Sherlock felt at that moment he would've rather died. It was less effort, and it wouldn't take long with a drop like that. He tightened his hold on John's hand as they moved with speeds previously unknown to the human race.
They climbed over the top of the railing, so they were on the outside as the ship continued to rise. The doctor looked at him, trying to smile but failing. "Sherlock," he said. "Sherlock we're going to make it out of this."
The detective nodded as he watched the people that had been next to them seconds prior (that now found themselves on the wrong side of the ship) fell and broke their bones against the cold remains of the ship. How small and insignificant their lives were, he thought. Was he any better? Would he make a difference or would he just contribute to the casualty statistics if he succumbed tonight? The blood from his wound had crusted against his skin, he reached down to feel it and winced.
John stared down at the hundred feet of empty space between them and the water and thought about Mike and Molly, stuck forever in that dining hall waiting for the help that would never come. He wondered if they knew the moment they heard the water or they tried escaping. Had contractions halted Molly from getting up? Had Stamford tried to carry her?
John Watson put his head against the cold metal and sobbed. He cried for his best friend who had accompanied him on this journey with big plans, he wept for the small yet mighty pregnant woman who had had some terrible luck but was pulling through alright.
He shed tears for himself, stuck in an increasingly bleak situation.
Sherlock heard John crying and wanted to comfort him but found whatever words he was going to say sucked back into his mouth as the ship began to tremble. Enormous bubbles were coming to the surface as the ship began its final descent into the water.
Panic clouded his thoughts as he looked at his options. He could jump, die now, or he could hold on and die later. Neither options held John in their immediate future and that was not something he was willing to release for the sake of not wanting to deal with cold water.
"This is it." The detective said, shaking. His doctor squeezed his hand, looking at him. "Ready?"
John gulped, looking at the rapidly approaching water. "Ready." He answered. "You need to jump with me or we'll get sucked down with the ship." He added, eyes not wavering from the creeping ocean.
Sherlock nodded once. "Okay."
Twenty feet. "Sherlock?"
"Yes John?" ten feet.
"Thank you." Five feet. They poised to leap. "For everything."
Three feet, it was almost touching their shoes. "No, thank you."
It lapped the railing, they jumped.
Was it possible for it to be this cold? It hadn't been this cold when he had pulled John up out of it on the stairwell what seemed like years ago. He was sure it was impossible and the water would warm up. Sherlock surfaced, spraying out the sea and coughing while trying to stay afloat.
Titanic was gone, no trace of her except for some debris floating around. People were screaming for the lifeboats, yelling for assistance. Sherlock shivered fiercely, looking around in the pitch black night illuminated only by the uncaring moon. "John?" he voice was hoarse. "JOHN?"
His hand was empty, John Watson was nowhere to be seen.
John had never really understood how someone could just drown. It was a simple movement; you just kicked your legs and then broke the surface. How could you die when you had natural instincts that would allow you to live?
He now knew how easy it was, he kicked furiously but he wasn't sure which way was up and the water was so, so cold. Sherlock wasn't with him and he felt alone and terrified. The ocean was black as onyx and he couldn't find the air. His lungs were burning, and he tried to swim as fast as he could in whatever direction he imagined was the sky. His vision was going blurry, is this how it would end? In the depths of the ocean.
No no no, Sherlock needs me. He's waiting for me, he insisted as he flailed his arms and legs in a vain attempt to reach the much needed oxygen. The pain in his chest was now unbearable, worse than his shoulder had gotten shot (quite a feat because John had never known a greater pain than that). He couldn't continue defeat was looming over him; he closed his eyes and opened his mouth, lungs full of water hurt less than lungs with no air.
Long fingers were suddenly grabbing onto his shirt, he let them, didn't have enough energy to fight. The sound of water whooshing in his ears as he was pulled to the surface and then air. He lolled his head back and tried to take in as much as he could; coughing painfully as salt water ejected itself from his body. Gulping the sweet sustenance he turned his head to see Sherlock, checking over him with wide worried eyes.
