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John was walking through a park that didn’t exist in London. At least, not in his London. Everything felt familiar—but somehow wrong. The grass was too green, the sky too blue, and the usual buzz of the city had vanished entirely. No traffic, no distant sirens, no… no Sherlock.
He turned on the spot, half-expecting the tall man to appear from behind a bush—but no such luck. It was just him, in a park that seemed to stretch on forever.
Then he saw him: a man casually draped over a park bench, fidgeting with the phone in his hands.
The man was broad across the shoulders, with a bit of stubble (more than John himself had going on, anyway), and wearing a rather sharp button-down shirt and jeans. Next to him, John felt distinctly underdressed. Maybe even a bit… scruffy. He glanced down at his hoodie and trainers, suddenly wishing he’d made more of an effort. Effort for what, exactly?
The man’s hair was grey, and he looked to be in his mid-forties. He had blueish eyes with heavy bags under them, like he hadn’t had a proper kip in years. Still, there was something magnetic about him. Something John couldn’t quite name.
Then the man looked up, their eyes met, and John’s breath caught in his throat.
Because it was him. Well, sort of. This version was definitely older. A little leaner than John, but still solid. And smiling. He looked tired, yes, but content… and he was most certainly giving John the once-over.
“You alright, mate?” the man asked, pulling out an earbud. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
John blinked. “You just look… familiar, is all.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” the man said—and then cheekily winked. “Blokes staring at me in parks, that is.”
John raised an eyebrow, cheeks colouring, and quickly looked away. “Right. Sorry.”
“I didn’t say I minded.” The man tilted his head, eyeing him. “You’re a bit younger than I usually go for—”
John scoffed.
“—but you’re fit,” the older man added, grinning like he knew exactly what effect that had on others.
Despite himself, John flushed. “Charming.”
“I am,” the man said, stepping closer with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where this dream was headed. “But I’ll admit, I usually go for tall, dark and handsome.”
Up close, the resemblance was even more unsettling. Same mouth—though John’s was a bit fuller. Same nose, just slightly off. Same posture, same scars, mirrored back at him.
John found himself staring again. “I… I think I’m dreaming. You’re not real.”
The man grinned. “Funny. I was just thinking the same.”
“I’m your dream?”
“Clearly. You’re the version of me before I grew a spine.”
John frowned. “I’m not spineless—”
“Right,” the man interrupted, amused. “And I didn’t get blown up in Afghanistan.”
John narrowed his eyes. Dreams were supposed to be relaxing. This one felt like he’d wandered into a group therapy session. While being mildly aroused.
“What’s your name?” he asked, mostly to change the subject.
“You already know it.”
“This is getting complicated,” John muttered. “Feels weird calling someone by my name when I’m the original.”
The man let out a short laugh. “You think you’re the original? Please. I’ve got at least ten years on you and a backlog of trauma longer than your arm. I’ve been through war, the death of loved ones, marriage, a kid, and another one on the way. I earned these eye bags.”
John looked up despite himself, and the man stepped closer.
“If I’d met you during my deployment,” he added, voice softening, “I’d have snogged you senseless.”
John swallowed. “Brilliant. I’m attracted to myself.”
The man tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Are you attracted to me , or the idea of me?”
It took everything in John not to answer out loud, but the situation—and certain parts of his anatomy— were already making that answer painfully clear.
“Let me guess,” the man continued, eyes sparkling. “You’re thinking I’m everything you want to be. Settled. Happily married. Father to a brilliant little girl. And, just for the record, I’m openly bisexual.”
John let out a low groan. “Right. One of those dreams.” He was calling Stammo the second he woke up. He was the closest thing John had to a therapist anyway.
The other man leaned in slightly, a wicked smile on his face. “This could be any kind of dream you want it to be.” He glanced down at John’s trousers. “There’s… quite a bit to unpack here.”
They stood close now. Too close for this to be anything but what it was becoming. The other man smiled, gently.
“You keep staring.”
“So do you.”
John cleared his throat, and the man’s smile widened. Then, without asking, he reached out. His hand brushed John’s wrist. John didn’t pull back.
“Can I?” the man asked, voice quieter now.
John hesitated, not because he didn’t want to, but because he did . Because he had no idea what it meant to want someone who was clearly supposed to be him. He nodded nonetheless.
The man stepped closer and his hand came up to cradle John’s cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. His chest ached.
“I remember this version of me,” the man said quietly. “The way I second-guessed everything. The way I looked at him—at Sherlock—and thought, If I move, if I reach, I’ll ruin it.
John swallowed. “Did you? Ruin it?”
“No,” the man answered. “ I married him. ” And then he kissed him.
John made a small sound in his throat and leaned into it before he could think better of it. His hands found the man’s waist, gripping him tightly. The kiss deepened slowly, and for a moment, John forgot it wasn’t supposed to be real. Forgot that this was a dream, a projection, a mirror held up to the bits of him he’d spent years trying not to examine.
When they finally pulled apart, the man’s forehead rested lightly against his. John exhaled.
“This is mad.”
“Completely,” the man agreed. “But it’s a dream. You’re allowed to be a little selfish in it.”
“I don’t usually do this.”
The man chuckled. “I know. That’s why I had to make the first move.”
John tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “So you kiss yourself in dreams often, then?”
“Only when I look like you,” he said, smirking. “Your Sherlock must be a disaster. How is he able to function around you?”
John blinked. “You know about him?”
“Of course I do. I am you. I don’t exist without Sherlock by my side.”
