonde grey hair, blue eyes filled with concern, tears tracking down his own cheeks.

"John?" Sherlock asked in fear, please be real.

John nodded. Barely time to adjust before the wind was knocked out of him, off the bed and onto the floor. Sherlock hugged him as tightly as his body was able. John felt like something might break. John hugged back, stroked his hair, John lay on his back on the cold wooden floor, Sherlock leached on top of him, his face into the crook of John's neck.

Unknowing of his actions, he kissed Sherlocks temple gently, an attempt at reassurance. He didn't notice Sherlock pressing his face into John's direct line of view until his eyes met John's with timidness but desperation. He looked so sad, whatever he wanted John would give.

The eye contact was short because before John knew what was happening, he had Sherlocks hands carved around his face like he was made of glass and the gentle press of plush soft lips against his own, mingling with the salty tang of tears. Just a press of lips against lips.

Sherlock didn't know what he was doing, he was out of control of his actions but it felt so right. John wasn't pushing him away. John was kissing back.