A/N: Hello! This is the sequel to These Shores Are Not Like Yours. If you haven't read that one, you need to close this one and go read that one first because otherwise it won't make any sense:D If you have read that one and are here to find out why I am a terrible person to leave John bleeding in the ocean and Sherlock in the hands of his brother, sit back and enjoy. I cannot promise regular updates. That is not how my brain works. Sorry:) It will be full of angst:D *yay!
The last story drew inspiration from the song, Selkie, by Tori Amos. This one gets its inspiration from the album Beneath the Skin by Of Monsters and Men. Chapter titles will come from the lyrics in any of the songs. Chapter 1 comes from Human. The lyrics in this chapter are from Safe Upon the Shoreby Great Big Sea.
Thanks once again to mattsloved1 for putting up with my nonsense when all she wants is a frog to kiss a prince:)
1. Heavy on the Heart
Pain and cold.
And loss.
They circulated and took hold, working their despair over him and settling in his heart.
He drifted in and out of storm-tossed sleep and on waves real and imaginary. Voices kept saying to him to do something, find something, someone stolen from him. Unable to leave the bed, he struggled with the ropes of pain and illness holding him down. Strangers said to lie still, please, don't fight us. Rage and despair were his only reliable companions. He dreamt of a sterile room and scratched at the walls leaving bloodied trails behind.
Finally came a day where he fell into a natural sleep, one that wasn't pain wracked or drug induced. Through his dreams, a song interlaced, the lyrics vaguely familiar and unsettling. It wasn't an old tune although it had the makings of one. It was sad and tragic as songs of the sea often are.
He strained to catch the voice, hoping to hear smoky chocolate, but it was a light soprano. Harry then. Someone he knew and finally recognized. She was stroking his hair, his head in her lap.
A girl upon the shore did ask a favour of the sea;
"Return my blue eyed sailor boy safely back to me.
Forgive me if I ask too much, I will not ask for more,
but I shall weep until he sleeps safe upon the shore."
He opened his eyes and blinked up at his sister. "Not exactly the most cheerful song, Harry." His voice was scratchy, and he couldn't raise it up much above a whisper, but she smiled down at him. He was surprised to see tears in her eyes.
"Oh John, thank God! Here," and she carefully shifted his head, so it was lying back on a pillow. "Hang on a moment. I'm going to get Greg." She ran from the room, leaving John to puzzle out where he was.
The room was plain and simple, nothing much adorning the walls, which were a soft white. The bed he was lying on felt comfortable and the brightest object in the room was the handmade quilt covering him. A small window on the opposite wall opened to the scent of pine and the rustle of the wind. It told him trees surrounded the cottage, explaining the muted light. Despite the sheltering branches, he could hear the sea surging outside, and something in his heart twisted a little. Panic washed through him, and he struggled to lift the covers off to get out of bed. He needed to see the ocean, the call of it overpowering any self-preservation he might have. He had never felt anything quite like this, only once before, the night…
"Sherlock," he groaned as memories poured back into his muddled head. He could see Sherlock, on the dock, remember the shock of his father's betrayal and Mycroft standing, staring at him with his cold eyes.
There was a noise outside the door, and Greg and Harry entered the room.
"John, no, don't get up," Greg reached his side and placed a gentle hand on his right shoulder, preventing him from leaving the bed. Not that he could have on his own. He was too weak. "Lie still. You're still healing."
John struggled to no avail. "No, Greg, let me go! I've got to find him."
"Oh, John," Harry said, her hand at her mouth.
Greg looked over his shoulder at her. "Get Molly."
"But…"
"Do it! She's the only one that's going to get him to stay here. Go!"
John really couldn't understand why they wouldn't let him go. Couldn't they hear it? The ocean kept telling him to find him.
"Daddy?"
John stopped struggling and looked at his daughter. "Molly?" He hadn't given one thought to her at all, lost in the feelings of the strained connection to his mate. "Oh, Molly." He reached out to her, and she snuggled into his arm. John shook with conflicting feelings. Molly needed him, and he had to protect her, but the sea pulled at him. He felt stretched between the two, and it would only be a matter of time before he snapped and tore apart. The pain of his shoulder and the fever that seemed to grip him also warred with the agony of his heart. He sobbed into Molly's hair, unable to control the sense of loss that roared through him. Molly stayed unnaturally still and didn't try to squirm away.
