Title: Adrift
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: John and Sherlock find themselves adrift and stop to re-evaluate.
Notes: This started out as a crack fic about boats. And then it got serious. And then it got angsty. And then it got long. Enjoy!
Chapter 1: Breaking Point
As soon as they were through the door, John shoved past him, eyes forward, and marched up the stairs. Above him, Sherlock heard the door to the flat slam. He sighed and delicately shut the front door behind him before removing his coat, heavy and waterlogged, and following John up, his clothes dripping steadily onto the staircase. He considered, of course, turning back around and leaving. John was in one of his moods, and there would be no reasoning with him. He opened the door and entered the flat, preparing for whatever illogical critique he was about to receive.
Inside, he found John, stripped of his own soaked jumper, pacing across the room and running a hand through his matted hair. He was decidedly looking at the floor. Sherlock remained frozen in the doorway until John finally halted in his tracks and, still looking at the floor, whispered, "What the hell were you thinking?"
"I think a great many things, John."
"You know what I fucking meant!" John spun on him, eyes lit with anger. Sherlock unconsciously took a step back. He had only seen that light a twice before. Once at him and once beside a swimming pool…but not since, well Sherlock was still scanning dictionaries for the proper word for their current relationship. He'd yet to find something suitable. 'Boyfriend' was so childish. 'Lover' was less socially appealing but strangely applicable. They'd only begun sleeping together two weeks and three days ago, but apart from that, little else had changed in their relationship.
It had been John who was brave enough to make the first move. Typical of him. Showing off. Leave it to John Watson to successfully navigate his own way through a mess of emotions and come out ahead. Sherlock had not called much attention to his feelings for John, but he had made little effort to deny them. John had side-stepped into his life and, even more surprisingly, stayed. He liked Sherlock. Like. Not a word he got from many people. Not many at all. And John had been, well John had been John. A kind and simple man and exactly what he appeared to be. He was both plain and fascinating and constantly in flux between the two. And he changed Sherlock's life. Sherlock hated such melodramatic phrasing, but it was accurate. Before John, his life had been living from case to case and chasing away the boredom in between with absolutely anything that worked. And after—he had John. John, who helped him with cases, tolerated spare arms in the fridge, laughed over takeaway with him, who made him smile, who stayed there. He could never go back to the before now that he knew what the after, what a life with someone else, could actually be like. He didn't think he needed this, but he did. He needed John. He loved John.
John loved him. Very little could surprise Sherlock, but when one quiet night while watching some poorly-made action film on the couch John's hand floated across the void between their bodies and interlaced gently with his own, his heart halted. He didn't look down. If he did, he might notice something—a missing scar or discoloration—that would indicate that this was all a hallucination, that he had fallen asleep high again, and this was nothing more than his wishes expressed by randomly and actively firing neurons. If that were the case, he didn't want to know. Instead, Sherlock continued to study the film in front of them, all the while gripping John's hand mercilessly in return. John didn't seem to mind.
Eventually, the movie had to end and they had to get up. Sherlock reluctantly let go of John's hand as he stood, and they faced each other.
After a moment, John tried to speak. "Sherlock…" he began, but Sherlock shook his head. John was about to make some qualifications—to apologize for being so forward, to ask where they went from here—complications. Confusion. Sherlock refused to entertain any of that right now. He just wanted to lie back and let the coolness of the moment wash over him. John had held his hand. Sherlock hadn't believed how much joy such a simple act could bring him, and he never wanted it to stop. He reached down, took John's hand once more, and pulled it up between them.
"Don't, John. Not tonight." He leaned in and swept a light kiss across John's temple. If John could be brave for him, then so could he. He held them there for a moment, foreheads pressed together, eyes closed, before letting go of John's hand at last. They separated and drifted off to their own bedrooms. Sherlock was electrified.
The next morning, Sherlock awoke to a text from Mycroft.
Would you and Dr. Watson prefer silver or white invitations? MH
Obnoxious, sarcastic, git.
After that, very little changed. Very little needed to really. They had always been, even before…well, as he said, Sherlock had never made any extraneous efforts to hide his feelings for John. And now neither did he. John became more tactile—grabbing Sherlock's wrist on cab rides and pressing a hand into his back as the knelt over a crime scene. They kissed. Infrequently at first, but as they adjusted to the normality of the act, the sensations of each other's mouth, it became a more common occurrence. Only in private though. They weren't being deliberately secretive. After all, Mycroft clearly knew. Of course he would, and they were hardly ashamed of one another. Sherlock doubted Lestrade and their other associates at the Yard would be even remotely surprised. No, they were discrete for their own sakes. As if telling other people would somehow jinx the bliss they now shared. As if sharing it with the world would make it real and vulnerable. Sherlock was hardly superstitious, but he was enjoying their quiet happiness too much to want to introduce any other factors. They had been alone when John had initiated contact. Perhaps he preferred to be alone.
