Evidence of Human Life - part 3
part one
part two
There was no place to land a boat on their island. A woman pulled up to their beach in an inflatable, motored dingy. Sherlock stood at the edge of the shore, nearly dancing in anticipation.
"Hallo!" the woman called, and cut the motor, cruising in. She was approximately forty five, a round but craggy face that had seen too much sun and wind. Boat captain. She handled the smaller craft deftly, but had come alone; likely she had only one other crew member with her manning the boat in her absence. Not a fishing boat. She was in wildlife conservation. She had donned an orange life jacket for even the short trip over here. She was well aware of the dangers of the sea. She was looking at him oddly. John had helped her tow her boat ashore. They had been talking. Yellow. Four stroke engine, outboard, two horsepower. Five years old going by the fading.
"Sherlock," John said. Then, "This is Sherlock. I'm John. Watson."
Homosexual, single mother, a daughter, grown. Dog. Border collie or more likely a shelter mutt -
"Stop," John said, his voice quiet. Chapped hands, callused from boat work, often submerged in water. Three small scars, a bite, she worked with seals. John seized him by the shoulders and shook him once, firmly. "Sherlock, stop it. Shut up." Sherlock tried to listen to John. John turned and kept a hand on the small of Sherlock's back. "Mind if we grab a few things?"
"Not at all." Galway accent, but diluted; small town, coastal, Clifden, perhaps. John dragged him back towards the camp.
Galway. Clifden. Conservation. She had been out monitoring the seals and had gotten caught in yesterdays storm, blown off course, tacking South towards the mainland. What was - John was gathering the seal pelts. His lips were compressed, he was nervous, why was he nervous? The pelts were rolled up, he ran both hands through his hair, looking around him. He grabbed the empty bladder bags.
"We don't need those anymore," Sherlock said. Obviously. They were going back to civilization, blessed -
John shook out his undershirt and put it on, then his jacket. He tossed Sherlock his shoes. "Put those on," he said. Oh. That would be good. Shoes. Didn't he have socks anymore? No? Sherlock slid on his shoes and tied them quickly. John handed him his coat. He was gathering nearly everything to take with them, didn't he understand they were going back?
"We don't need seal meat, John. We'll have real food."
John hesitated, but didn't put the bundle down. "I don't know," he said. "We don't - I don't -"
Ah. John's formidable instincts of self-preservation prevented him from embarking on a sudden and unfamiliar journey without adequate supplies. Very well. Sherlock hefted up the seal skins and a small leather satchel dropped, scattering John's simple bone hooks across the earth. Sherlock stopped and looked at them. He stooped, balancing the seal pelts on one knee. He drew his fingers lightly above the slivers of bone, so carefully, dutifully carved. He picked one up and polished it with his thumb. There it was; evidence of human life. Sherlock rose and slipped the hook into his pocket. The rest, he left behind.
"Sherlock, please stop," John whispered. They were approaching the docks - Clifden, as expected. Night was drawing in, but Janet, the homosexual Clifden conservationist boat captain had radioed ahead, and now the town knew that two castaways had been recovered, so they were crowding the docks and there were people, actual human beings, and exhaust from the motors, and electricity, light-bulbs, streetlamps orange in the twilight - "Sherlock listen to me -"
The boat thumped against the dock and Sherlock staggered. John grabbed his arm, but Sherlock twisted away, and as they neared the dock again he leaped from the boat onto it. There was a boy, eighteen, he hitched the boat to the dock, he had recently broken up with his girlfriend, likely because she had left town and he helped his father with the fishing. Sherlock strolled down the length of the dock, and he could smell the algae that grew against wood, and there were lights flashing, some people were taking pictures. Sherlock could see the glow of the town up the hill, a small town, central population not over 1,000. A girl was there, six, she had two older sisters and was wearing their clothes, she had been separated from her mother, and Sherlock needed to get to the town. A bearded man wanted to talk to him and someone was calling his name, and Sherlock pushed past and broke into a run. There would be cars up there, and radios, and cigarette ash, and condom brands, and nail polish. He was going to see all of it, he was going to see the sidewalk, and door handles, tell who oiled their hinges and didn't, who painted their shutters and who couldn't afford it, and Sherlock pitched headlong into the ground because John had tackled him. Ah, the road was composed of asphalt and a mineral aggregate, coated thinly with the local mud which tasted of -
"Sherlock, stop!" John grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled his face away from the road, then shifted and pulled him into a backwards bear-hug. Sherlock struggled to escape. The town! He managed to twist sideways and lever an arm against John's chest, but John jerked his hair again sharply and brought him in close. John was trembling slightly. His skin had taken on a slightly acrid odor; he was afraid. John was never afraid. Except when he was drowning, or that time with the arrow. Why -
"Sherlock, you have to stop," John hissed. "We don't know these people. Alright? They don't know you. I don't know what - just, please. Let's just get to the hotel, alright?"
