Fic: No Fixed Point - 3a/5 (BBC Sherlock, immense AU of AUs)
Title: No Fixed Point
Rating: R
Wordcount: 11.6k/44.2k
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: The AU of AU's: First, he is shot in Afghanistan (again). Second, he wakes on a boat. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the tenth, he's lost hope.
(Original prompt: "ECM!John gets hurt again, and ends up with a few more lives. By overwriting Stranger at the Gate!John and Behavioral Modification!John." Thus, Watches 'Verse with Behavioural Modification and Stranger at the Gate. Prompted and filled here on livejournal. NOT an official continuation of any of these 'verses.)
Warnings: Partial character death, separation, vampire, blood, hypnotism
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Another morning, another lack of Sherlock in the flat. John makes himself breakfast, dumps the mouldy bread, and does the shopping. He comes home to a still empty flat and makes himself tea, opening the fresh box of PG Tips.
I'm off to work, he texts. Let me know you're still breathing.
When he comes back from the clinic, he receives confirmation that Sherlock is alive and, if not well, certainly active. Shaking his head, John pulls out another scrap of paper and puts "tea" back on the shopping list. Fortunately, John had thought to hide an emergency box.
Going to the loo, he discovers Sherlock's door is closed. It wasn't earlier. He chews his lip, considering it. They do need to talk. They're going to have to, if only to confirm whether John should move out.
He settles for a light knock.
No answer.
He checks his phone for texts. Nothing. He waits at the door.
Eventually, he walks away and sits on the sofa, angled to see the hall. Sherlock won't leave without him noticing, which is the best he can muster at the moment. He turns on the telly but doesn't technically watch it.
The buzz of the doorbell comes as a surprise. Realising that Mrs. Hudson is out, John heads downstairs before the noise sends Sherlock into a fit.
"John, there you are," Lestrade says, more of a sigh of relief than a greeting. "Thank God," he adds, as if to make sure John has noticed his tone.
John frowns. "What's wrong?" Oh, Christ, no. Was Sherlock's room empty, the door simply closed on the prat's way out?
Lestrade frowns back at him. "I thought... Sorry, never mind. Is Sherlock in? He's not responding to my texts. I called, but it went to voicemail."
"I think he's upstairs," John replies, leading the way. "What's this about?"
The concern radiating from Lestrade spikes once again. "The case?" he asks pointedly.
"Well, yes," John says, trying to play it off as obvious. "I meant more of the specifics. You wouldn't be here if you didn't have new information."
"Fair point. Think I'll save the telling for both of you, if you don't mind the wait." Now Lestrade knocks on Sherlock's door, much harder than John had. "Sherlock!" No reply. Lestrade levels a look at John.
John nods and opens the door himself. He sticks his head in.
Sherlock is on the bed, on his side of the bed, and his unconscious body is tense in its curl around John's pillow. His arms are locked about it, face buried. He's fully dressed, down to his shoes.
John immediately retreats and pulls Lestrade down the hall after him. "If he's collapsed on his own, he needs the sleep," John states in his best Captain Doctor voice. "I can record anything you need to say on the laptop-the microphone works now."
"Look," Lestrade says, "I don't want to pry-"
"Then don't," John finishes for him, quick and firm. "He's having a hard time right now. I'd rather not go into it."
"Fair enough. But it's always a worry when he shows up at a crime scene without you in tow."
"Sorry about that. My actual job, you know how that is."
"Oh, do I."
John makes them tea and Lestrade tells him about the case. They must be loud enough to wake Sherlock at last, or perhaps the man's body is simply that resistant to sleep. He shuffles into the sitting room, clothing rumpled, eyes blank, and he stares at the scene before him, Lestrade in Sherlock's armchair, John in his own.
"Get out."
Lestrade blinks. John can't fault him his surprise. For all the words are often shouted, he's never known Sherlock to say them like that, to simply state the command. It ought to sound hollow, empty as a cave, but there's an echo of something living in its undertones, the reverberating cries of something lost and hurt in the dark.
"I've told John the details," Lestrade begins, standing.
"Both of you," Sherlock clarifies. "Get out."
John sets down his tea and stands as well, ignoring how Lestrade is gaping by now. "C'mon, Greg."
He doesn't exactly remember the short walk outside. It's very numb, that much is clear.
"Really, what is he on about?" Lestrade glares up at the window.
"It's actually a very bad time," John says. "I can't give you the details, but-" He clears his throat. "He's not just having a sulk."
Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up. Another glance up to the window, and his expression softens only marginally. "That so."
"He's handling it surprisingly well, actually."
"This is handling it well?"
John considers Sherlock as he was that first morning, the simple assumption of contact as their bodies woke side by side. He considers the single bed and the joint office. Whatever John has with his own madman, this Sherlock had experienced to an even greater degree with his blogger.
"Amazingly well," John confirms, and his voice breaks on the first word.
Lestrade looks at him for a moment, then looks away. He puts his hands in his pockets. "Right, then."
"Sorry. About him. The case. Whatever trauma he's caused." His voice strengthens as he speaks. If he keeps speaking, perhaps they'll forget about that little moment.
Lestrade makes a face at that, shrugging. "Hardly your fault."
Christ. John manages a good neutral expression. John manages his way through the remaining moment of conversation before Lestrade leaves. He honestly has no recollection of what he's said once Lestrade is gone. Then, John goes for a walk. A long one.
He texts Sherlock from the far side of Regent's Park. Should I stay at Harry's?
The response arrives before he can pocket his mobile.
No. SH
He walks a bit longer.
Then he goes back to the flat. He hangs up his coat and finds Sherlock on the sofa in the sitting room. The telly is still on the channel John left it. John picks up his laptop, opens it, and reviews the latest blog entries. Always good to know what people will try to speak with him about.
"He didn't notice."
The words take a moment to register. John looks up, looks to the sofa. "Sorry?"
Sherlock waves his hand, a dismissive flick. He glares at the ceiling. "Lestrade. Your impersonation passed muster."
"'Impersonation'?"
"Yes, when you pretend to be someone you're not and successfully deceive others," Sherlock replies. "That is what it's called."
"Hold on now-"
"What you do in Chelmsford," Sherlock adds. "After three years of practice there, it must have been easy to slip into the role here. Mrs Hudson hasn't noticed in the slightest! The clinic too-everything's perfectly normal, isn't it?"
John shuts his laptop with a solid click, wanting to slam it. "I didn't do this on purpose."
"No, only the research," Sherlock acknowledges. "Compulsively scanning for differences, checking the newspapers, checking the blog-you're very efficient. I imagine it helps that the role is similar. It's not technically lying when you have the same name."
"Do you know what happens when I don't cover?" John demands. "No, really. Do you have any idea what happens to someone when they lose their memories and start talking about interdimensional sleep travel? You’re sectioned, Sherlock, not believed."
"And you know this from experience?"
John shakes his head. "No. And I don't care to."
Sitting up, Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens his mouth.
"No," John interrupts. "We're not trying that. It was bad enough in Chelmsford, back at the start. I had no idea who anyone was, barely knew where I was going. It was the worst experience of my life and I've been shot twice-I've been shot fatally."
"That was the worst," Sherlock repeats, voice even. His gaze is level, very, and John has the sense of a trap about to close around him.
