WARNING: Unapologetic Hollywood medical science! And maybe something else but that's the only warning you're going to get.
"Just hurry up, will you?" John hissed, eyes darting frantically up and down the long corridor. He was positioned so as to obscure Sherlock's crouching form from any chance passersby, but a shifty-eyed man trying to look nonchalant outside a locked door didn't exactly inspire a sense of security either.
"I'm working as fast as I can," Sherlock shot back, twisting the picks in the lock, listening intently for a click. The ground lurched beneath their feet, and John stumbled and Sherlock cursed. His picks fell to the floor with a high, resonating ting!, and he scrambled to retrieve them before they could slide away.
"You'd think such a big ship would be a bit sturdier," said John, steadying himself against the doorframe.
"Yes, well, apparently the universe is conspiring to make this even harder than it has to be." Sherlock was back to the lock, working at it diligently, long fingers slowly moving in units too small for the human eye to measure.
"Maybe if you'd, I dunno, tell me more about what we're doing here, I could be a bit more helpful," John said. "Instead of just standing around like a—"
"The most helpful thing you can do is shut up and let me work," Sherlock snapped.
John knew better than to take the vitriol to heart, and even if he hadn't, his skin was thick enough by now. Sherlock was combative on his best days, and clearly he wasn't in top shape now—John remembered well from the Tilly Briggsaffair how long it took Sherlock to get his sea legs. Come to think of it, it was a good job that their suspect (or suspects, maybe; Sherlock seemed to be aiming for a record low in information disclosure with this case) had booked this trip with a different agency. While the lawsuit they'd threatened had never materialised, John highly doubted that they could have been persuaded to let the pair of them back on again, not for love nor money nor Mycroft.
Tilly Briggs had been so long ago—it was strange to think about it now. In those days, each case, every line they had toed had seemed to John like the most daring thing he would ever do, and each word out of Sherlock's mouth had amazed him, really amazed him. Well, he supposed at least that hadn't changed so much; even now, Sherlock still managed to amaze him almost every day. But it had been different back then, so blindingly new, gleaming like an undiscovered city. And John, who just a few short weeks before meeting Sherlock had been unable to taste his food, who had spent every night at his bedsit cleaning his illegal service revolver, stashing it away in a drawer like a key—he had been dazzled by every last moment of it, carried away, barely able to hear his own voice over the pounding of his heart.
And then there it came—the telltale click, sharp and commanding—but John didn't need to hear it; he already knew from the way Sherlock's spine had arched, the way his neck snapped back, eyes blazing: they were in.
Once inside the cabin (larger than theirs; the last minute nature of this adventure meant that they had ended up crammed into a twin, and a small one at that), Sherlock paused to take stock, surveying everything that lay before him like a bird of prey. John stepped around him and settled onto a hard wooden bench, which was bolted to both the floor and the portside wall. The bed would have been more comfortable, but he didn't want to have to straighten up the duvet to cover their tracks. Sherlock soon lay upon the optimal order of investigation and began to ransack the cabin systematically, searching for the drugs Dimmock was sure their suspects were running.
John tried to keep an eye on the door, but it was hard not to watch how the evening light streaming in through the small circular window played across Sherlock's features, almost like flickering candlelight, and it made him want to look at his friend through the same eyes he had years ago. Back then, Sherlock had been wrong, once: John had not been trying to get off with him that first awkward night, had never even thought about a bloke that way before. And John had wondered at first how someone who was that perceptive—who dedicated himself entirely to perception at the expense of normalcy—could have been so grossly mistaken, got the signals so wrong. But then in the weeks and months that followed, chasing down suspects on the tails of Sherlock's black greatcoat, holding back giggles at crime scenes and leaping breathless from rooftop to rooftop, John had begun to wonder whether the improbable genius he was learning to consider a friend hadn't picked up on something that John just hadn't seen coming.
