Trigger Warnings: mentions of suicide, PTSD, bereavement. (Title from Richard Siken's "Straw House, Straw Dog")

Sherlock was up the stairs and on the second floor landing, before he noticed something off.

Ostensibly, nothing was different from any of the other million times he had climbed them. Still, he could sense that someone was in 221b and this person wasn't John.

Careful not to make any noise, Sherlock stepped into the flat and peeked around the corner into the kitchen.

There, the intruder had his back to the doorway. Whoever he was, he was clearly at home, making tea in a pair of baggy pinstriped pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, which Sherlock could tell he'd been sleeping in not long before. The intruder had a pair of headphones in and was humming what was unmistakably Wagner's Tristan and Isolde.

It was strange though, because Sherlock swore that looked like-no, it couldn't be.

With the intention of incapacitating the intruder and securing him for questioning later, Sherlock stepped directly behind the man. The detective threw one arm over the intruder's chest, while his other was pulling the man's right arm back, when he squeaked:

"Sherlock!"

The detective froze. Even though the intruder had only gasped his name, Sherlock still heard the distinct way the 'k' at the end rolled off the man's tongue. He flashed back to the last time he had heard it said that way: Thank you, Sherlock Holmes.

James Moriarty was in his kitchen.

The important question here was not why was Moriarty in his kitchen, but how?

Moriarty was dead.

This couldn't be real. Logically, he must be dreaming.

Moriarty still hadn't pulled away from Sherlock's initially firm, now slackening grip. The criminal actually leaned into it, as he took a moment to mope up the sloshed tea with a cloth and pull off his headphones. Indicating, he'd been startled at the detective's sudden appearance, not by the way he had his arms around him. Which perplexed Sherlock less than he'd admit out loud. Then Moriarty turned round in Sherlock's arms, his dark eyes mischievous, and stood on the tips of his toes to place a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips.

"Well, I missed you too," Moriarty practically growls in Sherlock's ear as he pulls himself out of the detective's arms and brushes past him to the living room with his tea.

Breath stuck in his throat, it was all the detective could do to turn his head to follow as the criminal's bare feet pad across the floor.

"How was your trip?" Jim queries as he settles into Sherlock's chair. He's brought his feet up and is resting the steaming mug on his knees, hands cupping it as if for warmth. The action seemed habitual. Even from the kitchen, he could see Moriarty's eyes were actually alight with curiosity. Sherlock had to shake himself to think: how was his trip?

Details came flooding back, all of them bad. He would not be exaggerating to say that the last month was the worst of his life. He'd been on the run, not hunted but it felt like it. He was probably just paranoid, but better that than dead before he cleared their names. He was constantly traveling, cut off from his friends, and trying not to think about how the criminal had shot himself in the mouth less than two feet from his face. Too often he'd have flashbacks. The handshake replayed in slow motion, only this time he knew the ending, and yet he still couldn't change the outcome...frankly, it was torture.

Sherlock could say this. But he won't. He could make some lie up, but really Jim would already know how his trip went, if this were real. As it wasn't, Sherlock decides he will enjoy the limited time he and this Moriarty have.

"It could have been better," Sherlock dismisses and joins the criminal in the living room. He sits in the chair opposite, asking: "What's been keeping you busy?"

A grin stretches across Jim's mouth. "You know I can't tell you. That'd ruin the fun," he takes a sip of tea, scrunching up his nose. "You'll just have to wait..."

Sherlock can't help but study Moriarty's figure. It was bizarre to see him so casual, not wearing one of his pressed suits. The way his toes rested against the faux leather, relaxed and comfortable. His brain was doing such a good job of recreating Moriarty; Sherlock could almost forget the other man was dead. He wanted to and would sink into this dream fully, if he didn't know that would make it all the more painful when he woke. Jim interrupts his study of him:

"You're awfully dazey. Was the plane ride with your brother really that taxing?"

Sherlock thought it was bizarre this dream version of himself would assist his brother to the point they would travel together. He wants to ask Jim if the case he was consulting on was worth the trouble of dealing with his brother for a week. Instead, the detective shrugs, reflecting back to his train ride yesterday.

"Actually, I tried to sleep. Couldn't at first, but when I finally did, I kept getting jarred awake. It was not refreshing in the slightest," Sherlock recalled, sourly. Jim frowned, as if upset on Sherlock's behalf. Then the expression was gone, replaced by a sly grin.

"It's a good thing I made you get that mattress then, isn't it? You still haven't admitted you sleep better since we picked it up."

Right, because he and Moriarty went mattress shopping together. Of course.

He refused to acknowledge the implication that held, nor would he think about the kiss and growl he received in greeting earlier. He couldn't have even if he wanted to because Jim was smiling at him now. It wasn't anywhere near the elation his face held in those final moments on the roof, but he looked content. Sherlock realizes that he had never seen that emotion on the criminal before. It was something to behold.

