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When a man with ridiculously huge shoulders and a toothy grin shows up at their front door, Sherlock rolls his eyes and introduces him as Eames.
Eames' grip is strong and, as John shakes hands with the other man, he is highly aware of the fact that this man could most probably best him in a fight, hand-to-hand or otherwise. His smile looks easy and sincere, but there is a keenness in his eyes that doesn't escape John's notice.
"I heard that you were in the army," says Eames as he lets go of John's hand.
"Yes," says John. "Medical Corps."
"Marine," says Eames, indicating himself. "Sergeant."
"John's a captain," says Sherlock, and John wonders if he imagines the hint of pride in his flatmate's voice.
"You've done well for yourself," says Eames. John assumes he is talking about Sherlock's growing fame, but Eames is looking at John when he says it, giving him a once over and a wink.
John feels his face heat. He clears his throat and asks how Eames and Sherlock know each other.
"Eames is old money," Sherlock says. He doesn't bother looking at either man as he says this, choosing to flip through a newspaper instead. "Chose to escape that oppressive world for--what is it you do now, Eames? Cons and pocket-picking?"
Eames doesn't even bristle. He continues to lean back in John's chair as if he owns it, a smug smile plastered onto his face. "If I recall correctly, you were incredibly eager to learn that last skill yourself."
Sherlock does look up at that, but only to glare. "Why are you here, Eames?"
The smugness slips right off of Eames' face as he leans forward and says, "Your brother is calling in a favour." The distaste in the man's voice makes John wonder if there was anyone in the world who felt anything other than fear or contempt for Mycroft Holmes.
To his credit, Sherlock looks intrigued, so much so that he goes as far as putting his newspaper down and giving Eames his full attention.
"He wants you briefed on this, just in case a crime comes up where it'll be relevant." Eames says this reluctantly, as if someone is forcing his hand, which very well may be the case. "And Mycroft mentioned you have a birthday coming up. He said this would be more than a sufficient gift."
"What exactly are you involved in, Mr. Eames?" asks John. The way Sherlock is sitting at the edge of his seat, one foot already tapping furiously away, has John worried.
Eames braces his hands on his knees and tells them about dream sharing.
The next time Eames shows up, he has a metallic suitcase with him and a tall, unsmiling man with dark, shellacked hair. The man introduces himself as Arthur. He gives John a firm handshake and compliments Sherlock on his shoes. He dispenses these formalities like a well-trained businessman. He then reaches for the suitcase and gives them the disclaimers.
Sherlock has never looked so enthralled. Even Moriarty's puzzles didn't garner the look of reverent glee Sherlock is donning now.
Arthur pulls out three IV lines and is about to pull out a fourth when Eames stills his hand. John can't help note the gentleness of the gesture.
"We'll need someone on this end," says Eames softly. "From what I've heard," he says, his tone turning accusatory, "just about anyone can walk into this flat, and they don't always have the best intentions."
Arthur says fine, but he doesn't look too happy about it. "Be careful," he tells Eames and then looks up at Sherlock, as if he's what Eames needs to be careful of. Sherlock seems to be oblivious of the conversation occurring around him. His attention is fixed on the PASIV device and the soft humming noise it's making.
He does jerk up, though, when Arthur brings the IV line to John's wrist.
"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice sharp. "John doesn't need to come."
"What?" asks John, surprised. "Why not? I want to come," he says. Because he does. A chance to get some insight into Sherlock's mind--there is no way he is going to pass up this opportunity.
"John has to come," says Eames. "A condition of your brother's, I'm afraid."
Sherlock glances at John and quickly looks away. "Unacceptable," he says. "John is a troubled war veteran. Going into anyone's subconscious wont be conducive to his rehabilitation."
John is about to protest, he bloody well doesn't need rehabilitation, but Eames beats him to it. "We're all war veterans here, Sherlock," he says.
"But John was shot."
"So was Eames," Arthur snaps.
Sherlock's eyes flick back and forth, like he's accessing every last one of his files, and when they finally settle, he says, "But John is old."
