DREAMS- Johnlock

DREAMS chapter twelve

Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, and John Watson were sitting around a small coffee table, chatting and laughing, while Sherlock inched further and further away. Cold hands shaking with nervous energy, he thought about standing and leaving to get some air, but the way John sighed and looked up at him with a small smile in his eyes stopped him. He sat still and tried to pay attention to the conversation they were having. John's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out with a real smile, not the little one that was hidden behind his central-heterochromatic eyes. The dark haired man felt the hot flames of jealousy lick at his stomach, burning at his insides.

"Who was that?" He spat, his voice laced with venom. John looked confused as to what Sherlock was angry about, but answered happily nonetheless.

"It was Mrs. Hudson!" He cooed, smiling that special smile that he reserved for his dark haired companion. Sherlock's anger and envy melted away, his steely gaze softening. "She's coming to our party!" Mike Stamford waddled towards them, his ill-fitting Santa Claus costume clinging to his pudgy body in an unattractive and awkward fashion.

"Hello, John! Hello Sherlock!" He was almost too cheerful, his round, soft face alight, practically glowing with happiness. There was a mysterious stain down the front of his red jacket. It appeared to be egg-nog, which would explain his exuberance, but it could have been any number of other white substances.

"Hello Mike," John groaned, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. He was anxious for Mrs. Hudson's arrival, and the way Molly was eyeing up Sherlock wasn't helping. She was dressed as Mrs. Claus, obviously, wearing a long, silken red dress. The edges were trimmed in an off white faux fur, and she had a white lace shawl tucked around her thin shoulders. Molly's mousy brown hair had been curled into perfect ringlets that rested gently at the nape of her neck, her cheeks painted rosy with champaign induced delight. A long strand of pearls -knotted a few inches up from the bottom- hung from her pale neck. In short, she looked incredibly beautiful. Beautiful enough to be with Sherlock, if only for tonight. Mike was going on and on about something that neither John nor Sherlock could have cared less about. They looked at each other, eyes meeting only briefly, and Sherlock stood from his seat. He was brilliantly beautiful and he knew it, stretching his arms languorously above his head and pulling John up with him. John patted Mike on the back awkwardly, muttering "duty calls", and following his friend across the living room to the far less crowded kitchen. Molly sauntered towards them, the deep red silk of her dress dragging slowly across the floor. An almost ethereal glow surrounded her, delicate and light, as she made her way through the crowd of people they hardly knew. Sherlock glanced up at her. His eyes narrowed unpleasantly, accusatorially, as he turned to face John again. He had just opened his mouth to say something when Molly ran a small hand over his back, making him jump.

"You look rather fit tonight, Sherlock," she giggled, her hair bouncing at each word. John took a step closer to his friend, suddenly feeling very possessive.

"Oh, I wish I could say the same for you, Molly. That lipstick really isn't your shade," Sherlock commented off-handedly, rather rudely. Molly scoffed, looking deeply offended.

"Well it is rather like you to say something like that, isn't it?" She said, her voice tight and pinched. She took a sip of her champaign, lips leaving a bright red stain on the edge of the glass. John looked up at Sherlock, frowning.

"Apologize, Sherlock," he said.

"But it's true! I would recommend a lighter colour, perhaps-"

"Molly, he really is sorry. I am too," he reached out to touch her shoulder, but she jerked away, swaying on her feet.

"Oh, no, it's quite alright, John. I would prefer to hear Sherlock say he's sorry than you do it for him," she walked away then, swinging her hips awkwardly, going to find someone to gossip with. Sherlock sighed as he watched her retreating back.

"Such a waste of a nice dress," he said, voice dripping with venom.

"Really, Sherlock? You couldn't have been just a little bit nicer?" Sherlock tossed his replicated pistol from hand to hand, thinking.

"Hmm... No." He said, tone final. The pistol fell from his left hand to the counter, landing with an unnecessary clatter. He opened one of the cabinets above the stove and pulled out a box of tea, taking three bags from the package and scowling at them. He preferred loose leaf, but this would have to do. "In case you haven't noticed, John, there are only two people that I'm truly nice to, and one of them is you." He filled the kettle and threw it onto the stove carelessly, nearly sending water across the counter. Sherlock turned the stove on, waiting for the water to boil and looking John over at the same time. John was pouting about his friend's poor manners, the helmet that he had walked in with abandoned in the living room with Mycroft and Greg. He still looked rather attractive, with his hair slicked back and color changing eyes on fire.

"I don't understand you, Sherlock," he said, a grin breaking across his features. The kettle let out a high pitched shriek, alerting them that the water was ready. Sherlock poured the steaming water into three mugs and dropped the tea bags in gently, handing one mug to John, taking one for himself, and leaving the last one on the counter for Mrs. Hudson. "But I don't quite think that matters."

----

Mrs. Hudson arrived a short while later, and they drank their tea and talked about their classes and how John was recovering and Mrs. Hudson's convict husband. They were having such a great time, and then Mary had to show up. Mary had to show up, dressed as a flapper, her sequined dress throwing light across the room. Mary had to show up, and say hello to John, and make polite conversation. Mary had to show up, and ruin their night.

----

"Shit," John muttered, picking his pants up from the floor and tiptoeing out of the bedroom. "Shit, shit, shit." If only he hadn't gotten drunk after talking to her. He felt his heart sink as he looked at the girl he was leaving behind. The girl who would wake up all alone. She wasn't all that pretty, but after the downward spiral of talking to Mary and loosing Sherlock, she was all John had left. The girl had gorgeous, dark, curly hair, and big blue eyes. She had sharp cheekbones and long black eyelashes, and a set of beautiful Cupid's bow lips that were just so, so soft. If only he hadn't slept with this girl, who wasn't all that pretty, but looked a shit-ton like Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, Madison," he whispered as he leaned over her and tucked her in. She was kinder than he deserved, that was for sure. John, being the emotional train-wreck that he was, sought her out, thinking she was Sherlock, and kissed her square on the mouth. He had been incredibly intoxicated, and scared, and sad, and sleeping with Madison seemed to be the only solution to his problems. She was even understanding and sweet when he started crying while they were walking up the steps, just brushing the tears from his cheeks and whispering that it was okay, what they were doing, because it was a one off and John needed it. She had said that she was happy to help, and that if he ever needed someone to talk to, he could just call her. He had cried again when Madison's lips met his chest, and again when they had finished. Madison said it was okay, it was okay, it was okay, John, it's okay and he had shook his head and whispered that it wasn't, because he was of how he felt towards his best mate. Madison was the first person to know. She just laughed a little bit and patted his back, saying "Anyone could see that, just by the way you look at him. Honestly, you two would be cute together." And now, leaving her all alone? Well, it made John feel like a sick bastard. So he didn't leave her alone. He wandered around Mycroft's house until he reached the kitchen, and brewed her a cup of tea. He put a sticky note on the mug, one that had his number on it, and a short message of thanks. He left the tea in front of her door before knocking on it three times, hard, just to make sure she would wake up, and walked away. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard the door open, the light casting her long shadow down the hall.

"Oh, John," she sighed, her voice sweet as honey. He continued down the stairs and out the front door, walking back to Uni.