for innie_darling: Wonders Enough
Original Author: innie_darling
Original Story Title: Amphibians
Original Story Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787205
Original Story Pairings: John/Sherlock, John+Harry, John+Lestrade, Sally/Lestrade, Molly/Dimmock, Mycroft+Sherlock, Clara/Harry
Original Story Rating: Teen/PG-13
Original Story Warnings/Content Notes: None
Remix Author: nox_candida
Remix Story Title: Wonders Enough
Remix Story Pairings: John/Sherlock, John+Lestrade, Lestrade/Sarah
Remix Story Rating: Teen/PG-13
Remix Story Warnings/Content Notes: None
Remix Story Beta: AKG
Remix Story Britpicker: AKG
Notes: When I saw my assignment, I momentarily panicked. But then I realized that I had so much to choose from. This story went through several permutations over time and I ended up with this. This is fictional and only very loosely based on real places and events. innie_darling, I hope you enjoy.
July 1836
Wind whips past his ears and the waves crash against the rocky shoreline. End Point is situated at the southwestern edge of the island, up a slight embankment before it drops off into the rocks and water below. It is remote enough from the harbour--and a difficult enough path to traverse--that he had thought to have some time alone to himself before he must return to dress for dinner.
Admiral Sholto has arrived on HMS Bulldog to take command of the island in defence against threatened French aggression; he and his crew are to make any necessary improvements to Reliant before beginning the eight month long voyage to back to England as part of a convoy. And, once in England, long-delayed leave.
Admiral Sholto had called it home; Gregory Lestrade is less certain about that.
He takes in a deep breath and stands before the precipitous edge of End Point. In front of him is two bits of rough hewn of wood that he managed, six months ago, to salvage from a bare strip of sand on the western edge of the island.
Gregory had taken the time, in a haze of disbelief and agony, to smooth and shape the sharp and unshapen pieces into a makeshift cross, which he had carried with him to the top of the embankment and the only place of this Godforsaken island that he believes Sarah might have liked to see. It had taken more effort than he’d have liked to bury the cross in the hard, rocky soil, but even exhausted and worn, he had then searched for the perfect stones to keep it secured in place, ensuring Nature did not undermine all of his efforts.
There is a remarkable beauty, the dark blue sea surging across and over black rock, white seafoam spraying into the air and occasionally catching the sunlight, flashes of brilliance from the corner of the eye that fade when one turns his head to stare at it head on.
He catches himself sometimes, still, writing letters to Sarah. My dearest Sarah, he will write, I have found the most picturesque and charming spot the men call End Point. It contains all the Beauty of this place, though it ill compares to your loveliness and modesty.
Gregory keeps the sheet of aborted letters near his breast and takes it out; the paper is folded tightly and the writing criss-crosses itself, for he has limited access to such luxury items and he could not bring himself to stop, even if he only wrote a word or two.
He can only bring himself to stare at the cross, now. He had come up here with a purpose, knowing that tomorrow he begins the journey back to England, but even though the wind is picking up and the clouds on the horizon threaten a storm, he holds himself still, hesitating and unwilling.
Though the ocean and wind conspire to drown out nearly all other noise, it is but a moment for him to realise that perhaps he has missed his opportunity, for the sound of boots on rock, of leather sliding over sand.
“I thought I might find out here,” the man behind him says, voice raised to be heard over the strengthening wind. “I hope you don’t mind some company.”
Gregory Lestrade sighs and shakes his head and turns to face John Watson. “Of course not,” he responds, before turning back to watch the agitated surf crash against the rocks. Slate grey clouds gather at the western horizon and Gregory estimates that there is, perhaps, a few hours before the storm will break upon them.
John comes to stand nearer, his gaze also taking in the sea, blue waves stretching out towards them like the sirens of myth, and then drop to the cross. Gregory pretends he doesn’t notice where John is looking, preferring to lose himself in his own thoughts.
“You’ve spoken to the Admiral,” John begins.
Gregory inclines his head. “We’ve an early start.”
