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Summary
"I dream of what it's like," [Sherlock] says with effort, and the words taste right in spite of the fact that all else tastes wrong, "when we leave this place."
John is quiet for an unbearably long while (too quiet: no humming, no breath) before he lets his forehead drop to rest against Sherlock's, smudge of ash and grit and sweat mixed with something far too heavy to be tears.
John presses one hand over Sherlock's heart, and there's warmth again. It stings.
"What's it like, love?" he asks, finally, his voice thick with the promise of rest.