Chapter the Seventh

A shout is halfway out of John's mouth by the time he hears the splash. Without a moment's thought, he tears off his blazer, rushes to the edge of the rock, and dives in.

The shock of the icy water nearly jerks the breath out of his lungs, but he barely notices the cold penetrating his body, he's so focused on Sherlock Sherlock where's Sherlock save Sherlock where the hell is he?

He forces his eyes open despite the sting of the salt water and peers desperately through the cloudy dimness all around him. There are a few dark, solid shapes that can only be rocks, and oh god these waves are strong and what if Sherlock's brain is getting dashed out against one of those rocks and shit why didn't John stop him? It's taking all his strength to keep the vicious current from slamming him straight into the rocks; skinny Sherlock might already be broken over them.

And then he sees it: a flash of blue, glimmering out of the grey depths. Automatically, he dives towards it, ignoring the searing in his lungs and the numbness spreading through his fingers. And sure enough, there's Sherlock, struggling desperately against his scarf, which has somehow gotten trapped between two rocks. His efforts are growing weaker, his fingers fumbling uselessly with the knot at his throat as the current slams him mercilessly against the rocks.

Without a thought, John slides himself between Sherlock and the rocks, bearing the brunt of the current as it smashes Sherlock into him and him into the rocks. Ignoring the pain blooming across his back, he reaches around Sherlock and quickly unknots the scarf, which swirls off into the depths in a flash of blue. Wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thin waist, John kicks harder than he's ever kicked, propelling them upwards like a missile until they break the surface with an enormous splash.

Gasping desperately for air, John paddles his way through the waves with one arm, the other still wrapped tightly around Sherlock's limp body. With a grunt of effort, John heaves Sherlock up onto the flat rock and climbs up after him. He manages to drag that still, skinny form out into the middle of the rock, well out of the reach of the grasping waves.

Breath catching in his throat, he kneels over Sherlock, his mind racing. A hundred confused thoughts swirl through his brain, but foremost among them is Sherlock isn't breathing.He considers CPR, chest compressions, and—his mind falters slightly here but presses onwards regardless—mouth-to-mouth. Swallowing hard, he leans down, clasps one hand over the other, and gives Sherlock's chest an experimental push.

With something between a cough, a wheeze, and a splutter, Sherlock expels an inordinate amount of seawater from his mouth and breathes in with an enormous gasp. Coughing violently, he rolls over onto his stomach and heaves himself up onto his elbows while John sits back on his heels, trying to ignore the relief replacing the heavy, cold feeling that's been growing in his chest.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," he groans in exasperation, reaching down and pushing the boy's sopping hair out of his face. "Are you alright?"

"Working on it," Sherlock grunts between coughs. He's still spitting out large quantities of seawater, and what with what's dripping off both their sodden clothes, they're sitting in their very own tide pool. Shaking his head, John pushes back his own waterlogged hair and allows himself a small, wet cough. Altogether too much salt water managed to find its way into his mouth and lungs when he was fighting his way through those churning waves.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demands, but the heat of the statement is kind of undermined by the way his teeth are chattering. "We could have both been drowned!"

"You saved me," Sherlock says weakly, and when he raises his head his blue eyes are fixed squarely on John. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he coughs faintly and adds, "Bit of a shame about the scarf, though. I liked that color."

"Oh, shut up!" John exclaims, but they're both laughing. "You're absolutely mad," he gasps, wiping seawater out of his eyes. "Completely barking."

"Good thing I keep you around, then," Sherlock smiles, and for a moment John forgets that he's wet and exhausted and it feels like there are icicles coming out of his nose because Sherlock issmilingat him with enough warmth to bring the feeling back into all his fingers and toes. And then John remembers that he has a girlfriend, for god's sake, and what the hell does he care if Sherlock smiles at him?

"Let's get you back to the castle," he says gruffly, but he can't keep a trace of kindness out of his voice. Slinging an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, he helps him to his feet and lets the taller boy lean on him as they make their slippery way back to the steps. At some point it's started to rain, and the steps are doubly treacherous when there's water on them and in John's eyes. Somehow, however, they manage to make it to the top without any mishaps, and there begins the long, wet, windy trek back to the castle.

But somehow it's a bit more bearable with Sherlock's comforting weight beside him and Sherlock's breath brushing the side of his face and Sherlock's warmth seeping through the layers of his wet clothes. Sherlock talks all the way back to the castle (formulating plans for further expeditions to observe marine life, to which John half-heartedly agrees while making a mental note never to allow Sherlock anywhere near the sea ever again), and by the time they get inside, any traces of irritation lingering in John's stomach have disappeared.

