Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. The BBC do. And Arthur Conan Doyle.

Story: Sherlock's imagination runs away with him. Slash. Written by request for one the kind reviewers of a previous fic. M for sexual content though it's not explicit.

We run down the alleyway together, and my heart is beating with the exhilaration. Alone in the darkness, we glance around, to make sure we're truly alone in this grimy London side street.

Deserted.

With a smile, we step up against the wall, and I don't care about all the mud against the back of my coat because you're pressing up against me with a smile. I press my lips together a moment and then you're leaning in to kiss me, and then moving your way down to my neck and I'm gasping for breath, the cold night air rushing down my throat all at once.

"How's that?" you're murmuring roughly and I'm nodding breathlessly.

"Yes, yes," I nod urgently, anything for him to keep going, don't let him stop now.

With a smile you lower to continue your kisses, urging my coat open. Impatiently I tug my buttons open to aid you along, sliding my coat open and shrugging it off, not caring that it falls to the dirty floor. Now my hands are free I waste no time in sliding them up underneath your jumper to savour the feel of your smooth skin, and delight in hearing you gasp.

"Morning!"

Sherlock jerked awake and sat up blearily, confused at the sudden sunlight. Mrs. Hudson, attired in a shocking lime green cardigan, was beaming generously down at him.

"John sent me to wake you up, dearie. You do know it's nearly 11?"

Sherlock nodded vaguely as she bustled out of the room, and ran his hands through his hair.

He'd never had a dream like that before.