"Don't ever do that again!" the detective snarled. "You think you had some extra time to go for a leisure swim in the bloody Atlantic Ocean?" his tone was only harsh due to the terror that had gripped him.
John wheezed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck so he could breathe without worrying about sinking again. "I'm sorry, I just thought to myself 'well I'll never get a better chance than now'." He retorted in his raspy voice.
The taller man looked at his doctor, this brilliant man, fighting so valiantly. Surely he hadn't thought of giving up once. He had much more of a right to life than Sherlock ever could. John's eyes met his in the pale moonlight and without thinking he kissed him.
Mycroft sat in his lifeboat, looking over the spectacle with troubled eyes. His brother hadn't come back, but the Adlers had reassured him that he had most definitely got in time to board a different vessel. The screams were tortured pleas for help and the Holmes turned to the officer in charge of the raft.
"We need to help them." He said, he wasn't sure why exactly, but he could've sworn he had heard a shout that sounded like Sherlock's voice. But that was impossible, he wasn't in the water, he was safely tucked on another lifeboat sulking about the fact that they would still have to go to America or something equally as disappointing.
The officer didn't listen to him as he gave the order for people to pick up the oars and row farther away, saying that those in the water would overtake the boat and flip it leaving all of them dead. Mycroft deftly picked up the rowing instrument and kept time with the other men to move them farther away.
Some of the cries were growing quiet; Sherlock's arms weren't working right. He kept trying to tread water but it wasn't working. John's breathing was shallow and his ears were purple.
"John?" he asked, he couldn't manage more than a whisper. No reply. The detective panicked, shoving him off of his shoulder and then relieved as the doctor jerked awake and started swimming himself.
"What was that for?" an indignant yelp responded.
"Don't fall asleep, whatever you do." The Holmes commanded, looking around. "We need to get out of the water." A tabletop was floating a few yards away from them and Sherlock tugged on John. "This way."
Swimming those few yards was maybe the most difficult thing he'd ever done. His muscles screamed and his wound which he had all but forgotten had torn open and was bleeding again. John stroked steady and strong, nudging the detective along helpfully until they reached it.
"I'm cold." Sherlock mumbled, collapsing onto the wood and looking up at the sky.
"Do you ever stop complaining?" John rasped. His hand found the others in the night and they clutched at them with all the strength they could. "We need to keep each other awake, talk to me." He said suddenly.
The detective readjusted himself, his side pained him. "Your nightmares."
"What about them?" John replied into the dark.
"Why? Why do you have them?"
The doctor frowned, turning his head. "How do you know about those?"
"When we were sleeping together, you had one, I could hear you." Sherlock said, his throat hurt and he didn't want to talk anymore. He was tired, and he wanted to sleep.
"I don't know, just do. I keep replaying all those battles in Afghanistan; the discharge officer said its normal."
"When you get on a lifeboat, swear to me you'll never ever have another nightmare. I hated seeing you like that, so distressed." Sherlock murmured.
John chuckled, wincing as he did so. "I can't just turn it on and off-,"
"Swear to me." The detective insisted.
The doctor's smile cut off and he nodded solemnly. "Alright, I swear."
This seemed to satisfy the other man and they were quiet for a moment. The other people were all but silent, only some lapping water and the occasional shriek were heard. Sherlock looked at the soldier. "Tell me about our flat. The one we're going to buy in America, what does it look like?"
John took a deep breath. "It's going to be small, but cozy, not cramped. We'll have an enormous bookcase for you to fill up and I'll get a typewriter."
"A typewriter?"
"Yes, I've always wanted to be a writer… maybe after this fiasco I'll actually have something to write about." The doctor replied dully. "Do you like gardens?" he asked.
Sherlock shrugged the best he could. "I suppose." He was now aware that he couldn't feel anything past his knees.
"Good," John responded after a few moments. "Because we'll have a garden on our balcony and we'll grow roses or something. Maybe vegetables and you can do experiments on them."
"Hm…" Sherlock hummed.