Fine. So be it. John barrels in further. "It was. I would fall asleep in pain and wake up there, and then it would be a day of reverse culture shock. The way I stood alarmed people. I would walk down a hall and people would ask me what was wrong, and I couldn't tell any of them, because then I would be crazy. I'd look in the mirror and it wouldn't be me. It was the only place I didn't hurt in some way, but it wasn't my body. But I was still a doctor, still responsible, still every damn thing I was supposed to be, except it's not really mine, is it? I'm a steward in my own body. I take care of his house and his car and his friends, and that is the best I can do, because I don't know when he's coming back. Yes, fine, I impersonate him. It's that or be sectioned."
Sherlock stares at the far wall rather than look at him. "Excuse me if I don't find your guilt a comfort."
"I don't expect you to."
Sherlock’s glare snaps back to John.
"I'm a placeholder,” John continues. “I know that. But a body needs someone in it to run it, so until he comes back to do the job, I'm going to keep moving and breathing. Unless you'd rather give up hope. There's a gun upstairs I can always put in my mouth. It's not me it'll end. Or him either, if you really think he's not coming back."
Sherlock's face is very pale. Noticeably more so.
"Or I can go on lying to people," John says.
Sherlock looks down and closes his eyes.
"Should I go on lying, then?"
Sherlock nods. In his silence, the news on the telly is loud and obnoxious.
"Sorry," John says after a pause. "That was harsh."
"Necessary," Sherlock corrects, a rasp to his voice.
They go out later. John doesn't know where to until Sherlock gives the cabbie the address, and he doesn't know what they're doing until Sherlock ducks behind some bins. John hides as well, they wait, and a bit of a chase ensues. John tackles a man, which is excellent. It's a very rewarding practice, tackling criminals. John restrains the fellow while Sherlock deduces at them and they wait for the police to arrive. It's very neat, surprisingly so, and when Lestrade arrives in the police cruiser, relief bursts across his face.
For a short while, everything is quietly, naturally normal. Sherlock interrupts John while he's trying to give his statement, Lestrade talks over the interruptions, and John tampers down a grin.
Once they're finished, they go out for Chinese.
"Did you come here after the bit with the cabbie?" John asks.
Sherlock nods, breaking apart his chopsticks. "I'm assuming you did as well."
John nods. "Both times."
"Both?"
"Well, not both," John allows. "I only had to get him the once. Over in Digital, though, I emailed Jennifer Wilson. The pink lady? So she never took that cab. And I sent in an anonymous tip to the police. I found out the next day there they'd arrested him."
"And then you went for Chinese on your own?"
John shakes his head. "Not that night. The night before, I staked out the college, just to be sure. No one showed up. So I had dinner."
The waitress comes and the pair of them order in unison, both men ordering the same dishes for the table. There's an awkward pause and a nervous chuckle all around.
"Do you running around saving everyone, then?" Sherlock asks once the waitress has moved on.
"Where I can." John shrugs a little. "It's... odd. Because every time I make a move, I make it all drift apart a little more. Eventually, the differences might mean my foreknowledge will be gone."
"How big of a difference can you make?" Though doubtful, he's not dismissive.
"Well," John says. "You. For a start."
Sherlock frowns.
"Did I mention you're dead in Chelmsford?"
"You did."
"Did I mention that Moriarty didn't blow up Baker Street? Or that the nine million quid hairpin was never found? Or that the painting was accepted as real? No idea what happened to the missile defence plans, but there might be something there too. It stacks up."
A pause for consideration, then the nod. It's flattering, in a way, being complex enough that Sherlock needs to stop and think. "But you still try to save everyone," Sherlock repeats.
"The people I've met or seen dead," John replies. "Yes. Beyond that, not really. Have to put a limit on it somewhere."
The waitress brings the tea. They thank her and remain silent as John pours.
"How well have you navigated the language barrier so far?" Sherlock asks.
John looks at him, tries to find the words to explain it, and has a few nervous giggles as a response.
Sherlock frowns. "That poorly? No, not poorly. Something else. What?"
"You're not going to believe this."
"Oh, yes, because the situation was reasonable until now."
John laughs again and explains.
Sherlock stares at him.
"I'm not lying," John says.
"I can see that," Sherlock replies. "That's why it's so bizarre. Hypnotism doesn't work that way."
"I know," John agrees. "It's... very strange." To say the least.
Their food arrives and they respond with a coordination born of long familiarity. This plate here, that one there, the sauce goes to Sherlock's side of the table and Sherlock asks the waitress for another pair of chopsticks before John inevitably drops one of his on the floor.
As they eat, Sherlock asks after what John has learned since the last time they discussed his condition. Most of what John has to report is about the boat universe.
"Mind you, it's a bit blurry over there."
"How so?"
"It's a boat without fresh water," John says. "I think I’ve been put off beer for life."
Sherlock grins faintly at his look of disgust.
Much later, when they walk home, John carries the leftovers in their cartons, the stapled paper bag in one hand.
"Who else knows?" Sherlock asks as they wait for a light to change.
"Hm? Oh. About me? My flatmate in Analogue."
"Who you still haven't seen."
John shakes his head, eyes on the traffic.
"Was he aware another John Watson might cast you out of your body?"
"We talked about it, yeah. At least, I talked about it, and he told me to shut up."
They walk across the street.
"Then I'm the only one you talk to," Sherlock concludes.
"I tried explaining it to the one on the boat, but I don't think he understands yet."
"I see."
They walk a bit farther.
"I'll take the sofa tonight," Sherlock says.
"No. I'm shorter."
"I'm aware of your height. I'll take the sofa."
"No offense," John says, "but I'd rather not. I orient when I wake up and, well. Analogue watch, waking up in your bed... I don't want to raise my own hopes like that."
Sherlock considers. Nods. "You've been wearing it upside-down."
"Have to differentiate somehow. I don't really need to-it's very obvious-but it helps."
"Are you doing anything in the boat world?"
John shakes his head. "The homespun clothing is a bit of a giveaway."
Sherlock huffs a laugh and John laughs with him.
"Are we okay?" John asks, after. "Because we've just met, but you are the closest thing I have to a best friend at the moment."
Sherlock doesn't look at him, but he does nod.
"Okay," John says. It's a start, and a better one than he'd thought he'd have.
The next day down in Wandsworth, John makes a point of making a few suggestions to Maggie. Anything she wants to do with her friends, she should do-within reason-and if Derek wants an adult to tag along, it can be John. "Best friends are important," John says.
In the end, Maggie rings Alison up. She shifts a bit, biting her lip as she nods to the rings and John nods at her encouragingly. After, Maggie fidgets and fidgets until Alison calls back with the confirmation: she and that boyfriend of hers can do something on Saturday. The boyfriend wants laser tag. Maggie agrees, her eyes lighting up.
"John?" she asks, grinning wide.
"Yes?" John asks, already grinning back.
"Will you come shoot everyone?" She bites her lip and does an excellent impression of a puppy.
"What?" Derek calls in from his bedroom/office.
"Nothing!" the pair of them shout back in unison.
"Should I be concerned?"
"No!"
Considering that John spends the afternoon teaching Maggie hand signals and creeping across the apartment in improvised stealth drills, perhaps some concern is warranted.
It's all very James Bond. John says this, Derek finally comes out to play, and the night closes with the three of them on the sofa, Maggie and the popcorn in the middle, watching a mini-marathon of Bond.
John's good mood lasts through the night, unfailing even in the face of terrible smells and pointy elbows in his side. The smell isn't so bad, now that he's had time to acclimatize, and he stops minding it in a few minutes after waking.
