How excited am I right now? SO. EXCITED. And now, without further ado:

Welcome to The Major Lift.

Sherlock Holmes rolls over in his bed, one arm instinctively going around the warm body pressed against him. He smiles against a shoulder, his eyes still closed. "I've missed this."

"Have you now? That's interesting."

His eyes pop open, and he shifts, looking into eyes that do not belong to John Watson. The smile is wrong, the nose is wrong, the hair and the teeth and everything, everything is wrong and is not John and he shoves himself back, away, apart. He squints in the darkness. "Victor?" He feels as though he might stop breathing at any moment.

Victor props himself up on his elbow, still smiling. "Well of course it's me. Who else would you have expected?"

Sherlock shakes his head, scrambling further away. He wonders how he hasn't fallen off the bed yet.

"Sherlock, please." Victor's looking at him, hurt and pain and fear in his eyes, and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut.

"You can't be here."

"You wanted this, Sherlock."

"No!" Sherlock opens his eyes again, glaring now. "I never wanted this. Not with you."

Victor smirks at him. "Are you so certain?" Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again and licks his lips. Victor grins again. "We don't have to tell John."

"There's nothing to tell John - we haven't done anything. Just go. Victor, just..."

"He won't mind, though."

Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. "Of course he'll mind. We're eng-"

Victor starts laughing. "Yes, of course. Your desperate proposal after less than a week separated." Victor keeps laughing, and Sherlock is shaking now, rage and a hint of embarrassment and more than a little hurt.

"Why are you here, Victor?" Sherlock's voice breaks only a little, and he swipes at his eyes furiously. "I thought... I thought we were friends..."

"We are, Sherlock!" Victor's watching him again, and Sherlock shakes his head.

"Then why do this?"

Victor scoots closer, and Sherlock is frozen. "Because you want it."

"No." Sherlock watches him shift closer still. "No, I... I want John, Victor, not you, I..."

Victor licks his lips, moving in to kiss Sherlock. "I think you want both of us."

"No, no, I-"

"But there's only one of us here right now, so why not take what you want?"

"My... my roommate!" Sherlock's breathing hard and wide eyed and desperate to find anything that will make this stop. "We... we can't, he'll... he'll hear us and..."

Victor's lips are so close now. Sherlock can barely see anything but Victor's eyes, can feel Victor's breath on his lips, can feel them move right in front of him as Victor speaks.

"He's busy. He won't notice us. It's alright, Sherlock."

"No, no it isn't. Stop. Victor... please..."

Victor's laughter is soft but low, and Sherlock closes his eyes again. "Begging for mercy, are you?"

"Yes, yes, anything, just..." Sherlock leans away, just a bit, putting a few inches between him and Victor.

"You don't really want me to stop do you?"

"Yes I do. Stop, Victor."

"If it helps, I understand why you want him, Sherlock."

Sherlock whips his head around, gaze finding the other bed. John is sitting on it, the folder Mycroft had given him open, papers spread everywhere in front of him. He's holding one, reading intently.

"I... John?"

John looks up, smiling. "Sherlock."

Sherlock looks completely baffled for several seconds. Then he swallows, and nods slowly. "This is a dream."

"Dreams are where you process what you want to become reality."

Sherlock looks back at Victor. "No. Dreams are where your subconscious tries to sort out truth from fiction." He glared.

"Sherlock, it's fine."

Sherlock's gaze turns back to John, who is still smiling at him. "John, I don't-"

"Of course you do, look at him!" John let his eyes trail appreciatively over Victor. "Tall, tanned, fit." John looks back at Sherlock and shrugs. "I'm a washed up soldier and a washed up doctor. He's still got a career waiting for him. Like you do."

Sherlock was scrambling towards the edge of the bed. Trying to get to John, trying to get away from Victor, either way, he was failing.

"John! I..." He hesitates, biting his lip, and John laughs.

"Can't even say it in a dream, can you?"

Sherlock closes his eyes. "John, I love you."

When he opens his eyes, John is there, right in front of him. "Do you?"

"Yes." Sherlock reaches for him, pulls him close.

"Say it with your eyes open, then."

Sherlock opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

"Harder than you think, isn't it?" He turns back to see Victor looking at him, a sad smile on his lips.

"But I do. I do love him."

"Then tell him, Sherlock."

Sherlock turns back, breathing frantic and shallow. "John, I... I-" He starts choking, the words suddenly thick and heavy and sticky in his throat. His lungs burn as the words swell, and he feels himself start to asphyxiate.

