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John dreams, and everything is the way it’s supposed to be.
He watches as Sherlock’s eyes sparkle with fascination, his fingers trace out flowcharts and mental maps and fling false leads to the side, and then—yes!, his wide eyes exclaim—he’s got it all figured out, and the corner of his mouth twitches up into a secret little half-smile. He reaches for his scarf with a great swoop that makes it flutter through the air, and a moment later he’s in his coat and throwing open the front door. The game is on!
Their fingers are interlaced as they charge across streets and down alleyways, and John—not real-John and not dream-John either—doesn’t have any idea where they’re going, but it’s perfectly fine, because Sherlock obviously knows exactly where he’s going. It doesn’t really matter whether he does, though; real-John might not admit it to himself but dream-John is quietly well aware that he would always follow Sherlock anywhere, happily, even if he were sure Sherlock was dead lost. Dream-John knows that anywhere is a good place to be if he’s by Sherlock’s side. As they round a corner, he catches a glimpse of a broad grin spread across Sherlock’s face, and then John smiles too, and they break into a laugh and it echoes and echoes, up the alley walls and into the sky. John’s never had a dream where he could fly before, but he thinks this might be the next closest thing.
The bricks and concrete have smeared together, faded away, morphed into a thick forest, and their hands are still clasped as they dart between the trees. They’re old trees—oak, dream-John is certain, although by day he knows hardly anything about it—and their ashy skin feels strong and wise and the air is full of life. John and Sherlock are panting as they run, and with each heavy, eager gasp they breathe all that vivacity into themselves too. His eyes linger on the roots that snake across the ground and tangle into each other, and he nearly feels his and Sherlock’s fingers growing together too, wrapping carefully around one another, drawing them closer until they risk merging into one—only dream-John wouldn’t call it a risk at all, because that would imply that there’s something to be lost. Dream-John doesn’t see how being woven together with Sherlock could be a loss at all, not when all he knows is running and laughing and breathing as one, but real John aches with the knowledge of how much there truly is to lose when the winding roots are hacked apart and only emptiness remains in between.
But in his dream all is well; in his dream the forest begins to whirl around them, and he and Sherlock spiral closer and closer together, and now they aren’t running but dancing and the greens and browns and soft misty greys have become the lush burgundy and gold of a ballroom, but their fingers are still entwined and that’s all that matters. There are vague forms of others swirling around them, featureless satin silhouettes, but he scarcely sees them at all; just background noise. The moment is made up of Sherlock’s hand on his back and his cheek on Sherlock’s shoulder and Sherlock’s breath on his hair and his right arm outstretched against Sherlock’s left, nothing else. The dance is elegant but quick, full of turns and zigzags; even dream-John doesn’t know what to call it, but that’s okay. He cares only about how effortlessly they sweep across the floor as one whole; four feet, four lungs, four ventricles working in a single rhythm. And John is so happy. He is so perfectly happy, more than he remembers ever being before, asleep or awake.
His lips hover over Sherlock’s for a single moment that flattens out into stillness, and the music winds down to a halt and the faceless mass gradually ceases to spin around them and the colors all fade into black and he isn’t breathing anymore.
John dreams, and then he wakes alone, and the world is broken once again.