John misses his next class because the nurse in the infirmary insists on examining him as well as Sherlock, who managed to fracture his ankle against one of the rocks (and walked all the way back to the castle without saying a thing about it, which prompts some rather angry words from John). The next morning, John wakes up with some pretty spectacular bruises and a sore throat, and then proceeds to come down with a mild cold just in time for the weekend. He does his best to be angry with Sherlock, but the boy stays in his room with him and brings him cups of tea from the refectory until he can't quite bring himself to be upset anymore.

-
It's just a few days later that it happens. Afterwards, John supposes that he should have seen it coming; he's barely spoken to Sarah at all in the last week or so, his time being consumed as it is by class, football, and Sherlock. Besides, as much as he hates to admit it, he's sort of come to dread their Skype conversations, which have lately become less fun and giggles and I miss youand more long, awkward pauses and avoiding eye contact and so…what did you do today?It's barely been a month since he left and they've already run out of things to say. And it frustrates him like no other, because he still gets those same old butterflies whenever he sees her face, still smiles whenever he thinks of her, still misses her. But he can feel her drifting away from him, and deep down he's worried that she feels the same.

But, somehow, it still comes as a surprise when he opens up his laptop, turns on his webcam, and sends her a video chat request—and she denies it.

Sarah?he types stupidly, unsure of what exactly to say. There are, of course, dozens of reasons why she should decline his chat request: perhaps she's got friends or family over, or maybe she's just about to go out, or maybe she's got loads of schoolwork and no time to talk. But the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach tells him that there's something else going on.

hi john, she says, and for a moment his heart leaps because this doesn't seem off. This is perfectly normal. And then he notices that she doesn't correctly capitalize her words, and oh godthat's so annoying and why didn't he notice it before? Frowning, he decides that Sherlock is rubbing off on him a bit too much and turns his attention to the message Sarah has just sent.

i don't want to video chat,she writes, and John thinks well, obviously but pushes the thought to the back of his mind. i just want to tell you something.

OK, go for it,he writes back, chewing his lower lip anxiously. It's probably nothing; it might even be good news. Who knows? Maybe she's coming to visit him, or maybe she's won something at school, or maybe she's getting a new dog—

i don't think this is working.

The words appear suddenly on his screen, hanging harshly at the forefront of his eyeballs like someone scratched them there. I don't think this is working.

Numbly, he reaches forward and types, What do you mean?

There's a pause, in which he just sort of stares blankly at the computer screen, the words cycling endlessly through his brain. I don't think this is working I don't think this is working I don't think working think is this I don't working don't think—

i can't handle a long-distance relationship, she writes. John blinks slowly at the words until more appear.

we never see each other, and you're never even online anymore. we never talk, and when we do its awkward. we don't have anything to talk about anymore.

It's, it's,John thinks in some distant part of his brain that sounds vaguely like Sherlock. A somewhat nearer part of his brain demands to know why he's fussing about punctuation at a time like this. The foremost part of his brain is still focusing on the chat window, which is quickly filling up with more messages from Sarah.

i want to go out with someone else. you should too.

Thanks for the advice,he thinks bitterly, but his hands refuse to move from where they're clenched in his lap. He thinks he should type something, anything, but the words just won't come.

i've got to go now. i'm sorry. i'll see you this summer or something.

And with that, she logs out.

John stares at the computer screen for a few long, silent moments, trying to process what's just happened. Sarah just broke up with him. That's what happened. That actually happened. And now he feels…well, mostly just sort of numb. Like it hasn't quite sunk in yet. Vaguely, he wonders how he'll feel when it does. There's an odd question lingering in the back of his mind: does he even love Sarah anymore? He certainly knows he used to, but it was easy to when she was there to hold his hand and smile at him and laugh at his dumb jokes and snog him through bad movies at the local cinema.

But from far away, it's been…well, it's been really hard, and quite frankly he's lost his infatuation with her without her soft hair and easy grin and sweet girl-smell to keep the feeling fresh. If he's being honest with himself, it's been days since he even thought of her. But, somehow, that doesn't make this any less…well, he's just been dumped. Over Skype. At some point, whenever his brain decides to resume its proper function, this is going to hurt.

Slowly, he reaches out and closes the lid of his laptop. Moving like a sleepwalker, he pushes back his chair, gets up from his desk, and moves towards the door of his room. He hasn't the faintest idea of where he wants to go, but his feet automatically turn left and take him down the deserted hallway to Sherlock's door.

"The door's unlocked," Sherlock calls, just as he did on John's very first night here. The boy has an uncanny knack for sensing John's presence outside his room; he's never once knocked on this door.

Still moving as if in a dream, John turns the doorknob and steps into the room, which is dim but for the blue evening sunlight that filters in through the lone window and gives the room an eerie, underwater feeling. Sherlock, as usual, is perched on his windowsill with a cigarette in one hand, his crutches leaning against the wall beside him. His booted foot knocks gently against the windowsill, tapping out a subtle rhythm that falters as he looks up and sees John's face.