John stares at Sherlock in disbelief. "Excuse me, Sherlock. I'm not that much older than you."
"Please," says Sherlock. "You're at least six years older than everyone in this room and your hair has started to gray."
John's hand shoots up to his hair before he can stop himself. He tries to brush it off by pretending to pat down some fly away strands, but he realizes how futile it is when he looks up to find Arthur looking at him with wide, sympathetic eyes. Christ, thinks John. Maybe I am old.
"We've had men and women older than John go under," says Eames.
"It's not going under than concerns me," says Sherlock. "It's-" Sherlock struggles with his words, which is a rare thing. John begins to wonder if he should be worried, but before he can follow that line of thought, Sherlock snaps his mouth shut, pauses, then says, "Never mind. Hook him up."
When he opens his eyes, John is in standing on the sidewalk in what looks like the heart of London. However something is off. The lines of all the buildings are a lot smoother than he remembers and they all have slightly monochromatic color schemes. Also, the traffic seems to be accelerated. Cars fly by so quickly that John can't even distinguish their make and John sees five double-deckers go past him under the course of a minute.
He feels Sherlock's presence next to him before he sees the other man and asks him why the traffic is so crazy.
Sherlock doesn't hear him. Or he does, and doesn't bother answering. The consulting detective has one hand raised half-way above his head, as if he's a conductor ready to call off the string section. His mouth is slightly open and the wind, which is more violent than usual, whips his hair about his forehead.
There are sounds from far off: the heavy creaking of wood and cement grating against cement. It sounds a little ominous and John is about to tug on Sherlock's coat to ask him what is happening, when the other man pitches his body forward, running as if being pulled by some external force.
"This is brilliant," yells Sherlock over his shoulder as new buildings begin to crop up like spring flowers all around them.
Eames follows closely behind him looking a little exasperated, but for the most part amused.
All the while, Sherlock keeps looking back at John, telling him to stay close, yelling at anyone who comes near John, and telling John that under no circumstances is he to talk to these people. John does as he's told, because this is new territory, literally, and he's learnt that when Sherlock warns you against something it's usually with good reason.
For the most part, Sherlock's subconscious leaves them alone. Except... John notices that the people populating the streets pay more attention to him than to the other two men. It's subtle, but the unfamiliar faces do a double-take when they pass by John. They watch him from beneath their lowered eyelids. They quickly look away when he locks eyes with one of them.
John tries to ignore it. Meanwhile, Sherlock is conjuring new buildings, buses, what looks suspiciously like a pirate ship off in the distance, and all at break-neck speed. John finds that he has to stop and rest a bit. This is partly from the running, they've been doing it for a while and, yes, he'll admit he's not as young or fit as the other two men are, but also because all of the action around him is slightly overwhelming.
Eames notices John has stopped and he yells out to Sherlock who, John can tell even from where he's standing, rolls his eyes. He watches Sherlock point to one building then the next, gesturing wildly as Eames rubs at his chin and nods.
It's a little quiet now and, to his surprise, John notices that a small crowd has gathered around him. It's a group of about twelve people of different sexes, ages, and races. They are all quietly staring at him, and even though they look as if they've come across the last deer in the forest, they don't approach him.
John gives them a friendly wave and what he thinks to be a welcoming "hello." They continue to stare.
He notices a little girl standing at the edge of the group who is swaying her body side to side like she has a secret to tell. She has bright, tawny skin and tight, dark curls that grow upward. John motions for her to come over.
The girl seems hesitant, but after a moment of intently gazing at John, she makes up her mind and moves to separate herself from the group. As she does so, a hand quickly descends on her shoulder, pulling her back into the safe confines of the circle. The hand belonged to an older, wiry man with balding, wispy hair and a twitchy nervousness about him. The man doesn't say anything to the little girl, just gives her a very emphatic and desperate shake of the head.
The girl brushes off the man's hand and in an overly confident manner eerily reminiscent of Sherlock, walks towards John with determined strides.