Mycroft knew that they were dead. That's why it was quiet. They couldn't have survived for long in the freezing water. He turned to the officer. "Go back!" he ordered in his most commanding tone. "Go back and check for the living."Other men piped up, their eyes shifting back to where the ship had been.
The officer turned to them, his face stony. "It's of no use, they're in a better place now." He stated.
The Holmes stood up, the boat swayed a little. "Go back! Tether two lifeboats if need be, but do you want the lives of children, women, and men that could've been spared on your conscience?" his tone was so sharp it cut the night and the man winced.
It wasn't cold anymore; Sherlock supposed that was a bad thing, which meant he was probably dying or something. Dying was boring, so slow and guaranteed he didn't like that; there was no way to outsmart it.
"Round and round the garden like a teddy bear…" he said into the still blackness. He remembered that little nursery rhyme; his mother had used to sing it to him when he was younger. He had hated going to bed by himself and so she had given him warm milk and sung that silly little song and he had always drifted right off. Sherlock didn't remember much about his childhood but that memory; it had a special place in his mind. He should tell John. "John listen to this." He said huskily, beginning the song again.
John didn't answer and the detective chuckled. "Sorry, my singing voice is a little rusty at the moment." Still the doctor said nothing. Something was wrong. Sherlock tried to sit up and failed, instead he painfully turned his body to look at the man besides him. "John?" he asked.
John's chest was rising and falling still but his eyes were closed. Dread burned the detective's mind as he shook him once, twice, three times. "John!" he yelled as loud as he could, it echoed amongst the dead. "John wake up." The doctor was sleeping, it wouldn't be long.
Sherlock shook his head, trying to cry but his tears were freezing against his cheeks. "No," he rasped. "No, no no. John wake up, John come on the boats are just around the corner. John we've got to rent a flat together!" he lay there, trying to persuade the man to wake.
Mycroft watched the moon sink in the sky as the officer on his lifeboat ordered two others to rope together and go search for survivors. They obeyed and soon were off rowing towards the site.
The older Holmes watched with cold eyes as they turned flashlights on and began calling. "Helloooooo? Is anyone out there? Caaaaaan yoooou hear meeeee?" the other officer's voice bounced off the emptiness. They moved farther and farther through the mass of bodies and Mycroft closed his eyes.
There was nothing to worry about, Sherlock was safe.
The doctor's breath was more shallow that before. Time was running out. "John remember I have to tell you something!" he whispered. "I have to say those words when we're in New York." he was begging now.
"Hellooooooo?" a voice like an angel reached them across the water. Sherlock's head lifted, he smiled.
"John there's our rescue boat! They're coming for us, just hold on." He said to the other man, trying to extract his hand and raise it into the air to wave. "Here!" he tried to call out but it came out like a squeak.
He tried again. "Over here!" it was louder. The flashlight swept closer to them, he turned to grin at John. "HERE!" this one sounded closer to a shout. The light landed on him and they moved closer. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and dropped his hand, placing it back in the doctor's. "We're saved." He murmured.
John's chest wasn't rising and falling anymore. Sherlock nudged him again; his body was colder than before. "John come on, it's time to go." He insisted. The boat was close enough for the oars to stir the tabletop.
"Sir, come aboard." The man with the too bright light said. Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of John's face.
"John let's move, they're here." He was now slapping his face in earnest. The people in the boat were looking on, horror on their faces. The detective was trying to avoid drawing the logical conclusion, which was that John wasn't waking up because John was dead.
"Sir…" the officer tried again, the younger Holmes looked up at him.
"One moment!" he snarled. "I'm not leaving without him."
"We cannot take the dead aboard, we need to save the space for the survivors." The man replied. "We're sorry for your loss."
What loss? What were they talking about, John was alive, John was right there for God's sakes. He felt sturdy hands pull him from the tabletop. "John it's time to go now!" he yelled at the still man. "JOHN!" the hands tucking a blanket around him were burning hot, too warm. He squirmed away from them and rushed to the edge trying to grab the doctor.
