They both stood in silence for a full minute. John leaned unconsciously back into Sherlock's chest and felt the detective's arms hold tight for a few heartbeats, then slip away. At that moment, John wanted nothing more than to have Sherlock hold him like that forever. The thought of moving forward into the grisly murder-suicide scene ahead made John suddenly tired beyond reason. Another shocking murder, another senseless death, but now… A slow realization hit John that the man, the evil entity known as Moriarty, lay dead on the slippery deck of a yacht caught in a storm on the high seas. They were trapped in the middle of the same raging storm, and he certainly didn't know a damn thing about navigating a boat this (or any) size. His military training had never prepared him for this turn of events and Sherlock didn't seem like the type who often went sailing. Who knew, somewhere in his mind palace he might have a working knowledge of ships or boats or yachts.
Sherlock seemed to be taking his cue from John and stayed behind him until he felt ready to move forward. The doctor in him needed to check to see if Wells had managed to survive his bullet to the brain. He didn't think survival was a high probability, but he had to check. He squared his shoulders and tucked his chin down into his chest to keep out as much of the pelting water as he could. This side of the deck had no shelter from the driving storm. The two bodies on deck shifted with the upward and downward movement of the ocean. John noticed that the wind had picked up, and the waves now looked huge and turbulent. Some of the swells resembled mountains that could take the little boat out at any second.
"John!" Sherlock yelled behind him. "We need to get to the engine room. We have to try to get this boat back to safety."
"Just let me…" John tried to shout over the wind and started forward again toward the two bodies. Sherlock grabbed a hold of his jacket, and together they braved the gale and moved toward the prostrate forms. With a lot of pulling, and grabbing hold of stationary items on deck, they finally made it to Wells' body. John could find no pulse. The gun had made a mess of the back of the man's head, but his face was untouched.
He turned his attention to the other figure. Moriarty had to be dead, John thought. The number of bullets he'd taken to the head left no room for doubt. But John stumbled on hands and knees toward the mangled body. He lifted one wrist, pushing down a sense of revulsion at having to touch Moriarty's corpse, and found no flutter of life. He let the wrist fall limply back to the deck.
He saw the door to the small engine cabin behind Wells and motioned for Sherlock to help him get to the door. He didn't care if the wind and waves washed both the dead bodies overboard at this point. Doomsday threatened them both if they didn't get this boat to safer waters.
They slipped across the deck; the ship had begun to tilt dangerously, and finally made it to the engine room. John and Sherlock shouldered their way inside and closed the door against the relentless elements. At least, they could hear each other in the small room. A small heater and defroster worked steadily in the space, and John relished in it's warmth. He felt much better in the warm cabin. Sherlock shook water droplets from his dark curls, and began looking over the instruments that controlled the yacht.
John felt desperation hit him as he looked at the gleaming dials and panels. They meant nothing to him. Sherlock seemed to have found the switch for the radio and was toggling it back and forth. "He's disabled it, John," Sherlock said, worry leaching into his voice. We're out here on our own now."
The ship lurched to the left, and they had to hold on to the panels to keep from falling. A small notebook fell off the small shelf just above the radio. John picked it up hoping for instructions of some kind and found a note from Wells on the inside of the front page.
"To John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. Well, gents, if you are reading this, I'm probably dead. Sorry about leaving you in such a bad spot. I've disabled the radio and GPS tracking device, but you can turn it back on. There's instructions on the inside panel, just follow them. Call for help."
W.
John passed the note over to Sherlock, who read it carefully. He then knelt under the radio and opened the panel. There were written instructions. He read them quickly, then stood up surveying the disabled radio. He plugged in a few wires, flipped some switches, and the radio lit up. John breathed easier when he saw the power light and gave Sherlock's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. They just might make it out of this, he thought and then heard a distinctive electronic sizzle. The smell of burnt rubber and cooked ozone filled the air of the cabin. The radio panel went dark, and John looked into Sherlock's dazed expression. That obviously wasn't supposed to happen.