“Huh.” This was beyond what a quick chat with Stammo could fix.
The man cupped his cheek again, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Let me teach you a thing or two before you wake up.”
His hands slid to John’s hips, drawing him in. John didn’t resist. He couldn’t. It was like gravity was pulling them together.
His fingers found their way into the man’s shirt, brushing his skin. He felt solid and real, the heat radiating off his skin, and for the first time in what felt like years, John didn’t feel embarrassed about feeling this way about another man.
He just wanted. God, he wanted .
The man smirked against his mouth. “Look at you,” he murmured. “I’m beginning to think you’re loving this.”
“Sod off,” John muttered, breathless.
“You’re allowed to enjoy it,” the man whispered, lips grazing his jaw. “This is a dream. No Sherlock to interrupt. No London outside that needs saving. Just you and me.”
His hands slid up under John’s hoodie, fingertips skimming his sides—reverent, curious. John shuddered, hips jerking forward of their own accord. He was hard already, embarrassingly so, and from the low, pleased sound the other man made, it hadn't gone unnoticed.
“Bit eager, aren’t we?” the man teased, voice low against John’s neck.
“You’re literally me,” John growled. “You know it’s been a while.”
The man hummed in agreement, nipping at his collarbone. “For you, maybe, yes. Not for me. But I do know exactly how to drive myself mad.”
Their bodies pressed flush, and John ground against him instinctively, the friction maddening. The man kissed him again, slower this time, more thorough, and it knocked something loose in John, some long-held restraint he hadn’t realised he was still clinging to.
He let it go.
Hands tangled in hair. Teeth. Breath. The man broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Bench or grass?”
John blinked, dazed. “What?”
“C’mon, it’s a dream. You want soft moss under your arse or wood grain?”
John laughed, breath catching. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m you,” the man said again, tugging John’s hoodie up and over his head.
The bench was behind them, and the man guided him down onto it, straddling him with practised ease, legs bracketing his hips.
“Let me take care of you. That’s where we’re different. You need someone to take care of you… and I like taking care of others.”
John closed his eyes.
He woke up with a sharp inhale. The flat was quiet, aside from the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps in the living room. The familiar hum of London traffic crept in through the window, distant and indifferent.
His heart was still pounding, his dick still semi-erect.
For a moment, he lay completely still. He blinked at the ceiling. His hand found its way to his cheek—the spot where the other man had touched him gently.
God, he thought. That was a hell of a dream.
But even now, awake, it hadn’t faded the way dreams usually did. It clung to him—too vivid, too specific. He could still feel the bench under him. The kiss. The weight of that look. The way the older John had said, “I married him.”
John let out a low breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. He stood up slowly and made his way to the living room.
The kettle had just clicked off when John padded into the kitchen of 221B, hair still sleep-ruffled, jumper thrown on without much thought. The flat smelled like burnt toast and old paper. Sherlock sat at the table, fingers steepled, watching steam curl from his mug.
“Morning,” John said, voice rough.
Sherlock didn’t look up. “You were talking in your sleep.”
John froze mid-step. “Was I.”
“Something about a park.” A beat. “And a bench.”
He blinked. “You were listening?”
“You were loud. ” Sherlock finally looked at him then, something unreadable in his gaze.
John moved to the counter, fussing with mugs to avoid eye contact. “T’was just a dream.”
“Mm.”
He poured tea in silence. He turned around, leaning on the counter, mug cradled in his hands. Sherlock was still watching him.
John took a breath. “Do you think dreams mean anything?”
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “You’re asking me about metaphysical symbolism?”
“I’m asking if… maybe our minds know things before we do. Or want things before we admit them.”
Sherlock’s glare softened. “Sometimes.”
John looked down into his tea. “I had this dream. About… someone. Someone who was… me. But older. Different. He said some things that made sense.”
“What kind of things?”
He glanced up, met Sherlock’s eyes, and held them this time. “Things I’ve been avoiding. For a while.”
A flicker of understanding passed over Sherlock’s face. He didn’t speak. Just… waited.
John’s throat felt tight. “You ever feel like there's a version of yourself you might’ve been, if you'd just… been a little braver?”
Sherlock didn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “I think about it often.” A moment passed before he continued, “Would you like to talk about it?”
John blinked. “I’m talking about it now.”
“No, Watson. I mean properly.” Sherlock set his mug down gently. “Without pretending it was ‘just a funny dream.’”
John’s mouth opened, then shut again. He looked away. Then back.
“All right,” he said. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Sherlock gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Good.”
John finally sat down opposite Sherlock. “You ever had one of those dreams?”
“Which kind?” Sherlock asked, gnawing on a piece of toast.
“The kind that messes with your head. Makes you think about… versions of yourself. Choices. All that psychological rubbish.”
Sherlock seemed to be deep in thought when he finally answered. “Once. I was in a different time, though. 19th-century London. No cars, no electricity, poor sanitation. I wore a silly top hat.”
John coughed into his mug. “You dreamt yourself into a period drama?”
Sherlock finally looked over. “Apparently. But I wasn’t alone. You were there, too.”
John’s brow furrowed. “Good God. What happened?”
Sherlock took a slow sip of his tea. “That’s the odd thing about dreams, they always end before the important part.”
A pause stretched between them. Then Sherlock added, almost absently, “I woke up wondering what it meant that I dreamt about us being in that time.”
John swallowed. “Maybe it means something.”
“Maybe,” Sherlock murmured, and didn’t look away.
“I didn’t fuck my dream-self, though.”