A/N: Set sometime between Mary becoming a Client and Christmas so may contain some spoilers if anyone hasn't seen S3Ep3. This has been floating around my head (no pun intended!) for a while - even when John is seriously pissed off he still comes across as bloody reasonable and it made me wonder how he does it.
A lone figure strode across the deserted secondary school yard towards the sports block paying no heed to the chill air that nibbled at the tips of his ears and nose. Frost glittered on the Tarmac making it slippery underfoot but John's sturdy boots gripped well. Most of the school kids had long since left so it was quiet except for the distant shouts of teenage footballers having a kick about on the all-weather pitch. There was something desolate about a school when all that life and promise had departed for the day. Mournful windows stared blankly into the darkness patiently waiting for the school's life-blood to rush back the following morning and fill it with hope once more. Gloomy thoughts. He couldn't help them. They came unbidden when the agitation of his current life got too much, and this is where he came to get some respite.
John shifted his bag on his shoulder and worked some feeling back into numb fingers. They felt thick and clumsy as he carefully keyed in the door code at the service entrance. The main door that the students normally used would be locked by now, guaranteeing his solitude which was a blessed relief. He allowed the door to swing to but not latch - the only condition the caretaker imposed when allowing him to use the building unsupervised. For safety reasons he'd come check on him a couple of times in the hour but he wouldn't stop to make unwelcome conversation. They were both men of few words, their brief exchange practiced and performed to the letter, every visit without fail.
The chemical assault of chlorine and the wavering reflections on the ceiling caused him to pause for that one sharp panicked breath he could never avoid. He exhaled slowly – controlled - breathing away the memory of a terror past. Would he ever stand by a swimming pool again without the memory of being wrapped in explosives consuming him, if only for a moment? Shaking the thought from his mind with a toss of his head he dropped his bag on the bench. He disrobed quickly in the stifling heat, folding every garment with care. He already wore swimwear beneath his jeans - a minor convenience that saved the smallest amount of time. Two towels were laid out neatly. He was ready to begin.
His entry to the pool was unspectacular, cautiously lowering his aching body into the cool water. It rose to his navel at this end of the pool, growing gradually deeper towards the far end. He flexed his knees, sinking until his shoulders submerged, and then taking a deep breath he ducked his head completely. The water was chillier than he liked, but that would only spur him to work harder. He let it lap at his shoulders as he leaned against the side, lazily stretching and flexing his legs to prepare the muscles for the work to come. Only now did he allow the fury and frustration of his situation to come to the forefront of his mind. It was the fuel he needed.
It was three weeks since Mary had handed him the USB drive containing all her secrets. Three weeks since Sherlock had collapsed on the floor of 221b and been blue-lighted back to hospital where Mycroft pulled strings to ensure he wasn't able to leave for at least a week. Three weeks since his world had crashed around his ears so spectacularly yet again. His anger still burned bright at the ones he bitterly loved. What was it about him that made those closest to him lie?
Once upon a time not so very long ago he knew who he belonged to and he was blissfully happy. He was newly married to an amazing and beautiful woman and his best friend, the most incredible man he had ever known, was back from the dead. Even knowing how Sherlock's fake suicide had been accomplished didn't stop the moments of joy at this miracle. But love is bittersweet and opening yourself up so thoroughly to experience the highs means you leave yourself exposed to the lows. And what bloody lows they were, with these two – the fake wife and resurrected friend. Once upon a time he had two homes where he felt safe and loved, but now he hates to spend too long in either. He can't stand the exaggerated politeness, the caustic comments or the suffocating tension in his marital home. He and Mary talk of nothing of importance with sharp clipped words. Even the pregnancy is a barrier rather than a bond and he grieves privately for the joy-filled days he is allowing to slip by due to his fear and pride.
He spends more time at 221b, hiding out in his former bedroom until the demands of his consulting detective get too much to bear. Sherlock - incapacitated and forced to inaction by the frailties of his all-too-human body - is a hellish thing. During his enforced week in hospital he had reduced three nurses and a junior doctor to tears, and had rediscovered his fondness for morphine that had Mycroft losing his temper with a senior consultant. It was spectacular to watch the normally cool and collected hand of the British Government grip the white coat of a quivering medic and demand that all pain-relieving medication be withdrawn with immediate effect. Sherlock's response was predictable – he walked out of the hospital, clad only in a backless gown and took a cab straight home to Baker Street. No one even tried to stop him. John thought he would find another source and begin self-medicating, but he was amazed to find the detective turn away from the lure of drugs and bury himself in another activity entirely - helping John, by keeping him busy. Unfortunately for John, that meant Sherlock demanding constant entertainment, wailing like a spoilt child over the smallest drama, or causing chaos in the flat with manic tidying and sorting of the precarious piles that littered the sitting room.
There were rare moments of calm in the chaos when Sherlock slipped into his mind palace and left John to mull over all that had happened. In those quiet times he took the USB from his pocket and turned it over and over in his fingers. This morning he had almost slipped it into the laptop and opened it. Almost. Before he could commit, the doorbell rang and a courier delivered a small package and he watched as Sherlock tipped the contents into his palm, weighing it thoughtfully before slipping the shiny silver chain around his neck. The remains of Mary's mangled bullet lay against the pale skin of Sherlock's chest a couple of inches above the healing wound it had made. It should be hidden in an evidence locker somewhere, not in John's sight. An accusation. A reminder. The USB was returned to his pocket unopened.