The slide may have been a gradual one, but once begun, it had been undeniable, it had been a bulldozer, and eventually, much as they had once embarrassed him, John had come to be thankful for the words "married to my work." It was lucky to have been given a heads up, to have a keystone to remind him that if he wanted to continue in this life that felt so much like a resurrection, then this (whatever this was) was something he'd better discourage before it went too far, much safer locked away and forgotten (my work, his inner voice recited, I consider myself married-to-my-work). And as they had grown closer and John had watched Sherlock uncertainly learn to return his friendship, his devotion, he had always been able to remind himself that despite the incremental growth he was witnessing, this other thing he seemed to want was simply a step too far, and no good could come of it.
So that was what John had done then, locked it away where he couldn't even see it growing, and Sherlock, for his part, never said anything about it at all. And then came Moriarty and the roof of St. Bart's, and John had been left alone again, snapped back and reeling like a broken elastic band. Then there was Mary and the slow dawn of a winter morning, breaking through the frost, blood rushing back with the sensation of pins and needles. And then, impossibly, Sherlock had climbed his way back from the dead, turning John's world upside down as he'd never hesitated to do before, and John, overwhelmed with his good fortune, had kept on loving the both of them, loved each as he always had: Mary with slow kisses and breakfast in bed and gossip about their colleagues at the hospital, and Sherlock as an extension of his own body—John's fists Sherlock's shield and sword, his chest the home of everything Sherlock could not allow himself to feel, taking care of him and caring for him so that he could continue his work unburdened by anything that threatened to slow him down.
But then John had lost Mary (a slow loss, this time, a little more each day, different to the suddenness of a step off the edge, pinwheeling limbs, and blood splattered on the pavement) and he had begun to see the remainder of his life measured out before him in coffee spoons and evidence bags and late night dim sum, and he had known then, surely as he had ever known anything, that he simply wasn't going to love anyone else. With Sherlock in his life, John could see now, he would be fooling himself to even try. It was hardly a matter of resigning himself to celibacy—he'd still be free to go out and pull anyone he liked without any particular repercussions (or attempt to, at least)—but he could see quite clearly that his devotion to his friend precluded any kind of long-term, significant intimacy. The strange thing was that he was no longer exactly horrified by this fact. Whatever measure of intimacy there was to be had from Sherlock Holmes, that was what John Watson wanted, no matter what kind of sacrifice it might entail.
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and zipped the rolling suitcase up again with an angry jerk. For a moment, John debated helping him, but then Sherlock gave it a solid kick and it slid sideways across the cabin floor and John decided they'd both be happier if he stuck with his post as lookout.
John supposed it was a choice he had begun making long ago, maybe even when he had first raised steady hands to level his revolver for an impossible shot through two windows and the darkened street between them—an inevitable momentum that he might have been slow to pick up on, but the only choice he could have made, really. His devotion to Sherlock had grown to eclipse nearly everything else in his life in its importance, and regardless of what his heart might dare to want in his unguarded moments, that friendship would suffice, as it always had.
Though John certainly knew what he wanted (and what he was willing to accept instead), it had never been entirely clear what Sherlock expected from him, what his perception of their relationship was and how it might have changed. Was Sherlock just going to keep taking everything John gave him (and John gave him everything) and then turn around to play tag with psychopaths and criminals whenever he fancied a thrill? Doubts like these had made John hold himself back for a while, after Sherlock had returned, on guard against what could happen if he were foolish enough to give Sherlock his full trust again, to believe he felt things like John did, like normal people did.
But recently, there had been signs of that ice breaking, of Sherlock opening himself up, letting down his own guard. Now, Sherlock seemed to be able to admit that he needed John (and not in the selfish way a child needed his security blanket or a favourite toy) and when he did, it was shyly, reluctantly, with gritted teeth betraying that he wished he could have lied but had no choice but to admit it. And of course Sherlock would still lapse into prolonged funks and ignore John for days—that wasn't likely to change anytime soon—but John wasn't too thick to notice the first thing Sherlock's eyes sought when he snapped out of it. After a recent case, Sherlock had even told John that he couldn't have done it without him—not in so many words, of course, but that's what John had taken away from a downcast glare, an upturned collar, and a muttered, "I would have found that significantly more difficult alone."
