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He would never tire of this sight.
He couldn’t.
This was all he had.
Delicate eyelids fluttering in sleep contoured by long lashes.
Black curls a messy contrast against the white pillowcase.
That upper lip just that little bit thinner than the bottom one…but just as soft and red.
And that quiet and even breathing that…that reminded John…
Reminded him that…
He was not there.
He.
His Sherlock.
Was not there…
And that made his heart ache and his eyes burn as his nostrils flared in a desperate attempt to hold it in.
Like many other times. Like many other nights. He knew he would suddenly wake.
This was nothing but a trick played by his own mind.
He wasn’t there.
Sherlock was not there.
Like many other dreams and nightmares. Like many other figures. He was not there
And yet why did it feel so real?
“You know I don’t like it when you stare at me,” said a muffled voice, his eyes barely splitting open.
John swallowed hard
The figure was talking to him.
Why didn’t they all just leave him alone?
Why was his mind intent on making him mad?
Hadn’t he been through enough? Seen enough? Lived enough?
And yet…
He lifted his hand to those curls.
Soft.
Real against the tips of his fingers…tickling.
But he’d had dreams like these before. It was not uncommon. Dreams that felt too close to reality.
“You’re beautiful,” John whispered
“So are you,” was the answer
‘Please stop talking’ John begged in silence. His eyes pooling knowing this figment would soon be gone…and he wouldn’t want to let it go.
It was the way it was…every time.
Every night
Until those blue grey eyes found his.
‘Please don’t look at me,’ continued John’s silent plea.
Long fingers came to rest gently over his cheek.
John closed his eyes. Let out a long and palpable sigh.
Every fibre in him reacting to this simple touch.
He wanted to kiss him. Run his lips slowly over those delicate ones. Nip on his slender, long neck. Run his tongue just beneath one ear. Leave a trail from his collar down his abdomen. Feel every inch of him. Take him in. Love him. Have him…
But he wasn’t real
“John.”
John didn’t react
“John.”
“Please stop,” was his broken whisper
“John,” the voice insisted. “Open your eyes.”
“Please stop talking.”
He shivered as a tender thumb ran over his left eyelid.
“Why don’t you want to look at me?”
John swallowed his tears. His breath caught and heavy within his chest
“Because you’re not real…”
There was short silence in which he dare not open his eyes…
But he felt it…
He felt as his lips were suddenly taken into a gentle kiss.
“Does that seem real?” the voice questioned.
John, with eyes firmly shut, whispered; “You always seem real to me.”
“I am real.”
The words ricocheting against a painful and definite refusal. With ribs and sternum tight against John’s heart. His breathing forced in and out of his nose.
“John.”
‘Please stop’ John pleaded
“John.”
‘Stop.’
“John look at me.”
‘Stop.’
“John!”
The voice finally delivering a loud demand…
Enough that John’s eyes were forced open.
“It’s me.”
John’s pupils dilated. Heavy drops falling against his pillow.
“John…” the voice whispered tenderly. “It’s me.”
And it waited. The voice waited to be recognized and accepted.
“It’s me John…”
“I know,” his voice congested. “I know it’s you Mary.”
She waited. As she waited every night. Just watching him…and waiting to be recognized.
“Another nightmare?” she questioned patiently well aware of the answer.
His silence taken as an answer.
His eyes withdrawn and glazed.
His thoughts far from where his body attempted to rest.
“Just another nightmare.”