Chapter Text
Give me wings
Give me space
Give me money for a change of face
Those noisy rooms and passion pants
I loved you
It had been 42 days since the funeral.
48 days since Sherlock was dead.
John woke abruptly. His dream had been like none of the dreams he had since Sherlock's death.
It was already fading, adding to the pile of dreams that John wouldn't remember soon, so he tried to hold onto it. It had been a nice dream.
He and Sherlock home in 221B, both comfy with cups of tea in their armchairs next to the fire place. John updating his blog, Sherlock rambling about a case they just solved. John was only waiting for the post-case crash which would inevitably come. Sherlock stretched in his armchair, sinking into it, his feet moving until they found John's. The slight touch left a tingling in his spine, and he slowly moved his foot up and down Sherlock's ankle. They stayed like this for a long time, John with his laptop on his legs, Sherlock barely keeping his eyes open, trying to fight the fatigue.
John smiled when he remembered. This had not only happened in his dream, they had spent several evenings in Baker Street this way. John knew that Sherlock had craved for a touch after a case, even a small one. And he was happy to provide him just that.
Thinking of the old times suddenly made his eyes fill up with tears. He didn't want to cry, not now, so he got up and got ready for work. He needed to get his mind off of those thoughts.
But it didn't work, his mind always crept back to the dream he had, no matter how hard he tried. Sherlock was always in the back of his mind, when he was talking with his colleagues, or helping patients, when he was out for a pint with Greg that evening. He couldn't do it, he was going mad. John needed to get away.
John started smoking, but it didn't calm him, so he stopped again.
He started to drink when he came home, but that only made things worse, so he quickly switched back to tea again.
One night, he was in the mood that normally made Sherlock play he violin for him, and he was desperate, so he called Mycroft.
"Holmes."
"How do you cope?"
"Good evening Dr. Watson, how are you?"
"What do you think?"
"I assume you are having troubles again, you wouldn't have called otherwise."
"I bloody well have 'troubles', Mycroft! Sherlock's dead for more than a month now, and still he's the only thing on my mind! How do you cope? I mean he was only my flatmate, but he was your brother!"
"Dr. Watson- John. I know you might see me as the heartless creature everybody believes me to be, but trust me, I am not. I truly mourn the loss of my little brother, but I simply have other ways of showing it. Or not showing it, if you want."
"How do you do it?"
"Do what exactly?"
"Don't let it get to you every second. I want that too."
"John, I fear we are just too different. I grew up learning not to lay my emotions open, always burrying them deep underneath since I was a toddler. And in my job today, any shown weakness could be my end. But you John, you are so much more. I'd even like to go that far and say that you are a better person than me because you can care so deeply for a person. I would never let myself go that far."
John didn't really know what to answer, so he said nothing.
"John, believe me. Things will change, and I'm fairly sure you will be able to survive until then. You'e lived through so much worse."
"If you think so."
"Yes, I do. But now, if you will excuse me, there are matters I have to take care of. Goodbye, John, have a pleasant evening."
"Bye Mycroft."
John didn't know what to make of that conversation. He had never heard the older Holmes speak that much about himself, but of course, it did make sense what he said. But instead of thinking more about it, he made tea and tried to enjoy it in his living room. The flat he moved into was nice, but it didn't quite feel like home, didn't feel like Baker Street.
Soon he felt his mind drifting back to afternoons he had spent with Sherlock in their seperate armchairs. He thought of the clients that sat on that simple chair opposite to them. He remembered how Sherlock had been full of energy when a new interesting case appeared, and John smiled at the memory. He allowed his thoughts to wander back to certain crime scenes. He remembered the curve of Sherlock's back when he had bent over a body, how his trousers had complimented his arse on the rare occasions when it wasn't covered by that coat of Sherlock.
Heck, where did that come from?!
John opened his eyes and felt that he was semi-erect, only by thinking about the figure of his dead friend.
He couldn't deny that this hasn't happened before, back when Sherlock was alive he often woke after a particularly detailed dream with a striking morning erection. But John always tried to ignore the feelings that came with it, partly because he wasn't sure why he had them at the first place. Guilt of course, but mostly pain and some sort of craving. He either had had a cold shower or quickly jerked himself off under the hot stream of water, and just tried to suppress the feelings and thoughts.
Now though, John knew exactly what those feelings had meant.
"I loved him." He put his head in his hands and ruffled his hair.
"Heck Sherlock, I loved you."