He reaches out again, but John is too far now, too far to grab hold of. He wants to scream, wants to make John realize what is happening. You're a doctor, help me!

"Can't help you if you won't even say how you feel to my face, Sherlock."

Hot tears are leaking from the corner of Sherlock's eyes now, and he clutches at his throat as his vision begins to darken, just at the edges. He feels like his throat might explode at any second.

He falls back, his eyes closing as he gives himself over to the sensation of dying.

It hurt, the first time. It hurts now. He remembers this.

But where before it had been a blessing, a hopeful release from a life he felt he could no longer bear, now it was maddening, slow and cruel. To see John there, watching him fade.

He feels his fingers tapping out a rhythm. He hopes John understands.

Suddenly, there were lips on his, and he could breathe as long as those lips were on his.

His arms encircle the body now pressed against him, pull it closer, closer, into him and through him and he refuses to let the kiss stop even for a moment. His hands move up to clutch at hair, to keep this mouth close. He won't let them pull away even for a second, and he doesn't even care who it is.

"That's enough, love."

He opens his eyes and it's John, John kissing him, John talking to him, John, John, John.

"I love you." His voice is soft and whispering and somehow it's the loudest thing he's ever heard.

John smiles. "I know. But that doesn't mean you don't want him."

Sherlock feels his heart breaking, a real and tangible pain he could measure, with the right equipment.

"How much does it hurt?"

He stares at John, confused. John's wearing a lab coat now, has a clip board in his hand. Sherlock looks down and he's in a hospital gown. "What?"

John flicks his pen towards the wall - there a chart, a ridiculous chart with smiley faces and frowny faces and numbers. "How much pain are you in?"

"I..."

"You're heart is breaking, right?" John looks at him, impatient.

Sherlock nods. "I... a six..."

John tilts his head, a half-shrug gesture and Sherlock is frowning at him.

"I suppose that's not too bad then."

"It's horrible, John, what... why are we here..."

John looks up at him, surprised. "You needed the right equipment."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I was just..."

"Ah." John turns as the door opens. Victor's walking in, wearing dark blue scrubs and beaming. "Here's your equipment."

Victor stands there, hands on his hips and looking triumphant. Sherlock stares blankly from John to Victor.

"Well go on then, use him." John steps back. "Can't diagnose you properly without this."

Sherlock gapes at him before turning back to Victor, who's pulling his shirt over his head. "Come on, Sherlock. All the equipment you need." He holds out his arms, twirling slowly. "John doesn't mind."

Sherlock leans away. "I mind."

"Oh I doubt that." Victor looks him up and down. "I'd say you're just burning to get a hold of me."

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous." John's rubbing at his forehead. "The sooner you use him the sooner I can figure out what's wrong with you."

"Nothing's wrong with me!" Sherlock insists. "John, I love you, I want you!"

"Even just a blowjob, Sherlock, even that will help me figure out what's wrong."

"There is nothing wrong with me, do you understand?" Sherlock hopped off the bed, standing straight and angry and glaring at them both now.

John's hands come up, placating. "Alright... Spock, just... calm down." Sherlock's glare intensifies. "Let's look at this logically, alright?"

Sherlock waits, looking back at Victor to make sure he isn't taking off anything else, then his eyes return to John's.

"Let's consider the facts." John smiles warmly.

"Like what?"

John shrugs. "Your reaction to him the first time you met is a good start."

Sherlock blanches. "Physiological response. You were texting me. I was lonely. He was friendly."

John laughs. "Yeah? I've been lonely too."

Sherlock reaches for him. "I don't want you to be."

John nods. "I know."

Sherlock cannot stop the tears, yet again. "John, please..."

John looks at Victor. "We're wasting time."

Victor nods. "Yeah, I think you're right."

"He really hates it when people waste time." John's eyes are back on Sherlock now, and Sherlock narrows his eyes, trying to deduce what's going to happen next.

They both move in, and Sherlock shrinks back. They grab his arms, pushing him back onto the bed. He thrashes and shouts at them, but they simply stand there, to either side of him, calmly holding his arms.

"Victor?" John's voice is calm. "Go on. I've got him."

Victor nods, letting go of Sherlock's arm and sinking to his knees in front of him.

"No." Sherlock's looking down at where Victor is staring at the spot where his hips are under the hospital gown. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes he had more clothes on just as Victor lifts the gown, and is rewarded with the sound of laughter.

"Now where did you get these trousers from, I wonder?"

