"Fuck, that one hurt!"

"Well, since you didn't hold still, it didn't yank out all the way. You never learn."

Sherlock held John's face steady with his left hand, gripping the tweezers with his right.

"Close your eyes and stretch your face, like I taught you," Sherlock quipped, and John did as he was told. He felt the cold metal against his brow bone, slowly scooping up a thick hair, then deftly ripping it out. John winced. Squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull. He felt the little comb smooth over his eyebrow again as Sherlock surveyed for more new hairs that were growing against the shape he had dictated.

The day was Sunday, and every Sunday was Eyebrow Maintenance Day.

On Sundays, they sat facing each other in front of their shared bedroom closet, which had two sliding doors, each covered completely in long mirrors. The natural lighting from the window was ideal for Sherlock to see each and every little hair that he might have missed if he were working under the yellow light of the bathroom.

"Beauty is pain," Sherlock tutted under his breath.

And beauty definitely was pain, John had found. He dreaded Sundays; he dreaded the process of having his hair removed by force, and he dreaded the thought of something sharp and metallic near his eyes. But Sherlock was a true artist. He knew how to look at your face and determine how your eyebrows should be sculpted to best suit you. And John would be lying if he said he didn't like having nicely shaped brows.

John didn't feel the need to fill his in, however, a step Sherlock didn't often skip. Sherlock liked makeup, he thought it was fun, which was pretty cool in John's opinion. Not many men could bring themselves to enjoy makeup. John was one of those men.

"You're almost done, John."

Though Sherlock liked makeup, he rarely went very far with it. No bright lipstick (not to say that he didn't have any), no shimmery eye shadow, no intense or "in-your-face" looks. He stuck with browns and blacks, sometimes reds. On special occasions he flicked his eyeliner out into a wing.

Having a makeup-savvy friend was helpful in the event of a sudden breakout. Sherlock was good at blending a ton of creams together and carefully brushing them onto your "problem areas." He also had this green stuff that cancelled out the redness so you could apply the creams more easily. He'd explained it to John once, something about the color wheel, but John couldn't quite recall all the details. Makeup was very confusing sometimes.

"Relax your face, now." Sherlock combed out John's other eyebrow, then started shaping to see where the new hairs were growing again.

Pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter.

John opened his eyes when he heard the knocking, and he grinned at Sherlock, who looked very frustrated.

Bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka.

Sherlock stood up as the knocking continued, an annoying drum beat resounding throughout the apartment. John stayed put, knowing that company wouldn't interrupt Sherlock's meticulous shaping and plucking; especially since John could tell exactly who was at the door.

He heard the creak of the old door, followed by a loud, "Heh-heh-hey, buddy!"

Sherlock muttered, "You don't have to knock out a whole song onto the door every time you come over."

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I do!"

Sherlock came back in the bedroom, followed by none other than Greg Lestrade.

"John, my man," Greg walked over to give John a fist bump, then plopped himself down onto John's bed, which bounced beneath him. Sherlock settled down cross-legged before John once again, picking up the comb and tweezers to resume his artistry. Greg grimaced. "Is today really Sunday?"

"Apparently," John joked.

"I can't believe you put yourself through that every week, it's super gross, all that hair everywhere."

"I'd rather have these loose hairs on the floor than on my face," remarked Sherlock; squeeze and pull. John tensed, then relaxed. Sherlock continued to comb through as Greg watched in awe for a moment, running a hand through his soft brown hair.

"One of these days you'll have to let me pluck your eyebrows, Greg," Sherlock snickered.

"Ew, no way, man! Don't come near me with that thing!"

John chuckled, and Sherlock tapped his cheek to remind him not to move.

"So anyway, I got some awesome news," chirped Greg, bouncing a bit on the bed. "You know that band I showed you, Kink Shaming? That local one?"

"The one that sucks, or the one that sucks?" Sherlock mocked, and John nearly snorted. Sherlock let go of John's face so he could laugh fully.

"Hey," Greg whined, "they're a great band, they've got a unique sound."

"No offense, but they sound like shit, Greg."

John laughed harder. "You're fucking savage, Sherlock." Sherlock grinned, smug.

"Alright alright, cool it, Captain Curly," Greg held up his hands defensively, "Irene knows the guy running their next gig and she got us all in."

Sherlock and John collectively groaned in protest, but Greg quickly piped in, "They've got an open bar, with cheap food!"