He pulls himself out of a familiar hold, leaving Sherlock to grunt in his sleep, his long arm searching for the missing heat source that is John. Certain parts of John's body take an interest in this, which John's mind pointedly ignores. John sits on the chair, lacing up his boots, before taking to the ship. He talks today, which is new.
Also incredibly overdue. He finally gets a few questions in about where they're going. He learns, almost incidentally, that no one is terribly confused by John's accent, seeing as this language, something like "Frank" (or "Franc"? "Frainc"?), is meant to be John's second language as it is. He asks everything he can about their destination, how much longer it will be (only two or three days left, two with good wind), and whether there's anything to drink besides beer (there is not).
He stands up on deck for a time, watching the waves and the ship itself. As the sun climbs, the sails glow gold. Once the unrelenting heat becomes too much, even for a soldier formerly in Afghanistan, John retreats below deck. Sherlock has moved from their cabin. Where to, John can't be sure. For a moment, he thinks to search, but then he realises that he is, for once, alone.
He closes the door, pulls out the bucket they shit in, and considers whether it's too soon to wank in this body. He lights the candle to make sure he'll be able to aim at least a little, which is essentially the moment he decides it's not too soon. He spends far too much time pressed against Sherlock, and now that the man's illness is improving, their motions in bed have become less sympathetic and more deliberate. Despite everything John's said to him-or tried to say to him, rather-there's a definite sense of expectation coming from Sherlock.
Hopefully, John will be able to explain the situation fully before the issue is pressed. That should be interesting either way. Once the coughing stops, John won't have any other excuse to not kiss him.
All right, this isn't helping. This body hasn't had a wank in days, possibly longer. John unfastens his belt opens his trousers and stands awkwardly between door and bucket. On second thought, he sets the chair in front of the door and secures it there with his foot.
He closes his eyes and lets himself think. The first thing he'll do to Sherlock when he gets home, what will that be? There will be snogging, of course, after the convincing. Yes, John is back, John is home, all is well, let's celebrate, come here, you. So, snogging first. Breathless snogging they try to speak through, messy and determined. They'll shove at each other's clothing, not their own.
Underwear down now. He starts with just his left hand, his right on the bunk to steady himself with the rocking of the ship. Christ, this hand is rough. Okay, that's strange. That is really fucking strange. It comes to the edge of putting him off, but it's been days, and John has only been wanking in his usual universes as it is.
Fingertips, not palm. Try for teasing. Bit less weird. Bit less like Sherlock, too. He'd be all rush, John's first time back. This, though, this is more a few days in. More sure of each other again, more willing to take it slowly. He closes his eyes again, picturing Sherlock kneeling over his legs, smug and chiding as John pushes for more skin. Fingertips stroking John's thighs, a right tease. Stroking and, wait, what's this?
John shifts a bit and draws the candle nearer. Are those pox marks? There's a number across the top of his right thigh. But not his left. Curious. Odd sort of puncture marks, he sees now, not pox at all. It's not illness, doesn't look to be a needle, and unless this John Watson fell naked into a small patch of brambles, the cause isn't obvious. John tries to imagine what might have caused that, but he's no Sherlock Holmes, and he has an erection besides. Limited window of time means he has to have priorities. He'll ask Sherlock about the marks later. John doesn't doubt the man has seen them.
He resumes his wank and manages to push through the strange texture of his palm. It's far from satisfying and close to abysmally lonesome. He cleans up as much as he possibly can, blows out the candle, and sits on the bunk for a few minutes. Once he thinks his recent activities won't be completely obvious, he goes out and rejoins the ship.
Sherlock is in the galley for once. Equally surprising, he's with a book. That's encouraging only until John sees the job the printers have done. Modernity is far away indeed. He sits next to Sherlock, wondering how much else might be out there if the printing press has been invented.
"Where'd that come from?" John asks.
"On loan from the captain," Sherlock answers, not looking up. "I finally badgered her into it."
No electricity, but a lady captain?
"What kind of...?" John asks. He leans forward, hands folded on the table between them.
For a long, very disconcerting moment, Sherlock stares at John's hands. Then he snaps his eyes up to John's face. "The word you're looking for is 'book.'"
"Book," John echoes. "What does it say?"
Sherlock begins the lengthy process of introducing a new concept. Familiar words build into the unfamiliar. "Things that happened where we're going. A long time ago. History."
Perfect. "Read it to me?"
Sherlock does.
Though John's vocabulary expands greatly from the experience, each word imprinted into his memory, the actual content of the history settles into only a vague outline. Certain noticeable bits jump out-"a very similar situation to you and that crossbow bolt, as it happened," Sherlock says of a bodyguard botching an assassination with his own body as a shield-and those are the ones John keeps.
Odd, how he'd not thought to look at his shoulder. The ache in the cold and the morning are too much a part of him to be wondered at. Then again, he's hardly taken his clothes off here. He can't wait for land and a good bath. Only a few days now.
Sherlock reads to him without pause or regard to their audience. The edgy looks the sailors give Sherlock improve somewhat at seeing them like this. John wonders how terrible their previous rows on the ship had been.
Eventually-John doesn't know how long it takes-someone else in the galley chimes in, another passenger John barely knows. They treat Sherlock warily, like a bomb of deduction about to break into insults at any moment. Must be a sensitive soul.
All told, John feels like he's stuck in the exposition portion of a film or a novel, and he presses his advantage there as long as he can. A curious expression and "No, of course I'm interested" bring him far. It also, over the course of the afternoon and then the evening, brings Sherlock to his side, then against his side, and then with his hand a motion away from possessiveness. When John laughs at a man's joke, Sherlock's hand lifts from the table and moves under it. The hand on his thigh is clearly some sort of warning. There's no tablecloth and it's not subtle in the slightest.
The tension returns.
John reaches under the table, elbow hitting Sherlock's arm, and takes the hand off his leg. He brings it back onto the table, threads their fingers together, and resumes the conversation as if nothing has occurred.
In hindsight, perhaps not the best decision for when they are inevitably alone. In practicality, perhaps the only way of demonstrating that Sherlock's mysterious mind control powers do not mean domestic violence is running rampant between them. Really, there's probably no way of doing that, but it does make everyone slightly less nervous.
Even with the protective display, Sherlock vanishes when it's time for dinner. John's side goes cold, missing the solid press of another body, but the benches soon grow crowded. The talk gets rougher, louder, more boisterous. It's more food than usual, the promise of shore relaxing the rationing.
The singing starts earlier than it usually does, but that might be the abundance of beer and yet more sorts alcohol that suddenly emerge from the cupboards. John sings along with a man slapping him on the back. It's a good, laughing time. Jokes and stories and something brown in a bottle with a stopper that tastes so much better than the piss-like beer. When prodded for a song, John responds with a hodgepodge of what Derek sings in the shower, rock and oldies and everything else besides.
This confuses everyone, of course, so they demand he do it more. Drinks all around again. John decides the best thing to do would be to stand up and sing Bohemian Rhapsody, just for the hell of it, but he forgets the words less than halfway through. This goes over incredibly well anyway, partially because of yet more of the brown stuff which hits John in the face. Metaphorically. It hits him in the face metaphorically.
So does the realization. That he's having fun. Right here. This. Having fun. This is a good time.