“Once I had my own meeting with the Admiral, I thought you might take one last tour of the place. Last opportunity before we head home.”
Gregory reaches his right hand across his own body involuntarily, fingers brushing the small black rectangle of dyed muslin that remains secured around his arm. “Home?”
“Yes, home,” John clarifies voice calm and patient, but he does not fool his friend; these can be treacherous waters. “I daresay you will be glad to leave here.” Gregory is not looking at him and tells himself that he does not want to know if John is staring at the evidence that might tell a different tale.”
“You would not be wrong,” he contents himself with saying. “And yet…” the wind catches his voice and his thoughts, ripping them away from him. He finds himself unable to continue.
John has mastered patience, however, and he stands silent and sturdy, a windbreaker in a furious storm surge.
“I have no wish to stay here, but I do not know that I care to return to England,” he manages, clenching his fingers.
“I will not scold you for perfectly natural feelings,” John replies, shifting closer so Lestrade can feel the slightest bit of body heat from his friend. “But if you do not wish to stay and you do not wish to return to England, where on earth would you go?”
He does not judge and Gregory is grateful for that, but the confusion and bewilderment is clear and it is that, more than the question asked, that Gregory finds himself answering.
“Nowhere and everywhere,” he says, “wherever the wind and the sea take me. Can Reliant not be my home? My crew my family? The sea my lover? Must I return to a land that has been the means for my grief and pain?”
John is silent and Gregory finds himself clutching at his breast, at the single sheet of paper that feels as if it’s the only anchor to keep him from being cast adrift.
His friend leans closer and they arms brush and Gregory reminds himself that John is a better anchor than the one on Reliant. “If that were your sole ambition in life,” John finally says, “I would support you in your endeavour. Should that course bring you true happiness, I would of course do all in my power to see it done.
“But I know you too well to imagine that such is the life you would wish. The sea as your constant ally and companion, I can abide, but such an intimate relationship with a mistress so fickle is not what your heart desires above all. You would drown yourself in such a mistress if only to seek the exact opposite of what you’ve already had and lost.”
“You would call me a liar?”
“No, not a liar. I would call you friend and brother, for though I have never had one by blood, I have claimed you as mine in spirit and kinship these many years.”
Gregory finds himself robbed once more of words, this time taken from him by the simple and powerful words and the open and affectionate look on his friend, his brother-in-arm’s, face.
“I would you are mine,” he chokes out, glancing away quickly, “truer than any other.”
“Even Harry?” John asks, his lips twitching briefly.
“Aye, even Harry.”
They neither of them laugh, but Gregory feels--for the first time in some time--that he might one day be capable of it. But as he gazes back at his friend and brother, he is struck by something.
“You speak from experience,” Gregory says.
“Yes,” John speaks simply, and his own eyes turn seaward. “I was engaged once, briefly.”
“When?” Gregory finds himself asking, curious despite himself.
“You remember I mentioned a young man in my youth, named Sherlock.”
Gregory nods. “The naturalist.”
John smiles briefly, his face lighting up, before subsiding. “Yes. On my last day of leave I proposed and he accepted. We were to have a few more days together, but I was called back early.” John’s eyes go out of focus and Gregory finds himself able to wholly identify with the momentary hazy expression. “I had planned to ask for assignment to a supply ship, but…”
“You lost him.”
John’s lips twist in a grimace and Gregory has to look away. The sun is blocked by a few whispy clouds--heralds of the squall to come--and the wind turns cooler.
“It is not so tragic, nothing but a young man--perhaps infatuated, perhaps too young for anything so serious--realising that the world holds more for him than a poor lieutenant with no prospects.”
“So he is still out there.”
“Aye,” John answers, face turned away. But then he faces Gregory once more and smiles. “He was my sweetheart, my sheltered harbour--not safe like a proper harbour ought to be, but a place I could weigh anchor and never fear the elements.”
“Sarah...my Sarah...I called her little quay,” Gregory finds himself admitting, almost sheepishly, even though it cuts something deep inside of him to recall it.