"Oh bullshit, what concert has an open bar?" Sherlock shook his head in disbelief. John shrugged. "Alcohol is really expensive, I kinda wanna go just for the bar. It could be fun."

Sherlock whipped around to face John again, his expression screaming against the idea of going out. "Close your eyes and stretch your face," he grumbled. John wasn't about to argue with the man with the sharp metal tweezers, so he did as he was instructed. Squeeze and pull, squeeze and pull; he was going faster than usual, even being a little bit rough.

"Come on, Sherlock, you haven't gone out with us in a while, you can't stay in this apartment forever," Greg pouted.

"I was out with you and Sally two weeks ago and I ended up crying in a bathtub. It wasn't a good look."

John remembered that; Sherlock was truly a mess and a handful when he got that way. He yanked out a particularly thick hair, causing John to jump. "Fuck! Take it easy!"

"I don't want to go out and I don't want to get drunk and I don't want to see some lame band. I had plans tonight, I was going to watch Fight Club and eat a bowl of fruit," Sherlock enunciated his words with more harsh plucking, causing John to squirm in protest. He stopped and turned to look his friend dead in the face, "I bought fruit, Greg." He picked up the comb, smoothing John's brow out one last time.

"Am I done?"

"Yeah, you're done."

"Why don't you show off your freshly plucked eyebrows at the concert? They're looking especially sharp this week," Greg coaxed in a singsong voice. "It'll be fun."

"No."

"Come on, come with us."

"No."

"John?"

"Yeah sure, whatever, open bar," John shrugged, pressing his palms onto his stinging forehead. He looked at Sherlock, whose angular face was scrunched up into a grimace. Greg's expression remained comical, and he wiggled and waggled his dark eyebrows to maybe get Sherlock to laugh or something. John stretched out to crack his back and his neck, then proceeded to lie down to relieve the tension. He stared at the ceiling as the conversation continued.

"You got dumped what, a month and a half ago? I get that you're healing, but you should still get some fresh air while you're at it."

"We are not talking about that, and I'm absolutely certain there's not going to be any fresh air inside a cramped little fucking concert hall."

"It could be outdoors," Greg reasoned.

"Irene wouldn't have needed to know someone on the inside to get into an outdoor concert, you can easily sneak into those, Greg."

"Alright, you caught me, it's indoors, but you could meet someone new there."

John closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Why do you hang out with us anyway, you're twenty-seven and I'm twenty-one," Sherlock bit.

"Says the kid who dates forty-four year old men. Come on, you've got your whole life left to jerk off to Fight Club, come out with us."

"I'm not going, and that's final."

***

Sherlock looked pissed.

He looked great, actually; he was wearing a black leather jacket with some skinny jeans and brown boots, with a hint of black eyeliner underneath his eyes and a light coat of mascara. Ultimately stylish, but also absolutely fucking pissed. He slumped at the bar, his sharp wing bones jutting out beneath cheap leather. He faced the bartender, while John leaned against the bar the opposite direction, facing the stage. The band wasn't on yet, and the crowd mingled aimlessly in wait.

Irene Adler, all denim jacket and red lipstick, approached the boys with a sway in her hips.

"Isn't this place a shit hole? I love it," she cackled, waving at the bartender.

Irene was the friend who knew everyone. She had the number of every bouncer, every band member, every drunk girl in the bathroom. She had friends who had friends, and those friends had Big Friends, as she called them. Her range of connections ran through the entire city, and yet she elected to hang out with losers like John, Sherlock, and Greg.

"Shit hole," Sherlock agreed, taking a swig of some pink, nonalcoholic drink.

"Speaking of shit, where's Greg," Irene looked around, squinting through the crowd to maybe catch him flirting with some drunk girl.

"Bathroom," John pointed lazily. Irene nodded, "Of course he is." She glanced over at Sherlock, who was brooding over his drink. She gave John a careful look, then muttered, "Is he okay?"

"Him? Yeah, he's fine, just being a baby," he scrunched his nose. "He just really wanted his fruit, or something."

"I don't want to know what that means."

John laughed, nudging Sherlock with his elbow.

The shriek of a microphone hummed throughout the little concert hall. Some skinny guy with a walkie talkie and a shirt advertising the name of the venue stood, testing the sound. He tapped, one, two, three, and the muffled cotton noise echoed throughout the room. Some people briefly turned their attention towards the stage, others retained their disinterest.

