Sherlock wrapped John in his coat, hands frantically reaching for his pulse. Erratic, but slowly coming back to normal. He would've performed CPR, but John was breathing, and he hadn't passed out from lack of oxygen anyway. His PTSD was manifesting itself again - the water...
"John, come on, wake up. Open your eyes, please. Please." he said hoarsely. He was vaguely aware that Rachel was doing the same with her son, but he had to wake John up first -
John spluttered a little and his eyes flew open.
"Oh, thank god - " Sherlock started, breathing a sigh of relief, but he didn't get very far.
"The boy, Sherlock, the boy!"
John quickly scrambled up and wrapped Noel in Rachel's coat, all panic forgotten. Well, if he's going all Doctor mode again, I suppose he's well enough, Sherlock thought. John frantically tried to revive Noel, and after a few seconds, Noel coughed water. Only when he was able to sit up and breathe properly did John rest easy.
Rachel leaned forward and wrapped her son in a hug.
"I'm so sorry, mom."
"No, I'm sorry. I should've noticed. I should've done something - "
"Please don't say that. It's not your fault."
She smiled weakly and hugged him tight again. "Thank you." she said to Sherlock and John, "Really. I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been there."
"Thanks." Noel said hoarsely. "Doctor Watson, I'm sorry you almost drowned because of me."
"Anytime - actually, no, I'd rather not do it again." John said.
"I'm not going to try anything like this ever again." Noel promised.
"If you ever get the urge to, ever again," Sherlock said softly, "You know where to find me. Well, I suppose I have everything I need. You two can go home if you'd so like - just show me the way to the hill where you camp." He turned to John, who was pulling Sherlock's coat tighter around himself, as if trying to melt into the fabric. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. I ruined your coat."
Sherlock shrugged. "I have more of those, but there's only one of you."
The hill was just as Noel had described it. From the summit, Sherlock could see the woods and the knoll of grassy land stretching away around it. The setting sun bathed the view in soft light, and the best part of it all was that there wasn't a soul around for miles. Except for, well, John, who was currently struggling to set up the tent.
"Hey, Picasso, if you're done judging the scenery, how about you help me with this tent?"
"You're a soldier. Surely you can do it on your own."
John glared at him, and he sighed and strode over to help. Out in the middle of nowhere with an angry army doctor for company - Sherlock wouldn't have had it any other way.
"No, Sherlock, don't - you're doing it wrong- for god's sake, don't pull that!"
Too late. A section of the tent collapsed and John groaned.
"I can't believe you don't have 'how to set up a tent' in your mind palace. That's basic information."
"You do it, then, if you're so clever."
"Fine. Stop bothering me and go unpack the sandwiches."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Countless sandwiches later (he could almost hear Mrs Hudson in his head; "I'm not your housekeeper! Oh, just this once, then"), John leaned back against the tent and sighed contentedly.
"I can see why this place is called Stargrounds. You can't see even half of these stars from London." he said to Sherlock, who was standing some distance away and squinting at the forest. Apparently dissatisfied, he turned and settled down beside John, shoulder to shoulder. They'd both been invading each other's private space a lot recently, but John didn't mind, of course. There was no point in pretending they were just platonic anymore.
"Do you believe in horoscopes, Sherlock?"
"Of course not. It's all part of mankind's wish to make everything revolve around them. The motion of stars is governed by gravity and possibly dark matter. The idea that they somehow align themselves for the insignificant events of human lives - it's a ridiculous notion."
"Well, you must've been a delight at campfire sing-alongs. Did anyone ever throw you into the bonfire?"
"Oh, believe me, they tried."
They sat in silence for a while, John's eyes tracing the familiar constellations, and he decided he'd have to bring Rosie here someday. His view was blocked when Sherlock turned to sit cross-legged in front of him, looking rather hesitant.
"John, there are...things...I've been meaning to ask you."
"Ask away." he said, heart definitely thumping a little faster. Goddammit, John, every single time.
"I've been thinking, and putting the pieces together - you're not obliged to tell me anything, of course, but - you remember our meeting with Moriarty by the pool?"
"Yes."
"When I ripped your coat off, you stumbled away - but you didn't distance yourself from the explosives. You were trying to get away from the pool. Today, the water triggered your PTSD. Eurus chose to drown you, and I doubt it was just for metaphorical value. But you don't just have hydrophobia. It's something more complex."
John stiffened. He could see what Sherlock was driving at.
"When we met Ajay in Morocco, you remember what he told us about his captors -"
But they took me, they tortured me.
" - I watched you. I saw your reaction. You dropped your head into your hands, like you couldn't bear to listen, and almost curled up as if to protect yourself."
Not for information. Not for anything except fun.
"What really happened in Afghanistan? And I'm not talking about your shoulder wound or that psychosomatic limp."
John should've figured that Sherlock would read him like an open book. He had never told anyone about it - not even his therapists, not even Mary. He knew it was the wrong approach, but he figured that if he never spoke about it, he wouldn't have to deal with it. He didn't want their patronizing pity, because they wouldn't understand. They didn't know. Them saying "I'm sorry" wouldn't make the nightmares go away.
But Sherlock knew. He didn't strut around the apartment naked anymore, but sometimes John glimpsed the scars on his back - scars that certainly hadn't existed before his 2-year long solo mission. John didn't ask about them - perhaps he didn't want to invade Sherlock's privacy, perhaps he was scared they'd trigger his own memories. Sherlock wouldn't pity and mollycoddle him. He'd move on, accepting John the way he was. So John swallowed, looked up and tried to speak.
"I - you know what, no. I can't. You already know it. You say it."