John’s mouth turns up briefly and then settles into another faraway look. “I’ve kept the letter he wrote me for all these years.”
“Why?” Gregory asks, recalling his own sheet of paper.
“I thought I would die, that mere words and paper and a wax seal would undo me and I would keel over and drown on dry land,” John tells him, blue eyes focussed and alert. “I ran headlong into the fray and the men under me followed and my captain called it bravery.” He shakes his head, severe and almost mocking.
“I did not care what happened to me because I thought that I had nothing left to lose.”
Gregory finds himself shivering and turns to face John more fully to keep his face out of the wind. Small pricks of sand, deadly fast in the wind, prick and burn at his weather-beaten skin.
“Men like us crave the danger, are compelled to search the world, but without a safe port, a harbour to trust in, we are lost--adrift without instruments and supplies, without a map. Can you imagine sailing the ocean for the rest of your days, without a friendly port? Because I cannot, and I do not think you can, either.”
Gregory does not speak, but turns his eyes once more to the cross. The sky is growing steadily darker and he quickly turns away to keep the worst of the wind out of his eyes. This is what John is talking about; what would he do, were he to drift aimlessly, and come upon a fierce storm? To whom would he turn?
He has seen enough ships wrecked to know that tempting the fates never lasts very long.
“We should return,” John says, voice raised to carry over the sound of the waves and the gusts of wind. A low, distant rumble of thunder edges into hearing during a brief lull.
Gregory nods and takes a step away from John. “You go ahead and I will be along shortly. I have something I must do first.”
John nods and reaches out to grip Gregory’s shoulder briefly before beginning to walk away. As Gregory is turning away, however, he notices John hesitate.
“Wait.”
Gregory turns back towards John and John frowns in concentration, as though he’s struggling with himself, before he reaches into his uniform and pulls out a thick envelope sealed with wax. Gregory watches in fascination as John stares at it intently and then marches over to him. “Please take this,” he says to Gregory, holding out what is obviously a letter. Gregory finds himself reaching for it unexpectedly, and the paper feels thick and expensive between his fingers.
“John, what--”
“I cannot...that is,” John pauses and gathers himself, continuing in a halting manner, “we all of us bear our crosses to the best of our abilities and I have borne this one without complaint for nearly eight years. At the ends of the earth, before a long journey home, it seemed…”he falters then and gulps.
“We have been away from any safe harbour, from home, for far too long,” Gregory continues, reaching with his free hand into his uniform to pull out his own letter. “These crosses are weighty. Perhaps it is time to set them down.”
John nods jerkily once, eyes glued to the red wax seal on the envelope; the item is practically dripping with money and power and prestige.
Gregory holds the two together and the differences couldn’t be more different; his sheet is thin and cheap, the ink smudged and running, the hand heavy and unpractised. By contrast, the letter given to John is on thick paper and the address on the front is writ large and delicately, a disdain flourish to the W and n in Watson.
Straightening his shoulders, John nods smartly once in Gregory’s direction before turning about face and marching down the embankment. Gregory watches the dark blue of his coat for a moment before turning to his one final task.
He separates the two letters; the thicker and heavier he holds high above his head and releases, turning to watch as the paper is caught in the air, blown clear from his hand and disappearing towards the eastern horizon. The last of it he sees is the blood red of the wax in the distance as it hurtles onward and downward, out of sight.
Gregory spares a brief thought for it, memorialising it by hoping that John will experience some peace, some measure of closure, by its destruction, and then he turns to the task he for which he sought privacy.
He kneels in front of the cross, unmindful of his trousers, and begins removing the stones that anchor the cross in place. Without them, the wood wobbles and threatens to come completely out of the ground. Still, he perseveres; clutching his letter in one hand, he is determined that he will leave his final words to Sarah here. Their weight unsaid on the journey home would be unbalance Reliant, her loss a very real threat.
Finally, he spies the rocky, lifeless soil beneath the stones and secretes the letter there, digging with his fingernails to deposit it into the soil.