And that was exactly what was giving him so much trouble. Ice, John could manage. Cold was what kept him firmly on one side of the line, no matter how precariously he might teeter. But this was what was so difficult, the version of Sherlock who—despite his aloof posturing—clearly seemed to need John, depend on him, who said his name like it was a password or a prayer, who settled his feverish head into John's lap and begged him not to go away. What was John supposed to do about that?
A sharp hiss of breath shook John out of his thoughts, and he saw Sherlock's eyes flashing with glee as he lifted a small translucent pill bottle out of the bottom of a canvas backpack, holding it aloft with triumphant aplomb. He held it up to the light and studied it for a second, and the late afternoon rays of sun glinted off the sides of the canister until he covered it with his pale white hand to twist off the childproof lid with a smooth, decisive snap. Sherlock wet one finger with his tongue, dipped it inside the rim, and before John had time to react, raised it to plush lips and sucked off the layer of powder with an audible pop.
John gaped. A dull cloud passed over Sherlock's face, rearranging his features into a grimace. "Hmm," he said.
That was not a sound John liked. "Sherlock," he said evenly, fighting down the wave of fear rising in his gut. "What are you doing?"
Sherlock ran his tongue over his lower lip, tasting, confirming, frowning. "I may have…" His voice trailed off, and the doctor in John was ready to pounce, hold Sherlock down and check his vitals, his temperature, force his fingers down his throat and empty his stomach of its contents because he recognized that particular tone.
"What, you may have made a mistake?!" John demanded. "Christ, Sherlock, if you can't—"
"John," said Sherlock calmly, the voice of a man who knows he has seconds to brace himself for impact. "We have to reconsider. We can take this with us for testing, and we can try to come back here later." He pocketed the vial (and John noticed at least a dozen identical cousins gleaming in the bottom of the backpack) and took a deep breath. "But we can't be caught here; we need to get above deck, get fresh air. Now."
Sherlock snapped the pack shut and returned it to its place beside the bed. He stared blankly down at the items scattered on the floor, clutter they couldn't leave without arousing suspicion.
John stepped forward and grabbed the rolling suitcase, pulling it upright and unzipping it from top to bottom. He gave it a shove and it fell back, its contents skittering chaotically across the wooden floor.
He saw Sherlock looking at him with approval. "Turbulence," he said with a shrug.
Sherlock sighed resignedly. "Turbulence is only for—"
No, that was quite enough of that. "Come on, you idiot!" John snapped, reaching out and grabbing his hand.
John wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock had taken, but he had some idea of its effects, and he didn't fancy trying to manoeuvre him up the three flights of stairs to the deck once he was incapacitated. They'd have to move fast, beat the clock.
But as he flung open the door to the stairwell and they began to climb, he could see that Sherlock already looked unsteady. There was something of a stunned baby deer in his eyes and his walk, and he was slowing down, tugging John backward. How could the drug be working so fast? Especially in such a small amount! And how could Sherlock have been stupid enough to take it?
They reached the first landing and Sherlock gasped, coming to a halt, going over all shocked and awestruck as if he had opened his eyes to see the face of God floating above him. "The sunscreen," he breathed. "Of course! It's absorbed topically! It's so obvious—that's why all the tourists—"
John leapt forward to clasp his hand over Sherlock's mouth, raising the other to his lips in a shh gesture. Sherlock's words died in his throat and the silence confirmed what John thought he had heard: the sound of a door opening above them, two sets of footsteps, men's voices: one British, one with a heavy French accent.