"You were a hostage in Afghanistan -"
John found his voice. "Waterboarding. That's how they tortured me."
"Waterboarding - that's when they cover your face with a cloth and - "
"Yes, I am perfectly aware, thank you very much."
Sherlock took John's hand, interlacing their fingers and raising his eyebrows as if in question. John squeezed back. The world was swimming again and the physical contact was his only anchor.
"And yet you jumped into the water today. You're a strong man, John Watson."
John looked at Sherlock then, registering the concern on his face, and everything stabilised a little. A lump rose in his throat. Sherlock was always so gentle with him. He didn't deserve this - any of this - to be sitting here on a moonlit night, holding Sherlock's hand, talking about his pain and his problems and being listened to. He didn't deserve Sherlock's care and attention and whatever the tender gleam in his changeable eyes was.
"I'm not as strong or as brave as you think I am." he said, voice hoarse as he struggled to rein in the emotion, "Or I wouldn't have done this."
Sherlock's expression changed to one of confusion, but it dissolved instantly when John's thumb brushed his lip. The scar from the morgue was still there.
Sherlock's voice trembled slightly when he spoke. "I thought we were past that."
"How could we be, when I didn't even bother to apologize? I'm sorry. Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I don't know how I could've - "
"It's okay. You were grieving - "
"- and I took it out on you. No, it's not okay, not even remotely. Don't you see? I hurt you. Not just because I hit you, but because I shut you out when you were just trying to help. You ended up in a hospital because of me. Not even Moriarty could send you to the hospital - "
"To be fair, that was my own doing - "
"No, stop. Just stop it. Stop blaming yourself. I was wrong. Mary's death was never your fault. But when she died, I pinned all my guilt on you and - I am so sorry."
"Guilt?" Sherlock asked softly.
He still doesn't know, John thought. Maybe it had something to do with their utter isolation, or the fact that Sherlock's face was so close to his that he could almost count his eyelashes - but suddenly he needed Sherlock to know how much he regretted it. Sherlock needed to know how much John cared about him, that he had spent almost every waking moment of the past few years loving him. Just for a moment, he didn't care about the fact that this would change everything.
"Yes, guilt." he said, and brushed his lips against Sherlock's, the momentary contact somehow enough to set his nerves aflame. He pulled away to see Sherlock looking utterly devastated, a mixture of shock and uncertainty on his face.
"Oh."
"I told you. Because I wanted more, and I still do."
"I - oh."
"I would rather go back to Afghanistan than hurt a hair on your head ever again. Forgive me, Sherlock, please."
In answer, Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's and kissed him.
So this was it.
Kissing John Watson.
The stars didn't explode, the earth didn't break open, but time seemed to stop. In that moment, Sherlock didn't care about the Golem or Eurus or even Moriarty - all that mattered was that John Watson was here, and he was kissing him, and John was kissing back. Sherlock had dreamed up various variants of John's lips over the years, but nothing even came close to the real thing. Soft, slightly chapped, shea butter balm, he stored.
But what awed him the most was that it was John who was with him right now, steady, warm John. John who softly nipped his lower lip and lightly trailed a finger down his cheek. It was a completely chaste kiss, but he hadn't been kissed this tenderly by anyone in years, and certainly not when it mattered.
John drew away, looking a lot more composed than Sherlock currently felt. "Does this mean you forgive me, then?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Make a deduction."
He was glad for the moonlight and the way it illuminated John's face - his blonde hair, his sparkling eyes, the small smile as Sherlock tentatively reached out to touch his face. He grabbed a handful of Sherlock's shirt - but softly, gently, like he had all the time in the world - and pulled him down for another kiss.
The next morning, John woke up to find himself alone in the tent. Sherlock's sleeping bag hadn't even been unrolled. He stretched, and the events of the previous night came back to him - kissing Sherlock. Sherlock kissing back. More kissing and staring, until John had finally giggled, pulled away and said he needed to sleep.
What am I doing? he thought now. My wife hasn't even been dead a year and I'm already kissing someone else. The man I've loved for years - but that doesn't change anything…does it?
Where will Sherlock want to go from here? Where do I want to go from here? How will this even work?
He found Sherlock sitting outside the tent, drinking tea from a thermos. He didn't even look at John - just handed him the thermos. Bad sign?
"Did you sleep at all last night?" John asked.
"No, I kept watch. It was futile - no funny business around here. Shall we pack up?"
They packed, making idle chatter about sandwiches and binoculars. In the broad daylight, it almost seemed as if the previous night could've been a dream. John was half-inclined to believe that it was. Sherlock was his usual cranky self, until he let out a long sigh and stopped to survey John, cocking one eyebrow quizzically.
"If you want to pretend that nothing happened…" John started. He didn't even know what to think. Sherlock liked him romantically - he'd always stopped himself from fantasizing about this, wanting to save himself the pain of knowing that it would never happen. As a result, he'd never actually thought about what he would do in a situation like this.
Sherlock's face was inscrutable. "No, I just thought that maybe you would need some...time."
"Yes, I think that would be for the best."
"Of course. Just so you know - I won't change my mind about you. I can't. So you take your time."
"Thanks, Sherlock." He turned away, but turned back almost instantly. There was no use hiding anything. It was too late - had been much too late for a while now. "For what's it worth, neither can I. Especially not after yesterday."
The hopeful glint in Sherlock's eyes was the only reply he needed.
A/N: I fangirled so much while writing this :')
So I was wondering if any of you would be interested in making some cover art for this fic. I can't draw for the life of me, and I know there are some crazily talented artists out there. Fanart, edits, manips - anything works. I'd really appreciate it. If you can help, please message me on Tumblr (usuallynotusual) or Twitter (snowflake3799)