Until one day, while working a case, a jewel thief managed to corner Sherlock in an alleyway. He had broken off from John and Lestrade, who were also on the chase, and the thief was smart. He had managed to double back on Sherlock and trap him. Sherlock was defenseless, and he exhaled as the thief drew his weapon. He didn't flinch when the sound of the gunshot resonated, but it wasn't he who fell to the ground but the thief. Behind him stood Lestrade, weapon drawn, and John running up behind them.
"Sherlock, are you all right?" Lestrade called.
Sherlock only had time to nod before John was upon him, drowning him in a mess of arms and frantic lips.
Wrapping his arms around John, Sherlock kissed him back fiercely, savoring the chance to breathe the outside air as John breathed it, to taste the city as John did, and to have him here with him.
After a minute, Lestrade cleared his throat. "If, uh, you two are quite finished, we would like to process this guy's body, and, Sherlock, if you can give us anything you got off him before we got here?"
John pulled back, blushing slightly, Sherlock noted. It turned the tops of his ears a beautiful shade of red. He hadn't known John could blush like that. He made a note to try and make it happen again. Soon.
That night had been a rush of relief and happiness and love and celebration of life. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had slept with a man. Nor was it John's. But it was still hours before they felt like they could breathe properly again.
That had been two weeks and three days ago. The John before him now was not shivering with relief that Sherlock was alive. Sherlock wished he were. He would have liked to hold John's hand now. Instead, John's hands were loose and mobile as he shouted.
.
.
"You know what I meant, Sherlock! Why the hell would you do that?"
Sherlock said nothing, silently permitting John to continue his pacing and his tirade. John was angry, and Sherlock would not attempt to reason with him until he returned to normal.
"It was stupid, reckless, and pointless! You nearly got Lestrade killed! Then you go and nearly kill yourself! For nothing! God, Sherlock, I don't know what—aren't you going to say anything?"
He took a step forward. "It wasn't for nothing," he said plainly.
"What?" spluttered John, folding his arms across his chest.
Well, it hadn't been for nothing. It had been very important. Sherlock, and even the Yard, had spent weeks working to trace every last branch of a drugs smuggling ring. It had been vast and intricate; the task had been a delightful challenge. So much so that Sherlock suspected Moriarty himself had had a hand in it, which is what made him so interested and so keen to see it through. James Tanner had been their last lead. With the leftovers found at their last known hideout, Sherlock had managed to lead them to a tiny restaurant, where they found Tanner. Tanner had taken one look at their out-of-place suits and coats and bolted out the back. Lestrade began organizing his officers into a chase, but Sherlock didn't have time to wait. He took off around the back after him.
It wasn't his fault. He hadn't known that Lestrade would follow him. It was foolish of him. He should have stayed with his team where he might better orchestrate an arrest. Why had he followed? For Sherlock, presumably. Some attempt to protect him. Foolish. He had let his emotions interfere with police procedure and risk a case.
So it hadn't been Sherlock's fault when, half a block behind Tanner, Lestrade had called out to him. He turned and caught the last echoes of his gruff "Get down!" before the gun went off and Lestrade fell out of sight.
Sherlock hadn't hesitated. He hadn't even looked back before continuing on after Tanner and leaving Lestrade there on the ground, bleeding.
He caught up with him at last at the edge of the Thames, the river roaring some ten feet below the ledge. Sherlock had attempted to speak to him, to coax him. Tanner wasn't important. He was just a pawn. But a pawn who knew things. Who knew names. Whose mobile phone surely had texts and rendezvous times stored on it. That was what Sherlock needed. That information was the key to taking down the ring and quite possibly Moriarty.
And Tanner knew it. Knew he was cornered. Knew he had what they needed. What might get him killed. Before Sherlock could grab him, Tanner had reached into his pocket and chucked the phone into the murky water.
Momentum carried him the rest of the way forward, and he collided with Tanner, toppling them both over the edge. It wasn't a far fall, but the cold water smacked against them as they broke its surface. Gravity and the churning waters spun them around until they broke apart. Up. Sherlock needed to get up. Which way was up? Difficult to tell. Tiny bubbles of air swirled around him. Air. Rather important. He thrashed his arms trying to regain some sense of direction when he saw it. Floating steadily downward, or presumably downward, a few meters away was Tanner's phone. It was falling fast. Down. Away from the air. But he could almost reach it, and if he didn't move for it now, it would be farther and farther away.