"Yo, can I bum a smoke?"

A greasy looking guy was stood next to Sherlock; his lip was busted and he had a hickey on his neck. Sherlock looked him up and down, from the acne on his forehead to his worn down Converse sneakers. Sherlock lifted his sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch on his arm, and the guy's face fell. "Sorry, mate," Sherlock muttered. "Better luck next time."

"I got you, kid," Irene said, digging into her jacket pocket with carefully painted black fingernails. She reached across John to hand him the cigarette, blowing a bubble in her gum. He thanked her, and Sherlock gave him a fake smile as he left.

"So John," Irene began, lighting a cigarette for herself, "how's your play going?"

John laughed nervously, keeping his eyes fixed on the stage. There were a few people setting the instruments up, fumbling about with wires as they continued to test each microphone.

"It's, you know, I mean," John stalled. "There's Greg," he breathed, and Irene's eyes stopped boring into John to look at where he was pointing. She smiled and threw her arms up as Greg fast-walked his way over to the bar. He embraced her in a tight hug, stole her cigarette for a moment to take a single drag, then handed it back to her.

"Thanks for getting me in, I owe you one, big time."

"You're already so indebted to me, Greg, at this point it would be easier to just roll over and let me use you as a coffee table."

Sherlock turned around to watch the stage with John, offering him a taste of his drink. It looked like some sort of thick smoothie, so John declined, knowing it'd make him sick. The congestion of the room plus the loud noise would equal brain vomit, and he definitely didn't need to have actual vomit coming out of him tonight. Greg explained how horrible he would be as a coffee table, and Irene snorted her laughter, going on about how it was the thought that counted. The instruments were finally set up, and the people around the club started to buzz with excitement.

"Are these people all here to see Kink Shaming?" John asked Irene, who'd ordered herself a martini. She licked the salt from her red lips before replying, "Some are, there are three bands playing tonight."

Sherlock threw his head back and groaned, long and low in his throat.

"Wait, so how long'll we have to wait to see Kink Shaming?" Greg worried, his brow furrowing. Irene gave him a firm pat on the back. "Don't fret, they're playing second," she nodded at Sherlock, "and rest assured, Mister Buzzkill over there, you can go home soon enough." Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a swig of his smoothie.

The club got quieter as some guy in a white t-shirt grabbed the mic, grinning at the people standing around. "Hey everybody, hope you're all doing well! Listen, we've kept you waiting long enough," he chuckled, "so let's jump right into the fresh local bands of the city!"

Sherlock leaned closer to John. "He's talking like he's advertising produce at a fucking farmers' market," he muttered, and John laughed as the guy onstage continued talking.

"These two girls have yet to release an album, but they've got a YouTube channel with lots of original songs and even some covers! Give a warm welcome to your opening act, Christina/Christina!"

The two girls who were getting settled up onstage were pretty cute. They were tall and thin, and they both wore brown floral dresses that stopped just above the knee. One held a ukulele and the other held a tambourine. Someone closer to the stage had already screamed something discouraging about hipsters, but the girls payed no attention.

"So they're both called Christina," Greg squinted. Shaking his head and clicking his tongue, John mocked, "You're literally here to see a band who chose to be named Kink Shaming, you're in no position to judge right now."

"Touche."

The tambourine girl started up a beat, and after a few seconds, the ukulele girl started playing. They weren't too bad. John was tapping his foot and nodding along, and Irene shrugged. So far so good.

But then they started singing.

They sounded like basic indie singers; their As became Is and their Os became Ows. They sang about twenty-something problems like nostalgia and not wanting to face the reality of adulthood. They could have taken the song straight off of Pinterest, it was so unoriginal. Sherlock spun around and ordered a shot, "Just fuck me up," downing it immediately after it was poured. He waited a moment, watching the stage, as if they might have disappeared; he turned back around to order another one when they hadn't.

And they sang three songs that all sounded identical.

John could make out a few key words; baby, heart, soul, fingertips.

Greg was getting impatient, Irene was getting chatty with someone else she knew, Sherlock was getting tipsy, John was getting bored. He turned and rapped his knuckles on the bar, pursing his lips as he read the menu. Nachos sounded good. But they were messy. They also had pickles, but John wasn't up for smelling like vinegar all night long.