"Oh God!" he cries in English. "Where's Sherlock?" He stares blankly at a blank look. "Sherlock." Tries again. "Where is he? He doesn't like... this. Parties. Always off on his own. Sad. I gotta. Him. I'll him."
He tries to stand up and promptly falls on the floor. So he laughs. Because it's funny, because it's hard to stand on a boat, and because when Sherlock sees him, Sherlock will know John fell down and Sherlock will laugh too and John misses him.
So John staggers to his feet and keeps a hand on the wall and says goodbye to all of his friends, and he loves them, really, he does, he loves all of them, except for that fellow, him, he's a bit of a git, and John staggers down the hall and is very. Careful. On the stairs.
He succeeds at stairs, which is always a good sign, and he does not crack his head open by falling, because he does not fall. Though if he did fall and crack his head open, he might wake up back home. That would be nice. But uncertain, so he doesn't risk falling and cracking his head.
Except the floor is a bit damp, because this is a ship, and so he slips once he stops being so careful, and the ship lurches, because this is again a ship, and John laughs once he stops being so winded. He curls onto his side, giggling. He didn't crack his head. Good. Good, but still no Sherlock, none.
"John, what are you-? Ah."
And then there is.
"Sherlock," John says. He cranes his neck a bit. His face begins to smile for him. "Sherlock!" He flops his hand back in the direction of the galley. "You weren't there. So I came here."
"The word for your condition is 'drunk'," Sherlock supplies. John has already heard this word back in the galley.
"Lonely," John corrects, though he only knows the word in English. He sits up and takes a better look at Sherlock's face. It's a nice face. Very open, which makes John worry. Sherlock is worried and showing worry, so of course John worries.
He tries to stand up, but can't quite manage it with the swaying of the ship. Sherlock helps him. Sherlock pulls him close and half drags him. John is tucked under that arm, tucked like he fits there, like this is a place he belongs, but he doesn't, he doesn't and he's not about to.
Sherlock manoeuvres them into the tiny cabin and closes the door and then it's them and the candle on the table with the borrowed book. John sits on the bunk, then staggers off the bunk to take off his jacket. It's all damp. Don't want the damp on the bed. Sherlock even thanks him for doing that, an absentminded little word that John hears most during cases and mid-experiment.
In the dark, he's practically the same.
Sherlock reads him well, too well, always reads him too well. He steps into John, against him, and holds on as if Sherlock is the one in need of comfort. John holds on, and holds on, and Sherlock is much too thin, the man is practically starved. Where John touches, clothing falls away, which is strange, because John isn't the one doing that.
Then John has a shirtless man in his arms, which is nice, which is not something he would have thought a few years ago, which is a bit too much perspective to have at this moment. Even in the dark, especially in the dark, he knows this chest. "Sherlock," he says and looks up.
He should not have looked up.
Because looking up means Sherlock is looking down and they're looking at each other. And Sherlock's eyes are doing that soft thing they sometimes do, but usually only after orgasm or when he thinks John won't catch him at it.
So, no, the kiss does not come as a surprise.
The firm pressure, the heat. The overwhelming familiarity. No surprises. Even the sensation of having a bit of a beard while kissing, not a surprise.
Sherlock making a gagging sound after the first lick into John's mouth, that is a surprise.
John hurts himself laughing.
With more than a little bit of a flounce, Sherlock sits on the bed and pulls the sheet over his bare shoulders.
"Don't sulk," John urges. He climbs onto the bunk with Sherlock and remembers to take off his boots. Untying them is a little difficult, but he manages nicely. "There we are." He looks at Sherlock again. "Don't sulk."
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, clearly sulking.
"Because," John says, "I am drunk. And right now I am happy. And in a... a..."
"Moment."
"In that. I'm gonna be sad."
Sherlock touches John's face. He scratches the beard a little, which is curious, but good. "Because you're on this ship with me."
"Hm?"
"That's why you're sad."
John nods.
"You want to go home."
John nods. He sets his back against the wall and slides sideways, shoulder against Sherlock's arm. He plops his head on that hard shoulder.
Sherlock shifts a bit. John allows himself to be shifted. Sherlock begins to pet his hair again, which is very nice.
"That's very nice," he says.
"Come here," Sherlock says.
John does. He knows Sherlock likes him like this, sitting on his thighs. He holds onto those shoulders and sets his forehead against that long neck and ignores the rocking of the ship. A hand in his hair, a hand up and down his back.
Once his knees hurt, John eases back. This seems familiar, is familiar, but the setting is very wrong.
"Any better?" Sherlock asks.
"I want to go home."
Sherlock touches his face. "Someday. I promise you that."
"You can't. No one can promise that. I can't promise that."
"Quiet." This kiss is hard, upset.
John opens his mouth, huffs out a breath, and the tongue meeting his doesn't shy away a second time from the taste of alcohol. It's wet and messy and it's like scratching the wrong bit of skin, it's like rubbing an itch through trousers. It's close enough to what he needs that it might be what he wants.
The air is cold against his skin. The sheet is rough. John breaks the kiss by pulling Sherlock down on top of him, which is probably not how this should go. His cock continues its attempts to resist the horny stupor of alcohol. It likes Sherlock's hand, even through his trousers.
"Not going to happen," John tells him, pulling that hand away. "He's fallen and he can't get up."
"You don't want to?" God, the fear in that voice. Not rejection: fear.
John hugs him tight. "I'm drunk."
Sherlock remains tense against him until John pets his hair. Once John has the strands between his fingers, Sherlock positively melts. It's amazing hair. John's is in a bad state. No showers, no baths. Sherlock's is soft and fluffy and not actually the texture it should be. John would wonder about that, but Sherlock starts moaning against his neck, and then there is licking and kisses and this is very nice, but it's not helping with the guilt.
John eases him back.
Sherlock frowns down at him. "What have I done wrong now?"
John shakes his head. Distraction, he'd had an idea for a distraction, what was, oh, right. "Think," John says. "You, um. I want you to, to look. And think. And tell me. About what you see."
"Deduce."
"Yes! Yes, that."
The frown deepens. "What, now?"
John nods. "Scars." He touches his own chest.
Sherlock looks. Sherlock looks and he touches and John remembers all the mornings his madman played the violin for him, musical associations of home. John remembers the care of loosening the bow strings and setting the instrument away. The unthinking reverence in those hands.
Sherlock tells him things John will want to remember come morning, but he forgets many of them immediately. Most of them immediately.
He remembers when Sherlock opens his trousers. He remembers lying there so relaxed and watching, feeling the touch to his thigh. The palm against his leg, the thumb stroking the marks.
"Me," Sherlock states, and when John looks, Sherlock is staring directly into his eyes. "These are mine."
Experiment, John translates. John rolls his eyes, a grin pulling unevenly at his mouth. "The things I let you get away with."
Sherlock stares down at him.
Sherlock stares down at him for a long time.
John reaches down and pats Sherlock's hand. He tugs at his trousers, urging them up. Sherlock helps with this.
John turns his face against the pillow. He pulls at the blanket, and Sherlock lies down, covering them both. Sherlock gathers him up.
Eyes closed, heart strange, John begins to doze. Almost there, getting there, and Sherlock murmurs into his ear. The pronouns are simple, "you" and "I", but the verb is one Sherlock hasn't used before. It's one Sherlock may believe John doesn't know.
John wouldn't, if not for tonight, if not for the singing. But love songs are love songs, and that's enough to teach one word.
He falls asleep pretending not to have heard.