Sherlock's eyes went wide and he nodded frantically behind John's hand. His pupils were dark and round, eclipsing the silver rings of his corneas, and his muscles seemed to be quivering. He was leaning against the railing for support, John saw, but then with a violent jerk, his knees threatened to buckle so John removed his hand from Sherlock's mouth to hook an arm around his waist, pinning him back against the wall.
He might be able to get Sherlock back down the stairs, but it would be slow going and quite risky, especially if the boat started rocking again. And even if he managed, they'd never get far enough ahead; the stairwell would deposit them directly across from the cabin they'd just broken into, and even if their suspects didn't recognise Sherlock on sight, they'd surely be familiar enough with the effects of their drug to pick up on what was going on. John racked his brain, ears trained on the voices approaching from above.
He leaned into Sherlock, who was beginning to slump a little in his grasp, and whispered, "What do we do?" Sherlock licked his lips, eyes darting, and let out a high, braying giggle. John stifled a curse and clapped his hand back over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's breath was hot against his palm. John squeezed his eyes tight and listened closely, praying that the men realised this was still a public place, that they wouldn't say anything not meant to be overheard, anything that might give them cause for concern about potential eavesdroppers.
Their voices were low, obscured by their echoing footsteps, until they came to an abrupt halt on the landing above John and Sherlock. It sounded like one man was repeating the other's words back to him, but then there came a few interminable seconds of blistering silence, and—
"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" roared the Frenchman, and John's heart skipped a beat, maybe even two. His pulse hammered in his ears, muffling most of the Brit's desperate explanation as he backtracked and wheedled and pleaded. This was not good.
Sherlock squirmed in John's grip, and his head lolled forward against John's shoulder, skin warm, curls soft. "John," he whispered, and his respiration was elevated, his breath humid against John's neck.
"Shh," John pleaded in his softest voice. He ran his hand across the plane of Sherlock's lower back, pulling him closer. "Sherlock, be quiet."
Sherlock giggled again, thin and reedy but blessedly, beautifully quiet. He raised a finger to his lips and smiled conspiratorially.
"Yes," whispered John. "For me, okay?" Sherlock nodded and let his forehead drop forward to rest against John's collarbone. It seemed ridiculous that Sherlock could be so affected so quickly, but if the drug was meant to be mixed into a cream and applied topically, then the powder must have been its concentrated form. Sherlock had probably only meant to taste it for confirmation, the great idiot, and ended up with a much stronger dose than he'd intended. But was John supposed to be happy with that? With Sherlock's history, he shouldn't have touched it at all, shouldn't have gotten anywhere near—
"I'll talk to him," said the British man, reassuring his partner through the obvious onset of panic. "He'll listen, I know he will, and we can work something out, I promise."
There was silence for a moment and then a sharp "Good," and John heard them begin to walk again.
Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck, worrying at the sensitive skin with his nose like a goddamn kitten, and John shook him gently, trying to jolt him back into reality, get him to stand on his own legs, but Sherlock just sagged contentedly in his arms, and then, just like that, John knew how he was going to get them out of this.
It was a terrible idea, to be sure, and his conscious had strenuous objections given the state Sherlock was in, but they couldn't move to get away any more than they could afford to stand there dumbly, looking like they had heard everything. Morally, it may have been dicey to use a friend like this, but it wasn't as if they'd never resorted to this tactic before (and recently, John thought, it was unbelievable how often they seemed to be finding themselves in this kind of situation). He could apologise to Sherlock later—for now, he had to take this chance to protect him.
He jerked Sherlock's clinging form upright, cushioning his head with one hand, and propped him firmly against the wall. Sherlock grinned at him madly, drunkenly, and in the absurdity of the moment, John felt his mouth stretch in an answering smile. What a well-matched pair of madmen they were.
John leaned forward, letting their foreheads touch (so much easier when Sherlock was slouched down to his height), noses bumping. He paused for a breath, to steel himself for what he was about to do, but then Sherlock abruptly turned his chin upward, bringing their lips together, and John inhaled sharply with shock. But this was Sherlock Holmes—it should be no surprise that he could predict John's every move, even under the influence of whatever drug he'd thought himself invincible enough to take.
