John pinched himself this time before attempting to get out of bed. Ow. He was probably awake, then. No guarantees. He padded downstairs with his sheets, nervously glancing around for signs of Sherlock. Nothing.

It was half relief and half disappointment that flooded him as he made it to the kitchen without incident, but then as he opened the door, he saw Sherlock transferring his own bed sheets to the dryer. Sherlock belatedly heard the soft click of the door latch, and whirled around to face John.

"Hi."

Sherlock just swallowed.

"So. Have an interesting night, then?"

"I suppose you could say that."

John indicated his own sheets. "Bet you can't guess what I was dreaming about."

Sherlock glared at John's obvious challenge.

"Sally?" he asked sarcastically. John made a face. Sherlock laughed, but it sounded forced.

"Does that mean you were dreaming about Anderson?"

Sherlock looked queasy at that suggestion. "Ugh. Horrible."

"I had a dream about Anderson the other day – not like that, mind," he added when Sherlock stared at him in horror. "He was wearing a dress and heels. It was pretty terrifying."

At this Sherlock laughed, genuinely, and John reflected on how much he'd missed that sound.

"So, going to stay a while? Or are you still avoiding me?"

Sherlock frowned. "I haven't been avoiding you."

"Right. You've just been – what? Conducting experiments exclusively in your bedroom? Did you develop a sudden allergy to the sofa?"

Sherlock just started moodily at the dryer.

"I was under the impression that I was making you uncomfortable," he finally said.

"A bit, yeah. Didn't mean I wanted you to disappear."

Sherlock turned away, pressing his palms together in the familiar way he had.

"Was I making you uncomfortable?" John asked.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "No. What makes you think that?"

"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe the fact that you've been hiding for the past week clued me in."

"No need for sarcasm, John."

And then, for some strange reason, John started grinning, and found he couldn't stop.

"What? What is it?" Sherlock snapped, irritation creasing his forehead.

"You're an idiot. We're both idiots. Look at us. Both putting our sheets in the wash at two in the morning. Who were you dreaming about, Sherlock? You can probably deduce me just from looking, so it's only fair."

Sherlock glared at John, but John just laughed. "I've lived with you too long for that to work on me! Just say it."

"Who else, John?"

"Mmm?"

"The answer should be obvious, even to you."

"Have you been sleeping in my bed?" John blurted out suddenly.

"No." The answer came almost too quickly.

"You weren't sleeping, then?"

Sherlock turned to leave. "Good night, John. Fold up my sheets when the dryer is done, will you?"

"You never did guess what I was dreaming about."

Sherlock made a dismissive noise, but paused with his hand on the door handle. "I don't have to."

"Oh, really?"

"It's obvious."

"If it's so obvious, then why don't you say it?"

Sherlock whirled around towards John, striding towards him and backing him slowly into the corner. He looked furious, but there was something else in his eyes – desperation, perhaps? Longing?

"Because it doesn't matter!"

John had instinctively drawn back when Sherlock had loomed over him, and now he found himself breathless. For a brief moment, Sherlock's eyes shone brilliantly, even in the dim light.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock no longer looked angry; just tired.

"Why not? It matters to me."

"Because it's not me."

"What, you're the only one who matters, is that it?" John was the angry one now. "You think I don't count?"

"No, no, no, no, no! You've completely – that's not what I was saying at all! Why don't you just listen!"

"Well, I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I don't yet have the ability to read minds, and –"

"The dream! I was talking about the dream!"

"You – what?" John felt a little off-kilter.

"It doesn't matter because you weren't dreaming about me. Clear enough for you?"

"Why wouldn't you be in my dream?"

"Not... in that way." Sherlock was flushing pink as he turned away from John.

"And you're saying it would matter if you were? That is, if you were the one I was dreaming about?"

Sherlock grimaced.

"I was right, then," John said softly. "You couldn't guess what I was dreaming about."

Sherlock glared at this, and blurted, "Sex, John, you were dreaming about sex. Do I have to spell it out for you? Probably..." He eyed John's pyjama bottoms. "Oral sex. You weren't entirely comfortable with it, since you came down to wash the sheets immediately upon waking, and most days you try to ignore the wet spot for as long as forty minutes. So it stands to reason that you were dreaming about someone you're not in a relationship with, possibly someone you deem inappropriate – which could be just about anyone right now, since you're not in any relationship, and you're so obsessed with 'doing the right thing' that you'd probably feel guilty dreaming about a porn star, which actually isn't as common as you might think, there have been studies–"

"Sherlock."