Working quickly to forestall the elements, he covers up the letter and replaces the stones. He then dusts himself off as he stands. Somehow, knowing that the words he’s never been able to tell her, all the things he wanted to share but now cannot, are there for her to see leaves his heart pounding and his eyes stinging.
He has no words prepared--and he’s not the best with words in any case--so he draws out one last thing. It is identical to the black cotton tied tightly around his uniform. With a deep, calming breath, he steps forward and to the side to tie it around the vertical pole of the cross.
The first drops of rain pelt his face, made hard and almost painful by the force of the storm rearing up behind them. With a final goodbye--a hand resting over the band of black cloth--he backs away from End Point until the embankment begins to slope down. With one last glance, he turns and begins to run.
***
By the next morning, the storm has blown itself out and the sky is a crystal clear blue that reflects the depths of the ocean. The wind, ever present in this part of the world, is a sailor’s boon and a favourable omen.
The crews of the HMS Reliant, HMS Ardent, HMS Bulldog, and HMS Buckingham--the protecting convoy for the merchant ships returning to England--have been underway since before dawn.
Captain Gregory Lestrade is supervising their efforts; stood next to him is Captain John Watson.
“The wind is favourable, especially for this time of year,” John comments to Gregory.
“Aye, it is,” he responds, his glance darting southwest, towards End Point. “If it continues, we should reach the Horn in five weeks.”
“We’ll be home before we know it,” John replies with a small smile. “And we will have to make a decision quickly about where we shall go on leave. Bath, of course, being one port of call.”
Gregory smiles and for once it doesn’t feel like it will crack around the edges. “One other place must surely be Uppercross. I have cousins there, you know, and I think they would welcome us very nicely.”
“Well,” John says, a smile of his own, “I should never say no to such a welcome opportunity. If you can keep up with me, that is, for I may beat you there and sample the best wonders this Uppercross boasts.”
Gregory shakes his head, small smile lingering on his lips. “I think there may yet be wonders enough for the both of us.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for both authors
Original Story Title: Amphibians
Original Story Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787205
Original Story Pairings: John/Sherlock, John+Harry, John+Lestrade, Sally/Lestrade, Molly/Dimmock, Mycroft+Sherlock, Clara/Harry
Original Story Rating: Teen/PG-13
Original Story Warnings/Content Notes: None
Remix Author: nox_candida
Remix Story Title: Wonders Enough
Remix Story Pairings: John/Sherlock, John+Lestrade, Lestrade/Sarah
Remix Story Rating: Teen/PG-13
Remix Story Warnings/Content Notes: None
Remix Story Beta: AKG
Remix Story Britpicker: AKG
Notes: When I saw my assignment, I momentarily panicked. But then I realized that I had so much to choose from. This story went through several permutations over time and I ended up with this. This is fictional and only very loosely based on real places and events. innie_darling, I hope you enjoy.
July 1836
Wind whips past his ears and the waves crash against the rocky shoreline. End Point is situated at the southwestern edge of the island, up a slight embankment before it drops off into the rocks and water below. It is remote enough from the harbour--and a difficult enough path to traverse--that he had thought to have some time alone to himself before he must return to dress for dinner.
Admiral Sholto has arrived on HMS Bulldog to take command of the island in defence against threatened French aggression; he and his crew are to make any necessary improvements to Reliant before beginning the eight month long voyage to back to England as part of a convoy. And, once in England, long-delayed leave.
Admiral Sholto had called it home; Gregory Lestrade is less certain about that.
He takes in a deep breath and stands before the precipitous edge of End Point. In front of him is two bits of rough hewn of wood that he managed, six months ago, to salvage from a bare strip of sand on the western edge of the island.
Gregory had taken the time, in a haze of disbelief and agony, to smooth and shape the sharp and unshapen pieces into a makeshift cross, which he had carried with him to the top of the embankment and the only place of this Godforsaken island that he believes Sarah might have liked to see. It had taken more effort than he’d have liked to bury the cross in the hard, rocky soil, but even exhausted and worn, he had then searched for the perfect stones to keep it secured in place, ensuring Nature did not undermine all of his efforts.
