dreams.

They’re out of breath, like they’ve been running, something which they do on a fairly regular basis, to be honest, but they haven’t been running now.

They were running, sure, but now they’re done. Obviously.

They’re obscured by the shadows of the alley, wandering over their faces, their features, their exposed chests. They’re as quiet as you’d expect. It’s not like Sherlock needs to be told he’s amazing, should be pretty self-evident, really.

They’re kissing. They’re touching. They’re --

John wakes up panting. Lying very still, he licks his lips and decides, promptly, never again to go to sleep.