Title: Adrift

Rating: PG-13 (language)

Summary: John and Sherlock find themselves adrift and stop to re-evaluate.

Notes: While Sherlock is a doer, John is a thinker. Be warned-ahead there lies stream of consciousness.

Chapter 4: Open Water

John always liked the early morning. He figured it was probably a souvenir from his military days, but that didn't bother him. He liked that perfectly still part of the day when the leaves on the trees were suspended in a kind of golden light that you only got before five a.m. He liked the way the air felt—colder than usual, but invigorating.

So as he stood before the Valerie for the first time, he was grateful he had gotten up this early, if only to see her for the first time in this flattering light. Funnily, John had never been a boat sort of man, but he had no trouble adjusting to the whole she/her thing. It just seemed right for the Valerie. She was strong, but not in a masculine way. Beautiful. Curved but smooth. Comforting. Her sails were curled tight, but he could almost see their energy waiting to burst open. When he ran his hand along the fiberglass side, its silken surface was cool to the touch. Yes. The Valerie was definitely a woman. Although technically he knew it should just be Valerie, and not theValerie, he couldn't get used to that for some reason. It felt too much like being with another person, and John wanted very much to be alone right now.

Which is why he was greatly troubled by a soft throat-clearing sound behind him. He spun around. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"That's a fair question, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft Holmes, standing before him in a crisp suit and balancing on his closed umbrella. "Though I fear you could make a reasonable guess."

John slung his bag over his shoulder and moved to walk past Mycroft. "I'm not coming back, if that's what you're after."

"I wouldn't dream of asking."

He stopped. "Then what do you want?"

"Nothing of importance," Mycroft said, rocking on his umbrella slightly. "I merely wondered about your plans. Where you plan to go. What you plan to do, and I must say I did not predict this lovely vessel you seem to have acquired."

"I'm only borrowing it. It's not mine—you know, I don't see how this is any of your business." John's expression was firm, but Mycroft's face remained deliberately casual.

"Now, now, there's no need for hostility, Dr. Watson. I'm simply concerned for your well-being."

"Yeah," scoffed John, "I kind of doubt that." He continued past Mycroft and out of the boat yard.

"When you… 'set sail' this afternoon, Dr. Watson, do consider heading south. I hear the seas near Sussex are rather lovely this time of year. Should be quite pleasant for a less-experienced sailor such as yourself."

John stopped again, but did not turn around. "You don't do anything without a reason. Just for that, I ought to go north."

"Ah," said Mycroft, "but you won't. You really won't."

John shook his head and went on walking.

"Good day, Dr. Watson," called Mycroft after him. John pretended not to hear him.

He thought about getting some more sleep back at Harry's flat before heading out, but found that he couldn't. He couldn't sit still long enough to shut his eyes. His mind refused to stop buzzing, replacing everything he should be thinking about with irritating white noise. But that was the whole point of this. He wasn't going to think about him; he was going to do as Bill said—go out onto the water with nothing but himself. Himself and the Valerie and the task of staying afloat. Survival. That, at the very least, he knew how to do.

The afternoon came soon enough, and John returned to the boat yard. Though it was now bustling with the scattered movements of a handful of occupants, Mycroft was thankfully nowhere to be seen. Good, thought John as he began the work of taking the Valerie out of port. He was the last thing he needed. Sherlock was right—the man was a slimy, meddling git. Turning up with a cryptic message to go south? Why the hell should he follow that? Mycroft wasn't exactly one to turn up to discuss the weather. John was willing to bet that he'd meet his death if he went to the South Seas on Mycroft's word. He angled north and started the engine.

Why, thought John, would he have suggested it? Was it something sinister? Probably. So far, every interaction he'd had with Mycroft, save one utterly bizarre tea with Mrs. Hudson, had resulted in him almost dying. He doubted that was about to change, despite anything that may have happened between him and Sherlock. Then again… Mycroft Holmes wasn't about to make a trip at four a.m. to see his… to see John Watson just to exact some sort of—what, twisted, back-handed revenge? Maybe his words were genuine. Who knows what he'd find down the coast? For all he knew, it was the calm seas that he needed, just as Mycroft said. Then again…

"Fuck," muttered John as he threw back the engines and redirected the Valerie southward. "I am going to regret this."

