I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the BBC.

If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Special thanks to Feej and LeDragonQuiMangeDuPoisson for having read this over for me and helped me so much to make it work.

Follows "Blue Dreams" at /s/6999199/1/.

When John wakes up and wanders out into the living room, he sees Sherlock sitting on the couch, disdainful look already in place for the day, coat buttoned up suspiciously high.
"What are you doing?"
Sherlock looks at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about." He stands, suddenly, and John sees for himself what Sherlock is doing – he's sitting there wearing John's trousers, John's too-small shirt and John's favourite green jumper.
John doesn't even remember Sherlock's coming into his room to take them. (He'd say "borrow," but that would be giving Sherlock more credit than he probably deserves.)
"Why are you wearing my clothes?"
"I… damaged my last suit."
Now that he thinks about it, John does remember the explosion that rocked the flat last night. He was already half-asleep, and he shrugged it off as relatively minor.
Only after living with Sherlock would an Afghanistan war veteran shrug off a midnight explosion as "relatively minor."
In the corner, he notices a bundle of dark fabric, shredded edges and shiny spots where the charred material has melted. How Sherlock has managed to do this to his suit, presumably while still wearing it, and yet survived, is a mystery to John.
He sighs. "Okay. Well, you can't just keep wearing my things, so we're going to have to go shopping today."
Sherlock makes a face. Shopping is dull.
"I mean it. Go and get your shoes."
"What about breakfast?"
"There's no use trying to distract me, Sherlock, I know you don't eat. I'll get something on the way. Shoes. Now."

They end up in a High Street shop, John trying to explain to a very nice saleslady exactly what it is that Sherlock wears, because, apparently, buying suits is beneath the detective – he only destroys them. It's not the first time John has wondered what Sherlock did before him.
Still, at least the saleslady seems to understand, and in no time at all, she has Sherlock arrayed in a fine, dark suit and the sort of slim-cut shirt John has noticed he prefers.
She stands Sherlock in front of a mirror. "There, now, what do you think of that?"

There is a moment's silence.

Then Sherlock looks down at the suit, and John realizes he's trembling, white-faced, wild-eyed. It takes him a moment before he can speak.
"Why – " choking out the words, "why… did you choose… this suit?"
The saleslady shrugs. "You look good in Westwood."
And suddenly John understands.

"Excuse us," he manages, because Sherlock is clearly not in a fit state to speak for himself. The saleslady tries to say something, but even as the first words touch her lips, Sherlock has turned his back and stalked away – or tried to stalk, but John can see his hands twisted into the hem of the jacket as he goes, crushing the material between his fingers as if to erase the very weave of it.

He makes some lame attempt at apology to the saleslady, then takes off in pursuit of Sherlock, who is, by that point, nowhere to be found. A complete circuit of the store reveals nothing, but surely Sherlock hasn't left, because he was still wearing the suit, and although he knows the younger man is not opposed to petty theft when necessary, he also knows that there would have been alarms. So where…?
Eventually, the fitting rooms occur to him. He walks up one aisle and down another, knocking on each door and receiving a response, until he finds the one that remains silent when he knocks.
He borrows a key from the staff, because he knows the room is not empty, and lets himself inside.
The sight nearly does him in. He has never seen Sherlock like this.

The detective is on the floor in the corner of the sitting room, shirt untucked and trousers – not his trousers, but the shop's – creased; the suit jacket is crumpled into a ball in the opposite corner. His feet are drawn up underneath him, the same way he watches television, but the way Sherlock's body is curled and the tautness of his muscles as his arms wrap around his legs tell John that this is nothing at all like watching television.
He is afraid to look at Sherlock's face. It takes him almost a full minute to bring his eyes up to meet Sherlock's, and when he does, he falls to his knees beside the younger man and, without thinking, without knowing where the movements come from, takes Sherlock in his arms.

Sherlock's face is whiter than John has ever seen it, tear tracks tracing along his cheekbones to vanish into the soft curls brushing the collar of his shirt. There are so many emotions in his eyes, John cannot even name them all, but the first thing he sees is terror. Blind, abject terror.

He holds tighter.

"Sherlock, it's all right. It's all right. You're all right." John doesn't know why Sherlock is scared. He has no idea whether or not the other man wants to hear the words he is repeating, softly, over and over, but he needs to say them, and he needs to keep talking to Sherlock, giving him some way to ground himself. It almost doesn't matter what he says.
Abruptly, Sherlock turns and buries his head in John's jumper, the oatmeal-coloured one John is wishing so very hard he hadn't worn today. A long moment goes by as Sherlock shudders in John's arms.