She stops about a foot away from John and John kneels so that he is at her eye-level.
"Can you tell me," he asks, "why everyone here is trying to ignore me, when they clearly don't want to?"
"Obvious," says a teenage boy with pasty skin and dark hair. He has an enormous pair of headphones hanging around his neck and looks bored, but his face has a hint of eagerness behind it, the kind Sherlock gets when he is pretending to look bored.
"This is Sherlock's brain," says John, trying to be patient because one Sherlock is enough and he's not sure he can handle an army of them. "I assume all of you know this, but I'll say it anyway. As always, nothing is obvious to me."
John notices from his periphery that Sherlock is now heading towards him in long, purposeful strides. He turns to look at the other man and even from a distance he can see the look of worry and dread on Sherlock's face.
He turns his attention back to the young boy and the little girl.
"It's, like, really, really obvious," says the boy. "Or at least it should be. To you. Especially to you."
"I don't understand," says John. "Why are you afraid to come near me? Why doesn't Sherlock want you near me?"
The little girl inches forward and stretches out her hand. For a moment, John thinks she is about to stroke his cheek, but instead she moves it towards John's chest and plants her hand, firmly, over his heart.
There is not a lot of force behind the gesture, but John almost falls backwards from the sheer implication of it. She keeps her hand rooted on John's chest and John feels like she is wrenching something deep inside of him outwards.
She removes her hand. The feeling stays.
He distantly registers Sherlock's proximity and looks up at his flatmate. He's breathing heavily, probably from the running, and his eyes are wide and a little scared.
"Repressed much, Sherly?" asks Eames who has appeared behind him, but Sherlock doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he takes a few slow steps backward before breaking out in a full run, away from the main road and away from John.
Eames and John split up to find Sherlock. Eames reiterates that there really is no danger; even if Sherlock managed to get himself killed, they would wake up unharmed, but this is Sherlock's mind and John has seen Sherlock get lost in his own head back in the real world-- there was no telling what damage he could do to himself here, outside the boundaries of reality and away from John's watchful eye.
John has been walking for twenty minutes and has passed several Chinese restaurants, a shop for insect collectors, a specialty store for whips, and three, nondescript jumper retailers. The last throws John a little, and he can't help but feel that their presence here, in the recesses of Sherlock's mind, means something more than John can fully grasp at the moment.
He is moving along the sidewalk, looking into the glass windows of the stores as he passes, when suddenly the sidewalk ends and spanning out in front of him is long a long stretch of gravel that leads up to a low, rectangular building.
John immediately knows that Sherlock is here, in this building, and he doesn't think twice before he jogs right up to the entrance. The doors slide open as if they've been expecting him and they stay open until John, cautiously, walks through them. The atmosphere inside feels a lot like Bart's; it's pristine and looks incredibly hygienic, yet it is not a hospital. There is a long hallway that stretches from the main entrance down to a set of massive, heavy looking double doors. He moves towards the doors and pushes past them.
On the other side of the doors is a long corridor with an endless row of large windows on one side that look into partitioned rooms. John approaches the first window, taking care to step lightly. On the other side of the window is a bare room with a wooden floor and cement walls. At the center of the room is a long wooden table and strapped onto it is John.
Or rather, Sherlock's subconscious' version of John. Eames had told them that this could happen. That they may run into manifestations of people Sherlock knows in real life. John had been expecting to run into a version of Moriarty or Irene. Not a version of himself whom Sherlock could see whenever he liked.
The John in the room is naked. He is lying face down on the table and there are buckles around his wrists and ankles holding him in place.
There is someone else in the room. A tall figure, a man with red curls and a lanky frame. He's wielding a riding crop in his hand, stroking the length of it as he takes in John's backside. He places a hand on one of John's arse cheeks, kneading the flesh there, and he brings down the riding crop hard, before caressing the other cheek with the end of it.
