They would try again…
…unless Sherlock had anything to say about it.
Which he did. Of course. The detective sat, not on the edge of the pool, but as far back against the wall as he could physically manage. His back was crammed into the wall tiles and, despite John's protests, he was still fully clothed. It was a miracle he'd been dragged down to the pool to begin with.
He looked over at the spot—that spot, right at the deep end—where Moriarty had first made himself known. Then he looked a few steps forward, where he once found John bomb-rigged and willing to give his life for Sherlock, despite them only knowing each other a short time. His gaze eventually met the pool, the ice-cold goo that he refused—no, no, no—to enter.
John had jumped in like a boy on the first day of summer. The room was empty and most of the lights, other than those in the pool's water, were off. No one would interrupt the middle-aged doctor teaching the middle-aged detective how to swim at one in the morning.
"Come in on this end," John tried. "It's only two feet deep."
Sherlock shook his head and pushed closer—if that was possible—towards the wall. He wished John would just give the whole thing up, but getting him to do so required an explanation—one he wasn't willing to give. "I'll just watch," he managed.
John crossed his arms and laid them on the pool's edge. "Why won't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"Why you're afraid of the water."
"Because I'm not."
"No, of course not. You just really like that wall."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You went into the lake a few weeks ago because you weren't thinking." John eased himself out of the pool and wrapped one towel around his waist and used a second to dry his face and hair. He walked over and stood a few steps in front of Sherlock. "Once you knew what you were doing, you freaked out. I don't—"
"Move!" Sherlock jumped at his own voice. John was standing right where he had stood that one night; this, mixed with the hazy blue water behind him, was too much to bear.
John froze, trying to analyze the detective's face. He stopped wiping himself dry and, slowly, stepped towards Sherlock. He put his hand out as though approaching a scared stray. "Alright. Now what was that?" He crouched down, and forced eye contact. "Sherlock."
"You almost died there," Sherlock struggled. "So did I."
"You mean Moriarty? Sherlock, he's not here. We're—"
"I know that, John. I'm not stupid." He blinked a few times, not really understanding why tears were forming. "There's too much death here. Let's go."
"I was the one tied to a bomb, Sherlock. If I can handle it, so can you. If you're just trying to get out of swimming—"
"I'm not just trying to get out of it! I'm trying not to die!"
John waited. He'd dealt with outbursts like this before, but never…
"Sherlock, you're not going to drown. I won't let you."
I won't let you. Mycroft had said the same thing as both Holmes boys stood, soaked, at the edge of the waters. "John, what if…"
"What, Sherlock?"
"What if I…What if I try to?"
…
John had almost carried Sherlock home. The man was such a wreck—was this the great Sherlock Holmes?—that he could hardly stand on his own. But they'd managed, and John placed Sherlock on the couch before withdrawing to the kitchen to grab tissues and tea.
He didn't ever, ever want to see Sherlock cry again. It was the oddest sight he'd ever seen; this individual, so stoic and confident…well, John hadn't thought he could cry. He felt guilty for thinking so, because that's probably what all the bullies had thought, too. Sherlock probably didn't have feelings.
"Sherlock." John sat next to him and was surprised—stunned—when Sherlock hugged him and cried into his shoulder. They'd only hugged for the first time a few days earlier; was this a normal thing now? John tried not to think about it and simply hugged back.
They sat through sniffled silence for a few minutes before Sherlock laid his head in John's lap in defeat. John gently played with his hair; he imagined he'd do the same for a heartbroken daughter. "Sherlock, why would you try to drown? Are you…" It took effort to say the word. "Are you suicidal?"
Sherlock said nothing for a moment; then: "I don't think so. I was. I tried…with water…"
"Oh, Sherlock." John laid his hand on the detective's shoulder. "I'm…I'm so sorry. I'll never force you to swim again. I promise. I'm sorry."
Sherlock shook his head awkwardly. "I was low, John. Mycroft…stopped me." He bit his lip and sat up, giving John teary eye contact. "I don't want to die."
"Then why would you—"
"Getting in the water might…I don't know, what if it brings up feelings? What if…What if I return to that state? I can't. If I drown…"
John crossed his legs and turned to directly face his best friend. "Sherlock, listen to me. You're not who you used to be. You thought you were useless? You thought no one cared about you? I don't care if it was true then, because it's not true now. I…I care about you. More than anything. And you're helping people—you're catching murderers and solving robberies—so I'd say you aren't useless. You're stronger than you think." John grabbed his hand and held it firmly. It wasn't romantic, it wasn't sexual. It was a friend's reassuring touch. "You won't try to hurt yourself, because that's not who you are anymore."
Sherlock looked away and immediately—impressively—reverted back to the stoic detective. "No. It's not." He cleared his throat and stood. "I'm going to bed."
"Sherlock." John reached for his arm but only got a sleeve. "Hey. You aren't who you used to be, but that doesn't mean that what you are now is stone. You're still human. You still have emotions. We can work through this."
Sherlock pulled away. That's what he always did, wasn't it? Pulled away? "I can manage on my own, thanks." He grabbed his violin and headed for his bedroom.
"We need to talk about what happened to you that time. With Mycroft," John said, but he wasn't sure he was heard. Sherlock was already down the hall.
The detective stood alone in the hallway. John's care was… new. Frightening. What was he supposed to do about it? Why had his emotion—his emotion—gotten the better of him? It wasn't natural. John didn't need to see that side of him.
So no. Not yet. He couldn't talk about it yet.