"They've got little snack packs," Sherlock muttered to him.

"Yeah," John's voice trailed. The bartender watched John as he wiped down a shot glass with a wet rag. The indie girls kept droning on and on about their cheating ex girlfriends.

"Potato crisps, I guess," John ordered as the bartender approached. He put a five down onto the marble bar, getting back three bucks and some nickles, which he haphazardly shoved back into the pocket of his jeans. The little yellow bag was there when he looked up again, the bartender busying himself with some other, prettier customers.

When he turned back around, the girls were clearing off the stage. Sherlock slumped in his relief.

"That was Christina/Christina, everybody, how 'bout a round of applause?"

A couple people in the audience whooped, more gave golf claps.

"Our next band are personal friends of mine," the host announced, and Greg shot up at attention. "They've already released two albums and are working on their third. Can't wait to hear it, guys! Here they are, it's Kink Shaming!"

Greg clapped and whooped, slapping Irene on the back like a kid frantically trying to get his mother's attention. "Go Kink Shaming! Fuck yeah, baby!" Irene turned around and gave Greg a brief glare, but he wasn't paying attention.

John popped open the crisp bag as four people darted onto the stage; each one was fucking screaming. They all wore black clothes with studs and rips and paint splatters. The lone female of the group did a damn cartwheel to her drum set, and Greg jumped up and clapped for her. John nervously crunched down on a crisp, trying to watch both Greg and the crazies up on stage.

They were getting the crowd riled up like a high school pep rally before a football game, getting them to chant and yell. John bet that more than half of the people didn't even know who this band was, they were all merely giving in to peer pressure. But he had to admit, they really knew how to excite a crowd.

The lead singer looked like he hadn't showered in days, his black hair stuck to his forehead and it didn't move, no matter how many times he swung his head around.

He began the first song with a scream.

John had heard the band before (Greg had forced him to listen), and they weren't metal nor screamo. The shriek didn't sound practiced, it wasn't hitched on a word, and it wasn't very melodic. It was literally just a scream. The lead singer actually just screamed into the microphone, and Greg went wild.

Then the instrumentals picked up, harsh and quick. The girl was beating her drums hard enough to strike holes, the two guys in back on guitars were strumming like cats scratching a bedpost, and the lead singer threw his body around to the horrible sound. John watched with wide eyes, absolutely certain that the guy would eventually just toss himself right off the fucking stage.

John tried to listen, he really did. The mess of words spilling from the guy's mouth was indiscernible. He heard some things, though. Fuck, sex, bitch. Half of the crowd loved it, and the other half looked just as nervous as John, but they all nodded to the music just the same.

Sherlock ordered himself another shot, then slumped over even farther, resting his head on the bar. He looked like he'd seen enough. John felt kinda bad. Sherlock truly didn't want to be there.

"Let's go home," he mouthed to John, who nodded in return. He turned to look at their bouncing friend, touching his shoulder to get his attention. Greg leaned in closer, but kept his eyes on the stage.

"Sherlock and I are tired, we're leaving," John shouted over the pounding music.

Greg then turned, bewildered.

"You can't leave me!"

"Greg," John began, but he was cut off.

"No, you don't get it! We're going to meet them after they're done performing, and I can't do it alone! I don't wanna look like just some crazy fan, I actually want a shot at being friends with them!"

"Neither of us want to meet them, Greg. They look like douchebags."

"You look like a douchebag! You wear old man sweaters all the time!"

"Hey," John began again, before Irene turned around to intervene.

"Cool it, meat heads," she too shouted, her red lipstick now slightly faded from nursing her margarita. She nodded at John. "Stick around a little while longer and I'll buy your next batch of groceries, alright?"

John sighed and turned to Sherlock, who had watched the whole ordeal with a pout on his face, but didn't catch any of it. John simply shook his head, his expression bleak, and Sherlock's own face scrunched as he groaned for maybe the millionth time that night. John was definitely holding Irene to the grocery thing. Milk prices just went up again.

***

If Sherlock wasn't pissed before, he was definitely pissed by then.

The room smelled like salty sweat and old tires, and the only lights were filtered through red and purple bulbs. Against one wall was an ugly, broken couch, with a black and red plaid design. It looked like it'd been chewed on by every animal in the gutter and fucked on by every urchin of the street. Against another was a different couch, black leather, in similar condition. The red bricked walls were splattered with paint, and covered in "stolen" street signs. Limp bean bags littered the grey concrete floor, and it was impossible to walk without kicking around empty beer cans. Music from the lounge area pounded and reverberated, and vibrations coursed beneath their feet.

