Lucifer dreamt of Sherlock.

Lucifer sat alone at his piano, sipping double-malt Scotch and chain-smoking Morleys, as he thought of his counterpart across the ocean that had been brought to his attention, compliments of Detective Decker. Upon her urging, Lucifer read Sherlock's blogs labeled "The Art of Deduction" and found them dreadfully boring until he stumbled across a link called "The Art of Seduction."

Lucifer had clicked on it and, at once, was enthralled by the slender, lithe man with sea blue eyes, prominent cheekbones and curly black hair that made Lucifer want to run his fingers through those tussled curls. A picture of him taken by one Dr. John Watson show Sherlock dressed in a classically tailored blazer, fitted trousers and a plum shirt exactly like the one Lucifer wore that night.

Seeing the consulting detective in the next phone took away Lucifer's breath. Sherlock started at the camera with a ghost of a smile on his face, dressed in a Belstaff 'Milford' Coat that was both classically stylish and practical. Seeing the scarf wrapped around Sherlock's pale neck made Lucifer want to plant kisses, lightly biting the Detective's flesh from collarbone to temple.

Soon after, the dreams began. Lucifer rarely slept as he truly didn't need it, but indulged in sleep because dreaming was a delightful and unpredictable human experience that he enjoyed. He dreamed occasionally, but not often. After reading Sherlock's blogs, Lucifer dreamt of Sherlock. Dr. Linda said it was to be expected and having such dreams in now way meant any disloyalty to Chloe. Lucifer enjoyed sex in all of its forms with all kinds of people. He enjoyed his pansexuality in all of it's expressions, but it Chloe who challenged his mind and captured his heart. It perplexed him that Sherlock William Scott Holmes, a man Lucifer had never met, had incited his arousal.

The first dream was subtle and unexpected, like someone slipping into a shot of cola into fine whiskey. The Atlantic no longer separated the two men nor was the dream surreal. In fact, Lucifer found it lucid and that was a pleasant surprise.

In the first dream, Lucifer found himself and Sherlock standing on the beach where Lucifer landed when he first came to earth. The waves broke against the beach and the sound of the surf filled the air. The sky was overcast and the breeze was cool upon Lucifer's skin. Sherlock was without his Belfstaff coat and scarf. He had his blazer tossed over his shoulder while he and Lucifer walked along the beach. No words flowed between them. None were needed. Sherlock looked at Lucifer with a vulnerable look in those sea blue eyes, perhaps excitement or anticipation?

It had been an interesting dream, Lucifer conclude, but a strange anomaly. From the recorded podcasts Sherlock posted on his blog, Lucifer thought him to be a rather arrogant sod. Yet, those blue eyes and Sherlock's heart-shaped lips didn't fade from Lucifer's mind during the day while he worked a case with Chloe.

In the second dream, they were caught in an alley in the middle of London, caught in the midst of gunfire from unseen criminals. Both were panting against the wall with neither possessing a weapon.

"Perhaps, I need to show these gits what awaits them," Lucifer gave Sherlock a sly grin, letting his eyes flame crimson for the Detective.

Suddenly, Sherlock spasmed and his back hit the brick wall behind them. Looking down, Lucifer saw that a bullet had penetrated Sherlock's chest, causing profuse blood loss.

"We need to get you to hospital," Lucifer's dark eyes looked urgently down at the gunshot wound that was obvious in Sherlock's chest.

"No, Luci," Sherlock begged, long fingers wrapping around Lucifer's wrist, "No hospital."

Lucifer had never felt so helpless as he did in that dream in that moment. When he awoke, he found himself covered in a thin sheen of perspiration and his chest heaving. Night after night the dreams came relentlessly, giving Lucifer no reprieve. In the next dream, Sherlock sat at his piano, playing a sad sonata in a minor key, accompanied by the sound of a haunting violin. Each instrument complemented the other. Lucifer continued to play from memory, looking up to see Sherlock staring intently at him as he let his passion for the piece infuse his melody. The sadness of separation between them made their sonata crescendo with unspoken need that the melody expressed much better than words. Lucifer had woke the next morning, still hearing the strains of the stanzas echoing loudly inside his mind.

The dreams intensified with each passing night. The next evening, Lucifer found himself deep within a dream he didn't know he wanted. He lay in Sherlock's arms, with Sherlock's head tucked into the crook of his shoulder. He felt Sherlock's lips nuzzle a path from collarbone to temple, finally finding his lips and deepening their kiss. Lucifer groaned with pleasure, pressing his erection against Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock tasted of mint and wine while Lucifer tasted Scotch and cigarettes in the kiss. Sherlock purred deeply with pleasure, letting his hand travel leisurely beneath the covers, finding the very essence of Lucifer's lust.

"Bloody Hell!" Lucifer gasped as he felt Sherlock's hand move in a strong, steady rhythm. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

He sat up, locking his dark eyes on blue ones as Sherlock's hand stroked closer to ecstasy. Then in one blinding moment, Lucifer's wings appeared and unfurled to their full span as spasms of pleasure wracked his body.

Lucifer's body trembled with the power of it. He gave his lover a sly smile. "Let it never be said that I let you go unworshiped."

"Please," Sherlock begged, "Please."

Lucifer slipped beneath the red satin coverlet until he found the center of Sherlock's desire. Wrapping his mouth around him, Lucifer took Sherlock's entire length slowly inside his throat. Moving up and down in steady time, he heard the sheet rustle when Sherlock's tight fists twisted them as he tried to keep his infamous self-control. Lucifer's finger found the spot within Sherlock that made him come undone. His scream of pleasure echoed off the walls of Lucifer's bedchamber, ribbons of salt exploding inside Lucifer's mouth.

In the final dream, the Devil cried.

He stood atop a building, somewhere in London that he didn't recognize. He saw Sherlock holding a cellphone to his ear. When he heard Lucifer approach with wings unfurled, he dropped the phone and rushed into the fallen angel's winged embrace and wept.

"Please don't do this," Lucifer pleaded, his brow pressed to Sherlock's while running his fingers through his lover's black curls. They grasped each other desperately, hungrily, losing themselves in a kiss deeper than any ocean. Sherlock finally pulled away, studying the handsome man facing him, memorizing every detail such as Lucifer's strong jaw and stubble that framed it well.

"Lucifer, I need you. I don't want to die. Save me," Sherlock pleaded. "I love you."

"As I do you. What were you thinking, you git, about committing suicide?"

"I couldn't have you because you didn't believe we could be," Sherlock lamented. "This is your wake-up call. My note to you, if you will."

"I miss you so bloody damned much," Lucifer's voice was low and hoarse in Sherlock's ears.

"Then, find me, My Love. Find. Me."

"I miss you and we've never even met," Lucifer laughed wryly between sobs.

"Shh, don't cry, Luci," Sherlock crooned, running his finger's through Lucifer's dark hair. "This is only a dream."

Lucifer woke up, gasping and chest heaving. He felt hot streams of scalding emotion trail down his chest. He spent the morning composing a song just to get the dreams out of his system, trying to drink and smoke away the dreams about a human he had never even met.

Finally, when he couldn't stand it any longer, he went to his bedchamber and pulled out his laptop. Going to the blog, he clicked on the "Contact Me" radio button and began typing.

"Dear Sherlock, you don't know me, but my name is Lucifer Morningstar."