That was enough, tension thrumming now in taut limbs and unquiet mind. With a curse he dipped below the water and a strong thrust against the wall had his compact muscular body gliding a quarter length of the pool. Moments later he broke the surface, left arm already arcing over his head to slip once more beneath in a precise, clean stroke. Ten… Twenty lengths, barely making a splash with each perfect dip of his arms, a slight turn of his head every third stroke to take a breath. By thirty lengths he could no longer block out the burn in his damaged shoulder but he pressed on, kicking harder to compensate for his flagging upper body strength. At forty he finally stopped, gripping the edge and resting his forehead against the smooth, cold tiles.
It was Greg who'd suggested he should channel his anger into exercise instead of alcohol after one too many pissed cab rides followed by crippling hangovers. He tried running, but runners proved to be a social bunch, and he was never fast enough to leave the chatterers behind, their chirping only serving to irritate him further. Squash was a disaster that almost caused the end of the one friendship he still had intact, and left the DI with a black eye from his flung racquet. Mere chance brought him to the school, when the practice was invited to talk to the older kids about the role of exercise in maintaining good health and they'd proudly shown him around their sports facilities. He loved the weightless freedom of swimming, the calming wash against his skin soothing his tension. A private pool was perfect. He preferred not to consider that any of Sherlock's talents had rubbed off on him, but the ability to manipulate the unwary to his advantage had secured him the key code for the pool after hours, twice a week. Perhaps a bottle of whisky would change hands by way of thanks.
The door creaked and an icy blast of air thrilled his wet face and arms. The caretaker's head appeared, the first of his visits checking all was well.
"Evening!"
He nodded in acknowledgement and the door closed once more.
John Watson was not a ponderer. All his life, for as long as he could recall anyway, he had made decisions in an instant based on gut instinct. He didn't waste time dwelling on every possible outcome, weighing each in turn and analysing benefits or drawbacks, he just encountered a problem, thought of a solution and marched stoically on. That's not to say he was careless or impulsive. He just had excellent instincts that hadn't let him down too many times in the past. It made him an intuitive doctor and an excellent soldier.
That's where he'd gone wrong with Mary. Every step of their relationship he'd thought about where it should go next, subtly guiding the path of their love along the route he evaluated to cause him the least pain. He'd had enough hurt for a lifetime after Sherlock died and he protected himself from more by engineering his life around emotional obstacles. Mary had allowed it - enabled it in fact - expertly modifying her behaviour and personality to mould into the perfect non-threatening wife. It was all a lie, and deep down he'd always known. He could have lived with that to the end of his days but no... There would always be someone in the world that had to fuck up John's peace.
He rolled his aching shoulder which was protesting at the vigorous exercise. He should have kept up with the physiotherapy. Setting off again down the pool at a slower pace, he circled his arms and legs, perfectly in synch. The lateral movement of the breast stroke arms put less stress on his injury than the front crawl while encouraging mobility. It was also a calming stroke, its regular gentle rhythm melting any stiffness from his tired limbs.
Halfway along his twenty-third length he thought he heard the door close. He paused in his stroke, treading water, expecting to see the caretaker come early, but instead the tall shadowy figure of the detective loomed by the waters edge in the darkest corner. John sighed. It was only a matter of time before one or other of his loves had grown curious about where he spent his time. He wasn't ready to talk yet though. Taking a deep breath he rolled forward face down, allowing his arms and legs to float loosely. He bobbed there, staring at the floor of the pool until the need to breathe became too pressing to ignore. Even so he let the breath out of his lungs one tiny bubble at a time until he had to surge up and drag in a fierce gulp of air to keep from taking in water instead. Sherlock hadn't moved, was still watching him from the shadows, his expression hidden. John was determined not to be the first to speak so he resumed his slow progress up the pool away from his friend. Twice more he swam, there and back, deliberately taking his time to prolong the quiet. When next he looked, Sherlock was gone.
The clock by the door showed he'd been in the pool forty-five minutes. Right on time the door opened once more, the caretaker's head appearing.
"Push it hard when you go. Make sure the lock clicks. Bit dodgy."
Same words every time, same thumbs-up response from John. There was comfort in the tiny routines like this. His shoulder was too weak to enable him to haul his body out of the pool so he waded to the steps, but even that felt like an effort. The air that felt so stifling on first entering the room was chilly on his wet skin so he quickly wrapped one towel around his hips and the other he draped over his shoulders, digging in his bag to pull out a bottle of shower gel. He didn't bother walking to the private showers in the changing room, opting instead to use the one at the poolside. There was no one to see, so he stripped and pressed the button, gasping as the initial icy flow spilled over him. A couple more presses and the water reached a pleasant temperature, warming him through. He washed quickly, soaping and rinsing his hair and body, then pressed the button repeatedly until all the suds washed down the drain eliminating any evidence he'd been there. He towelled off and pulled on his jeans and sweater, tidying his wet gear into his bag before pulling on socks and lacing up his boots.
He wasn't surprised to find Sherlock leaning against the wall when he exited, pushing the door firmly closed behind him until the lock engaged. The detective fiddled with his phone for a moment then slipped it into the pocket of his long coat. A text to Mary no doubt, assuring her that John was fine and still hadn't done anything stupid. He wasn't daft. He knew that the pair of them watched over him constantly and that his anger with them hadn't diminished the love they all shared. In time forgiveness may come, but right now he was ready for bright lights and the single pint Greg would have waiting for him in the pub. Wordlessly he walked away into the darkness and his detective let him go.