He feels Sherlock shift, sagging against him, almost throwing him off his balance. “Knew you'd come,” he murmurs.
John didn't and sometimes he just wants to shake Sherlock until he gets a clue, but that's not important now. “Can you stand up?”
“Ah,” Sherlock makes and John can't tell if it's some kind of contemplative sound or supposed to be an answer.
“We'll try,” he says and pulls him up as he gets to his feet again. Under his arms Sherlock feels slightly warmer, which John takes as a good sign. Sherlock leans heavily on him and stumbles a few times as John steers him towards the hatch.
“John, I'm cold,” he whimpers.
“I know,” John says soothingly, one arm still around Sherlock's shoulders. “We'll deal with that. You know what's going on, right? We have to get out. Climb up? It's warmer outside.”
“I want to go home.”
“Up that hatch,” John says.
Sherlock goes, but his movements are uncoordinated and he doesn't seem to have any strength in his hands, so John ends up wrestling his lanky body up. Outside, Sherlock is shivering even harder and nearly fainting from exhaustion.
“Stay with me, Sherlock, don't sleep. Talk to me.”
“They locked me up.”
“Yeah, did they hurt you?” John drags Sherlock towards the door that leads under deck.
“So dark.”
John hugs him closer. It's a miracle they don't fall on the narrow stairs. John leads Sherlock to the tiny bedroom he found earlier. The rooms are badly heated, but warmer than the outside at least. John makes Sherlock sit on the bed. On the small cupboard next to it stands some kind of electrical lantern. When he switches it on, the sudden brightness blinds him for a moment.
Sherlock makes a pained noise and screws his eyes shut. The left side of his face is bruised and there is dried blood under and around his nose, but it looks like it stopped bleeding pretty fast. The thing that really worries John is the hypothermia.
“How long have you been down there?” he asks without much hope of getting a good answer.
Sherlock stares blankly at him for a long moment, thinking, while John opens the buttons of his soaking shirt. “Four hours,” he says at last.
“That can't be right.” Sherlock jumped off the pier not two hours ago.
Sherlock looks insecure for a moment, then just looks away.
John sighs and peels his shirt off. Sherlock's chest is as unhealthily pale as his face. John takes the blanket from the bed and wraps it securely around his shoulders before he starts on the trousers.
“I'm not in shock,” Sherlock says and tries to shrug the blanket off.
“Stop that!” John holds him by the shoulders until he stops struggling. “You bloody well are.”
He takes Sherlock's trousers off together with the pants and socks, it's all still sogging wet and he just drops it on the floor. There's no sign of his shoes.
“Lie down.”
Sherlock just drops sideways and curls in on himself, still shivering. John takes the blanket from the second cot and tugs him in.
He stays crouched next to the bed for a long moment, his face close to Sherlock's. “I'll go and look for more blankets, alright?” he says when he stands up eventually.
He searches all the cupboards he can find, but there aren't more blankets. No hot water bottles either. John returns to Sherlock with a towel and wraps it around his wet hair. Then he sits besides him on the edge of the bed and starts rubbing his back through the blanket.
“Do you feel like you're getting any warmer?”
Sherlock just shakes his head. “I want tea.”
“Yeah,” John sighs, “that would be brilliant.” He reaches out to tilt Sherlock's head into the light, so he can have a closer look at the bruise, but Sherlock just leans into he touch.
“You're so warm,” he says.
They look at each other for a long moment. Sherlock lifts the blanket and holds it open, less an invitation than a demand, but it's closer to his normal behaviour than the apathy he displayed until now, so John feels slightly relieved.
“Alright,” he huffs. He takes off his coat and drapes it over Sherlock's shoulders, then lies down next to him and pulls the blankets over the two of them.
He hasn't even settled, when he feels Sherlock opening his fly. “What!” He grabs for his wrists hastily. “That's not- I mean we-”
“Come on, John, my feet are freezing,” Sherlock whines and wriggles closer to bury his face (damp cold breath, even colder nose) in the crook of John's neck. John shivers and lets Sherlock's hands go after a moment of hesitation.
It takes him a moment to notice that Sherlock started on the buttons of his cardigan and shirt, while he wriggles out of his trousers. A moment and a brush of ice-cold fingers against his nipple. “Sherlock, what-”
“Sorry,” Sherlock says without sounding particularly sorry and then he wraps his whole body around John like a giant, cold damp octopus. It's terrible, Sherlock's clammy skin all the way down his front and cold arms encircling his chest under his shirt, freezing fingers on his shoulder blades and icy feet against his calves. John shivers and gasps and has to actively fight the urge to throw Sherlock off.
“Okay,” he breathes after a long moment. “Alright.” He warps his own arms around Sherlock's waist and pulls him closer.
And then John kisses him, just below the ear. He doesn't really know why, it's all those long minutes on the dark sea coming back to him. It's that Sherlock is here in his arms, as stupid as ever and alive.
Sherlock shifts. “John,” he says, uncomfortable and hesitant. “This is not- I am not, that is-”
„No, I know. Me neither. It's just- I thought you've really managed to kill yourself this time,” he whispers. Sherlock hugs him closer for a second, but doesn't answer. Then he kisses John's shoulder, just once, firm, a swift press of closed lips. As close to an apology as Sherlock will ever get.
They lie like this, entangled, shivering together and slowly warming under the heavy blankets. John smiles and lets the rocking of the boat lull him into sleep.