Sherlock opens his eyes. It's a dream. I can make things happen, if I concentrate hard enough!

"Enough of that, Sherlock." John's tone is reproachful, but Sherlock smirks.

Victor reaches up and pulls at the waist of the trousers. "Huh." He looks back at John. "They won't come off."

Sherlock looks smugly at John. "I don't want him." His voice is low and steady. "But if you wanted to try your hand at it..."

John stares at him, then leans in to kiss him. Sherlock brings his free hand up to rub along the back of John's neck. "Wake up."

Sherlock frowns. "No."

"It'll only get worse if you don't, you know."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm dreaming. But I'm in control now."

"Are you so sure of that, darling?"

Sherlock's head jerks around, and he sees Irene standing near the wall. His heart races. "No. Not you too."

"Not happy to see me, then." She gave him a very staged pout. "And after I got all dressed up just for you." She smirked at him. "Perhaps I shouldn't have bothered?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Go away."

"Interesting."

Sherlock looked over at John, who was now tapping his pen against his lips as she stared at a clipboard. "What is?"

John looked up. "Well, your reaction to her. Not even a hint of arousal." John frowned. "You were engaged to her, and you never wanted her?"

"You've read my file, John, you know what it was like between us."

"You were with her for several years, Sherlock."

"So?" Sherlock let his annoyance bleed into the words. "What does that have to do with anything at all?"

John shrugged. "You're with me, but... do you really want to be?"

Sherlock made a frustrated sound and straightened up, brushing at the front of his hospital gown. "I'm done answering these inane questions, John." He stared into John's eyes. "I want you. I want to be with you. I do not want Victor, or Irene, or..." He looked away. "I don't want anyone but you." He looked back up. "Now stop this. Send them away." He gestured towards Victor and Irene, who were both watching him with a detached amusement.

"Can't."

Sherlock glared. "Why not?"

John smirked. "You're in control."

Sherlock stepped back then, nodding. "Oh, stupid, stupid, of course." He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, it was him and John again, on the rooftop of Clouds House. John stood there near the edge, watching Sherlock and smiling, one hand held out.

"Do you love me, Sherlock?"

"Of course I do." Sherlock stepped forward - and John took one step backwards. One step closer to the edge of the roof. Sherlock halted, his breath catching. "John. What are you doing?"

John kept smiling pleasantly. "I'm waiting."

Sherlock's hands clasped behind his back. "Waiting for what?"

John laughed. "For you, silly. Come here."

Sherlock nodded, and stepped forward.

John stepped back.

"John, stop moving."

John frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock looked down at John's feet, then back up to his eyes. "You've only got about three more steps before you fall off the roof. Please." Sherlock held his own hands out now. "Please, John, come to me."

John shook his head as he chuckled. "Not how it works, Sherlock." He looked behind him, then back at Sherlock. "Come here."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I won't send you over the edge of the roof, John."

John's hands go to his hips as he tips his head back, one long breath blowing out. "Call it a leap of faith, Sherlock."

"I've never put much stock in faith, John."

John licks his lips and looks at Sherlock again. "What do you think marriage is?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. "If I come to you..."

John looked behind himself again, nodding. "Yeah. We'll go over the edge." His head turned back to Sherlock. "But I trust you." He grinned. "You'll catch me, Sherlock."

Sherlock took a deep breath, calculations whirring through his brain. "Oh. Oh." He looked at John's eyes again, saw the wrinkles at the sides of them as John saw him understand.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock smiled. "I love you, John."

And then he started running.

He watched as John took his steps, one, two, three. Saw him take the fourth one that sent him over the edge of the rooftop, just as Sherlock's hand clasped around his wrist.

They both went over, clinging to each other.

They fell forever, it seemed. Sherlock waited, he waited and waited and they kept falling.

He looked at John then. John, who was smiling like this was the best thing in the world.

"You should wake up, Sherlock."

"I... I can't."

John pulled him close, kissed him. It was chaste, just the lightest touch of their lips together. When he pulls away, Sherlock keeps his eyes closed. They fall farther.

"Wake up, Sherlock, wake up."

"I'd rather stay with you, you know." Sherlock opens his eyes.

John smiles as they fall, picking up speed. Sherlock looks down and he can see the ground now, rushing towards them. John's voice is calm and steady, a perfect paradox to their current situation. "No choice. You're going to wake up... now."

He wakes up shouting, clutching his pillow tight to his chest and sweating like he'd just come off stage after a week-long performance.

He closes his eyes again, and takes one long, shaking breath.