Right then Sherlock didn't care that this was a dream or that maybe he should have really jumped off of Bart's. He couldn't be bothered with his mission of clearing his name or killing the idea of Rich Brook because the world should remember Moriarty for his true genius not some mask he used once and threw away. He can't be bothered with any of it. He can't stop looking at him, because it's Moriarty and he's alive and happy.

The fact that he was staring again didn't escape Jim's attention.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Moriarty asked, a note of what the detective swore was concern wavering on the edge. "I know it's been a week but-"

No, it had been three weeks, four days, and, when he went to sleep, seven hours. Seeing this dream Jim did nothing to quell the rising tide of emotion within him. Of course, it wasn't the fact that they hadn't spoken or been in the presence of each other in three weeks. They'd gone longer without even speaking to each other and they'd only met in person a little over a year and a half ago.

Really, it was the knowledge Sherlock had come to bare since that day on the roof. It was that he knew he would never again see the criminal, that he would never look at a crime and know for all it's intricate beauty that it was Jim's, or that he would never hear the criminal's voice again. Well, that was something different than some time apart.

Apparently, the detective's silence wasn't easing Moriarty's concern, because he sat up and set his tea on the side table.

"Hey," Jim moved to Sherlock's side, hovering near him, waiting for an invitation to come closer. Sherlock didn't know where this was going or how a dream Moriarty could make anything better but he shakily nodded. Moriarty leaned on the edge of what Sherlock considered John's chair.

Except Sherlock wasn't sitting in John's chair, but one similar to his own. The detective was only vaguely aware that there were other things about the flat that were different aside from the chair and Jim's presence. Some of the things in his flat were not here and instead different things replaced them. The flat looked slightly different and had a different feel to it. But what didn't change is it's feeling of home. None of this was difficult to puzzle through. Clearly, Sherlock didn't live with John, but Jim.

Jim lays a hand on Sherlock's, breaking him out of his thoughts. Sherlock, distracted, flinched at the intrusion. Not expecting such an averse reaction, Jim recoiled from Sherlock as if he'd been burned.

"Maybe I should let you settle in," Jim said sounding hesitant, but standing to leave the detective all the same.

"Don't," Sherlock interrupted, halting Jim's rise. "I just need-"

Sherlock broke off. Even now, after all that had happened between them, he still couldn't say it out loud. Despite this fallibility, Moriarty understood what he was trying to say and the criminal leaned down.

"Would you like me to help you?" Jim asked archly.

"Yes," Sherlock decisively pulls Jim to him. But instead of smoothly sliding the criminal into his lap, as was his intention, Sherlock's sudden movement upsets Jim's balance and he lands on the floor in front of the detective. He's laughing though as he yanks Sherlock's arms, which are still reaching towards him, and Sherlock is pulled on top of him in an ungainly pile.

They're both laughing now, as the detective shifts his weight mostly off the criminal. Moriarty seemed glad have been able to get Sherlock out of his daze and in the moment with him, if the skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes was any indication; but really Sherlock can't stop staring at Jim's mouth. Something which he knows Jim has noticed, because when the detective finally meets Jim's eyes once more, they've darkened considerably.

Then Moriarty's eyes flick to Sherlock's lips and back to his eyes.

And Sherlock wants this. He's wanted this since they held hands on the roof, since he peeked behind Richard Brook's mask, since the court room, especially since the court and the events that ensued afterwards. He's wanted this since the damn pool.

So he closes the short distance between their lips and kisses Jim.

It's sloppy. Awkward. And, if he's being honest, he really doesn't know how to do it well. He's solidly mediocre, but it hadn't really mattered before. However, Sherlock was clearly a fool to never try this with the criminal before, because kissing Jim was amazing and it's many more minutes before Sherlock has to pull back nearly panting at lack of air.

Jim rests his head on the floor, breath coming between them deep and harsh and riddled with giggles.

"It's only been six days, Sherlock, and you're already out of practice?" The detective frowns down at the criminal. Was he really that terrible? "Not that I mind," Jim amended, huffing another laugh at the detective's off-put features. "It reminds me of the first time we kissed."

That comment, which unbeknownst to Moriarty was quite fitting, held a fondness which made Sherlock smile into their next kiss.

Then he can feel it coming. A distinct pulling sensation of waking that will take him from this paradise. This place where Moriarty, Jim, is still here and alive and with him. This alternative reality where they live together. It wasn't like the thought hadn't occurred to him. It was just that Sherlock was having a hard time comprehending what it would actually be like, but here his subconscious had supplied a small bit of an answer. They would be lovers. They should have been-

He didn't want to go.

He savors the sensation of Jim's lips on his. Jim's tongue. The little sounds he makes, when Sherlock returns the swipey tongue thing the criminal seemed to have a penchant for. Jim's fingers as they pull the detective closer.

Sherlock gasps awake.