Author Note: So, this is a test! I have no idea if this will work and not come off as crack but the idea would not leave me alone. (In fact someone else has done it once as well)! I wrote the one scene and thought I would test it out on all of you to see if it was worth writing the entire thing. So, reviews and thoughts are quite, quite welcome!

The noise of the main dining room of the RMS Titanic swirls around Sherlock growing louder and sharper every second - forks on china, the scratch of pushed chairs, tinkle of the chandelier with the steady movement of the ship, Mycroft's false chuckles, Ms. Hooper's barely audible appropriate responses; conversations about money, the food, the ocean, Duchess this, Duke whomever, money, color of dress, style of the season, wedding preparations, money. Below it all the steady hum of the ship echoes every single banal, useless, boring notion. Sherlock's tuxedo collar chafes, his fingers tingle, Molly's leg rests too close and his mind spins and spins and spins dying to be set free from this charade, all this empty idiocy and simplicity.

When Sherlock stands from his chair Mycroft barely glances up but to hear Sherlock's mumble of, "fresh air," before talk of stocks resumes.

Out on deck Sherlock walks steadily aft - passes couples on a stroll, second class passengers sneaking to higher decks, a sixteen year old with his father's flask, a post tryst pair - until he walks alone and reaches the very back of the ship. He stares down at the water churning from the propellers, the noise so much louder here like a signal. He can see every step ahead of him in those bubbles - marriage to Ms. Hooper with lace and white and staring straight ahead, work in the government because he is a Holmes, two children probably; his mind dissolving from stagnation until he dies of an opium overdose or forced out kisses and empty pleasnatries or Mycroft's incessant voice telling him which path to walk, to stop thinking so much, to be a second son and know his place, to use that mind for something proper not play at being Scotland Yard.

"So boring, dull... hateful," Sherlock says quietly

Sherlock grasps the pole to his right and steps up onto the lowest rung, one, two, and onto the very top bar. If he leans forward enough, holding on to the pole, he cannot see the ship, only the churning water. Surely the water below could not be any less fake and monotonous than this life laid out before him?

"Don't."

Sherlock tenses and glances over his shoulder - a man, just barely average height, calloused hands, cheap but well-kept clothing, clearly third class; short, cropped haircut, good posture, obvious military history.

"Don't do it," he says, still a couple of meters away.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks.

The man frowns, surprised by his question. "Well, that water is below freezing for one and drowning is no sensible way to die."

Sherlock purses his lips and nods once; the man isn't wrong.

"It is simplest, however," Sherlock counters.

The man frowns and shakes his head. "You know what hypothermia is like? And what the force of that fall could do?"

Sherlock glances at the water then back to the man. "The height would not be enough to kill me, break some bones – most likely a leg depending upon the angle of impact."

The man blinks. "Well… I, yes…"

"And hypothermia," Sherlock smiles briefly, "the core body temperature drops below the required temperature for normal metabolism and body function; decreased heart rate, decreased respiratory rate, and psychological incoherency. Depending upon the temperature of this water it could occur within an hour." Sherlock shrugs slightly. "Of course, it's all hardly worth mentioning as the cold would mostly likely cause drowning before hypothermia could set in."

Sherlock sees the man trying hard not to smile. Sherlock feels a tug at the end of his own lips as they stare at each other.

The man clears his throat quietly then purses his lips. He watches Sherlock for a moment then starts to step slowly toward Sherlock. "Well then, Why not at least wait until we reach New York, probably a less painful way than drowning there?"

"That is still several days away; stop walking."

The man freezes.

Sherlock cocks his head. "You may believe you are fast enough to grab my arm without me reacting in time, fast enough to grab me even if I should jump before you move but I weigh more than you and the force of my fall would most likely jerk my arm out of your hands so there is no point to attempt such a plan."

The man blinks rapidly. "How did you know I would -"

"I observe."

"Why are you going to jump?" he asks and Sherlock sees he genuinely wants to know.

Sherlock looks back at the water. "I'm bored." Sherlock sighs heavily. "Bored of everything in this ridiculous life."