Part B: gold
previous | next
Rating: R
Wordcount: 11.6k/44.2k
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: The AU of AU's: First, he is shot in Afghanistan (again). Second, he wakes on a boat. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the tenth, he's lost hope.
(Original prompt: "ECM!John gets hurt again, and ends up with a few more lives. By overwriting Stranger at the Gate!John and Behavioral Modification!John." Thus, Watches 'Verse with Behavioural Modification and Stranger at the Gate. Prompted and filled here on livejournal. NOT an official continuation of any of these 'verses.)
Warnings: Partial character death, separation, vampire, blood, hypnotism
Red
Green
Purple and Gold
Orange
Blue
Another morning, another lack of Sherlock in the flat. John makes himself breakfast, dumps the mouldy bread, and does the shopping. He comes home to a still empty flat and makes himself tea, opening the fresh box of PG Tips.
I'm off to work, he texts. Let me know you're still breathing.
When he comes back from the clinic, he receives confirmation that Sherlock is alive and, if not well, certainly active. Shaking his head, John pulls out another scrap of paper and puts "tea" back on the shopping list. Fortunately, John had thought to hide an emergency box.
Going to the loo, he discovers Sherlock's door is closed. It wasn't earlier. He chews his lip, considering it. They do need to talk. They're going to have to, if only to confirm whether John should move out.
He settles for a light knock.
No answer.
He checks his phone for texts. Nothing. He waits at the door.
Eventually, he walks away and sits on the sofa, angled to see the hall. Sherlock won't leave without him noticing, which is the best he can muster at the moment. He turns on the telly but doesn't technically watch it.
The buzz of the doorbell comes as a surprise. Realising that Mrs. Hudson is out, John heads downstairs before the noise sends Sherlock into a fit.
"John, there you are," Lestrade says, more of a sigh of relief than a greeting. "Thank God," he adds, as if to make sure John has noticed his tone.
John frowns. "What's wrong?" Oh, Christ, no. Was Sherlock's room empty, the door simply closed on the prat's way out?
Lestrade frowns back at him. "I thought... Sorry, never mind. Is Sherlock in? He's not responding to my texts. I called, but it went to voicemail."
"I think he's upstairs," John replies, leading the way. "What's this about?"
The concern radiating from Lestrade spikes once again. "The case?" he asks pointedly.
"Well, yes," John says, trying to play it off as obvious. "I meant more of the specifics. You wouldn't be here if you didn't have new information."
"Fair point. Think I'll save the telling for both of you, if you don't mind the wait." Now Lestrade knocks on Sherlock's door, much harder than John had. "Sherlock!" No reply. Lestrade levels a look at John.
John nods and opens the door himself. He sticks his head in.
Sherlock is on the bed, on his side of the bed, and his unconscious body is tense in its curl around John's pillow. His arms are locked about it, face buried. He's fully dressed, down to his shoes.
John immediately retreats and pulls Lestrade down the hall after him. "If he's collapsed on his own, he needs the sleep," John states in his best Captain Doctor voice. "I can record anything you need to say on the laptop-the microphone works now."
"Look," Lestrade says, "I don't want to pry-"
"Then don't," John finishes for him, quick and firm. "He's having a hard time right now. I'd rather not go into it."
"Fair enough. But it's always a worry when he shows up at a crime scene without you in tow."
"Sorry about that. My actual job, you know how that is."
"Oh, do I."
John makes them tea and Lestrade tells him about the case. They must be loud enough to wake Sherlock at last, or perhaps the man's body is simply that resistant to sleep. He shuffles into the sitting room, clothing rumpled, eyes blank, and he stares at the scene before him, Lestrade in Sherlock's armchair, John in his own.
"Get out."
Lestrade blinks. John can't fault him his surprise. For all the words are often shouted, he's never known Sherlock to say them like that, to simply state the command. It ought to sound hollow, empty as a cave, but there's an echo of something living in its undertones, the reverberating cries of something lost and hurt in the dark.
"I've told John the details," Lestrade begins, standing.
"Both of you," Sherlock clarifies. "Get out."
John sets down his tea and stands as well, ignoring how Lestrade is gaping by now. "C'mon, Greg."
He doesn't exactly remember the short walk outside. It's very numb, that much is clear.
"Really, what is he on about?" Lestrade glares up at the window.
"It's actually a very bad time," John says. "I can't give you the details, but-" He clears his throat. "He's not just having a sulk."
Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up. Another glance up to the window, and his expression softens only marginally. "That so."
"He's handling it surprisingly well, actually."
"This is handling it well?"
John considers Sherlock as he was that first morning, the simple assumption of contact as their bodies woke side by side. He considers the single bed and the joint office. Whatever John has with his own madman, this Sherlock had experienced to an even greater degree with his blogger.
"Amazingly well," John confirms, and his voice breaks on the first word.
Lestrade looks at him for a moment, then looks away. He puts his hands in his pockets. "Right, then."
"Sorry. About him. The case. Whatever trauma he's caused." His voice strengthens as he speaks. If he keeps speaking, perhaps they'll forget about that little moment.
Lestrade makes a face at that, shrugging. "Hardly your fault."
Christ. John manages a good neutral expression. John manages his way through the remaining moment of conversation before Lestrade leaves. He honestly has no recollection of what he's said once Lestrade is gone. Then, John goes for a walk. A long one.
He texts Sherlock from the far side of Regent's Park. Should I stay at Harry's?
The response arrives before he can pocket his mobile.
No. SH
He walks a bit longer.
Then he goes back to the flat. He hangs up his coat and finds Sherlock on the sofa in the sitting room. The telly is still on the channel John left it. John picks up his laptop, opens it, and reviews the latest blog entries. Always good to know what people will try to speak with him about.
"He didn't notice."
The words take a moment to register. John looks up, looks to the sofa. "Sorry?"
Sherlock waves his hand, a dismissive flick. He glares at the ceiling. "Lestrade. Your impersonation passed muster."
"'Impersonation'?"
"Yes, when you pretend to be someone you're not and successfully deceive others," Sherlock replies. "That is what it's called."
"Hold on now-"
"What you do in Chelmsford," Sherlock adds. "After three years of practice there, it must have been easy to slip into the role here. Mrs Hudson hasn't noticed in the slightest! The clinic too-everything's perfectly normal, isn't it?"
John shuts his laptop with a solid click, wanting to slam it. "I didn't do this on purpose."
"No, only the research," Sherlock acknowledges. "Compulsively scanning for differences, checking the newspapers, checking the blog-you're very efficient. I imagine it helps that the role is similar. It's not technically lying when you have the same name."
"Do you know what happens when I don't cover?" John demands. "No, really. Do you have any idea what happens to someone when they lose their memories and start talking about interdimensional sleep travel? You’re sectioned, Sherlock, not believed."
"And you know this from experience?"
John shakes his head. "No. And I don't care to."
Sitting up, Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens his mouth.
"No," John interrupts. "We're not trying that. It was bad enough in Chelmsford, back at the start. I had no idea who anyone was, barely knew where I was going. It was the worst experience of my life and I've been shot twice-I've been shot fatally."
"That was the worst," Sherlock repeats, voice even. His gaze is level, very, and John has the sense of a trap about to close around him.