He feels Sherlock shift, sagging against him, almost throwing him off his balance. “Knew you'd come,” he murmurs.
John didn't and sometimes he just wants to shake Sherlock until he gets a clue, but that's not important now. “Can you stand up?”
“Ah,” Sherlock makes and John can't tell if it's some kind of contemplative sound or supposed to be an answer.
“We'll try,” he says and pulls him up as he gets to his feet again. Under his arms Sherlock feels slightly warmer, which John takes as a good sign. Sherlock leans heavily on him and stumbles a few times as John steers him towards the hatch.
“John, I'm cold,” he whimpers.
“I know,” John says soothingly, one arm still around Sherlock's shoulders. “We'll deal with that. You know what's going on, right? We have to get out. Climb up? It's warmer outside.”
“I want to go home.”
“Up that hatch,” John says.
Sherlock goes, but his movements are uncoordinated and he doesn't seem to have any strength in his hands, so John ends up wrestling his lanky body up. Outside, Sherlock is shivering even harder and nearly fainting from exhaustion.
“Stay with me, Sherlock, don't sleep. Talk to me.”
“They locked me up.”
“Yeah, did they hurt you?” John drags Sherlock towards the door that leads under deck.
“So dark.”
John hugs him closer. It's a miracle they don't fall on the narrow stairs. John leads Sherlock to the tiny bedroom he found earlier. The rooms are badly heated, but warmer than the outside at least. John makes Sherlock sit on the bed. On the small cupboard next to it stands some kind of electrical lantern. When he switches it on, the sudden brightness blinds him for a moment.
Sherlock makes a pained noise and screws his eyes shut. The left side of his face is bruised and there is dried blood under and around his nose, but it looks like it stopped bleeding pretty fast. The thing that really worries John is the hypothermia.
“How long have you been down there?” he asks without much hope of getting a good answer.
Sherlock stares blankly at him for a long moment, thinking, while John opens the buttons of his soaking shirt. “Four hours,” he says at last.
“That can't be right.” Sherlock jumped off the pier not two hours ago.
Sherlock looks insecure for a moment, then just looks away.
John sighs and peels his shirt off. Sherlock's chest is as unhealthily pale as his face. John takes the blanket from the bed and wraps it securely around his shoulders before he starts on the trousers.
“I'm not in shock,” Sherlock says and tries to shrug the blanket off.
“Stop that!” John holds him by the shoulders until he stops struggling. “You bloody well are.”
He takes Sherlock's trousers off together with the pants and socks, it's all still sogging wet and he just drops it on the floor. There's no sign of his shoes.
“Lie down.”
Sherlock just drops sideways and curls in on himself, still shivering. John takes the blanket from the second cot and tugs him in.
He stays crouched next to the bed for a long moment, his face close to Sherlock's. “I'll go and look for more blankets, alright?” he says when he stands up eventually.
“Don't go,” Sherlock says, almost panicked.
“Just for a moment. I'm back before you know it.”
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“Do you feel like you're getting any warmer?”
Sherlock just shakes his head. “I want tea.”
“Yeah,” John sighs, “that would be brilliant.” He reaches out to tilt Sherlock's head into the light, so he can have a closer look at the bruise, but Sherlock just leans into he touch.
“You're so warm,” he says.
They look at each other for a long moment. Sherlock lifts the blanket and holds it open, less an invitation than a demand, but it's closer to his normal behaviour than the apathy he displayed until now, so John feels slightly relieved.
“Alright,” he huffs. He takes off his coat and drapes it over Sherlock's shoulders, then lies down next to him and pulls the blankets over the two of them.
He hasn't even settled, when he feels Sherlock opening his fly. “What!” He grabs for his wrists hastily. “That's not- I mean we-”
“Come on, John, my feet are freezing,” Sherlock whines and wriggles closer to bury his face (damp cold breath, even colder nose) in the crook of John's neck. John shivers and lets Sherlock's hands go after a moment of hesitation.
It takes him a moment to notice that Sherlock started on the buttons of his cardigan and shirt, while he wriggles out of his trousers. A moment and a brush of ice-cold fingers against his nipple. “Sherlock, what-”
“Sorry,” Sherlock says without sounding particularly sorry and then he wraps his whole body around John like a giant, cold damp octopus. It's terrible, Sherlock's clammy skin all the way down his front and cold arms encircling his chest under his shirt, freezing fingers on his shoulder blades and icy feet against his calves. John shivers and gasps and has to actively fight the urge to throw Sherlock off.
“Okay,” he breathes after a long moment. “Alright.” He warps his own arms around Sherlock's waist and pulls him closer.
And then John kisses him, just below the ear. He doesn't really know why, it's all those long minutes on the dark sea coming back to him. It's that Sherlock is here in his arms, as stupid as ever and alive.
Sherlock shifts. “John,” he says, uncomfortable and hesitant. “This is not- I am not, that is-”
„No, I know. Me neither. It's just- I thought you've really managed to kill yourself this time,” he whispers. Sherlock hugs him closer for a second, but doesn't answer. Then he kisses John's shoulder, just once, firm, a swift press of closed lips. As close to an apology as Sherlock will ever get.
They lie like this, entangled, shivering together and slowly warming under the heavy blankets. John smiles and lets the rocking of the boat lull him into sleep.
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That was perfect, thank you!
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Then he kisses John's shoulder, just once, firm, a swift press of closed lips. As close to an apology as Sherlock will ever get.
Wonderful. Thank you.
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