If John registered a brief taste of something bitter, the thought quickly dissipated because Sherlock's lips were still as soft and warm as ever (and God, he shouldn't have a basis of comparison; he was a terrible, terrible man) but there was something different, and he couldn't quite pin down what it was. He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle of his neck and Sherlock moved against him, tilting his head to invite John closer, and that was it: Sherlock was kissing him back. Clumsily, drunkenly, with a shy sort of hesitation, almost as if he didn't believe John wasn't going to evaporate and leave him to tumble to the floor—but however cautious and tentative it might be, Sherlock was kissing him back.
And John was going to hell, of course. That was all there was to it; that was just where you ended up if you took advantage of a friend like this, even with the rationale of protecting him. But being kissed back, having Sherlock reciprocate—even under such absurd and false circumstances—gave him a taste of what it could be like if the receptacle into which he poured all his energies and affection was willing to be anything more than just a receptacle, and it was enough to make his heart ache. He cursed himself. Just when they were coming to trust each other again, working their way back to how things had been, John had to go and complicate things—he couldn't leave well enough alone, could he?
Despite the sense of impending danger and the chorus of not good not good threatening to overwhelm rational thought, John began to feel a wave of... giddiness, almost. It was bizarre, he thought (indulging a whim and nibbling at Sherlock's lower lip, eliciting a pleased sigh), how he could go so quickly from fear to contentment, let himself be so overcome when he knew very well the danger they might be in.
Sherlock threw his head back and gasped in a lungful of air—he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath, but hey, he was smiling. His face was high-resolution, somehow rendered in greater detail than everything else, while the edges of John's vision was starting to go a bit fuzzy, a bit sparkly... or was that it? Could John be picking up a contact high from the traces left on Sherlock's lips, on his mouth? John had to struggle not to laugh. This idea may have been even worse than he thought. Now they both had their judgment compromised (thought some might have argued that neither one of them had been possessed of particularly good impulse control in the first place), and if John wanted to get them out of here in one piece, he had quite a performance to put on.
Footsteps were drawing steadily closer in the narrow stairwell, and Sherlock, cheeks flushed pink, was still panting to get his breath back. John ought to give him some air. His vision was coming over all electric and staticky and he wanted to rub at his eyes, but there was no time, he could hear the men coming closer, and he and Sherlock needed to look like they couldn't have heard anything, and so he swallowed down his hesitation and pressed his mouth softly to Sherlock's collarbone, lips forming a gentle ring. It was chaste, almost, his lips barely parted, but he heard a sharp intake of breath (felt it, even, in his hair) and unbidden, a hot flush came over him, rushing up his spine to his neck and his scalp. He worked his way upwards, brushing a line of barely-kisses up the white curve of Sherlock's neck as their suspects approached from above and Sherlock moved, sighing, against him, hand slipping up John's side, across his shoulders.
Sherlock's joints seemed a little loose, his balance a little wobbly and John shifted his weight to work his leg in between Sherlock's thighs, daring him to send them toppling now. The footsteps on the stairs just behind them were slowing, and in some part of John's brain there was a car alarm or a siren or some kind of shrill buzzer trying to warn him of danger, but he was reasonably sure that the reason his heart was pounding was the salt of Sherlock's skin under his tongue, the way his eyes drifted blissfully closed as John kissed just below the line of his jaw, how John's teeth scraping below his ear made his head loll to the side. John ran a hand up Sherlock's side, feeling (he was sure) each rib through the skin, each muscle with the names that he'd learned in uni, all alive and warm beneath his hand, all conspiring somehow to submit to his affection, and there was something he was supposed to remember—something other than the heat of Sherlock's pectoral muscles beneath his palm—but his hand pinned Sherlock's shoulder back and John had to try not to bite his neck, fancying he could have tasted Sherlock's pulse through his skin.