Sherlock breathed evenly. He wanted very much to see the town. He almost thought he would cry if he didn't get to see the town right now.
"Sherlock, please just not with all these people. I promise you we'll look at everything, you can eat the dirt, alright, just please, just not - okay?"
After a long while, Sherlock nodded stiffly. Perhaps to get to the hotel they would go through town, and Sherlock could look, and if he stayed calm, John wouldn't get upset. John was upset right now because of Sherlock.
John cautiously released him, and they both stood. Sherlock battled the urge to take off running, and instead looked stiffly at the ground. Oh God, please. He wanted to see the town so badly. Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself but didn't run. He hated being insane, it was dreadful.
"Jesus, Sherlock, please don't cry." John hugged him. His jacket smelled like blood and the island.
They did see the town, as promised, after a proper shave (disposable razor, Gillette, individually wrapped and purchased wholesale, most likely via catalogue), and a hot shower ("Sherlock, please don't eat the soap." Sodium tallowate, sodium cocoate, glycerine, PEG-6 methyl ether, sorbital, titatium dioxide - ). New clothes were delivered, expensive but poorly selected (Mycroft. One of the hotel staff purchased the clothes. Male, between forty-five and fifty, eczema), and then, under cover of darkness, Sherlock scoured the town for information: history, inhabitants, habits, indiscretions - John always somewhere nearby. They were still out when Mycroft arrived the following morning and announced that a private flight to London awaited them. (He had been in Moscow. He had lost eight pounds, quickly. He was suffering a gastrointestinal complaint, an ulcer.) Then they went back to London, and it was so infinitely superior to Clifden that Sherlock had to be sedated. He woke up in his bed in 221B.
Sherlock had a new phone, a new coat, and new contacts in his homeless network. Incredible, the crimes committed in six short weeks! Two bodies had turned up in a trash compactor. A dog had been deliberately infected with rabies. A rabies outbreak in London, delightful! It was three days before Sherlock was able to sleep, and he collapsed at the kitchen table for five and a half hours and then went back out. He was so happy he could sing.
He even went with John to Tesco. He had never fully appreciated the multitude of items at his disposal here, and he left John with the cart in front of the tea section, and went to explore.
There was meat, as many as eighty different varieties including animal, cut, and brand. An entire aisle sixty feet in length was lined on either side with nothing but beverages in plastic bottles, cans, and glass. Sherlock should have gotten his own cart because no matter how he juggled the bag of greens, the wheat-bran cereal, the silicone lubricant, the sack of apples, and four pounds of pork chops, he couldn't carry the mixed-berry concentrate he had his eye on. He would return for it, after depositing his current selection with John.
John was still where Sherlock had left him, by the tea. Jaw tense; his teeth were pressed together. Expression; carefully neutral. One hand on the cart, knuckles white, he was angry. Sherlock cautiously slowed and set his shopping in the cart. He looked at John who was looking at the tea.
It was possible Sherlock had done something to make John angry; a hardly uncommon occurrence. Sherlock briefly thought back on his own behavior to determine if it were necessary for him to apologize for anything, as apologies had the effect of mitigating John's ire, if they were convincing. Sherlock studied John's profile. It was possible he was angry with something else.
"John," Sherlock ventured, and the tense silence snapped.
