John lead the way to the ship's only bedroom with Sherlock following. He cast only one brief glance over his shoulder to see if the detective followed and Sherlock rewarded him with one lopsided grin. John felt a little lurch when he saw the gleam in Sherlock's eye. After all that had happened today, Sherlock could find something in this moment to seize upon, and John couldn't help but feel a fierce gladness that this hadn't broken either of them. They had found their way back to one another even after such betrayal and fear.
John opened the door doing a visual sweep of the room. It appeared just as he'd seen it earlier. He needed a nap at least, and Sherlock looked spent. John could tell when Sherlock used all his reserves to finish a case, and he looked that way now. "Come on. Take your shoes and coat off. Hang it over the loo door. John peeled his damp things off and draped them over the little desk and chair next to the bed. The room was like the rest of the ship, functional, spare complete. Certainly not the opulent setting Moriarty might have expected at the height of his empire.
John, now in his boxer shorts and vest, crawled under the sheets. Nice thread count, he noticed and comfortable duvet. Sherlock followed suit and got down to his briefs, no vest. "All right?" he asked before sliding in next to John.
"Yeah," John said and nodded to encourage the lanky man to continue. "I'm knackered. Let's try to get some rest before we try getting ourselves out of this.
Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled the covers up over his shoulder and turned on his side to face John. He reached out and placed a hand on John's shoulder. "Good night," he said.
"Good night, Sherlock," John returned closing his eyes. Watery, afternoon light filtered in from the one round window in the room, but he felt too tired to care. He'd sleep just fine for a while.
When he awoke, Sherlock slept peacefully beside him. One hand still rested on John's hip now as if Sherlock couldn't bear not to have some contact even in sleep. Darkness had descended, and the room appeared black dark. John had no idea how long he'd been out, but he felt much better. A roil of hunger shot through him. When had he last eaten? It might have been longer than twenty-four hours. He pulled himself out of bed, gathered up his clothes and moved toward the loo. He rubbed some water into this face and peed. He knew very little about the maintenance of a boat this size and had no idea how long the fresh water might last. Using one of his mother's maxims of "If it's brown flush it down and if it's yellow, let it mellow" John held off flushing just in case. He might be paranoid, but who knew how long they might float out on the open sea. They might have to be careful of what they had.
According to his wristwatch, he'd slept nearly five hours. A fair nap, he judged. He wanted something to eat now, so he dressed and left Sherlock to sleep. He quietly left the bedroom to find something edible in the galley. He found some beans and crackers and made a makeshift meal out of them. After that, he did a cursory inspection of their supplies and decided they could survive for at least a month or more if they were careful. Maybe they could fish to supplement their supply. They might be in real trouble if they weren't in one of the major shipping lanes.
The other danger, John thought, lie in the fact they were floating blind at night. Maybe one of them should start taking turns watching for landmasses. They could just as easily run into rocks or an island. Suddenly, John felt like he should be above deck. He could look for the flares and try his luck getting the radio to work. He went back into the main sitting room and rooted through all the drawers and cabinets for some communication device. He found nothing. Sherlock was probably right about Wells tossing their phones.
He entered the code and went back outside. When he got on deck, he took a moment to look up at the night sky. A glittering string of stars greeted him and gave him a moment's pause. John had no idea how long it had been since he'd been able to look up and see stars like these. New Mexico, maybe. He was just glad he was around to see this tonight.
Okay, stargazing later, he thought. Flares now.
Halfway to the engine cabin, he realized he'd have to go into the cramped room with Moriarty's corpse. "He's dead," John muttered to himself. "He's dead."
He marched ahead, and when he got to the cabin door, he yanked it open. He found a clicker switch that controlled an overhead light. He let out a breath when he saw the familiar shape under the plastic. One expensive leather shoe and leg still stuck out, still and somehow sad.
"Still dead," he muttered one last time and began opening every cupboard and storage area he could find. There were some cubbies and places to put things. Ships, it seemed, needed to utilize a limited amount of space well. Finally, he found a small metal box held shut with clips. Thankfully, it wasn't locked. John had it opened and almost laughed with delight when he saw the oversized flare pistol with its wide-open barrel and orange-tipped cap. Ten flares nestled beside it. Ten chances for rescue, John thought. He hauled the box up and set it near the door. He debated about whether or not to bring it downstairs but decided against it. It was heavy, and he didn't want to risk tripping or dropping it. Better to leave it here. A pair of binoculars hung from a peg near the ship's controls, and John used them to scan the horizon for any sight of land. A half-moon lit up the dark ocean, and he could see a fair distance. He went out on deck and looked around for almost twenty minutes straining as far as he could. Nothing for miles. Wells had done a spectacular job getting them good and lost, John thought. That little lurch of fear from before flared up again, and he wondered if he and Sherlock just might spend their last days drifting around on this boat.
"All right, Watson," he told the gloom around him. "Time to make a plan!"
"Aye, aye, Captain Watson," said a low voice just behind him.
"Christ, Sherlock. Don't startle me like that," John said couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Sherlock stood hands thrust into his jacket's pockets. Sherlock was awake and now they could would fix this mess. When did it change? John had the idea that it had always been that way. Even through the bad times, he still felt the pull of Sherlock's magnetism. Together, they would get this under control.
"You found the flares?" Sherlock stated. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, in the cabin. There's ten. Ten chances, Sherlock. What do you think we should do?"
Sherlock stepped forward and placed his hands on top of John's shoulders. "I think we should set two off tonight. And, then two more each night after that. We can do one now and then one a few minutes later. Mycroft's people are going to be looking for us, and we should try to give them something to look for tonight."
"Yeah, sounds good," John said looking at his friend. "You ever fired a flare gun?"
"No, I'll leave that to you. I think you've got more experience with weapons than I do," Sherlock said. "I know you'll do fine."
The two of them went back into the cabin and retrieved the flares and gun. A little, printed sheet explained how to load and fire the thing, and John took a moment to read over the instructions. When he was ready, he pointed the pistol into the air and pulled the trigger. A bright red flare arched up into the clear sky and glowed brightly. It hovered for a few minutes, flashed several times, then fell into the sea. John sighed, "Let's pray someone saw that." The tiny fleck of light didn't feel hopeful, however. The partial moon had risen a few inches illuminating miles and miles of black waters. The raging winds had died down, but the mild ocean breeze chilled his skin. He shivered.
Sherlock saw him shiver and moved into wrap his arms around John. He'd redressed in his clothes and jacket, and John just let himself be held. "It will work, John." Sherlock rumbled in his ear.
"I know," John said. "We still have fuel and can run her west for as long as she'll go. We're bound to hit some part of Australia from here."
"Fire the other one," Sherlock said stepping back.
John did and watched the small, bright flash until it burned out. Then, feeling like he needed more than just an embrace, he intertwined his fingers into Sherlock's and both of them stood near the railing at the front of the ship and looked for any response from the sea.