"–and on top of that, you changed into your spare pyjamas with the hole in the knee, presumably because you were embarrassed about running into me with an obvious wet spot, not that the sheets themselves aren't obvious enough, combined with the way you skulked in here–"

"Sherlock..."

"–which just goes to show that you're embarrassed to be seen by me, and I've been making you uncomfortable, and I don't know how to fix it, John, I just want to go back to the way it was before–"

"Sherlock! Will you shut up for one bloody minute and let me speak!"

Sherlock stared at John in shock.

"I suppose I got a bit – carried away."

"Sherlock, I was dreaming about you."

Sherlock just stared at John, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Oh, fuck it," John said, and kissed him.

It was different than John had pictured in his head. There was a clash of teeth, and Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. He spent a few minutes flailing, then balling his hands into fists, then reaching for John before giving up halfway and letting them fall to his sides. John licked at Sherlock's bottom lip, and he shuddered in response, but still didn't open his mouth to John or make any sign that he was enjoying it. Dammit. This was a mistake. Hopefully one they could pretend never happened.

John pulled back. "That didn't go so well. I'll just pick up my sheets in the morning, then?"

Sherlock suddenly surged forward, gripping John's shoulders forcefully and mashing his lips against John's. John didn't think he could say that it felt good – but it was certainly an improvement over Sherlock standing utterly still and unresponsive. John allowed himself to lean into the kiss, and then suddenly Sherlock was nibbling at his lower lip, and John gasped at the sensation.

Sherlock pulled back with a start. "Did I do that wrong?"

John was still a bit dazed. "No, you– do it again."

"If you insist." Sherlock was smirking now, his gaze focused, as he leaned towards John once more.

The washing machine went into the spin cycle, making them both jump.

"Perhaps we should retire?" Sherlock suggested.

"Both our sheets are in the wash. We can't sleep."

"Who said anything about sleeping?" Sherlock demanded. "The sofa does not require sheets."

John, speechless, allowed himself to be tugged into the living room by his very enthusiastic flatmate.

"Um, Sherlock..."

Sherlock turned to look at John, but didn't release him.

"John," he responded pointedly, one eyebrow raised.

"Shouldn't we – talk about this or something?"

"I'd rather not." He slung John onto the sofa and sat astride him.

Oh. John struggled to regain coherent thought, but then Sherlock was kissing him fiercely, and what had he been thinking, again? Can't have been important.

John enthusiastically kissed back. It seemed that Sherlock was a quick learner; his initial attempts had been clumsy, at best, but this – this was light touches and nibbles that made John squirm and gasp and clutch at Sherlock's scalp.

"Yes, like that, like – mph," John mumbled frantically, and then Sherlock's tongue was invading his mouth, and God, it had been far too long since he had done this.

Suddenly Sherlock's mouth was removed, and John whimpered at the loss, until Sherlock leaned down and placed his mouth on the crook of John's neck, eliciting several loud moans. "What," John gasped out as Sherlock tongued a particularly sensitive spot, "are you a vampire, now?"

Sherlock simply smiled into John's neck and bit down, a little harder than seemed necessary.

"Ow!"

"Love is pain," Sherlock responded, grinning.

"Just shut up and kiss me."

Sherlock was only too happy to comply. They spent a few blissful minutes snogging on the sofa before John decided he was ready to explore more... exciting options.

John snaked his hand into Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, and realised with shock that Sherlock wasn't wearing any pants. A shudder ran through him as he fisted Sherlock's firm length, and Sherlock gasped and bucked in John's grasp.

"John!" he cried out in a strangled whisper. "I've never – that feels –"

John's grip loosened. "You've never what?"

Sherlock glared daggers and his own hand closed over John's. "Did I say stop? I don't remember saying st– oh! Yes. That's – that's nice."

John giggled as Sherlock guided his hand up and down.

"Bit rude," Sherlock panted, "giggling," he gasped, "isn't it, John? Oh! John!"