"Why are there so many different types of tea?" John shouted. Ah. Not Sherlock's fault, then. "I just want one, regular, normal tea, that's all I want! Who needs this many types of tea?"
The simple solution would be to select a generic brand of black tea, but before Sherlock could complete this action, John began sweeping the contents of the tea shelf into the cart. Boxes scattered along the floor, and John grabbed the cart handle and stalked away. Bit of a limp again; interesting. Ah! Lemongrass. And what was - raspberry tea? Excellent. Sherlock picked these varieties up off the floor and jogged to catch up with John. He was surly and no longer seemed interesting in doing the shop, so Sherlock was left to complete it. The results were very eclectic indeed.
At home, John left the shopping on the kitchen table, then stood at the window with his arms folded, overlooking the street. Sherlock warily hung his coat near the door. It was unlike John to be quite so temperamental. Was this recent? How long had this been going on? Not on the island, surely.
Suddenly, Sherlock felt he would very much like to have sex with John. They had been reunited with civilization no less than six days, and in that time, Sherlock realized, they had seen very little of one another. Sherlock had been catching up on all he had missed, and John had been...Well, it appeared John had been straightening up the flat; nervously organizing, as was his wont. The place had never been so neat.
Rather than staring moodily out the window, Sherlock would prefer John to be writhing beneath him, sweating and cursing, panting and calling his name. Yes, that would be much, much better. Sherlock approached John from across the room, his eye on that nippable patch of skin above the collar of his jumper. That delectable warmth unfurled in Sherlock's groin, but as he ran his hands down John's arms and nosed his neck, John tensed frigidly and said, "Stop."
Sherlock drew back as though burned. John had never once used that word or that tone, and Sherlock felt a dangerous uncertainty curl up along his spine. He had been mistaken. Sherlock quickly ran through the scenario to determine the root of his error, and stepped back once he had.
Prior to their liaison on the island, John had never displayed any signs of physical attraction to Sherlock. The circumstances on the island had been extenuating. Sherlock's fingers closed around his palms and he instinctively buried them in his pockets. Sex was clearly an island activity. It had been idiotic to presume it would continue upon their return to London. John would wish to resume dating. Women. Not Sherlock. Obvious. A plummeting feeling akin to nausea swept through him, which Sherlock decided to ignore. He swallowed tightly. It would perhaps be best if he stepped out for awhile.
Sherlock went to the tube station to watch the people. He was able to do this innocuously now: it seemed his sanity had been restored with his return to London. It was nearing five and the streets were beginning to flood with businesspeople. Sherlock saw a man who was having an affair with the nanny; common, and a woman who appeared to be swindling money from her employers in electronics development in order to fund an online gambling addiction; less common, but not unique.
Sherlock had everything he could possibly need. He had new mysteries, a few curious crimes on his website. He had fourteen varieties of tea in his cupboard, blood samples from the rabies outbreak, six different cuts of meat in the fridge, various articles of clothing, and more electricity than he could use. He had running water, both hot and cold. He had a high powered microscope and a selection of deadly toxins from around the globe. There were people on the streets at all hours. There were cabs, trains, buses, birds, all manner of bustling lifeforms; everything he could ever need. Sherlock ran his thumb over the bone hook in his pocket and winced when it caught in his skin.
John was sitting at the living room table when Sherlock returned. The package of silicone lubricant Sherlock had purchased was set before him. Sherlock slowed, then removed his coat and hung it, and carefully straightened his blazer. He had left the lubricant in with the shopping, which John had evidently cleared. John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock slid his hands into his pockets and leaned against the door jamb, his eyes involuntarily narrowed.
John looked as though he would speak, but then his gaze drifted back to the table. Sherlock went into the kitchen. He washed his hands. He hadn't even examined his rabies samples yet, he realized. He had been distracted. Perhaps he would have a look now. Sherlock felt rather than observed John sitting silently in the living room. He paused before the refrigerator. John, sitting sadly at the table. What time was it? It was late. Sherlock had been out a long while. Sherlock could hear the cars on the street, and the water rushing through the pipes as Mrs. Hudson flushed her toilet. The flat was quiet, and another car went by.