The skin on his arse is an angry red and John looks to the other John's face to gauge his reaction. He looks enthralled and more than a little turned on, judging by the way he's biting his bottom lip and grinding his groin into the table.
The man with ginger hair raises the crop above his head and brings it down again in a sharp strike. The other John arches his back and his mouth opens in a silent shout.
A spike of pleasure shoots through John at the sight of himself at the mercy of Sherlock's subconscious. He's not ashamed to admit to himself that this turns him on, that the idea of this being something Sherlock has thought about, subconsciously or not, is highly arousing.
He moves down the corridor, stopping at each window to take in each scene. He's surprised by how much of what he sees makes him blush. He passes a room where he is on all fours, taking one man's cock from behind and swallowing another's with his mouth. In one room, he is lying spread-eagled on a bed while a version of Irene Adler slides into him with a strap-on. John's face heats when he sees himself in these positions, as he notices how the other version of himself is an eager participant in these acts, moaning and arching and flexing around his partners.
There are some tame scenes too. In one room, a man with muscular arms is sitting and sketching a portrait of John. In another, a man with dark skin and long fingers serenades John with his violin. One room, which houses a small outdoor space, has John and a statuesque woman keeping bees.
It's a museum of me, thinks John, a little dazed by the whole thing as he nears the end of the corridor.
When he sees what's inside the last room, John can't hold back his gasp.
There is a version of him lying face up strapped onto a metal table. His chest has been cut open and his ribs cracked and he's lying there, eyes shut and unmoving. Standing above him is a man a little younger than Sherlock, but he has the same, sharp eyes and wild hair. In his hands is John's heart. He is holding it up to his mouth, blood running down his fingers and coating his palms. He looks up at John, the real John, and sinks his teeth into John's heart. The other man's eyes fall shut and a look of absolute bliss settles on his face. He remains in that position, teeth lodged into the fresh organ, until he pulls his head back and tears away a good chunk of the heart.
John's cock stiffens violently at the sight. He raises a hand and presses his palm against the cool glass.
It's perverse, all of it. John should be terrified. He should be running out of the building, hands shaking and breath labored. And his breathing is labored, but for a completely different reason.
"Does it scare you?" asks a voice from behind him and John doesn't even jump at the sound. He steps back from the window, enough so that he can see Sherlock's reflection in it.
Sherlock's head is bowed, but his eyes are surveying the scene in the room intently.
"It should," says John. "It should scare me. And if it was anyone else, it would." John pauses. He doesn't want to say the rest because even though Sherlock already knows, giving voice to it, even in this dream world, would have repercussions. Sherlock's gaze has shifted to John. His eyes are attentive and, for once, he is hanging on John's every word.
"But it's you," John says softly.
Sherlock's eyes narrow and before John knows what's happening, he's being pushed against the glass and Sherlock's body is covering his backside. His cock presses into the glass and though the fabric of his jeans is thick, the feel of something solid pressing against him makes him moan. His voice echoes through the corridor and he doesn't even have the chance to feel embarrassed as Sherlock sinks his teeth into his neck, causing him to let out another, equally loud, cry.
Sherlock seems to appreciate John's reaction, if the press of the other man's hardening cock is any indication. He scrambles for John's belt buckle and pulls down his jeans with little preamble. The lack of foreplay is unsurprising considering the scene that is still playing out in front of him.
The young man is still feasting on John's heart, all the while watching John and Sherlock as he does so.
There is a soft, rustling noise behind him and then the feel of Sherlock's flesh, warm and solid, bearing down on him. Sherlock positions his cock, already slicked up perks of being in a dream, thinks John, against the opening of John's hole. He jerks into the touch, spreading his legs further apart in anticipation.
"Would you rather I prepare you," asks Sherlock. His breathing isn't labored, but his voice is low and John can tell that speaking in that measured way is taking a great deal of effort.
John shakes his head. "I won't feel it when I wake up. Just do it," he huffs out.