John had succeeded in rolling Sherlock onto his back, stretched out on the sofa, as John wriggled on top. He lifted up Sherlock's pyjama top with his free hand and started kissing a line down Sherlock's chest, to his belly button, nuzzling at the patch of dark curly hair just below Sherlock's navel. Sherlock was thrusting his hips now, and John stilled his hand, ignoring the frantic scrabbling of Sherlock's fingers.

"Do you want me to... um, kiss you?"

Sherlock just stared.

"Um, you know."

"No, I really don't."

John sighed. "This really isn't making me feel sexy. Do. You. Want. A blow job."

"Why didn't you just say that in the first place?" He glared, then realized John was still waiting. "Yes! Of course I do! Get on with it!"

John scowled at his flatmate with irritation.

"Err, bit not good, was that... Please get on with it?" Sherlock delivered his sunniest smile, and John snorted.

"How can you be so utterly charmless, and yet somehow I still find it adorable? It's just not fair." John grinned and ducked his head as he pulled Sherlock's pyjamas off and down.

At the first touch of John's tongue to the warm flesh, Sherlock shuddered and swore incomprehensibly. John took this as a good sign and swallowed Sherlock whole.

The sounds Sherlock made – moaning, followed by whimpering, and the occasional reverent "John" – made John's knees wobble and his stomach feel like it had turned to molten gold. He focused on the smell, the taste, the feeling of slick skin sliding in and out. It didn't take long for Sherlock to come with a shout, wriggling under John.

The first thought John had was, I did this. I made the great Sherlock Holmes lose control.

The second thought was, God, this tastes terrible.

John spat. Onto Sherlock's stomach.

"Euggh! That's disgusting, John!"

"Yeah, that's why I spat it out," John returned, grinning madly. "Let me get a towel from the kitchen."

Unfortunately, when the dryer buzzed its end signal, Sherlock leapt to his feet and dashed to the kitchen.

John stood there for a few minutes, tea towel in hand, before he realized what had happened.

"Sherlock! Get your arse back here!"

"I need to verify the results!" came the muffled cry.

"What? Results?"

Sherlock came back with his bedsheets, grinning triumphantly. "I was right! The blood didn't come out in one wash!"

"Sherlock, what are you–" John started, then froze. Oh. Sherlock hadn't had a wet dream. He was doing an experiment. Of course. John flushed bright red. "I. Um. I should cycle the sheets." He flung the towel at Sherlock and scrambled for the kitchen, hoping Sherlock wouldn't follow.

John felt like an idiot. Why had he assumed that Sherlock had been dreaming about him, the way John had been dreaming of Sherlock? It hadn't helped that the detective had done nothing to deter his erroneous assumption. That wanker.

"John..." Sherlock called gently from the doorway. "Is something wrong?"

"No," John replied tersely, not turning around, as he transferred his sheets to the dryer.

"You just seem... agitated."

"What if I am?"

"I don't understand."

"You never do," John responded bitterly.

"Then help me to understand."

Sherlock's tone was almost pleading, and that was enough to make John finally turn around.

"It's just..." John sighed. "Why did you lie to me, Sherlock?"

"I didn't lie. Not recently. To what are you referring?" Sherlock's eyebrows were furrowed in confusion, and if John weren't so upset, he would have laughed.

"About dreaming. You weren't dreaming." John waved his hands over the dryer. "You were doing an experiment."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "I don't understand."

"Here I am, spilling my secrets to you about having a wet dream about you, and you made me think... You've probably never had that kind of dream in your life, much less about me–"

"Just because it didn't happen tonight, doesn't mean I haven't dreamt of you, John."

John just stared.

"Can we... can we go back to the sofa now?" Sherlock's eyes were the most desperate John had ever seen them.

John simply crossed the room and seized Sherlock's waist in one hand, the back of his head in the other, fingers laced through curly dark hair. He stood there for a moment, soaking it in: Sherlock's pale eyes, filled with wonder and fear; his soft lips, impossibly full; those sharp cheekbones, not quite as gaunt as when John had first met him; the messy mop of hair with just a hint of auburn; the bushy eyebrows, usually raised in disdain, now furrowed in concern.

John kissed Sherlock, and it felt like the detective was melting into the floor.

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go back," John finally said as he released him. Sherlock had a dazed look on his face, and John realised he was grinning like a loon, but somehow he didn't give a damn.

Sherlock smiled. "We should wash our sheets every evening."