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At those silent nights, Sherlock dreams about him. Jim Moriarty. His own psychopath.
He dreams about how Jim has tied him up to his bead, how the building around them is burning. There's no escape. And when we awokes, he can almost smell the burning flesh and smoke of the bomb's powder. In Sherlock's dreams, Jim always smirks. He smirks when his fingers run along Sherlock's leg: from his toes to his inner tights. Sherlock curls his toes just because there's too much lust and no more action at time. Sherlock moans and Jim laughs intoxicatingly. "Aren't you a good slut for me, Sherlock?" Jim asks - no, he orders, Sherlock is sure that was an order. Sherlock knows it is an order, because Jim doesn't need to ask: he's the most dangerous criminal in the world, he doesn't ask. He orders. Jim takes. Takes whenever he wants. Whoever he wants. And now Sherlock only hopes that he would be now what Jim wants. And he might be, because Jim snakes his fingers inside Sherlock without even asking if it is fine. In Sherlock's dreams, Jim never asks. When Sherlock wakes up, he remembers everything. Maybe blushes, at least it feels like blushing. But in real life, there's only John next to him. And John always asks about everything and there's only tea but no smoke or fire.
Maybe dreams are meant to be dreams.