There were words exchanged with the officer in charge and with a grim expression he looked at the frenzied face of the poor man they'd just rescued. "Alright, bring the dead on as well." He finally said.
Sherlock watched as they plucked John out of the water and set him down on the bench opposite. He rushed to his side and tried to cradle him as someone set a blanket over his doctor's face. He was crying, more than crying, Sherlock couldn't recall the last time he had sobbed in this manner.
Mycroft watched the boats make their way back as dawn broke the surface; he scanned the faces for anyone he knew. That's when he saw Sherlock.
Very much alive, but he had never seen someone so dead. A body with several blankets swathed around it was in his arms and his eyes were red as fat tears dribbled down his face. "Sherlock!" he called, trying to get his attention.
The man looked up, and his older brother sat back down as the other Holmes looked back down at the dead in his arms. Mycroft understood, it was Doctor Watson. The boat passed them and Sherlock nuzzled against the covered face and cried.
Sherlock was rubbing comforting circles into John's limp hand as they waited patiently for a ship to come and get them. Perhaps they would all die from the cold before anyone managed to come along. The detective didn't care anymore, how could he? John wasn't waking up, John was never waking up.
John was with Mike Stamford and Molly Hooper now.
The sun was rising and the warmth fell on his back pleasantly. He thought about all the things he could've done to save the man in his arms. He should've made sure he didn't fall asleep, he should've kept talking. Self-loathing tore at his insides; he peeled the blanket back and looked at John's face.
It was peaceful, for all he knew perhaps the man was pulling a big prank on him and would sit up and say "Just kidding Sherlock." Any second. A hint of a smile played on his lips, like he was trying not to laugh at something he heard that was funny. The detective wondered if he had heard him sing that nursery rhyme but had tried not to say anything for fear of hurting his feelings. It would've been something he would do.
"I'm sorry." He apologized, looking up to watch the sun rise on the Atlantic. He recalled a quote from Oscar Wilde he had read a long time ago… maybe all the way back to university They've promised us that dreams come true, but forgot that nightmares are dreams too. Sherlock Holmes took a shuddering breath and realized that this time yesterday he was waking up next the dead man in his arms. Those words he wanted to say to him, he might as well say them now, turning to his lover he pressed his lips to his forehead. "I love you."
On the horizon, the Carpathia was spotted, coming to retrieve them. They were saved.
Three hours Previous:
John was sleepy; he was listening to Sherlock hum away and thought about how soothing his lover's voice was. He knew what was coming, he was ready.
His heart was slowing down, hypothermia was probably twenty minutes from claiming his body all together but he wasn't scared anymore. It was so peaceful out on the calm sea with Sherlock right beside him. If he was going to die he was glad it was this way. The detective would miss him; he knew that and felt badly. He closed his eyes, breathing as deeply as he could.
"John listen to this." Sherlock said, he tried to smile but it froze on his lips. He couldn't summon the energy to reply. He was being shaken then; the taller man's words were drowned out by the overwhelming exhaustion he was feeling. It was a struggle to breathe; he didn't want to do it anymore.
A louder amplified voice was ringing through the haze of his jumbled mind. Lights illuminated the inside of his eyelids. "John," Sherlock's voice was clearer. "There's our rescue boat!"
Ah, at last. The doctor thought. Sherlock's safe, he's saved.
Then he let go. There was a distinct feel of having a second skin pulled from his body and it was painful only for a second. He was back on Titanic, in the Third Class dining room, dancing away without a care in the world. He was in Afghanistan, looking upon the bodies of the dead slaying in combat. He was a child playing in his mother's rose garden. He was in New York with Sherlock, kissing him, twining their hands together.
He was everywhere and nowhere, swimming away in those cold crisp stars forever. Content to watch everything that is and never was. He was a newborn; he was ten, twenty, sixty, and one hundred. Floating in the void.
Lost at sea.
AN: Well that's the final chapter, please let me know what you think. Review, and if you'd like an epilogue, let me know.
Love you all, Deanna.