"John, are you…?" Sherlock trails off as if he doesn't quite know how to finish the question. Ordinarily, John would be sort of chuffed about managing to confound Sherlock Holmes, but as it is he's just sort of standing mutely in the center of the room while Sherlock inspects his face searchingly.

And then, out of the blue, Sherlock says, "Sarah broke up with you, didn't she?"

John is instantly overwhelmed with the sudden urge to punch the skinny boy's lights out, but he's all the way across the room and already crippled besides, so John just settles for delivering a vicious kick to Sherlock's bedstead. The entire frame jolts backwards, the headboard hitting the wall with a surprisingly loud thud. Without a word, John slumps down onto the mattress, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his foot. In the future, he notes, he should probably choose softer things to kick.

After a long, long silence, Sherlock says, "Could you pass me my violin case, please? It's on the floor beside the bed." His voice sounds strange, almost gentle, but that could just be the strange, distant quality that all sound seems to have acquired.

Sitting up, John picks up the elegant black case and passes it over to Sherlock, who stubs his cigarette out on the windowsill and sets the case down in his lap. Letting a long breath out through his nose, John flops back down and resumes staring dully at the ceiling overhead. After a moment or two, the faint sounds of a violin being tuned fill the room. John shuts his eyes as the first strains of a Debussy sonata slip into his ears like warm water. It's not long before his overwhelmed mind starts to shut down, and in a matter of minutes he's fast asleep.

-
It's dark by the time he wakes up, but apart from that and the alarm clock showing one AM, the room is exactly as it was when he closed his eyes. The violin case is sitting on the windowsill next to Sherlock, who is still blowing smoke out into the night, the red glow of his cigarette ember reflecting in his liquid eyes and lending the faintest rosy cast to his cheekbones.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says quietly as John sits up and swings his legs off the bed. John makes a mental note to remember this moment for all eternity as the time that Sherlock Holmes actually apologized to him. Unfortunately, he's a bit too exhausted at the moment to rejoice properly.

"S'alright," John grunts, rubbing his eyes and putting off standing up, not quite wanting to relinquish the softness of Sherlock's mattress just yet. "Sorry about your bed."

"It's still intact," Sherlock shrugs, his cigarette ember carving an elegant streak through the air. There's a brief pause before he says, somewhat awkwardly, "You can sleep here if you like."

"I should get back to my own room," John sighs, trying to hide the reluctance in his voice. "Lestrade may not believe that I fell asleep in the library a secondtime."

"As you wish," Sherlock nods, turning to look out into the cloudy night. John stands up and turns to go but pauses, his eyes lingering on Sherlock's half-shadowed face.

"D'you want help?" John asks rather clumsily, the words fighting their way through his sleep-thick mouth. "Getting back to your bed, I mean."

Hidden in the words is a plea to sleep, Sherlock, please. John's not sure if Sherlock hears it, but for one reason or another, after a moment's consideration he nods.

"If you don't mind," Sherlock says awkwardly, stubbing out his cigarette and pushing himself to the inner edge of the windowsill. "These crutches are such a bloody nuisance."

"Good thing you've got me, then," John smiles slightly, and he dares to imagine that Sherlock smiles a little too as he puts his arm around John's shoulders and gingerly lowers himself off the windowsill. Putting a steadying arm around Sherlock's waist, John helps the taller boy limp across the room before gently lowering him onto the bed. He stands there for a moment looking at him, all those sharp planes and angles turned to quicksilver in the faint moonlight leaking in through the window. Sherlock pushes himself up on his elbows and looks up at John, eyes shining with something that he can't quite decipher but doesn't really think is just moonlight.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock says softly, and before John knows what's happening he's utterly overwhelmed by the urge to lean down and press close to that skinny body, to climb onto that bed and straddle those jutting hips and…

He turns away, breath coming a bit quicker than it should. "Don't mention it," he mumbles hurriedly, practically scrambling to get away from the bed. He's overtired, that's all. Exhausted and overwhelmed and emotional and…odd. He's gone a bit funny in the head. It's far, far too early in the morning for rational thought.

"Good night," Sherlock calls after him as he reaches the door and pulls it open. He means to reply, he really does, but instead he just slips out into the hallway and pulls the door closed behind him. Maybe he's just imagining things, but it seems like Sherlock's hurt silence follows him all the way back to his own room.

It takes him a very long time to fall back asleep.

AN: Hullo again, it's me! Once again, sorry about the ridiculously long update gap. I always seem to forget to post new chapters. Anyway, hope you enjoyed finally having that cliffhanger resolved. Be lovely and leave me reviews! 3