There was giggling behind them, and then shushing and John frowned because he was certain, wasn't he, that he and Sherlock were the only two people in this universe that they were remaking against this cold, hard wall, and as they hadn't bothered to make anyone else, who could be there to laugh at them? It didn't make any sense, so he decided to ignore it, focusing instead on the shell of Sherlock's ear, the way Sherlock's curls were reaching to tickle his nose, and how Sherlock's fingers were climbing his spine from the base, cataloguing each vertebra in a way that should have tickled but didn't because John wouldn't have objected even if Sherlock tried to crawl inside his bones, and Sherlock's hands tugged insistently, pulling him closer.
And then there was a voice, some muddled words John couldn't make out, and John was frowning again because Sherlock had jerked upward, pulling back, but he was still smiling so it wasn't John's fault, John hadn't done anything wrong. But Sherlock's mouth was moving, his eyes fixed on something over John's shoulder and his eyes were sparkling like a joke but his words came out all funny in that same way, liquid and liaisoned and sliding together, and John thinks French? and wasn't there someone who was supposed to be French? Sherlock's words elicited two sets of jovial laughter from behind John, and John realised that it must have been Mummy Holmes that he was thinking of. She had been French, hadn't she?
But he couldn't waste his time on thoughts like those, not when Sherlock's mouth was so open and so pink. John dipped his head to lick across Sherlock's bottom lip, to see if French tasted any different, and then there was more laughter behind them but Sherlock was trying to stifle a groan, and his right hand came up to the back of John's head, fingers kneading on either side of his spine, pulling him down for more and—oh—closer.
Behind them, John could hear footsteps again, but these ones were growing further away, softer, which he thought must be good. It wasn't entirely clear what was so good about it because the footsteps had been nice enough, whoever they had been, and they had made Sherlock speak French, which tasted fantastic, but maybe it was because now it was just him and Sherlock alone in the universe again, and that was something John liked, too. Maybe that was what he had wanted all along—maybe that was what all the fuss and panic had been about. He licked a line across Sherlock's teeth and focused on how Sherlock's hands felt under his jacket, holding his ribs in place.
Their noses bumped, breaking the kiss for a second and John hung there, millimetres from Sherlock's face, breathing against his lips, dizzy from the weight of Sherlock's eyes on his. Sherlock blinked at him and John just blinked back, mind simultaneously foggy and sparkly and blank, and then the corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up and his face broke and all at once, he was laughing hysterically, throwing his head back, clutching at John's shoulder like he was drowning in the hilarity. John opened his mouth to ask what could be so funny but found he was laughing too, eyes squeezed shut and head falling forward against Sherlock's chest.
The feeling of Sherlock's quaking body against his made everything even funnier somehow, and John tried to look up at him, tried to speak to communicate this fact and just couldn't get the words out. But Sherlock seemed to have understood him, read his mind maybe, because now he was absolutely howling and John's cheeks hurt with the joy of it.
Sherlock began to slide to the floor, clutching his knees toward his chest, and John decided to follow him because he certainly wasn't going to be able to stand up on his own. John slumped into Sherlock's side, chest heaving, as his arse hit the floor hard.
"We can't, we can't—it's," John gasped; he thought he might be crying. "...not even a crime scene." And Sherlock let out a great shrieking hiccough of a laugh, flailing his arms, gesturing frantically for John to stop. John's stomach was starting to hurt and tears were flowing down Sherlock's face, and John had forgotten how this felt, to surprise Sherlock, to make him laugh, really laugh, to give in and collapse, giggling, against his warm body. It felt good, it felt like the way things were supposed to be, and it made John wonder if maybe they weren't going to be all right after all.
NOTES:
・I just love these idiots so fucking much. Ugh.
・I felt uncomfortable about having Sherlock use drugs and equivocated about it for a while. But I had wanted to write this scenario for a long time and so it won out and we'll just have to see what that means.
・Thanks for your patience with this chapter and also for all your feedback!