"Come here," John said and opened his arms. Sherlock inhaled a short, sharp breath and leaned into John's embrace. They were both damp and smelled of ocean but John didn't care. He embraced Sherlock warmly and fully. Sherlock's long arms wrapped around his shoulders and crossed over his back. Even though Sherlock was taller and had to bend down a little, he pressed the side of his face into John's coat and breathed deep. John rubbed Sherlock's long, lean back gently and held him for the space of a long moment. He embraced Sherlock until he felt the tension leave his frame and his breathing evened out then, he held on a moment more.
When he let go and pulled back, he looked into Sherlock's eyes and smiled. The time had come. John could see the open question in Sherlock's eyes, "Will you forgive me?" they asked. "I love you," they said and, " I'm inexpressibly sorry," they told him.
"Yes, Sherlock, I do forgive you," John whispered. "I do forgive you. I want to come back, if I can."
"You can always come back, John," Sherlock said and cupped one of John's cheeks thumb gently rubbing back and forth as he spoke.
John didn't mind the touching, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the gentle sensation. It felt comforting and without thinking John reached his own hand around to the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him into a kiss. Everything fell away from them both. The roar of the ship's engines, the gentle rocking of the waves, and the uneasy presence of Moriarty's corpse ceased to matter. Of course their first real kiss would be under conditions like these. But, what did John know of love's lonely and austere offices. During his life, love had found him under some of the oddest circumstances. It had once pounced on him at a school dance from across a crowded room of teenagers when he'd looked across the gym floor at a girl he'd known since primary school and seen her in a perfect strapless dress. He thought he had had found him at the back of a crowded pub in the form of a barmaid who'd dumped a pint of biter on him in a vain attempt to serve several drunken rugby team members who wouldn't stop singing. And finally, he thought he'd met "the one" when a beautiful schoolteacher with an adorable son entered his life and almost stole his heart. Each of these moments felt like love to him at the time, shocking, all encompassing, overwhelming.
However, this time when love pronounced itself, it felt like no other time before it. How could he feel perfect friendship, betrayal, hatred, compassion and passion all at once? It drove a bright, burning point right into his heart during that kiss and left him breathless. He poured every bit of how he felt about Sherlock of into that one physical act. He turned his head to the left, opened his lips and poured all of what he had only begun to realize about this love into the man he would never be able to forget or leave or stay away from. There had never been a kiss like this one in John's life, and chances were, he'd never have one like it again. It felt like coming home to a place he always knew was there but couldn't quite reach until now.
Sherlock received it all from him. He opened to John and took every nuance, every fiery barb, every loving caress and a moan wrenched from him as he held John close and kissed him back. He felt it all. John pushed everything he had into that kiss and Sherlock understood, finally, what John wanted him to know. He'd forgiven him, he accepted him and wanted him. Something had changed between them, some irrevocable key had been turned unlocking what had lurked there from the beginning. John loved him back! Sherlock felt it now, understood it, marveled at it. John loved him back.
The kiss ended. John took his turn at needing comfort and pressed his cheek into the detective's shoulder. Sherlock held him tightly and ran long-fingered hands through his hair. They stayed that way for a while just breathing together, watching through the boat's windows as the sky lightened and the waters calmed.
They broke apart finally. John sighed and then smiled warily. "Yep," he said. "I think that did it." He'd felt a warm bubble burst inside him and he felt better than he had since he'd decided to leave the States. This was the right choice. They belonged together. Whatever came next, John would be there for Sherlock. The detective wasn't broken, but he had changed. John could see it in the way he moved, the way he spoke and the way he looked at John. His arrogance, once his defining characteristic, now melted into a calmer maturity. The things he'd done in the past two years now defined him in a new way. John knew things would be different this time.
Sherlock, for his part, watched John intently as he took off his jacket and folded it neatly on the back of a stool. The tiny cabin had grown overwarm. He said, "I want you to know, you're welcome back at Baker Street any time. Mrs. Hudson still has it ready for me, us. She's never let it out to anyone else."
"Thank you, I'll consider it," John said. "It might do me good to move out of my mum's place. I hate putting her in danger and if I'm there, she will be."
"I think we'll all be able to breathe a little easier now, John," Sherlock said flicking his gaze over to the body in the corner. "I want us both to find our way back, if we can."
"We can," John said and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's cold ones. He laid his other hand over them to warm them up. Sometime in the last few minutes, John had already come to the decision that he wanted to come back. He was glad Sherlock had asked. "We need to get out this mess first, though, yeah?"
"Yeah." Sherlock said hunched down to the destroyed radio. "I'm going to try with this again. Perhaps things have cooled down and we may get it to work." He opened the panel back up and began going through the process of trying to restart it. Another wave of fried rubber and hot metal hit smell them both. "Oww," Sherlock said drawing his hand quickly back. "I don't think it's fixable."
John arched a skeptical eyebrow at the still smoking innards of the radio. The engine room smelled of fried circuitry. "Sherlock, we may have to get ourselves out of this. If we put our heads together, we can figure out how to signal for help without the radio. Mycroft's got to have people out looking. We'll get back."