When the shaking subsides, John leans back to meet Sherlock's gaze again, and it's almost worse than before. John is an army veteran, invalided home from the only place he ever belonged (before Sherlock, the voice in his head reminds him). John knows what it is to feel uselessness, irrelevance, hatred of one's own weakness. But the level of self-loathing he sees in Sherlock now is something John cannot even imagine feeling.

And all at once, he realizes. Sherlock's fear, the discarded jacket, they are all about this.

He wraps Sherlock in his arms again, but this time, he pulls the detective in close and tries to say, with every fibre of his body, you are good, and you are loved. I love you.
"Sherlock," he whispers.
Sherlock tenses in his grip.
"Sherlock, you are nothing like him."

Long moments pass. So many that by the time Sherlock answers, John has almost forgotten what he said.
"Wrong." A hoarse whisper, as much as Sherlock can manage with his throat so tight.
It takes him a moment to catch up. "No, I'm not wrong."
"You have no idea." Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes are blazing, his face lined with hard fury. "You have no idea! I am exactly like him, John!"
"He kills for fun! He plays games with people's lives!"
"And how," chilled, dangerous, "is that different from what I do with yours?" His voice breaks on the final word.
John gasps.
He had no idea Sherlock's guilt ran so deep.
The detective's voice rasps through his thoughts.
"I may not have wired the explosives to your chest, but I put them there as surely as if I had."
And Sherlock is gone.

Some time later, John picks the suit jacket up from the dusty corner of the fitting room and brushes it off. It looks like any other jacket to him, albeit one John could never afford, but when he holds it up to the light, he can see the lines of it across Jim Moriarty's shoulders, the way the dark-haired, dark-eyed man dusted off the lapels of it in the dull blue light of the pool deck. He can feel the smooth fabric of it under his hands, remembering the muscles of Moriarty's neck as he hangs on for dear life, Sherlock's dear life, and he can almost smell the tang of chlorine.

Not an ordinary jacket, then, a memory, a nightmare. And, without a thought, the saleslady had dressed Sherlock up in his own worst nightmare, turned him to face himself in the mirror, and confirmed it for him.

"You look good in Westwood."

John hangs the jacket up on the first rack he sees, worrying that they will have to pay for the creased garment, and leaves the store.

He denies the stinging behind his own eyes until he reaches 221B Baker Street, where he curls up on Sherlock's bed and grieves, not for anything that has happened to him, but for Sherlock's nightmare.

It's dark when John is woken from his fitful sleep by the click of the latch and the quiet sounds of movement from the living room. It takes him a minute or two to remember where he is, eyes burning and bleary with emotional exhaustion as he recalls not just where, but why.
He stands, his shoulder already beginning to punish him for the awkward position of the past few hours, and lets the door to Sherlock's room swing open.
Sherlock is sitting on the couch, hands clasped and pressed to his lips as if in prayer. He doesn't look up when John pads quietly out to the living room, doesn't react when John settles onto the couch beside him, the added weight shifting the cushions slightly so that Sherlock is no longer ramrod straight. He is still wearing that morning's trousers and shirt.

John thinks for a moment that the scent of chlorine and smoke is imagined, left over from the dreams, perhaps. But it doesn't go away, and after a moment, he realizes where Sherlock must have been.

"I'll burn the heart out of you," John hears Moriarty saying, over and over again in his head. Until now, he's thought that he and Sherlock had escaped that fate. But looking at Sherlock now, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing, eyes clouded with pain, John reconsiders.

There's ash in Sherlock's hair, and he reaches to brush it out. He's not prepared for Sherlock to crumble the moment he feels John's touch, nor for the way the younger man curls against him, head in his hands like he's trying to block out everything in the world except for John. He's not prepared for the shudder that runs through Sherlock's whole body and never quite finishes, shivers like little aftershocks across his shoulders and down his back. He's not prepared for the realization that Sherlock is crying, and not just the subtle traces of tears from that morning, but silent, wracking sobs that tear his breath away and leave him shaking against John in the darkness.

For the third time that day, and without entirely meaning to, John finds himself holding Sherlock. Only this time, there is no resistance in the younger man's long limbs, no tension in his muscles. Sherlock is spent and weeping, and there are no barriers left.

Only later, after Sherlock is able to breathe again, does John allow himself to loosen his hold a little and gently move one hand up to stroke the dark curls pressed against his chest. There's nothing he can say that he hasn't already said, nothing he can do that he hasn't already done, to convince Sherlock that it's not true. That he's nothing like Moriarty. That Sherlock is single-minded obsession, yes, and intensity and frustration and genius, and maybe he'll never be quite like any other human being in the world, but that's exactly it. Sherlock's different, but he's still human, and that's something that could never be said about Moriarty.