"What did you do?" John couldn't help shouting. "Sherlock! That radio was our only hope."
Sherlock sank to his knees with a look of utter dejection on his face. "I don't know. I followed the instructions."
"Let me see," John knelt beside him and opened the panel back up. The ship lurched again forcing John almost into Sherlock's lap. He read the printed instructions for resetting the radio and looked at the internal wires of the ship's radio. A small curl of smoke issued from the interior. He went through the directions step by step and retraced each connection. He pressed all the correct buttons and got nothing from the radio.
He huffed in frustration. "I think it's fried. Wells might have damaged it when he disabled it. Can we use the engine to get us out of this?"
"I'm afraid to try," Sherlock said. "I blew up the radio."
"Don't you have "sail a ship or boat or whatever" in your mind palace? John asked verging on hysteria. Outside, the storm raged as if it would never end.
"No," Sherlock said giving him one of his patented "don't be an idiot" eye rolls. "I don't."
They were dead in the water. Without the engines, they would drift aimlessly on the ocean. Do you have any idea where Wells put our phones? Maybe they are in here somewhere. John began a frantic search for their phones. He pulled open every drawer and cabinet in the little room but came up with nothing. The ship tossed them again, and a flash of lightening went off almost on top of them.
"Christ, that was close," John swore.
Sherlock had regained his feet and once more poured over the engine controls. I do believe this may…" he pressed a button, turned a key and John heard the engines power up.
"Thank God!" he said.
Sherlock grabbed one of three leavers on the panel and pushed it forward. The ship surged forward and almost knocked John off balance. "We're moving," Sherlock said dryly. "I have no idea where to go, but we can move forward until we get to calmer waters, at least." Sherlock took his hand away from the leaver and checked a few dials for readings. He grabbed hold of a steering wheel and said," I'll keep her on this heading until we get out of it. No sense in going around in circles."
It wasn't much of a plan, but John felt better trying to do something about their situation. One of the gauges showed what John suspected was the amount of fuel the tank had left. It read full. The boat had been built before everything had turned digital and still had old –fashioned dials. At least he could read them.
"Looks like we've got a plenty of fuel," John said tapping the dial. "One thing going our way, finally. Full speed ahead, Captain," John said and then grinned. They weren't dead yet. They would either get out of this storm or perish at sea. They would be in interesting company, to say the least. John looked out and noticed Wells' body had slipped perilously close to the railing. One good wave would wash him overboard. Moriarty's corpse hadn't moved much, but John couldn't be arsed to care. They should probably make an attempt to preserve the body for Mycroft's team. He would worry about it if they got through this storm.
Sherlock followed John's gaze and noticed the two bodies still flopping around on deck. "He's dead, then," John said putting a hand on Sherlock's arm. "How are you doing with that?"
"I find I don't have any feeling at all right at the moment. I know I should care more. A few minutes ago, I contemplated wringing his neck with my own hands. I wanted to, for all the pain he'd caused us…especially you, John. I'm happy he's gone," Sherlock finished. Two swivel stools connected to the floor with thick bolts stood near the engine controls. Sherlock slumped into one of them. He kept his eyes down as he spoke about Moriarty and John felt a twinge of guilt. Sherlock had wanted to strangle a man for hurting him, and John couldn't help but feel responsible, in part.
"Do you think it's over? I mean his network, all his connections? Is it over?" John asked carefully.
"Mostly," Sherlock answered. "The stronghold in Australia was one of his last. This boat very surely constituted his final escape plan. He'd been nearing the end of his resources when Mycroft tracked him to Australia. His health had surely occupied him more than we knew; his injuries were extensive and costly to repair," Sherlock replied. "John, I think we should go out and get his body. We'll need some proof he's dead, even if it's just to prove to his associates he's gone."
John sighed, "All right, let's go out and bring him in."