John held her with his good arm until drained and weakened further; he fell back to sleep once more.
The next time he woke, the pull of the ocean still thrummed through him, still itched at him, but he was more alert and in less pain. Alone in the room, he struggled to sit up, the wound in his shoulder pulled and he hissed in discomfort.
At the sound of swearing, Greg entered the room. He must have been right outside. "Hey, John. How're you doing?" he came to the side of the bed and helped John sit up, arranging the pillows behind him.
"I feel like shit."
"Yeah, well that's about what you look like. Here," said Greg and he handed John a glass of water. "Not too much."
"How long?" he asked, after sipping from the glass.
Greg looked troubled.
"Greg, how long?"
"About four weeks."
"Four weeks? No! That can't be right. Four weeks?"
"You've been in and out of consciousness. It helped you fell in the water after being shot. Helped speed things up. We also had the doctor here, a local boy, knows the history of this place and is sworn to secrecy, just to be on the safe side," he had added that at John's stricken face, knowing, remembering they couldn't let anyone know where they were. "We're on one of the islands. One of the better ones, we're hidden for now. Can't go anywhere with you like this."
"The Kin?" John asked, guilt crashing in on top of everything else. If it hadn't have been for his return with Molly, none of his would have happened.
"Most got away and are out on other islands, hidden for now. The locals know something's up, but most are loyal and won't say a thing," Greg looked at him, serious. "A few of the Kin were killed outright, and a few have just disappeared, whether captured or fled I don't know. May never know."
John could see the weight of it hanging on Greg. He was now the leader, with Jack's betrayal and capture. "I am so sorry."
Greg ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up a bit. "Ah, shit John. It's always been a matter of time. Not sure what the fuck we're going to do, though."
John stared at the wall and didn't say anything for a long time. Greg pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat. He watched him, concern evident on his face.
"We're going to get him back, Greg, and we're going to bring down Mycroft Holmes."
A sceptical noise came out of Greg's mouth. "And how'n the hell do you suggest we do that.
John looked at him, "I haven't the foggiest."
Almost a week later, after begging and pleading and generally being a royal pain in the ass, as Greg put it and a right fucker as Harry said, John managed to convince them to half carry him to the small beach in front of the house. Standing between Greg and Harry, Greg's oldest girl, Laurel and Molly, trailing behind, he bullied them into letting him stand in the surf. As the waves washed over his feet, he felt several things at once. One was some relief from the constant throb of his shoulder; the second was a return of a small bit of strength. One of the promises the ocean gave his people at the dawn of their creation, to shelter them in any storm and to lend them strength when they needed it. It didn't mean she couldn't be a harsh mistress, but she did care for her people. The third thing was what he had really hoped for. Closing his eyes, he reached out and thought of Sherlock.
He gasped, and almost doubled over. He certainly would have fallen if Greg and Harry hadn't been holding him upright.
"Sherlock?" Harry asked, biting her lip.
"Yes, God yes. He's in so much pain. They have him closed in. He can't get out, and it's slowly driving him mad. I need to get to him."
"How the hell are we supposed to do that?"
Again John said, this time with so much anguish it was palpable, "I don't know, God Harry, I don't know. But they're killing him." In his anguish, he looked over at his daughter, playing in the waves with her older cousin.
Sensing she was being watched, she looked up at him, her eyes bright with a light too fierce for a little girl. A distant memory of a conversation, seeming so long ago but only a little over a month passed, Molly asking which side of her family Harry was on, was she a seal like him or was she scary like Mummy. A nebulous idea crept into his mind, tentative and elusive. It would be the most stupid thing he'd ever done.
"There may be a way."
"John?"
John looked at Greg and Harry, his family, his blood, people who might help him pull off whatever this terrible idea would be.
'We're going to give them what they want."
oOo
An ocean away a man sat in a stark room, padding on the wall covered with the blood from his torn fingernails, lost and alone, slowly heading into madness.