Sherlock swan down. He swam after the phone. His throat clenched and his chest burned, but that was irrelevant. His fingertips grazed over the plastic, but he just missed it. He pushed against the water above, deeper and deeper, ignoring the pain, the need. His hands closed around the phone. Got it! Could he feel his hands anymore? The cold. No air. He blinked up. He'd never reach the surface. There was nothing but the pain and the cold and the abyss of water. And the phone. He shut his eyes, resigned, and the darkness closed in.
His eyes shot open as his body folded in two with gasps. He shut them again quickly, blocking out the blinding light. Coughs wracked his body as lungfuls of Thames water spilled out of him. A hand on his chest steadied him as he caught his breath.
"That's it. Just cough it all up. Nice deep breaths, Sherlock." The voice was tight, but when Sherlock finally adjusted his eyes, he saw John kneeling over him and gazing at him with concern, his clothes dripping onto the ground.
He tried to bring himself up into a sitting position, but he fell into another coughing fit. John supported his back and brought him up to lean against his body. He fell back onto him, breathing heavily from the effort.
"Jesus, Sherlock…" mumbled John, but his hands brushed lightly through his wet curls. They sat there together and waited for, well, Sgt. Donovan, he supposed. With a small chill, he remembered Lestrade.
"How is—" he rapsped, but John cut him off.
"He'll be fine. Caught him in the shoulder. He'll be out of commission for a while, but…he'll be all right." Sherlock nodded and grabbed one of John's hands. He glanced over. A few feet from them lay James Tanner. Dead. He felt in his coat for Tanner's phone and pulled it out. Also dead. Destroyed. Nothing remained. He clutched firmly at John as Donovan hurried over to them.
"It wasn't for nothing," repeated Sherlock, back at the flat. "Tanner's information could have helped to take down Moriarty."
"But you couldn't know that, Sherlock! And even if you did, by blundering in on your own, we lost the phone, we lost Tanner, we could have lost Lestrade, and we nearly lost you!" John put his hands over his face and groaned. "How is that worth it? How?"
"John…" mumbled Sherlock, looking at the floor. "I did what I needed to for the case."
"That's just it, Sherlock! You think you know what you're doing. You think you don't need any help. But you do! And you risk people's lives by refusing it."
Sherlock shook his head. "Lestrade is an officer of the Yard. He knows the risks his job entails." He mentally winced at that. He realized just as he saw it in John's eyes how he would react.
"That doesn't mean you get to put him in danger! No one's job description covers you, Sherlock. Not Lestrade's, not Donovan's, not your brother's, and certainly not—"
"Yours, John" spat Sherlock with a sharp look. "Is that what this is about? Ar you getting tired of the risks of my life? Too dangerous for you?" He seethed visibly as he spoke.
"For me? Sherlock, you almost drowned! If I hadn't-if I hadn't gotten there, I don't—I don't even want to think about it, okay?" His chest heaved and he paused to catch his breath. Sherlock allowed him the moment. "It's the fact that you don't care. You don't care that you might get someone killed. You don't care that you nearly killed yourself. And you don't care about what that would have done—to me. Would you care, Sherlock? If you went and left me alone and hurting because of you?" he shot.
"Of course I would," whispered Sherlock, laying a hand on John's shoulder, but he shook it off.
"See, I don't think you would! Because you don't seem to care now. Do you regret it? Do you regret what you did today? Would you change it if you could do it again?"
Sherlock knew the answer. He didn't want to say it, but it was the absolute truth. "No."
John threw up his arms. "Then I don't know why you bother, Sherlock. With me, with us, with any of it! What's the point?"
You. You're the point, thought Sherlock, but he spoke none of this. Instead, he hung his head. John flopped down onto the couch and began pulling his soggy boots back on.
"What are you doing?" asked Sherlock.
"I thought you knew everything. What does it look like?" he asked, grabbing his keys from the table.
"It looks like you're leaving," whispered Sherlock.
John nodded, but he didn't meet his eyes. "Yeah. Look, I can't….I can't go through this every time you get so single-minded over some bloody case. I thought I could, but I can't…I just need to go, Sherlock. I need to get out of here. I need some time." John finally looked over at him, and he shut his eyes tightly.
"I'll be by tomorrow afternoon to pick up my things," he heard him say. Then the sound of feet on stairs. A door. Then silence. Only the tiny pats of the drops from his coat hitting the floor. When Sherlock finally opened his eyes, he was alone.