There is a remarkable beauty, the dark blue sea surging across and over black rock, white seafoam spraying into the air and occasionally catching the sunlight, flashes of brilliance from the corner of the eye that fade when one turns his head to stare at it head on.
He catches himself sometimes, still, writing letters to Sarah. My dearest Sarah, he will write, I have found the most picturesque and charming spot the men call End Point. It contains all the Beauty of this place, though it ill compares to your loveliness and modesty.
Gregory keeps the sheet of aborted letters near his breast and takes it out; the paper is folded tightly and the writing criss-crosses itself, for he has limited access to such luxury items and he could not bring himself to stop, even if he only wrote a word or two.
He can only bring himself to stare at the cross, now. He had come up here with a purpose, knowing that tomorrow he begins the journey back to England, but even though the wind is picking up and the clouds on the horizon threaten a storm, he holds himself still, hesitating and unwilling.
Though the ocean and wind conspire to drown out nearly all other noise, it is but a moment for him to realise that perhaps he has missed his opportunity, for the sound of boots on rock, of leather sliding over sand.
“I thought I might find out here,” the man behind him says, voice raised to be heard over the strengthening wind. “I hope you don’t mind some company.”
Gregory Lestrade sighs and shakes his head and turns to face John Watson. “Of course not,” he responds, before turning back to watch the agitated surf crash against the rocks. Slate grey clouds gather at the western horizon and Gregory estimates that there is, perhaps, a few hours before the storm will break upon them.
John comes to stand nearer, his gaze also taking in the sea, blue waves stretching out towards them like the sirens of myth, and then drop to the cross. Gregory pretends he doesn’t notice where John is looking, preferring to lose himself in his own thoughts.
“You’ve spoken to the Admiral,” John begins.
Gregory inclines his head. “We’ve an early start.”
“Once I had my own meeting with the Admiral, I thought you might take one last tour of the place. Last opportunity before we head home.”
Gregory reaches his right hand across his own body involuntarily, fingers brushing the small black rectangle of dyed muslin that remains secured around his arm. “Home?”
“Yes, home,” John clarifies voice calm and patient, but he does not fool his friend; these can be treacherous waters. “I daresay you will be glad to leave here.” Gregory is not looking at him and tells himself that he does not want to know if John is staring at the evidence that might tell a different tale.”
“You would not be wrong,” he contents himself with saying. “And yet…” the wind catches his voice and his thoughts, ripping them away from him. He finds himself unable to continue.
John has mastered patience, however, and he stands silent and sturdy, a windbreaker in a furious storm surge.
“I have no wish to stay here, but I do not know that I care to return to England,” he manages, clenching his fingers.
“I will not scold you for perfectly natural feelings,” John replies, shifting closer so Lestrade can feel the slightest bit of body heat from his friend. “But if you do not wish to stay and you do not wish to return to England, where on earth would you go?”
He does not judge and Gregory is grateful for that, but the confusion and bewilderment is clear and it is that, more than the question asked, that Gregory finds himself answering.
“Nowhere and everywhere,” he says, “wherever the wind and the sea take me. Can Reliant not be my home? My crew my family? The sea my lover? Must I return to a land that has been the means for my grief and pain?”
John is silent and Gregory finds himself clutching at his breast, at the single sheet of paper that feels as if it’s the only anchor to keep him from being cast adrift.
His friend leans closer and they arms brush and Gregory reminds himself that John is a better anchor than the one on Reliant. “If that were your sole ambition in life,” John finally says, “I would support you in your endeavour. Should that course bring you true happiness, I would of course do all in my power to see it done.
“But I know you too well to imagine that such is the life you would wish. The sea as your constant ally and companion, I can abide, but such an intimate relationship with a mistress so fickle is not what your heart desires above all. You would drown yourself in such a mistress if only to seek the exact opposite of what you’ve already had and lost.”