Four days later found John drifting just beyond the Sussex coast. He made a point of keeping it just out of sight. He wanted to be lost on the open waters, to be alone and at peace. Which was, to his amazement, exactly what he had found—peace. The waters had been quite calm so far—no deadly sharks or international assassins or whatever Mycroft might have been planning—and the work was easy. Bill hadn't lied; the Valerie was a good ship. Sometimes, as he pulled on the sails, he thought he could feel some of her instinct taking over, guiding him, but that was likely a symptom of the isolation. Still, he hadn't started talking to her. Yet.

The sun was high overhead, and here, unlike in the city, he found it unobscured by cloud more often than not. He'd taken to wearing a wide-brimmed canvas hat he'd found below deck. It made him look ridiculous, but there was no one around to care—least of all himself. Though he'd packed a razor, he hadn't bothered to shave, and from the feel of it, there was definitely the beginnings of a beard cropping up. Hard to say. He hadn't looked in a mirror since the day he found the hat.

All in all, the experience reminded him of Afghanistan. Not unpleasantly. There were huge differences—no one was shooting at him, no one was dying, he was alone. He had never been alone over there, not really, unless you counted the few days he spent making his way back after his platoon had been captured—and that wasn't something he was keen to reflect on. No, none of that, but the atmosphere. The world around him. Afghanistan was more than another country: it was the farthest he'd travelled from home before he'd joined up. The sand and the heat were a far cry from London, and even though he had barely left it now, this world was a new one, too. A world of blue and salt and quiet rustling and busy hands and sunlight. Bill had been there with him. Bill had known exactly what he needed now. He'd been right.

Smart bastard, thought John. He really should make more of an effort to stay in touch with him. With the way his life had been going, with Sherlock, it had gotten hard to keep track of everything outside of that. Bill had been trying, of course. Even said he'd been following his blog. That damned stupid blog. He didn't know why he kept up with it. It was sort of a habit now. He supposed someone ought to document the brilliant absurdity that was his life. Was… it was 'was' now. What would he say on his blog now? August 12th—bought milk. August 15th—went sailing.

Nothing ever happens to me.

Time passed in a new way on the Valerie. He could tell when days passed, but it was hard to tell how many. His only unit of measurement was the amount of rations he had left. He knew, on a two-week trip, he'd have to come to post soon to resupply, but he wanted to avoid the coastal village and its inhabitants for as long as possible. He looked up at the sky as he tugged firmly on a rope. The sky had been a rich blue in the first week or so, but the grayness was moving in and the clouds gathering. If it was going to rain, he'd better get supplies while he could. He turned the rudder to point him toward land.

He could deal with the rain well enough, he thought. They certainly got plenty of it in London. Granted, it was a bit different on solid ground, but John figured if he could scale a chain link fence while chasing a jewel thief in a torrential downpour, he could just about handle anything the rain could bring. Although Sherlock hadn't been so lucky—after he slipped down and tore his trousers on the metal, while the thief skipped off to freedom, John hadn't let him live it down for weeks. Sometimes over dinner he'd just start laughing at the memory, much to Sherlock's chagrin, but he was never too mean—just enough to make up for everything he would say about John. "Damn," he swore aloud softly. He'd gone and thought about Sherlock again. That seemed to be happening an awful lot. So much for avoidance.

After a week, the questions of the future started nudging their way in. John tried to fight them off, but they were relentless. This was all well and good, Watson, hiding from the world like this, but you have to come back sooner or later. Then what? Would he move in with Harry for a while? That's not likely to go well. He'd have to talk to her. He couldn't bloody well stay in London on his own, so it went back to Sherlock. He had to decide. He had to decide if he was going to go back or not. But he'd be damned if he had to decide now. He tugged the wheel with a sharp jerk, his mouth tight.

When he finally went into port, he learned that it was a Tuesday. He'd been out at sea for nine days.

The village was quiet. Nestled into the coastal cliffs, there couldn't have been more than a handful of shops and a few dozen houses. Probably the homes of a few fishermen's wives who made a living selling supplies to people like John. Sometimes he let himself consider a life like that: living day to day with the same two hundred people, open the shop, close the shop, chat about Susan next door's new baby and Charles's busted engine. He could not imagine a duller existence. Still, it was nice enough for a quick visit.

He stocked up as quickly as he could at the little grocer's and even managed to get some more fuel while he was there. Not that he was using much; he'd been letting the wind do the work and the Valerie carry herself as she would. Still, you could never be too careful, and if he got caught in a doldrum on his return trip, he'd be in trouble without it.