Sherlock closed the panel, tried flipping the power switch once more and let out a resigned sigh. It didn't miraculously turn back on. "Let's look around the rest of the yacht and see what Wells has left us to work with," Sherlock suggested.
"Good idea. Should we just leave him?" John asked nodding at the corpse. He resisted the urge to check the pulse of the man to make double sure he hadn't survived.
"Yes. Leave him here," Sherlock said. And, as if reading John's thoughts, he kneeled down and rested his fingers lightly on the man's wrist. He even pulled the plastic sheet back a little and checked the pulse point at the neck, nothing. John turned away from the sight in case he caught a glimpse of the dead face. He didn't want to see it now, or ever again. Sherlock stood and opened the small cabin door to the outside deck. He looked at John and said, "It's over. I'm done with him. He's done with us, now too."
John nodded. Somehow, with Sherlock's pronouncement, he felt a great weight slide away. Who knew what traps lie in wait for them in the future, but this man would never be one of them again. It cleared the way, John thought. It cleared the way.
They decided to bring the boat to a stop and wait in this section of calm water. The further away they got from harbor, the more risk they ran of getting thoroughly lost. They went round to the front of the yacht and descended the stairs to the main room in which they'd been tied up. John easily remembered the code this time. The room felt comforting now rather than dangerous. The other door, the one leading presumably to a galley and bedroom remained shut and locked. It turned out to have a different key code. It took Sherlock five minutes to guess the number. John smiled at him fondly. "Brilliant," he said before he could help himself and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in response.
On the left side they found a good sized bedroom and en suite. John checked it out to make sure there were no stowaways. The other door opened into a well-stocked galley on the right side of a short hallway. Boxes of food, water, and cooking fuel for the range greeted them. He hoped they wouldn't need to survive for long on it but it was wonderful to know it was here just in case their stay at sea was a long one. He hoped to God Mycroft would find them soon.
Under one of the cabinets, John spied an electric kettle. He filled it full of water from the galley's sink and plugged it in. He hoped the water was potable; but, just in case, he'd just have to boil the hell out of it. The power on the ship seemed fine and the kettle's light kicked on. He searched the cupboards for tea as was rewarded with stockpile of various kinds and flavors. He tried not to think about who had taken the time to select these varieties. He hoped it was a lackey and not Jim himself. He shuddered at the idea of drinking the villain's favorite kind of tea. So, he opted for his favorite, vanilla chai. "Want a cup?" he asked Sherlock who had sunk himself into one of the galley's two straight-backed metal chairs.
"Yes," he said more out of politeness, John thought, than any real desire for tea. John chuckled. Sherlock being polite for his sake. He could get used to that.
He fixed the tea and set a two camp style metal cups down on the table filled with the fragrant brew. He'd found some powered milk and sugar in the cupboard as well and placed them on the table. "No biscuits, I'm afraid. Maybe I'll stumble across them when I do a proper search," he said.
"This is fine," Sherlock said adding a heaping dollop of sugar to his tea. John shook his head at that. The familiar sight made him smile again. "Drink up and we'll look for our phones. God knows if we'll get a signal out here."
"They're not on board, John. He'll have dumped them in the sea back at harbor for fear of being tracked with them," Sherlock said. "He might have a flare gun back in the cabin upstairs. I didn't think to check for them but they're required safety issue. He's bound to have some. We should wait until full dark to use them. It would be even better if the skies cleared up a bit too. More chance of being seen."
John nodded. It made sense to him. They drank their tea in silence for a moment. He could see Sherlock eyes begin to droop. He'd been tied to a chair for almost 24 hours and lord knew, he probably didn't sleep at all during that time. He had to be running out of steam. John had caught a few hours on the transport flight, but he felt that last few days catching up to him as well. The kiss already seemed a long time ago to John. The edges of the memory turning hazy in his mind. He wondered if Sherlock felt it too. John didn't want the space between them to grow further so he placed his hand on Sherlock's forearm. The detective froze mid sip and waited. John ran his hand up his arm until he reached Sherlock's shoulder.
"John," Sherlock said softly. "I..I want…"
"I know. I say we find out if this boat has a bedroom and lie down for a while. We have a few hours until it's dark," he said and drew nearer. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock again drawing him close. "We could rest up a bit. I don't think getting some sleep would hurt you one bit. You've been up nearly 36 hours from what I can tell."
"I'm fine, John," Sherlock murmured. "I can help you turn the ship out."
"Yes," John said "After we've rested a bit. If Mycroft should happen to come along in the meantime, so much the better. I say we let this ship float right here in the water and wait a while. If the wind kicks up again, we'll try for calmer waters. Come on, Sherlock," John said and held out his hand.
Sherlock bowed his head and nodded. He looked up through long lashes and gave John a look that suggested he was far from tired. "Yes, John. Let's go to bed."
John swallowed and grinned. "Just sleep, Sherlock."
"Yes, John," Sherlock replied low and rumbling. "Just sleep."