So, all of these suicidal/hopeless/depressed/my-limp-has-returned post-Reichenbach Johns out there are not really my thing, so I thought I'd put something out there of my own. In my head, John is, of course, grieving, but he's also a strong, military, moral, good man who isn't going to seclude himself in his flat and waste away.

So here's athletic, tough, grieving, trying-to-cope John with a hopefully in-character Sherlock watching him before he heads out to start working away at Moriarty's criminal web. Not meant to be slash at all.

Let me know what you think!

John was swimming. His body cut a smooth, steady swath through the water, back and forth, back and forth. His arms arched up and out of the water, right cheek pressing the water every third stroke to breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke…at each lap he flipped underneath the water and shoved off the wall again, slicing neatly underneath the surface until he came up ten, eleven meters later, arms reaching out of the water to catch, pull, release, catch, pull, release…

Sherlock watched him from the bleachers. He sat in the farthest upper corner, wrapped in an old blue jacket, a baseball cap on his head, a paperback novel opened in his hands. A few others sat around him reading or working on laptops, students at the university watching roommates train, a few parents accompanying their teenagers, a janitor on break eating a sandwich and flipping through a magazine.

John had been swimming for a half hour. Relentless laps in the farthest lane, right near the edge where, a year ago, they had both stood with sniper rifles pointed at their chests. Even from here, high above him on the balcony, Sherlock could see his blonde hair plastered dark to his scalp, could see the muscles in his shoulders and back taut as he propelled himself through the water. The teenagers messing around in the close lanes, the two university students racing in the middle lanes, the janitor crumpling up his sandwich wrapper, they were all unimportant. John was swimming, and John was hurting, and Sherlock was watching John.

The pool began to empty. The teenagers left first, abandoning their splash wars and hauling themselves out of the pool, two girls and three boys wearing bright swimsuits and shaking chlorine water out of their hair and eyes. They laughed loudly and slung their arms about each other, flicking water from their hands and rubbing down with towels. Their voices echoed, and the walls rang with their shrill giggling.

John paid them no heed, and neither did Sherlock.

John was still swimming. He was slower now, his stocky body gliding through the water with more effort, but still he swam. Sherlock was impressed—he hadn't realized that John had been keeping up on his training, but it was obvious that John had not let himself go soft since he'd left the military.

Sherlock leaned forward and tucked his fingers under his chin. The novel balanced on his knees tipped forward and fell, echoing loudly as it hit the floor. Sherlock let it lie.

And still, John swam. Back and forth, back and forth, until even the university students clambered out of the pool and disappeared into the locker rooms, until the last girl packed up her laptop and climbed up out of the bleachers, and it was only Sherlock and John in the whole pool, the watcher and the watched, the dead and the living.

Sherlock waited. He knew that as soon as it looked as if John were stopping, he would have to leave. The chances of John noticing him, much less recognizing him, were slim, but it would be foolish to take the risk.

And then John stopped, mid-lane, right by the edge of the pool. He stopped, and one hand came up to grip the side, the other to wipe the water from his eyes. He floated there, body angled away from Sherlock, staring at the wall, and Sherlock knew that he was remembering that night too, was remembering what it felt like to be strapped to a bomb, what it felt like to have voices in his head, what it felt like to know that you were being watched by an unseen sniper, what it felt like to think that you were going to die.

As if in response to these thoughts, John's head lifted and he turned in the water, scanning the pool area. He seemed surprised, as if he hadn't realized he was alone. He pushed gently away from the wall and side-stroked to the middle of the pool, where he flipped over onto his back and laid there, floating on the surface, eyes closed. Sherlock hesitated. Now would be the time to get up and leave.

But he stayed, because he wasn't ready to say goodbye yet.

And because he was afraid that John might do something stupid.

And again, as if John could read Sherlock's thoughts, his eyes opened, he took a deep breath, and flipped over. Sherlock's fingers tightened against each other.

John could hold his breath for a long time.

At least, Sherlock hoped that was what he was doing. He knew that it would be rather difficult, even impossible, to drown yourself, but he didn't like John floating there face down, drifting alone in the center of the pool. The seconds passed. The minute mark passed. He was starting to get antsy, even started to rise, though he didn't know what he planned to do, when John lowered his legs and tossed his head up out of the water, gulping in a great gasp of air. Sherlock relaxed. John coughed loudly, snorting water out of his nose, and then laid gently back in a back float again, staring up at the ceiling.

And then he spoke, and his voice was hoarse with chlorine, the words nearly lost in the garbled echo of water against the sides of the pool and the hum of the fans.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze. How…but then John laughed, a loud, derisive laugh that was nothing like his familiar, ridiculous, childish giggle. It was harsh and bitter, the laugh of a man who had nothing left to laugh about. He shook his head, and Sherlock understood that he was laughing at himself. Sentiment. Whatever it had been that made him come here, the pool where little Carl had died, the pool where John and Sherlock had nearly died. Sentiment. Reaching out for something to hold onto, realizing that there wasn't anything. Nothing but memories of semtex vests and a near-death experience that had become reality only a year later.

Because Sherlock knew that it wasn't just he who had died on the pavement six days ago. Something inside John had died too, and though the soldier in him wouldn't let him lie down and give up, the empty, hollow place inside John Watson matched the one inside Sherlock. For a moment, he felt that they were connected again, like they had been in all their private let's-bother-Mycroft jokes, in all the Vatican Cameos, in the quiet moments when they had sat in Baker Street and Sherlock had played violin while John read Tale of Two Cities again and the smell of coffee and the rain outside made the flat feel like warmth and friendship.

And now John was looking for something to fill that hole, and he hadn't, wouldn't, couldn't find it here. Not here, not anywhere they'd ever been together.

Because John was alone.

And so was Sherlock.

And Sherlock understood all of this in that moment when John laughed, and oh, how it hurt.

Now John pushed himself beneath the water, flipped once, and struck out for the far edge of the pool again. He reached it, latched on, and stood there at the shallow end, breathing heavily, and then his bare shoulders tightened. His head bowed, and then he slumped visibly, and his shoulders shuddered.

He cried silently, hands gripping the edge of the pool, and Sherlock watched and felt the ache in his chest throb painfully with every beat of his heart.

And then John's back arched, and he flung himself back into the water and kicked off the edge. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke…

Back and forth. Back and forth.

And Sherlock watched.

Review! Thanks for reading!