That nauseous, sinking feeling returned, and Sherlock couldn't ignore it this time. John would want to clarify that now that they'd returned to London, their relationship would be strictly platonic. Sherlock could accept that. He didn't think it necessary to have an embarrassing conversation about it simply to state the obvious. The truth was, he didn't want to hear it clarified. Sherlock stared vacantly at the baseboards, which John had scrubbed clean this week. It appeared he had been at the corners with a toothbrush. Today, John had thrown a tantrum over tea.
Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, thinking. The process was agonizingly slow, and sickening, because Sherlock knew he was wrong about something but he didn't know what. He felt wrong, like he wasn't thinking, like he had done something stupid. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
John had thrown a tantrum over tea. He had scrubbed the baseboards with a toothbrush. He had barely left the flat all week. John had a psychosomatic limp which had made it's first appearance in over a year, and Sherlock had observed all of these things without seeing.
This wasn't good. Not - no, this wasn't good because John was upset, but this also wasn't good because Sherlock wasn't putting things together. Sherlock put facts together and drew conclusions, that was what he did. But he had overlooked something very basic and very obvious, and that wasn't good. Now that they were back in London, this wasn't supposed to happen anymore, it meant he wasn't well. Not being well in London was quite different from not being well on the island, and if John no longer wanted him, as would appear to be the case and as would be entirely warranted due to Sherlock's gross oversight regarding John's emotional well being, then Sherlock would almost certainly be sectioned. That meant that people other than John would want to restrain him, and that was so very much the opposite of fine.
Sherlock did not want to be insane, it was terrifying. However, he was not going to panic. He was going to remain calm, and that was precisely what he was doing as he paced a tight circle before the sink, fingers curled and hovering inches from his head. He was not insane. He wasn't.
"Sherlock," John said. Sherlock was most assuredly remaining very calm. He was taking deep, even breaths that were not jagged, and did not resemble gasps. "Sherlock," John repeated.
Sherlock anchored his attention on John. He said, "You're disconcerted with the useless excess of the city. The trivialities of daily life have compromised your sense of purpose; you don't even need tea. I see that, John. I didn't, but I do."
"Sherlock - "
Sherlock wrenched in a breath. Okay, he was losing it, he realized. His eyes pricked painfully and he folded onto a kitchen chair.
"I'm not insane, John." Please tell me that I'm not.
"I know that. Sherlock, I know that," John said. He pulled a chair in close and sat, rubbing a warm hand firmly up and down Sherlock's back. Sherlock dropped his head into his hands and John pulled him sideways into an embrace. He pressed a kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck, and when he did that, Sherlock began to cry. He wanted John to mean this. At that moment, Sherlock longed for something he would have never expected; to be back on the island, in the rain of all things, curled in their miserable little shelter under a reeking seal skin. His mind recoiled from this thought because he hated the island so extremely. John rocked them very gently, and he rested his head atop Sherlock's. His shirt smelled like Persil detergent. "We'll adjust, alright? These things just take time."
Sherlock didn't want to adjust if it meant that this tenderness was false, if it meant that he had lost his John. Into the obscurity of John's shirt, he said, "I liked what we had."
John rubbed slow circles on Sherlock’s back. "On the island?"
Sherlock didn't know how to answer that. Yes, on the island, but no, absolutely not. It was nonsensical that that could have been simultaneously the best and absolute worst experience of his entire life. He had been at his happiest and most painfully distraught.
"Me too," John murmured. "I liked what we had." Then he drew alarmingly still. He grasped Sherlock by the shoulders and pushed him away, looking earnestly into his face, which Sherlock didn't care for at all. He looked staunchly over John's shoulder at the wall. He stopped crying.
"Is that what you thought? That I didn't - I was - Sherlock."
Since John hadn't technically asked a comprehensible question, Sherlock did not feel obliged to answer. His face was wet, but he did not want to be seen wiping away tears; it was more pathetic than the tears themselves. Of course, Sherlock had cried in front of John before, but that had been on the island.