"Would it be less boring if I jumped too?"

Sherlock's head snaps around, the man nearly right beside him now. "What?"

"Well, if you jump I'm going too." He nods toward the water. "You see I was in the army-"

"I know."

He blinks. "You do?"

"Obvious."

He smiles softly up at Sherlock then bends and begins untying his shoes. "Well, I trained as a medical assistant. I assume you know the medical credo of 'do no harm.'"

Sherlock frowns. "What harm would you be doing other than to yourself?"

He stands up straight and steps out of his shoes. "It would be a harm to let you jump without trying to save you."

Sherlock smiles slowly. "You are rather interesting, Mr..."

"John Watson, sir."

"Sherlock Holmes."

John raises his eyebrows. "Not a doctor?"

Sherlock snorts. "Never."

"But you can see the point in the profession's idea?"

Sherlock watches the man's face, looking for a trap or a lie but his face is simply honest. It almost seems unreal. Sherlock tilts his head then barely nods. John nods just as fractionally in reply.

"So." John glances at the open sea behind the ship then back up at Sherlock standing on the top rung. "Will you spare us both some harm and a very cold swim, then?" He holds out his hand up toward Sherlock.

Sherlock stares for a long moment then crouches to take John's hand. He lets go of the pole and turns his feet to jump back onto the deck. Then he slips.

Sherlock's ankle twists and he falls back over the edge, his chin smashing on the bar with a crack. Sherlock yells in pain as he falls but John grips Sherlock's hand tightly with both of his.

"I've got you!" John shouts. "It's all right!"

Sherlock squeezes John's hands as hard as possible, focusing on the feeling of those calloused hands so the dizziness in his head will not take over. John pulls but Sherlock sees him straining with Sherlock's weight.

"I'm too heavy," Sherlock groans, and he can taste blood.

"No, you're not. You just have to help me!"

Sherlock tries to pull himself up as John works to haul him back but they miscalculate the timing and John's feet slide, knocking him into the bars. Sherlock falls back against the ship shouting once as his arm twists painfully. John does not lose his grip.

"Oh..." Sherlock hisses through the pain, "we can't... I -"

"No!" John insists. "Look at me, Sherlock, alright?"

Sherlock stares up at John, at his earnest blue eyes more alive and interesting than anything Sherlock has ever seen before in his wooden box of a life. Sherlock wants to live.

"One, two, three!" John shouts.

John pulls Sherlock with all of his weight and Sherlock pushes his feet against the boat. They drag upward slowly then Sherlock reaches the lowest rung at the deck edge, pulling a hand free of John's to grab the bar. Sherlock pushes up on the rung with his hand and the two of them finally hoist Sherlock back over the railing onto the deck. Sherlock falls to his knees off the weight of his twisted ankle as soon as his feet land. He breathes slowly to calm his speeding heart and spits blood from where he bit his tongue when he hit his chin.

"Oy! You!" A deck hand suddenly appears with another crewman behind him, shouting at John standing above Sherlock. "Did you strike this man? What are you doing up here?"

Sherlock sees John back away a step with his hands up in submission but John says nothing in his defense.

"What is going on?" Mycroft suddenly appears with his ever present manservant Lestrade – no doubt previously stalking the decks to find him until now.

"Get him up," Mycroft says to Lestrade, indicating Sherlock. Then he turns to John. "How dare you assault my brother! Did you think to get money?"

"Mycroft..." Sherlock says as Lestrade helps him up.

"I will see you are -"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock snaps, shrugging off Lestrade's hand.

Mycroft and the crewmen turn to look at him as does John.

"He did not hurt me."

Mycroft blinks. "What?"

"I was too close to the edge." Sherlock points to the railing. "I slipped, hit my chin on the rail and would have fallen over but..." Sherlock glances at John who holds his gaze with a quirk of his lips. "But Mr. Watson here saved me."

"Saved..." Mycroft gasps out with confusion.

John looks away but his flicker of a smile is unmistakable.

"He saved me," Sherlock repeats mouth spreading into a grin.