John carefully sat down next to his slumped friend on the black couch, since it seemed less disgusting. Sherlock had his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, and didn't bother to push the hanging curls away from his eyes. Irene and Greg were standing in the middle of the room. She held his shoulders and looked him in the eyes, telling him exactly what not to say to the band, who were to come backstage shortly.

"Don't freak out," she nodded, "just be cool. Are you drunk?"

"Not really, I had one beer," Greg responded.

"Good," Irene gave a tight-lipped smile. "You're going to be fine. Use a lot of fucks and dicks to relate to these guys. They're pretty vulgar."

"Not a problem."

"Oh, and just a heads up, the lead singer's a slimeball. I hate him."

"Wait, what?"

Irene didn't have time to answer him, because the music from the lounge was coming to an end. The microphone shrieked and the audience cheered as the electric guitars made their epic decrescendo. Greg dusted off his jacket nervously, and Irene scrunched and ruffled his hair to volumize it.

The band jogged into the room laughing and whooping, obviously still high on their adrenaline. They clapped each other on the backs in triumph, and John watched as the lone girl crashed onto the nasty red sofa adjacent to him. Sherlock sat up a bit, appearing suddenly self-conscious, but only slightly so. The lead singer grabbed a bottle of water from the little wooden table, downing the entire thing within mere moments. The bassist, who had his long black hair tied back in a low ponytail, was the first to greet Irene.

"Do I stink?" he asked with a lighthearted chuckle.

Irene laughed at him, pulling him in for a hug.

"You always stink, Damien."

"Aye, fuckers," the other guitarist said to John and Sherlock, "what the fuck brings you bitches here?"

Sherlock gave John a brief sideways glance, but John just looked to Irene with eyes that said, Do they seriously think that using 'fuck' multiple times in one sentence makes them cooler? She bit her lip and approached him, quickly putting the smile back onto her face as she touched his shoulder. "The blonde is John, and the grumpy one is Sherlock."

"Sherlock," he mused. "Fucking wicked name. I'm Kyle."

"Pleasure," Sherlock flashed him his fake smile, then immediately went back to brooding. John held out his hand to shake, but Kyle slapped it instead, trying to perform some handshake John wasn't entirely familiar with.

"Irene, you foxy babe, you! You brought your friends to our gig?" The lead singer spoke exactly how he sang; he arched his back sometimes and scrunched his face, and stood with wide legs. Every piece of clothing he wore was ripped and tattered. Irene's laugh to him wasn't the genuine one John had heard so many times before, but carried an inkling of nervousness. "You caught me," she said. He immediately wrapped his arms around her in an uncomfortable hug, which she hesitantly returned, with a slow pat to his back. Sherlock shifted in his seat.

She cleared her throat, pulling away as nicely as she could. "Anyway, Splurge, I want you to meet that guy I was talking about. Greg, Splurge; Splurge, Greg."

"Splurge?" Sherlock whispered just loud enough for John to hear.

"Fucking tight, are you the guy who funneled five beers in a row?"

Greg seemed taken aback, shooting Irene a look. She subtly gave him the signal to go with it; she'd obviously lied to make him look cooler.

"That's me, yep, I would be that guy," he gave the lead singer two thumbs up.

"You gotta show us," Splurge taunted.

Greg swallowed, looking at Irene again for help.

"That was, uh," his voice cracked, "that was a one-time thing. Probably couldn't do it again."

"And they say lightning never strikes the same place twice," the girl from the couch piped up, cracking open a can of cherry coke.

"I'm not lightning," Greg masked his nervousness with a laugh, but the girl on the sofa actually found it funny, and giggled.

"You should at least shotgun this beer," Splurge thrust a warm can into Greg's hands.

"Stop trying to haze him," the girl plucked the tab off of her soda can and chucked it at Splurge's head.

"Don't listen to Nancy, she's never any fucking fun," Splurge fell back into a bright yellow bean bag as Nancy laughed aloud. Irene took the beer from him immediately and set it on the floor as she pulled up two more bean bags for herself and for Greg. The lounge was vibrating with music again; John couldn't hear any lyrics, but he could feel the beat beneath his shoes.