The elderly woman behind the counter reminded him of Mrs. Butler—this woman who used to live next to his parents' home. He supposed she should have reminded him of Mrs. Hudson, but that was all wrong. Mrs. Hudson had too much spirit. She surprised you. No, this woman was a Mrs. Butler—peaceful, slow, nothing more than you'd expect, but with a kind heart. He made sure to leave a tip in her jar on the counter.

He never knew what had happened to Mrs. Butler. He hadn't seen her since he'd moved out and enlisted. He hoped she was all right—she'd always been so sweet. She would bring over a tray of chocolate chip cookies every birthday. In the summers, he'd mow her lawn, and she would bring him a glass of homemade iced tea with a little slice of lemon in it. In all his years, he had never found anyone who could brew tea like Mrs. Butler. Even he couldn't quite match it.

What a picture of life before the war she'd been: cut grass and glasses covered in condensation and birthdays and family. He had none of those afterward. He had none of them now.

As he sailed back out, leaving the village and the woman in the shop behind the horizon, he tried to think about what he had been left with after the war. He couldn't think of much.

It was around then that he and Harry fell out. Oh, he'd known about her drinking for years. He'd watched her grow up. He'd watched her go through high school, coming home night after night, helping her sneak behind their parents' backs, because that's what siblings do for each other. She'd gone off to Uni but left after a year. Wasn't for her, she had said. What was for her was Clara—that's where they'd met. He could remember their wedding quite clearly. It was very simple and tasteful; he expected that was Clara's hand in things. But it had been beautiful: them in their simple dresses, John, their parents, Clara's mother, and the official. Harry looked so happy. She was trying so hard for Clara. John had always liked Clara, she was a warm woman—always quick with a joke, but could offer quieting wisdom when it was needed. He had spent many late nights with her after his sister had gone to bed, talking about the world, about life, about Harry. Clara had been trying, too.

He heard from Harry just once while he was abroad—a letter in his second month, then nothing. He tried not to worry. She showed up in the hospital they sent him to when he first returned to London, eyes red and hands shaking. After thirty minutes, she told him she'd left Clara. And why.

So there was just him. No money, no job, and certainly no cheating drunk of a sister to rely on. Nothing else but himself.

Above him, the dark sky rumbled menacingly. John tugged on his hat protectively.

And then—oh, then—Sherlock had swept into his world. God, how melodramatic did that sound? Bit like a fairytale. But that's almost what it was. Sherlock was out of a story and so was their life together, dashing about from one crime scene to the next, never stopping, never breathing, just carrying on after each other for all eternity.

It was a dream. It had to end eventually.

Rain started to fall. The drops landed on the deck of the Valerie with an endless crackling sound. It was pleasant, if cold. He though he should probably pull in the sails, but he had a bit more time yet.

Why had Sherlock gone and ruined everything? God, it had been so wonderful. More than John ever could have hoped for in his life. Sherlock was mad and brilliant and saw the world in a way no one else did and every day he got a bit further into that man's mind and every day it was a thrill to see him a bit more and he couldn't stop digging deeper. The things they did together—the running, the solving, the chase of it all—were incredible. Stories in themselves. And he was beautiful. So beautiful. He had to smile just thinking about the lines of his face, the curves of his arms, the angles of his chest. God, he loved that man.

"Damn you," he murmured as he caught up with his thoughts. But the sound was drowned out by the pounding of the rain. John looked up but could see no further than the mast. He'd been caught in a storm, distracted by thoughts of Sherlock. He clambered toward the mast to tie in the sails before they were shredded, but the force of the wind made his progress difficult. Around him the black sea churned; the sporadic bolts of lighting served as his only illumination now.

He pulled on the ropes, but they wouldn't yield. "Fuck!" he shouted, burning his hands with the effort of his tugs. The sea rose up around him. Realising the futility of his work, John stopped to watch.

In that moment, the rain seemed to slow in its descent so John could see between the sheets of drops. He watched the ocean climb up, all the way above the Valerie's mast. He watched at the wave capped at the top, and he watched as gravity forced it back down again. Onto him. And as he watched, he was caught in its beauty. It was an incredible sight. It was electrifying. It was deadly. It was exciting.

And as the dark wave came crashing down on top of him, John though I'm no better than him.