“You would call me a liar?”
“No, not a liar. I would call you friend and brother, for though I have never had one by blood, I have claimed you as mine in spirit and kinship these many years.”
Gregory finds himself robbed once more of words, this time taken from him by the simple and powerful words and the open and affectionate look on his friend, his brother-in-arm’s, face.
“I would you are mine,” he chokes out, glancing away quickly, “truer than any other.”
“Even Harry?” John asks, his lips twitching briefly.
“Aye, even Harry.”
They neither of them laugh, but Gregory feels--for the first time in some time--that he might one day be capable of it. But as he gazes back at his friend and brother, he is struck by something.
“You speak from experience,” Gregory says.
“Yes,” John speaks simply, and his own eyes turn seaward. “I was engaged once, briefly.”
“When?” Gregory finds himself asking, curious despite himself.
“You remember I mentioned a young man in my youth, named Sherlock.”
Gregory nods. “The naturalist.”
John smiles briefly, his face lighting up, before subsiding. “Yes. On my last day of leave I proposed and he accepted. We were to have a few more days together, but I was called back early.” John’s eyes go out of focus and Gregory finds himself able to wholly identify with the momentary hazy expression. “I had planned to ask for assignment to a supply ship, but…”
“You lost him.”
John’s lips twist in a grimace and Gregory has to look away. The sun is blocked by a few whispy clouds--heralds of the squall to come--and the wind turns cooler.
“It is not so tragic, nothing but a young man--perhaps infatuated, perhaps too young for anything so serious--realising that the world holds more for him than a poor lieutenant with no prospects.”
“So he is still out there.”
“Aye,” John answers, face turned away. But then he faces Gregory once more and smiles. “He was my sweetheart, my sheltered harbour--not safe like a proper harbour ought to be, but a place I could weigh anchor and never fear the elements.”
“Sarah...my Sarah...I called her little quay,” Gregory finds himself admitting, almost sheepishly, even though it cuts something deep inside of him to recall it.
John’s mouth turns up briefly and then settles into another faraway look. “I’ve kept the letter he wrote me for all these years.”
“Why?” Gregory asks, recalling his own sheet of paper.
“I thought I would die, that mere words and paper and a wax seal would undo me and I would keel over and drown on dry land,” John tells him, blue eyes focussed and alert. “I ran headlong into the fray and the men under me followed and my captain called it bravery.” He shakes his head, severe and almost mocking.
“I did not care what happened to me because I thought that I had nothing left to lose.”
Gregory finds himself shivering and turns to face John more fully to keep his face out of the wind. Small pricks of sand, deadly fast in the wind, prick and burn at his weather-beaten skin.
“Men like us crave the danger, are compelled to search the world, but without a safe port, a harbour to trust in, we are lost--adrift without instruments and supplies, without a map. Can you imagine sailing the ocean for the rest of your days, without a friendly port? Because I cannot, and I do not think you can, either.”
Gregory does not speak, but turns his eyes once more to the cross. The sky is growing steadily darker and he quickly turns away to keep the worst of the wind out of his eyes. This is what John is talking about; what would he do, were he to drift aimlessly, and come upon a fierce storm? To whom would he turn?
He has seen enough ships wrecked to know that tempting the fates never lasts very long.
“We should return,” John says, voice raised to carry over the sound of the waves and the gusts of wind. A low, distant rumble of thunder edges into hearing during a brief lull.
Gregory nods and takes a step away from John. “You go ahead and I will be along shortly. I have something I must do first.”
John nods and reaches out to grip Gregory’s shoulder briefly before beginning to walk away. As Gregory is turning away, however, he notices John hesitate.
“Wait.”
Gregory turns back towards John and John frowns in concentration, as though he’s struggling with himself, before he reaches into his uniform and pulls out a thick envelope sealed with wax. Gregory watches in fascination as John stares at it intently and then marches over to him. “Please take this,” he says to Gregory, holding out what is obviously a letter. Gregory finds himself reaching for it unexpectedly, and the paper feels thick and expensive between his fingers.