Fine. So be it. John barrels in further. "It was. I would fall asleep in pain and wake up there, and then it would be a day of reverse culture shock. The way I stood alarmed people. I would walk down a hall and people would ask me what was wrong, and I couldn't tell any of them, because then I would be crazy. I'd look in the mirror and it wouldn't be me. It was the only place I didn't hurt in some way, but it wasn't my body. But I was still a doctor, still responsible, still every damn thing I was supposed to be, except it's not really mine, is it? I'm a steward in my own body. I take care of his house and his car and his friends, and that is the best I can do, because I don't know when he's coming back. Yes, fine, I impersonate him. It's that or be sectioned."
Sherlock stares at the far wall rather than look at him. "Excuse me if I don't find your guilt a comfort."
"I don't expect you to."
Sherlock’s glare snaps back to John.
"I'm a placeholder,” John continues. “I know that. But a body needs someone in it to run it, so until he comes back to do the job, I'm going to keep moving and breathing. Unless you'd rather give up hope. There's a gun upstairs I can always put in my mouth. It's not me it'll end. Or him either, if you really think he's not coming back."
Sherlock's face is very pale. Noticeably more so.
"Or I can go on lying to people," John says.
Sherlock looks down and closes his eyes.
"Should I go on lying, then?"
Sherlock nods. In his silence, the news on the telly is loud and obnoxious.
"Sorry," John says after a pause. "That was harsh."
"Necessary," Sherlock corrects, a rasp to his voice.
They go out later. John doesn't know where to until Sherlock gives the cabbie the address, and he doesn't know what they're doing until Sherlock ducks behind some bins. John hides as well, they wait, and a bit of a chase ensues. John tackles a man, which is excellent. It's a very rewarding practice, tackling criminals. John restrains the fellow while Sherlock deduces at them and they wait for the police to arrive. It's very neat, surprisingly so, and when Lestrade arrives in the police cruiser, relief bursts across his face.
For a short while, everything is quietly, naturally normal. Sherlock interrupts John while he's trying to give his statement, Lestrade talks over the interruptions, and John tampers down a grin.
Once they're finished, they go out for Chinese.
"Did you come here after the bit with the cabbie?" John asks.
Sherlock nods, breaking apart his chopsticks. "I'm assuming you did as well."
John nods. "Both times."
"Both?"
"Well, not both," John allows. "I only had to get him the once. Over in Digital, though, I emailed Jennifer Wilson. The pink lady? So she never took that cab. And I sent in an anonymous tip to the police. I found out the next day there they'd arrested him."
"And then you went for Chinese on your own?"
John shakes his head. "Not that night. The night before, I staked out the college, just to be sure. No one showed up. So I had dinner."
The waitress comes and the pair of them order in unison, both men ordering the same dishes for the table. There's an awkward pause and a nervous chuckle all around.
"Do you running around saving everyone, then?" Sherlock asks once the waitress has moved on.
"Where I can." John shrugs a little. "It's... odd. Because every time I make a move, I make it all drift apart a little more. Eventually, the differences might mean my foreknowledge will be gone."
"How big of a difference can you make?" Though doubtful, he's not dismissive.
"Well," John says. "You. For a start."
Sherlock frowns.
"Did I mention you're dead in Chelmsford?"
"You did."
"Did I mention that Moriarty didn't blow up Baker Street? Or that the nine million quid hairpin was never found? Or that the painting was accepted as real? No idea what happened to the missile defence plans, but there might be something there too. It stacks up."
A pause for consideration, then the nod. It's flattering, in a way, being complex enough that Sherlock needs to stop and think. "But you still try to save everyone," Sherlock repeats.
"The people I've met or seen dead," John replies. "Yes. Beyond that, not really. Have to put a limit on it somewhere."
The waitress brings the tea. They thank her and remain silent as John pours.
"How well have you navigated the language barrier so far?" Sherlock asks.
John looks at him, tries to find the words to explain it, and has a few nervous giggles as a response.
Sherlock frowns. "That poorly? No, not poorly. Something else. What?"
"You're not going to believe this."
"Oh, yes, because the situation was reasonable until now."
John laughs again and explains.
Sherlock stares at him.
"I'm not lying," John says.
"I can see that," Sherlock replies. "That's why it's so bizarre. Hypnotism doesn't work that way."
"I know," John agrees. "It's... very strange." To say the least.
Their food arrives and they respond with a coordination born of long familiarity. This plate here, that one there, the sauce goes to Sherlock's side of the table and Sherlock asks the waitress for another pair of chopsticks before John inevitably drops one of his on the floor.
As they eat, Sherlock asks after what John has learned since the last time they discussed his condition. Most of what John has to report is about the boat universe.
"Mind you, it's a bit blurry over there."
"How so?"
"It's a boat without fresh water," John says. "I think I’ve been put off beer for life."
Sherlock grins faintly at his look of disgust.
Much later, when they walk home, John carries the leftovers in their cartons, the stapled paper bag in one hand.
"Who else knows?" Sherlock asks as they wait for a light to change.
"Hm? Oh. About me? My flatmate in Analogue."
"Who you still haven't seen."
John shakes his head, eyes on the traffic.
"Was he aware another John Watson might cast you out of your body?"
"We talked about it, yeah. At least, I talked about it, and he told me to shut up."
They walk across the street.
"Then I'm the only one you talk to," Sherlock concludes.
"I tried explaining it to the one on the boat, but I don't think he understands yet."
"I see."
They walk a bit farther.
"I'll take the sofa tonight," Sherlock says.
"No. I'm shorter."
"I'm aware of your height. I'll take the sofa."
"No offense," John says, "but I'd rather not. I orient when I wake up and, well. Analogue watch, waking up in your bed... I don't want to raise my own hopes like that."
Sherlock considers. Nods. "You've been wearing it upside-down."
"Have to differentiate somehow. I don't really need to-it's very obvious-but it helps."
"Are you doing anything in the boat world?"
John shakes his head. "The homespun clothing is a bit of a giveaway."
Sherlock huffs a laugh and John laughs with him.
"Are we okay?" John asks, after. "Because we've just met, but you are the closest thing I have to a best friend at the moment."
Sherlock doesn't look at him, but he does nod.
"Okay," John says. It's a start, and a better one than he'd thought he'd have.
The next day down in Wandsworth, John makes a point of making a few suggestions to Maggie. Anything she wants to do with her friends, she should do-within reason-and if Derek wants an adult to tag along, it can be John. "Best friends are important," John says.
In the end, Maggie rings Alison up. She shifts a bit, biting her lip as she nods to the rings and John nods at her encouragingly. After, Maggie fidgets and fidgets until Alison calls back with the confirmation: she and that boyfriend of hers can do something on Saturday. The boyfriend wants laser tag. Maggie agrees, her eyes lighting up.
"John?" she asks, grinning wide.
"Yes?" John asks, already grinning back.
"Will you come shoot everyone?" She bites her lip and does an excellent impression of a puppy.
"What?" Derek calls in from his bedroom/office.
"Nothing!" the pair of them shout back in unison.
"Should I be concerned?"
"No!"
Considering that John spends the afternoon teaching Maggie hand signals and creeping across the apartment in improvised stealth drills, perhaps some concern is warranted.
It's all very James Bond. John says this, Derek finally comes out to play, and the night closes with the three of them on the sofa, Maggie and the popcorn in the middle, watching a mini-marathon of Bond.
John's good mood lasts through the night, unfailing even in the face of terrible smells and pointy elbows in his side. The smell isn't so bad, now that he's had time to acclimatize, and he stops minding it in a few minutes after waking.