"So, you guys fans, too?" Splurge was nodding towards John and Sherlock. John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock cut him off with a bitter laugh. John's head snapped towards Sherlock in shock, but he kept laughing low in his throat.

"That's funny," Sherlock nodded.

Splurge clamped his mouth shut.

John continued to stare. Sherlock looked back at John to share the joke with him, but when he saw John's expression, he quickly stopped his rude laughter with a gulp.

"You're funny, I mean. Funny guy," he corrected. But the damage was done. He looked at his feet, and John quickly jumped to the rescue. "Don't listen to him," he said, "he's trying to quit smoking and it's making him unreasonably angry. He's like that to everyone."

"Oh, I've fucking been there, buddy. The trick is to just keep smoking," Kyle snorted obnoxiously, then spit directly onto the concrete floor.

"Yeah, that's not - " Sherlock began.

"I really love your music," piped Greg, angling himself more toward the singer. "It's a cool mix between punk and metal. Real easy to lose yourself in it." He was stroking Splurge's ego, deflecting the attention from Sherlock. He grinned and relaxed himself, lounging back on his limp bean bag.

"That's what we were going for, yeah. Something totally original, something no one's ever heard before."

Sherlock looked at him like he was crazy. John could hear nearly hear the complaints he would have afterwards: "Original? Sure, like no one's heard punk rock before." Irene slowly closed her eyes. John was starting to realize why she was so uncomfortable with the singer.

Nothing could prepare them for what Splurge said next.

"We're like Green Day, but better."

The last straw.

The look on Sherlock's face was priceless. He was so horribly offended - utterly baffled. He moved faster than John had ever seen him move, his long legs springing him up out of his seat like a damn jack-in-the-box, curls bouncing as he went.

"Oh no, no no no, I did not give up Fight Club and fruit cups for this shit," he pointed an accusing finger at Splurge. "I didn't give up a relaxing evening of pants-less bliss," accented pointing, "to listen to some piece of shit," (John could've sworn he saw Sherlock spit in his moment of passion), "grease ball compare himself to mother fucking Green Day."

Irene was unsurprised, biting her grin as she watched him with wide eyes and stiff posture. Greg looked mortified, as did the other band members (the guy named Damien was doing pretty much the same thing Irene was, except he was watching Splurge's face, which was frozen in disbelief).

"Greg, sorry if I ruined your fun, but I'm outta here," shoving his hands back in his pockets, Sherlock spun and stormed out.

John looked the other way. After that unforgivable comment about Green Day, he wasn't about to blame the outburst on the nicotine patches. With one last glance at the faces of the people in the room, John shrugged, and casually strolled out after his grumpy companion.

***

Sherlock was so stressed when they'd gotten home that he'd ended up smoking a cigarette, but John wasn't too surprised. He also felt pretty guilty for putting him through all that.

"Fucking Green Day. He said they were better than fucking Green Day."

"I know, mate, I was there."

"How could somebody have their head that far up their own ass?"

"I don't even think his own band members like him."

Sherlock scoffed, spooning a piece of watermelon into his mouth.

Brad Pitt was cackling as he got beaten down on their tiny television screen. It was one of Sherlock's favorite parts of the entire movie. A blanket was spread over their legs, and a fruit tray balanced on their knees.

Sherlock had fallen asleep just before the movie ended, a little before the protagonist realized who Tyler was. John carefully placed the plastic lid onto the tray before gently jostling Sherlock, whispering at him to get into bed.

Sherlock ended his night quickly; John could hear his soft snores from the other bed.

John had a little more difficulty.

He thought about the play he was writing, about a young woman with big dreams, trapped in a small town with small-minded people. He thought about working on it a bit.

Then he suddenly thought about how big and empty his bed was at that moment.

He stretched out, his limbs filling up the vacant space of his cold sheets, and he stared up at the blank ceiling. There was that familiar ache in his chest, the one that had prompted him to do so many desperate things in the past. Most likely the future, too, if he was lucky.

He couldn't remember when he'd started thinking the thoughts on his mind, but a flash of something strange with Sherlock played across his vision. And though it was indeed strange, it wasn't entirely unwelcome.

He'd heard that dreams were merely a collection of what happened during the day.

John wasn't entirely sure he believed that anymore, because he would definitely remember if Sherlock had kissed him that day.