Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes stood at the edges of the pool, facing one another with the clear liquid as a barrier. It was night, almost morning, and they'd been watching the unrelenting waves hit the wall for hours. John had offered—several times, actually—to postpone the event, but Sherlock was insistent. He would do this. Now.
Sherlock knelt and let the current brush against his knuckles. He was surprised at its warmth; the only water he remembered was harsh, taciturn film. John watched with patience, rarely muttering a word and always maintaining secure eye contact, silently wishing he was a more stable companion. Comfort, encouragement, peace—he wanted to offer it all, but he wasn't sure how. How could he communicate care to such a broken man?
That morning, Sherlock told all. How he had felt alone his entire life. How Mycroft and criminals weren't distraction enough. How he turned to drugs, to cutting. How he would have turned to sex if he weren't so untrusting of other people. How, at the fragile age of nineteen, he made the decision to end the pain. How it wasn't uncertainty in the days to come that frightened him, but the certainty that they would be spent, undeniably, alone.
But Mycroft was just as smart as his little brother, perhaps smarter, and knew what was coming. He kept constant surveillance on Sherlock until, one night, the makeshift alarm buzzed and he watched his brother descend to the family pool across the home. And, with the sort of determination governments wish all their employees had, he raced down and pulled—yanked—a nearly unconscious, fully lost boy out of the water. When Sherlock saw the pain on Mycroft's face, the pleading eyes and the strained lips, he knew he'd never forgive himself. No wonder he kept their relationship at arm's length.
Now, here, Sherlock was ready to move on. He wasn't ready to face Mycroft—not yet—but he was ready to shed this carnal fear. With trembling legs, he stood back up and took a deep breath, never breaking his gaze at John.
"What is water?" John said, breaking the silence.
"Hydrogen and oxygen," Sherlock answered.
John nodded approval. "Good. And what are those?"
"Elements."
"Elements. You have a chart in your room on those, don't you? I bet you can name off every one."
"Yes."
"I can't imagine you'd let something like that—something you hang on your wall and memorize with no effort—beat you. Can you?"
Sherlock shook his head, slowly, and swallowed. He took off his pants, watch, phone, and trousers, leaving only his boxers and wife-beater on. "If I—"
"You won't." John took a step back and surveyed the pool. Where Sherlock was standing wasn't more than six feet deep. He'd be fine, swimming or not, but that wasn't the point. This wasn't a swimming lesson. It was the final act in the play of overcoming the past. "But I'm here. I'll get you."
Sherlock closed his eyes, angry that a tear slipped through. "I can't forget, John. It will always be there."
"The point isn't to forget. It's to remember and move on, because you're strong enough."
Sherlock arched his back, remembering and clinging, bent his knees, hoping and releasing, and sprang himself into the water.
He wanted to panic, to call for John as the lukewarm liquid enveloped his body, but he resisted. He felt the bubbles travel up his side and to the surface and knew, suddenly, that he could do the same. Finding his footing, he propelled himself up and looked around.
John wasn't there. He looked around, curious, and realized—a bit late—that in his time spent underneath the surface he'd drifted into the middle of the twenty feet section. The edge was too far; he flailed, straining, and his left arm hit John directly in the nose.
John cursed and dragged him to the edge, throwing him over and letting his own blood drip into the water.
Sherlock leaned over, examining the wound; the nose was definitely broken. "John, I—"
John lifted a hand, demanding (and receiving) silence. "Are you okay?"
"Your nose—"
"That's not what I asked, Sherlock."
"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." He found himself smiling and laughed, feeling some kind of weight lifting off his shoulders.
John glared, pulling himself onto the edge. "How is it that I'm always the one to get an injury during these things?"
Sherlock watched John pinch his nose and smiled. "I suppose the best doctors let themselves get hurt every once in a while for their patient's sake."
John smiled and rolled his eyes. "Every once in a while, huh?"
"Well. Some more than others."