"I was asleep."

"While you were dreaming?" She asked.

John's gaze lifted from his hands clasped in his lap to meet Mrs. Thompson's. He gave her his best withering glare.
"Yes. I was asleep while I was dreaming. But, I was asleep in the dream, is what I meant."

"Oh." She jotted a note. John read it, upside down, "Passive aggressive."
He took a deep steadying breath. He counted to ten. On the exhale, he was able to relax his fists.

"I was asleep and Sherlock was in my room." He glanced out the window. Grey clouds settled in the sky. "He was watching me sleep." John could hear the pen scratching across paper. He could almost make out the words from the rhythmic sounds. Post traumatic behavior. Still in mourning. Inability to accept reality.

"It was like I was watching a movie. I could feel what he felt. I knew what he was thinking. I was immersed in his memories..." John trailed off, his voice growing soft as his chest constricted. He breathed deeply, once, twice, and again to hold back the tears he could feel building.

"Can you tell me about that?"

"What? The memories?"

"If you'd like."

"No, I bloody wouldn't like," John huffed.

They sat in mutual silence. John clinched his fist. A deep breathe. Count to ten.

"In the dream," John wanted to lead with that clarification, "Sherlock was thinking about and remembering times where he... When he..."

She met his eyes, encouraging him to continue.

John looked away quickly choosing, instead, to watch as tiny rain droplets began to fall on the outside of the window.

"When he loved me," John breathed. He felt his chest tighten again. Deep breath. Count to ten. Unclinch his fist.
John listened for the scratch of notes. Nothing. Only continued silence.

"He touched me," John spoke softly. His gaze out the window focused on nothing. His mind replaying the dream. "He laid his hand," John spread his own hand palm against his chest, "right here. And then he..." John faltered again, his other hand already brushing against a week's worth of stubble on his chin. "He touched my face," he finished.

Still silence.

John wiped away a tear that had made a way down his cheek. He turned to Mrs. Thompson, his features already arranged back in military control. He clinched his fist again in his lap. Deep breath. Count to ten.

"Do you want to continue?"

"No," John said, more anger in his voice than he intended. "Not at all."

Back at his room, John spent the rest of the morning preparing for his shift at the clinic. Evening shifts were either dead or overwhelmingly busy. There was no in between. John needed the busier nights. He needed life or death decisions that weighed on his shoulders and forced his hands to steady. He needed fifteen minuets where his mind was too full processing medical information to be able to even think the name Sherlock Holmes. Like the purr of the engine when driving, a sound so ingrained into the activity that one can forget it is there, John's thoughts of Sherlock hummed just beneath the surface of his daily life. He had reached a state where he could function, for the most part, above the hum. After last night's dream, though...

John sat on the edge of the bed staring at the wall clock. Three hours until his shift begins. He grabbed the notepad and pen from the bedside table. "Garth Hotel" large across the top. The pen poised in his hand, hovering just above the page, John closed his eyes and tried to remember every detail from the dream. He focused on the parts where he had been talking to Sherlock. He tried to remember exactly how Sherlock had felt when John was running his fingers through those dark curls. He wanted to write beautiful poetry about that feeling. He wanted to compose sonnets. He wanted to use every word in every language to construct a story that would fully convey that plethora of emotion Sherlock had coursing through him in John's dream.

The only word he could come up with was, quite simply, love. He didn't bother to write it down. He tossed the pen and paper on the bedside table. He stood with effort. His leg hurt, daily, and he used it as a reminder of how much he needed Sherlock in his life. John refused to go back to using his cane, though. Instead, he just walked through the pain with a noticeable limp. He knew his co workers had whispered conversations about how that limp would magically disappear if a severe trauma rolled through the doors. He knew it. It might make him a horrible person but he prayed, if a person is going to be hurt anyway, at least let it happen on my shift. Bring them to me. I need it.

John stripped the cover and sheets from his bed. Housekeeping respectfully did not enter his room unless he specifically requested it. Even then, he did most of the ready work for them. He would strip the bed, tidy away all his belongings, and gather any trash. All they needed to do was remake the bed with fresh linen and clean. It wasn't Mrs. Hudson but John had gotten used to the arrangement.

Two hours until his shift. John sat on the exposed mattress. He glanced around the room. Nightstand. Dresser. TV. Bathroom. Bed. There is no chair in here, he thought. The idea that he had invented a chair in this room for Sherlock to sit in unsettled him almost more than the dream itself. Maybe he should bring that up to Ella at their next session. Maybe not. John dropped his head to where his chin was nearly resting on his chest. He closed his eyes. He tried not to think about this morning's visit with his therapist. He had scheduled visits once a week but he frequently would drop in if something came up. This morning was an unscheduled session. He was sitting on the steps outside her building when she pulled in. She hadn't had her first coffee yet when they sat down in her office.

John steadied his breath. He rolled his head from side to side. He had told Ella some of how he felt about Sherlock since...since he had started back seeing her. They had never discussed love, though. And John had never tried to place Sherlock's feelings for him. Sherlock didn't feel things like that. He just didn't. But in the dream...

John stood, favoring his leg. An hour and a half until his shift. He decided to go for a walk. Sitting in this room, a room no longer a sanctuary from his haunting, wasn't helping. John gathered his keys, coat and wallet. He left at a steady amble, a slight jaunt to his step, headed in the direction of the nearest homeless shelter. Maybe he would find someone from the homeless network to share a meal with him.