But since he can't think of a way to say it so that Sherlock will believe him, John abandons words and just keeps running his hand over Sherlock's tousled hair, willing him to understand.

John wakes up late the next morning, and there is a cup of tea in front of him. He tests it with his finger. Stone cold. Sherlock must have been gone for some time, then. He stretches, feeling the ragged pain run through his shoulder and down his arm – sleeping upright on the couch, holding Sherlock, is apparently not the kindest way to treat his old injury. Still, it isn't the shoulder he's worried about. Sherlock never said a word last night, and every minute of his absence brings a hundred awful pictures to the back of John's mind of where he might be now. He thinks of drugs and the hard glitter in Sherlock's eyes the first time Lestrade searched their apartment. He thinks of cases and Sherlock's recklessness, bruises on his neck from strangulation, a shot fired through two matching windows. He thinks of worse things and prays – John is not a religious man, and the thought is only figurative – that Sherlock won't think of them too.

The door at the foot of the stairs opens around midday, and John puts down the book he hasn't really been reading. He stands just as Sherlock appears at the top of the staircase, dropping an array of heavy white plastic bags, all identical.
"I went shopping."
"Did you buy milk?"
The look Sherlock gives him is surprise, almost apology, as he answers, "No. I forgot about groceries."
So John pokes open one of the bags to see what it is Sherlock has bought. Clothes, of course. Suits as identical as the bags that hold them, a collection of shirts that vary in colour, but not in design. Good. He can take off John's jumper now.
There is the ghost of a smile when John says that, and Sherlock tugs the green jumper over his head, laying it carefully on the back of the reclining chair. He looks ridiculous in John's shirt, two inches too short at the wrists, and suddenly John has the overwhelming urge to kiss him. Or maybe to ruffle his already-messy curls, or maybe just to wrap him in his arms again. He isn't sure. He doesn't know what's come over him at all, except that Sherlock is clearly trying, trying so hard, to be what he thinks John thinks he ought to be, and somehow that reminds John of the fitting room yesterday.

You are good, and you are loved.

In the last bag, Sherlock has stuffed the jacket John smoothed out and left behind in the shop. John wonders why he has it, but then something occurs to him.

"Go and get dressed," he tells Sherlock.
"This won't do?"
John has never heard Sherlock actually joke before.
"Go and get dressed," he says again. "I want to take you somewhere."

They walk down the street alongside Regent's Park, dappled sunlight falling through the trees and illuminating them both in soft gold. John thinks it looks fresh, like the morning after a thunderstorm, but maybe that's just because, for them, it is the morning after. He has one of the carrier bags bundled under his arm, making his breath hitch a little because it's heavier than it ought to be, but he doesn't mind, and he won't let Sherlock take it from him. Not that Sherlock has offered.
John is leading the way, because he hasn't told Sherlock where they are going. The fact that the detective hasn't asked a single question since they left the flat speaks volumes; he's still trying, John understands, to be good. As if he could ever be anything but.
The walk to Waterloo Bridge is a long one, spent in companionable silence. They are more than halfway out onto the bridge itself, surprisingly free of pedestrians even for a weekday, when John takes Sherlock's arm and stops him at the railing, dropping the carrier bag onto the pavement at their feet.
Together, they look out at the dark water of the Thames. John leans on the railing; Sherlock stands beside him, taking everything in at once. There are questions in his eyes, but he's still not asking, trusting John to explain when he is ready.
John bends to pick up the carrier bag and hands it to Sherlock, who opens it and looks inside. He spends a long time looking before lifting his gaze to meet the doctor's.

Inside the bag, the battered Westwood suit – jacket and all – is wrapped around a cast-iron frying pan, the only heavy thing John could find in the flat on short notice.

They watch it sink below the surface, the flash of white quickly obscured beneath the muddy water. Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off it until long after it's gone, and John doesn't take his eyes off Sherlock.

"Come on," the detective says when any sign of the bag and its contents has long since vanished. "We'd better stop on the way. I suppose Mrs. Hudson will be wanting a new frying pan."

John does kiss him, then, caution be damned, and Sherlock sags against the railing under the combined weight of his surprise and the past two days' emotions. The kiss is revelation enough, and Sherlock wonders if he will ever be able to look John in the eye again, but the real gift isn't the kiss, and it isn't the suit and the memories on the bottom of the Thames.

The real gift is when John whispers to him, so close that Sherlock can taste the words and feel them on his lips, "You are nothing, nothing, like him," and, for the first time, Sherlock thinks that that might one day be true.