Sherlock didn't realized he was crying until his tail ached from swimming for so long and he had to stop. A sob wrenched through Sherlock and he let himself sink onto the ocean floor. He wrapped his arms around himself to try to stop himself from shaking. He had been so terrified… the look in Mycroft's eyes, that feral, animalistic grin… Sherlock was sure that Mycroft would have killed him right there. Snapped his neck like a dead piece of coral. Another sob made Sherlock double over on himself.
If I ever get word of you returning to the surface again…
Sherlock sniffed and straightened himself. Mycroft was cold and heartless, sure, but he was no killer. He had others kill for him. That look… that was nothing but an act. It was something their father, the former King's advisor before Mycroft had taken over, had taught the two of them. A way to strike fear into the opponent's heart. Nothing more.
Sherlock laughed and hugged himself. No, Mycroft wouldn't stop him from returning to the surface. It was too much a part of him now. He couldn't leave it just as much as he couldn't stop breathing. There was something fascinating, mysterious, wonderful and absolutely terrifying of that place above the water that made Sherlock's heart sing. He loved a good mystery. To learn about this place with no water, to understand it was his dream.
"Not only the place," he muttered to himself as he swam upward, "the creatures as well."
Not long ago, on one of his trips to the surface, Sherlock had come into contact with a strange beast. Completely covered in dark, shaggy hair, four appendages that ended in small, clawed hands, a long snouted face and large black eyes. Sherlock smiled at the memory of the thing. When it had seen him, it had jumped happily into the water and had paddled over to him, all the while making strange YARP-ing noises. When it reached him, it had thrown its front limbs over his shoulders and licked his face with its rough tongue.
Although it was a strange way to greet another, Sherlock had endured respectfully. It was not his place to judge the ways of land-folk.
Sherlock breathed in the open air as his head broke the surface of the water, his black hair falling heavy and limp over his face. He brushed it back and coughed. It was always an uncomfortable feeling, switching from gills to lungs. Open air was much lighter than water and always made him feel dizzy. He closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously before turning and swimming toward the island off in the distance.
When Sherlock reached the island, he carefully made his way to the rockiest part of the shoreline so as not to be seen. He knew all too well what humans were capable of, and if he were to get too close…
The distant YARP-ing made Sherlock's ears perk. He grinned and swam closer to the shoreline.
The moment he reached the shore, the YARP-ing stopped as his friend sniffed happily at Sherlock's hair, its long black tail wagging furiously. Sherlock laughed. "Hullo, big fella," he said warmly, scratching the creature behind its pointy ears. The creature sat heavily and made a happy noise deep in its throat.
"Pitch!"
Sherlock flinched, surprised by the sound. His friend's ear perked, and he began YARP-ing madly. The voice picked up again. "Pitch! Pitch? Where are you, boy?" The voice was getting closer. Frightened, Sherlock dove behind the nearest rock and watched.
A human boy, about nineteen (not much older than Sherlock), walked over to the shoreline. "Pitch," he yelled, and Sherlock's friend ran over to his side. "There you are. I've been looking for you everywhere, bloody dog." He walked with Pitch to the shoreline, and sat down on the sand.
He was so close to Sherlock… He had never seen a human this close before. The boy… The boy, Sherlock realized, was absolutely beautiful. He had short, shaggy blonde hair that danced in the wind. His eyes were a lovely mixture of green and gray. His skin had been darkened by years in the sun. He wore cloth on his body, over his chest and—and his legs! Sherlock stared. He was sprawled out on the sand, his feet in the water. Such strange looking things, feet—with little bulbs of flesh sticking out the end. Still… he'd always wondered what it would be like to stand, to walk, like humans. To be able to feel solid ground beneath you. It was truly fascinating.
Pitch's loud YARP-ing broke Sherlock from his reverie and he hid behind the rock and out of sight. He heard the boy stand and say, "what are you barking at, you silly old thing?" After a moment, Pitch went silent. Sherlock breathed. "Well, we'd better get home, anyway," the boy said, his voice getting fainter and fainter and he walked away, "Harry must be worried about me by now, it's nearly sundown."
Sherlock waited long after the boy was gone before leaving his rock. He swam around it and stared at where the boy had sat. Oh, no, he certainly wasn't going to stop coming to the surface. He had to be this boy again, he had to.
Sherlock smiled and plunged under the water. Next time, he thought excitedly, maybe I'll speak to him.