“John, what--”
“I cannot...that is,” John pauses and gathers himself, continuing in a halting manner, “we all of us bear our crosses to the best of our abilities and I have borne this one without complaint for nearly eight years. At the ends of the earth, before a long journey home, it seemed…”he falters then and gulps.
“We have been away from any safe harbour, from home, for far too long,” Gregory continues, reaching with his free hand into his uniform to pull out his own letter. “These crosses are weighty. Perhaps it is time to set them down.”
John nods jerkily once, eyes glued to the red wax seal on the envelope; the item is practically dripping with money and power and prestige.
Gregory holds the two together and the differences couldn’t be more different; his sheet is thin and cheap, the ink smudged and running, the hand heavy and unpractised. By contrast, the letter given to John is on thick paper and the address on the front is writ large and delicately, a disdain flourish to the W and n in Watson.
Straightening his shoulders, John nods smartly once in Gregory’s direction before turning about face and marching down the embankment. Gregory watches the dark blue of his coat for a moment before turning to his one final task.
He separates the two letters; the thicker and heavier he holds high above his head and releases, turning to watch as the paper is caught in the air, blown clear from his hand and disappearing towards the eastern horizon. The last of it he sees is the blood red of the wax in the distance as it hurtles onward and downward, out of sight.
Gregory spares a brief thought for it, memorialising it by hoping that John will experience some peace, some measure of closure, by its destruction, and then he turns to the task he for which he sought privacy.
He kneels in front of the cross, unmindful of his trousers, and begins removing the stones that anchor the cross in place. Without them, the wood wobbles and threatens to come completely out of the ground. Still, he perseveres; clutching his letter in one hand, he is determined that he will leave his final words to Sarah here. Their weight unsaid on the journey home would be unbalance Reliant, her loss a very real threat.
Finally, he spies the rocky, lifeless soil beneath the stones and secretes the letter there, digging with his fingernails to deposit it into the soil.
Working quickly to forestall the elements, he covers up the letter and replaces the stones. He then dusts himself off as he stands. Somehow, knowing that the words he’s never been able to tell her, all the things he wanted to share but now cannot, are there for her to see leaves his heart pounding and his eyes stinging.
He has no words prepared--and he’s not the best with words in any case--so he draws out one last thing. It is identical to the black cotton tied tightly around his uniform. With a deep, calming breath, he steps forward and to the side to tie it around the vertical pole of the cross.
The first drops of rain pelt his face, made hard and almost painful by the force of the storm rearing up behind them. With a final goodbye--a hand resting over the band of black cloth--he backs away from End Point until the embankment begins to slope down. With one last glance, he turns and begins to run.
***
By the next morning, the storm has blown itself out and the sky is a crystal clear blue that reflects the depths of the ocean. The wind, ever present in this part of the world, is a sailor’s boon and a favourable omen.
The crews of the HMS Reliant, HMS Ardent, HMS Bulldog, and HMS Buckingham--the protecting convoy for the merchant ships returning to England--have been underway since before dawn.
Captain Gregory Lestrade is supervising their efforts; stood next to him is Captain John Watson.
“The wind is favourable, especially for this time of year,” John comments to Gregory.
“Aye, it is,” he responds, his glance darting southwest, towards End Point. “If it continues, we should reach the Horn in five weeks.”
“We’ll be home before we know it,” John replies with a small smile. “And we will have to make a decision quickly about where we shall go on leave. Bath, of course, being one port of call.”
Gregory smiles and for once it doesn’t feel like it will crack around the edges. “One other place must surely be Uppercross. I have cousins there, you know, and I think they would welcome us very nicely.”
“Well,” John says, a smile of his own, “I should never say no to such a welcome opportunity. If you can keep up with me, that is, for I may beat you there and sample the best wonders this Uppercross boasts.”
Gregory shakes his head, small smile lingering on his lips. “I think there may yet be wonders enough for the both of us.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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