A Sweet Dream and Untimely Confessions

Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. The inseparable flatmates, the best friends, the detective and his blogger. John nearly shivered at the thought- HIS blogger.

John had been living with Sherlock for about three years since he moved back in after Mary.. 'oh god DON'T think about her right now' he thought to himself . He had been helping him with cases, calming his dark moods, keeping him company, and practically stayed joined at the hip with him the entire time he's known him, yet nobody, including himself, ever seemed to question it; apart from the occasional assumption that they were together, which used to get to him, but now he doesn't even seem to care enough to correct them anymore.

They did have rough patches now and again, like when Sherlock shoots the wall, when John force-feeds Sherlock or gets the wrong type of milk, or on the rare occasion when John's wife jumps in front of a bullet for Sherlock; but they could never stay apart for long. They always seemed to revert back to being close, it was their natural state.

John was thinking about this over his tea and newspaper one morning across from Sherlock. He was thinking for the first time in a long while about how they had gotten closer than ever before without even realizing it. They had fallen into old routines, like John making him tea every morning, and watching crap telly together with takeout every Friday night. He wasn't usually the type of person to think about those types of things. To be honest, when it came to his relationship with Sherlock, or anyone for that matter, he tended to be kind of oblivious. In fact, the only reason he was even considering his relationship with Sherlock was kind of embarrassing...

A startling "What are you doing?" from the otherwise quiet man across from him had stopped his train of thought instantly, almost making him spill his scalding tea across the front of his robe.

"Christ Sherlock, you're going to make me burn myself. I'm reading the paper, just like I do every morning. Detective."

"No, you're not."

John looked up from the cup he was now setting on their table, only to see Sherlock staring at him intently, as if he was staring directly into his soul, and analyzing it. Hell, he probably was.

"What do you mean 'I'm not'. I'm sitting right in front of you, you can see me reading it for god's sake."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, before quickly bringing them back to observe the man across from him.

"No, you're not. Your eyes haven't moved in at least five minutes, you're in the classifieds despite having had a job for 5 years. Besides, none of those even compare to the fact that I've been talking to you for the last minute and a half and you haven't seemed to realize."

John started to feel himself shrink in his seat. He felt bad that one of the few times Sherlock seemed to notice his presence in their conversations, his head was god knows where. Ironically, he was thinking intently about the man he was unintentionally ignoring.

"O-oh.. shit. I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

Out of nowhere, Sherlock stops studying John, sits upright, and starts wearing an uncharacteristic grin.

"You didn't hear a word, did you," he said, quieter this time, yet practically giddy.

Ok, now John was genuinely confused.

"Thought it was clear I didn't.. Are you going to tell me what you were saying, or can I get back to my-"

"Thinking? No, I don't think I will. At least, not until you tell me what you were thinking about oh-so intently to have ignored me."

Even though the sudden change in tone made John quite curious about what his typically reserved friend had to say, he didn't want to admit to Sherlock what he'd been thinking about more. To be honest, he barely wanted to admit to himself what he'd been thinking about, but it was gnawing at his mind. He had had a... dream. About Sherlock. No, not one of ~those~ kinds of dreams, though he had had those dreams a few times during a dry spell after Mary, 'Stop bringing her up, brain'. This dream was notably different, and oddly way more disturbing. He had had an unprovoked dream, clear as day, of him and Sherlock... cuddling was the closest word he could think of. They were on the couch, in each other's arms, just holding each other and fading in and out of sleep.