He pulls himself out of a familiar hold, leaving Sherlock to grunt in his sleep, his long arm searching for the missing heat source that is John. Certain parts of John's body take an interest in this, which John's mind pointedly ignores. John sits on the chair, lacing up his boots, before taking to the ship. He talks today, which is new.
Also incredibly overdue. He finally gets a few questions in about where they're going. He learns, almost incidentally, that no one is terribly confused by John's accent, seeing as this language, something like "Frank" (or "Franc"? "Frainc"?), is meant to be John's second language as it is. He asks everything he can about their destination, how much longer it will be (only two or three days left, two with good wind), and whether there's anything to drink besides beer (there is not).
He stands up on deck for a time, watching the waves and the ship itself. As the sun climbs, the sails glow gold. Once the unrelenting heat becomes too much, even for a soldier formerly in Afghanistan, John retreats below deck. Sherlock has moved from their cabin. Where to, John can't be sure. For a moment, he thinks to search, but then he realises that he is, for once, alone.
He closes the door, pulls out the bucket they shit in, and considers whether it's too soon to wank in this body. He lights the candle to make sure he'll be able to aim at least a little, which is essentially the moment he decides it's not too soon. He spends far too much time pressed against Sherlock, and now that the man's illness is improving, their motions in bed have become less sympathetic and more deliberate. Despite everything John's said to him-or tried to say to him, rather-there's a definite sense of expectation coming from Sherlock.
Hopefully, John will be able to explain the situation fully before the issue is pressed. That should be interesting either way. Once the coughing stops, John won't have any other excuse to not kiss him.
All right, this isn't helping. This body hasn't had a wank in days, possibly longer. John unfastens his belt opens his trousers and stands awkwardly between door and bucket. On second thought, he sets the chair in front of the door and secures it there with his foot.
He closes his eyes and lets himself think. The first thing he'll do to Sherlock when he gets home, what will that be? There will be snogging, of course, after the convincing. Yes, John is back, John is home, all is well, let's celebrate, come here, you. So, snogging first. Breathless snogging they try to speak through, messy and determined. They'll shove at each other's clothing, not their own.
Underwear down now. He starts with just his left hand, his right on the bunk to steady himself with the rocking of the ship. Christ, this hand is rough. Okay, that's strange. That is really fucking strange. It comes to the edge of putting him off, but it's been days, and John has only been wanking in his usual universes as it is.
Fingertips, not palm. Try for teasing. Bit less weird. Bit less like Sherlock, too. He'd be all rush, John's first time back. This, though, this is more a few days in. More sure of each other again, more willing to take it slowly. He closes his eyes again, picturing Sherlock kneeling over his legs, smug and chiding as John pushes for more skin. Fingertips stroking John's thighs, a right tease. Stroking and, wait, what's this?
John shifts a bit and draws the candle nearer. Are those pox marks? There's a number across the top of his right thigh. But not his left. Curious. Odd sort of puncture marks, he sees now, not pox at all. It's not illness, doesn't look to be a needle, and unless this John Watson fell naked into a small patch of brambles, the cause isn't obvious. John tries to imagine what might have caused that, but he's no Sherlock Holmes, and he has an erection besides. Limited window of time means he has to have priorities. He'll ask Sherlock about the marks later. John doesn't doubt the man has seen them.
He resumes his wank and manages to push through the strange texture of his palm. It's far from satisfying and close to abysmally lonesome. He cleans up as much as he possibly can, blows out the candle, and sits on the bunk for a few minutes. Once he thinks his recent activities won't be completely obvious, he goes out and rejoins the ship.
Sherlock is in the galley for once. Equally surprising, he's with a book. That's encouraging only until John sees the job the printers have done. Modernity is far away indeed. He sits next to Sherlock, wondering how much else might be out there if the printing press has been invented.
"Where'd that come from?" John asks.
"On loan from the captain," Sherlock answers, not looking up. "I finally badgered her into it."
No electricity, but a lady captain?
"What kind of...?" John asks. He leans forward, hands folded on the table between them.
For a long, very disconcerting moment, Sherlock stares at John's hands. Then he snaps his eyes up to John's face. "The word you're looking for is 'book.'"
"Book," John echoes. "What does it say?"
Sherlock begins the lengthy process of introducing a new concept. Familiar words build into the unfamiliar. "Things that happened where we're going. A long time ago. History."
Perfect. "Read it to me?"
Sherlock does.
Though John's vocabulary expands greatly from the experience, each word imprinted into his memory, the actual content of the history settles into only a vague outline. Certain noticeable bits jump out-"a very similar situation to you and that crossbow bolt, as it happened," Sherlock says of a bodyguard botching an assassination with his own body as a shield-and those are the ones John keeps.
Odd, how he'd not thought to look at his shoulder. The ache in the cold and the morning are too much a part of him to be wondered at. Then again, he's hardly taken his clothes off here. He can't wait for land and a good bath. Only a few days now.
Sherlock reads to him without pause or regard to their audience. The edgy looks the sailors give Sherlock improve somewhat at seeing them like this. John wonders how terrible their previous rows on the ship had been.
Eventually-John doesn't know how long it takes-someone else in the galley chimes in, another passenger John barely knows. They treat Sherlock warily, like a bomb of deduction about to break into insults at any moment. Must be a sensitive soul.
All told, John feels like he's stuck in the exposition portion of a film or a novel, and he presses his advantage there as long as he can. A curious expression and "No, of course I'm interested" bring him far. It also, over the course of the afternoon and then the evening, brings Sherlock to his side, then against his side, and then with his hand a motion away from possessiveness. When John laughs at a man's joke, Sherlock's hand lifts from the table and moves under it. The hand on his thigh is clearly some sort of warning. There's no tablecloth and it's not subtle in the slightest.
The tension returns.
John reaches under the table, elbow hitting Sherlock's arm, and takes the hand off his leg. He brings it back onto the table, threads their fingers together, and resumes the conversation as if nothing has occurred.
In hindsight, perhaps not the best decision for when they are inevitably alone. In practicality, perhaps the only way of demonstrating that Sherlock's mysterious mind control powers do not mean domestic violence is running rampant between them. Really, there's probably no way of doing that, but it does make everyone slightly less nervous.
Even with the protective display, Sherlock vanishes when it's time for dinner. John's side goes cold, missing the solid press of another body, but the benches soon grow crowded. The talk gets rougher, louder, more boisterous. It's more food than usual, the promise of shore relaxing the rationing.
The singing starts earlier than it usually does, but that might be the abundance of beer and yet more sorts alcohol that suddenly emerge from the cupboards. John sings along with a man slapping him on the back. It's a good, laughing time. Jokes and stories and something brown in a bottle with a stopper that tastes so much better than the piss-like beer. When prodded for a song, John responds with a hodgepodge of what Derek sings in the shower, rock and oldies and everything else besides.
This confuses everyone, of course, so they demand he do it more. Drinks all around again. John decides the best thing to do would be to stand up and sing Bohemian Rhapsody, just for the hell of it, but he forgets the words less than halfway through. This goes over incredibly well anyway, partially because of yet more of the brown stuff which hits John in the face. Metaphorically. It hits him in the face metaphorically.
So does the realization. That he's having fun. Right here. This. Having fun. This is a good time.