"Look," John said. "I didn't - when - Sherlock, that just wasn't a good moment, earlier. It's not because I didn't want to, ever. You haven't been - I didn't know that you still wanted that."
"That's preposterous," Sherlock said with some heat.
"Well." John worried at his palm with his opposite thumb. "I thought...perhaps you thought it had just been a way to pass the time."
That stung. Sherlock tensed and said coolly, "Is that what you thought?"
"No! I - Sherlock, we got back to London and you just took off. It really didn't seem like you were interested."
Oh. Sherlock eyed John narrowly, measuring how to proceed. He wasn't used to being so consistently in error, and he didn't like it.
"So," John hesitated. "I take it that you are, then. Interested."
"Obviously," Sherlock snapped, and regretted it. He closed his eyes. When he opened them John was looking at him with his face completely neutral. Sherlock steeled himself. He would clarify this for once and all, and never broach this mortifying topic ever again.
"John, you are the single best thing ever to have come into my life, and I would very much like to continue with the full nature of the liaison we established on the island."
John looked at him. Then the bastard began to laugh. "Sorry. I'm sorry," he said. "That was...that was just so you, it was absurd." His expression changed to a mirthful impression of solemnity. "Okay. In that case I guess I'll bin that lube, then. 'Cause I've got some seal oil in the fridge."
"The nature, John, not the questionable technicalities."
John laughed again. He looked Sherlock in the eye and said, "Alright. Good. I would very much like that as well."
Sherlock paused. "I mean it, John," he said quietly.
John leaned forward and touched his head to Sherlock's. He stroked the side of his face and his hair, and when Sherlock exhaled, John breathed in his breath and kissed him. "I know," he said. Then Sherlock kissed him back.
"Do you really have seal oil in the refrigerator?" Sherlock asked. He was kneeling on his bed, warming the silicone lubricant in his hands. John lay casually on his side before him. The bedside lamp was on, casting the room in a warm halogen yellow.
"Yes," John said. "I'm afraid to get rid of it." He glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "I probably will be until it goes off."
"Then I'll leave it," Sherlock said.
"Thank you." John closed his eyes. "I'll get over it eventually, it's just - "
"It's fine." Sherlock eased John's leg forward with the back of his hand, trailing his knuckles along the soft hair on the underside of his thigh. "I'm sure I can think of something to do with it."
John sighed softly. "Good. Just don't tell me about it, please."
Sherlock smiled. He eased the slick side of his hand along the back of John's testicles and stroked slowly. John's breath deepened, and Sherlock watched the lines of his face relax. How he had managed to overlook this activity for six full days was utterly baffling, and also no longer relevant. Though it was somewhat awkward, Sherlock reached around and took John's penis in his other hand; still soft, but swelling. He dropped his nose to John's hip and kissed him there. He smelled like warm, clean skin.
When Sherlock was able to, he pressed inside, then spooned closely against John's back and stroked his length languidly. Sherlock kept them like that for a long time, quietly reveling in the warm pressure of John wrapped tight around his cock, opening up for him and allowing him close. He closed his eyes against John's back. He loved his John, a lot.
Sherlock stroked him firmly, slowly, until each breath caught in John's chest with a low moan. Then Sherlock shifted his hips, drew out, and pushed in slowly, keeping constant pressure on John's shaft. John's lips parted with an indulgent sigh, and Sherlock kissed the nape of his neck. He pulled out, and John arched his back as he thrust back in. He was so lovely, so perfect, that it hurt somewhere in the space between Sherlock's lungs. He pressed his lips to the crook of John's shoulder, and began to pick up speed.
It was likely the gentlest sex they had ever had. Sherlock turned John onto his back and then watched himself thrust back in, John's legs spread wide beneath him. Sherlock dropped his face to John's neck and breathed him in. He wanted to be closer, and when John held him tightly it still wasn't enough. Sherlock sped up his rhythm until John gripped the sheets and the headboard knocked against the wall. He raised himself on one arm and watched John's face as he gripped his shaft, and pumped him fast and hard. John's mouth dropped open and he tipped his head back, exposing his throat. He raised his hips and Sherlock came inside him with a stuttering cry.