Sherlock places one hand on John's hip and uses the other to guide his cock, slowly, into John. The length of him inches inside of John, and it stings, though he's barely halfway in. Regardless, John has already fallen in love with the feel of it. He bites his lip because he doesn't want to be moaning throughout, but Sherlock, of course, has the better of him. As Sherlock pushes the rest of himself in with one swift thrust, John can't bite back the cry of pleasure that escapes his mouth.
They stay in that position, John with both hands braced against the glass and Sherlock with his digging into John's sides.
"How does it feel," asks Sherlock.
"Like you have your cock up my arse," says John.
Sherlock rewards that comment by pulling out and slamming back into him, making John hit his face against the window. He turns his face to the side and rests his cheek against the cool glass.
"It feels like you're claiming me," says John, immediately regretting how trite it sounds. Still, he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit that a small part of him has always wanted this.
Sherlock gives John a few shallow thrusts, nails clawing at John's hips as he does so. He brings his lips to John's ear and says, "I claimed you a long time ago."
And Christ was that true. John wagered he was a done deal the moment Angelo showed up at 221b with his cane in hand.
Sherlock bites down on John's earlobe and pulls. John lets out a high-pitched keening sound and fists a hand into Sherlock's hair. The fabric from Sherlock's coat laps against his sides, and John wants to strip Sherlock completely, feel the bare skin of the other man's chest against his back, but the flesh pushing into him is insistent and John doesn't think he could stand to lose that heat, not even for a second.
Sherlock thrusts into him at a steady pace, John bucking back into him. He feels the tension in his groin building and he starts to chant Sherlock's name as the other man's cock hits his prostate with growing accuracy. The tip of John's cock brushes against the window's glass and the shock of the cold against his heated flesh makes him gasp and clench around Sherlock.
"Fuck, John," Sherlock curses.
He moans at the sound of Sherlock's voice. It feels so good being filled with that hardness, Sherlock's hardness. He braces his hands against the glass and spreads his legs further apart to give the other man better access. Sherlock catches on and starts rocking into John with more force, enough that John's feet skid across the floor with each of his thrusts. John has to push hard against the glass to keep his body from being propelled into it.
His balls feel heavy and his cock feels hard enough to cut through glass. John has half a mind to reach down and touch himself, and then Sherlock beats him to it, wrapping an adept hand around him and giving one slow, firm stroke down his length.
Just like that, John's arse tenses and he comes all over the window in messy spurts. Sherlock rides John through his orgasm, whispering John's name into his ear and coming soon after, filling John with his seed.
They stay in that position: Sherlock's softening cock buried to the hilt as they catch their breath. John recovers first and as he moves to disentangle himself from the other man, he looks up and sees that they have an audience. A group of people from Sherlock's subconscious have gathered on the other side of the window and they are staring at John and Sherlock with rapt attention. Some of the faces looked smug, some curious, and some look very flushed.
"I didn't know we were putting on a show," says John.
Sherlock eases his cock out of him and John whines a little. His skin down there is incredibly sensitive.
"Would you have acted differently?" asks Sherlock pulling on his pants and trousers. John slowly does the same.
"No," says John. "I'm just surprised you're all -- or all of you are interested. In sex, I mean. With me."
"Obviously," says Sherlock. He eyes the group behind the window and gives them a glare.
John wonders why Sherlock is being so casual about all of this. They did just have sex for the first time. Then again, John just saw Sherlock's subconscious literally feasting on his heart. He supposes, as far as intimacy goes, Sherlock has already laid everything out on the table.
"Though," says Sherlock, "I think it would be best if future sessions took place in private. Even if they are technically parts of me."
"Sessions? I'm sorry, by sessions you mean sex, right? And by future you mean - "
"By 'future' I mean at a later time, preferably at the flat," says Sherlock. "Though I'm certainly flexible." He says the last bit with a quirk of his lips and a leer. John marvels at the foreignness of the gesture, a leer. From Sherlock. Directed at him. He can't stop the fond chuckle that breaks free from his lips.
"But for now," Sherlock says, holding his hand out to John, "let's go build something."