"Oh God!" he cries in English. "Where's Sherlock?" He stares blankly at a blank look. "Sherlock." Tries again. "Where is he? He doesn't like... this. Parties. Always off on his own. Sad. I gotta. Him. I'll him."
He tries to stand up and promptly falls on the floor. So he laughs. Because it's funny, because it's hard to stand on a boat, and because when Sherlock sees him, Sherlock will know John fell down and Sherlock will laugh too and John misses him.
So John staggers to his feet and keeps a hand on the wall and says goodbye to all of his friends, and he loves them, really, he does, he loves all of them, except for that fellow, him, he's a bit of a git, and John staggers down the hall and is very. Careful. On the stairs.
He succeeds at stairs, which is always a good sign, and he does not crack his head open by falling, because he does not fall. Though if he did fall and crack his head open, he might wake up back home. That would be nice. But uncertain, so he doesn't risk falling and cracking his head.
Except the floor is a bit damp, because this is a ship, and so he slips once he stops being so careful, and the ship lurches, because this is again a ship, and John laughs once he stops being so winded. He curls onto his side, giggling. He didn't crack his head. Good. Good, but still no Sherlock, none.
"John, what are you-? Ah."
And then there is.
"Sherlock," John says. He cranes his neck a bit. His face begins to smile for him. "Sherlock!" He flops his hand back in the direction of the galley. "You weren't there. So I came here."
"The word for your condition is 'drunk'," Sherlock supplies. John has already heard this word back in the galley.
"Lonely," John corrects, though he only knows the word in English. He sits up and takes a better look at Sherlock's face. It's a nice face. Very open, which makes John worry. Sherlock is worried and showing worry, so of course John worries.
He tries to stand up, but can't quite manage it with the swaying of the ship. Sherlock helps him. Sherlock pulls him close and half drags him. John is tucked under that arm, tucked like he fits there, like this is a place he belongs, but he doesn't, he doesn't and he's not about to.
Sherlock manoeuvres them into the tiny cabin and closes the door and then it's them and the candle on the table with the borrowed book. John sits on the bunk, then staggers off the bunk to take off his jacket. It's all damp. Don't want the damp on the bed. Sherlock even thanks him for doing that, an absentminded little word that John hears most during cases and mid-experiment.
In the dark, he's practically the same.
Sherlock reads him well, too well, always reads him too well. He steps into John, against him, and holds on as if Sherlock is the one in need of comfort. John holds on, and holds on, and Sherlock is much too thin, the man is practically starved. Where John touches, clothing falls away, which is strange, because John isn't the one doing that.
Then John has a shirtless man in his arms, which is nice, which is not something he would have thought a few years ago, which is a bit too much perspective to have at this moment. Even in the dark, especially in the dark, he knows this chest. "Sherlock," he says and looks up.
He should not have looked up.
Because looking up means Sherlock is looking down and they're looking at each other. And Sherlock's eyes are doing that soft thing they sometimes do, but usually only after orgasm or when he thinks John won't catch him at it.
So, no, the kiss does not come as a surprise.
The firm pressure, the heat. The overwhelming familiarity. No surprises. Even the sensation of having a bit of a beard while kissing, not a surprise.
Sherlock making a gagging sound after the first lick into John's mouth, that is a surprise.
John hurts himself laughing.
With more than a little bit of a flounce, Sherlock sits on the bed and pulls the sheet over his bare shoulders.
"Don't sulk," John urges. He climbs onto the bunk with Sherlock and remembers to take off his boots. Untying them is a little difficult, but he manages nicely. "There we are." He looks at Sherlock again. "Don't sulk."
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, clearly sulking.
"Because," John says, "I am drunk. And right now I am happy. And in a... a..."
"Moment."
"In that. I'm gonna be sad."
Sherlock touches John's face. He scratches the beard a little, which is curious, but good. "Because you're on this ship with me."
"Hm?"
"That's why you're sad."
John nods.
"You want to go home."
John nods. He sets his back against the wall and slides sideways, shoulder against Sherlock's arm. He plops his head on that hard shoulder.
Sherlock shifts a bit. John allows himself to be shifted. Sherlock begins to pet his hair again, which is very nice.
"That's very nice," he says.
"Come here," Sherlock says.
John does. He knows Sherlock likes him like this, sitting on his thighs. He holds onto those shoulders and sets his forehead against that long neck and ignores the rocking of the ship. A hand in his hair, a hand up and down his back.
Once his knees hurt, John eases back. This seems familiar, is familiar, but the setting is very wrong.
"Any better?" Sherlock asks.
"I want to go home."
Sherlock touches his face. "Someday. I promise you that."
"You can't. No one can promise that. I can't promise that."
"Quiet." This kiss is hard, upset.
John opens his mouth, huffs out a breath, and the tongue meeting his doesn't shy away a second time from the taste of alcohol. It's wet and messy and it's like scratching the wrong bit of skin, it's like rubbing an itch through trousers. It's close enough to what he needs that it might be what he wants.
The air is cold against his skin. The sheet is rough. John breaks the kiss by pulling Sherlock down on top of him, which is probably not how this should go. His cock continues its attempts to resist the horny stupor of alcohol. It likes Sherlock's hand, even through his trousers.
"Not going to happen," John tells him, pulling that hand away. "He's fallen and he can't get up."
"You don't want to?" God, the fear in that voice. Not rejection: fear.
John hugs him tight. "I'm drunk."
Sherlock remains tense against him until John pets his hair. Once John has the strands between his fingers, Sherlock positively melts. It's amazing hair. John's is in a bad state. No showers, no baths. Sherlock's is soft and fluffy and not actually the texture it should be. John would wonder about that, but Sherlock starts moaning against his neck, and then there is licking and kisses and this is very nice, but it's not helping with the guilt.
John eases him back.
Sherlock frowns down at him. "What have I done wrong now?"
John shakes his head. Distraction, he'd had an idea for a distraction, what was, oh, right. "Think," John says. "You, um. I want you to, to look. And think. And tell me. About what you see."
"Deduce."
"Yes! Yes, that."
The frown deepens. "What, now?"
John nods. "Scars." He touches his own chest.
Sherlock looks. Sherlock looks and he touches and John remembers all the mornings his madman played the violin for him, musical associations of home. John remembers the care of loosening the bow strings and setting the instrument away. The unthinking reverence in those hands.
Sherlock tells him things John will want to remember come morning, but he forgets many of them immediately. Most of them immediately.
He remembers when Sherlock opens his trousers. He remembers lying there so relaxed and watching, feeling the touch to his thigh. The palm against his leg, the thumb stroking the marks.
"Me," Sherlock states, and when John looks, Sherlock is staring directly into his eyes. "These are mine."
Experiment, John translates. John rolls his eyes, a grin pulling unevenly at his mouth. "The things I let you get away with."
Sherlock stares down at him.
Sherlock stares down at him for a long time.
John reaches down and pats Sherlock's hand. He tugs at his trousers, urging them up. Sherlock helps with this.
John turns his face against the pillow. He pulls at the blanket, and Sherlock lies down, covering them both. Sherlock gathers him up.
Eyes closed, heart strange, John begins to doze. Almost there, getting there, and Sherlock murmurs into his ear. The pronouns are simple, "you" and "I", but the verb is one Sherlock hasn't used before. It's one Sherlock may believe John doesn't know.
John wouldn't, if not for tonight, if not for the singing. But love songs are love songs, and that's enough to teach one word.
He falls asleep pretending not to have heard.
Part B: gold
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