They braved another foray into the storm, leaving the warm cabin and re-crossing the deck. Sherlock had found a rope in stowed in a cabinet and used it as an anchor to keep them from being swept away. It turned out; Moriarty's pants had snagged on a protruding bolt, and they had to rip him free before dragging him inside. They'd just managed to shut the door again when a huge wave crashed over the deck drenching everything. John noticed Wells' body no longer hovered near the railings. It had disappeared.
Panting from the exertions, John and Sherlock pushed the body into a heap as far away as they could get it in the small room. Most of the blood had washed away in the rain and Moriarty lay face down. John found a folded piece of canvas and drew it over the body with a sigh. He sat dejectedly on the other stool staring out at the endless sea.
Sherlock kept a watchful eye on the horizon and continued to steer them away from the storm.
"Look, John," Sherlock said a sliver of hope catching in his voice. "A clear spot. To the right."
John looked, and sure enough, the clouds weren't as thick in that direction. "Let's head over there," he said.
It worked. As they headed for clearer skies, the storm subsided, and the ship steadied out. John had begun to feel the tug of seasickness from the constant motion and gratefully thanked the sea gods for the smoother sailing. They managed to stay out of the storm's path for almost an hour, and John relished the thought they might have reached safety.
"Thank you, Sherlock," John said after they'd sat in silence for almost a half hour in tense anticipation.
"For what?" Sherlock asked looking at him steadily.
"For keeping me from charging out to Wells. I wasn't thinking. You probably saved my life."
Sherlock smiled and said, "Of course, John. I wasn't about to lose you to a grieving madman any more than I'd wanted to lose you to Moriarty."
John returned the smile feeling one of those genuine moments from "before" creeping over him. He felt that after all that had happened during the last few weeks, he might be able to trust Sherlock again. It felt like something they could arrive at together, given time.
"I'm very glad you were there at St. Pete's," John said. "I don't know why, be we work better together than apart. God knows I still care about you. I don't think I ever really stopped caring about you. Even when I tried living in the states. I used to dream about you, did you know that" John asked.
"You did?" Sherlock responded. "I used to think about you every day. I hoped you were all right. I hoped you were happy."
"I was for a while," John said. "I tried it on for size, but Tara and I both knew it wasn't for me. She let me go and I'll always be grateful for her and Tommy. But, I needed to come back. Now I know why. I had to come back to you."
Sherlock kept his gaze straight ahead. He didn't say anything so John kept doggedly on,"But, we've been through a lot, eh? We might be nearing am end to this game, finally?"
"As far as I'm concerned, it is over, John. I'm not willing to play anymore. Your life is far too precious to gamble with," Sherlock said.
"And you, Sherlock. You are worth a hundred James Moriartys, a thousand. You will have to forgive yourself for all that happened when he had you."
"John," Sherlock said looking at him, "I don't know if I can forgive myself. I did such awful things."
"I know what he did to you, Sherlock. You made up for it by stopping him. You had him beat. You got away from him, and that's the important part. There was a time I thought you two might be made for each other. The way you delighted in every puzzle he put before you."
Sherlock hung his head and sighed deeply. He placed one large hand on the leg of his dark trousers rubbing it back and forth. "He did fascinate me, for a time. But you…John. You've always been my north star. You've always been far more fascinating at anyone else has ever been. After I had met you, I knew I could never really let you go. I'm sorry I'm so-."
"Sherlock," John said covering one of the detective's hands with his own. Sherlock immediately stopped rubbing his leg and looked up at John, hope cautiously peeking through his expression. It made John's heart do a little loop before resuming a regular beat. That small peep of hope did unexpected things to his stomach and his resolve. For all his power and intelligence, Sherlock simply wanted to be with him, forever apparently. John had only to turn his head to the left to find proof that Sherlock ultimately choose him over the mad. criminal mastermind. Even after Moriarty's death, Sherlock only had eyes, and heart for him. He hadn't even seemed to care about the corpse in the corner. Maybe the shock of it might settle in, but for now, it seemed Sherlock had moved on. Perhaps he was ready to come back into the world and be the good man John knew he could be.