For a moment, Sherlock rode the aftershock of his orgasm, collapsed heavily on top of John. Slowly, though, he pulled out and dragged himself down to where he still held John tightly in his fist. He took the head of John's cock in his mouth, then sucked down hard along the shaft. Without losing suction he pulled his head away and John's panting breaths tightened into a wanton groan. Sherlock bobbed his head, and John's hips flexed taught, one hand caught in Sherlock's hair, and then he was coming, and Sherlock drank it down.
When John relaxed, Sherlock shifted and rested his head on John's hip, nestled lazily between his legs. He let John clumsily stroke his hair, fingers heavy with post-coital torpor. Sherlock remembered he had meant to do something, and he crawled back up over John and examined his neck. Sherlock's mark was nearly gone. He turned John's head and leaned in to mark the other side. John squirmed and raised his shoulder to ward him off.
"Don't," Sherlock said, and with a long suffering sigh, John surrendered.
Sherlock wanted John to get his name tattooed on him somewhere. He wanted John to sign a notarized contract approving Sherlock's claim on him. He wanted John to sleep in his bed, and wear his clothes, and smell like him. Sherlock sucked a new bruise onto John’s neck, high enough that it would be seen, and when John's breath caught and he cringed, Sherlock released him. He examined his work, and then mouthed over the spot.
"Satisfied?" John sighed. Sherlock grunted and laid down beside him. He pulled John's hand up to his lips and kissed it, then ran his lips lightly over the smattering of hair there.
They laid this way a while when John said quietly but abrupt, "You saved my life." Sherlock felt this to be generally the case about John as well, so he didn't bother to reply. He stroked John's knuckles with his thumb. John turned and looked at him. "I never thanked you for that."
Sherlock opened his eyes. John seemed to be referring to something in particular.
"When I fell off the boat."
Ah. Sherlock closed his eyes once more. "You think too highly of me, John. You always have. I wasn't saving your life."
John digested this statement for a moment. "Oh. Well, it seemed that way."
Sherlock passed John's hand over his lips again. "Allow me to rephrase," he said. "I wasn't saving your life."
They lapsed into silence again. John's tone this time was comprehending. "Oh." He squeezed Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock looked at him.
"I love you," Sherlock said simply. John looked back, brows raised in surprise.
"Really?"
"Yes, really," Sherlock said, annoyed. He watched John shift further into the pillows with this new knowledge, mulling it over. Sherlock rolled his weight on top of John and pinned his hands beside his head, and kissed his ear. "Yes, really." He drew back and met John's curiously solemn gaze for a moment.
"I love you too," John said, as though he had never expected to say those words.
"Good. Unrequited love is so undignified." Sherlock kissed John's ear again and then bit it. He rolled back to his spot beside John, but then changed his mind, pulled John in close and nipped his shoulder, then his arm in quick succession.
"Ow, then why are you biting me?" John half-heartedly tried to escape, and Sherlock nipped his chin and then his ear again.
"Because I'm happy."
"Fabulous. Can you find a less violent way to express your feelings?" John twisted and held him at an arms length, trying for stern annoyance and failing. Sherlock flopped back onto the pillows.
"It’s not violent," he said, then looked at John. He began to hum.
"Don't."
Sherlock did. He leaned up on one arm. "I'm in heaven - "
"Stop."
"And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak - "
John covered his face with his hands and Sherlock leaned in towards him.
"Don't sing, Sherlock, it's scary."
"You love my voice," Sherlock growled.
John dropped his hands and looked at him. "I do. I love your dulcet tones." Sherlock pulled him in close and nipped his other shoulder. "Ouch!"
"My tones are sonorous."
"Oh right, my mistake. I love your resonant...nebulous baritone -"
"Nebulous?"
"Shut up!"
Sherlock had John tucked entirely against him now, and he squeezed him tightly and rubbed his cheek on John's head. John slipped his ankle between Sherlock's and entwined their legs, then Sherlock pulled the blankets over them and switched off the light. He settled in with John's breath against his chest, and traced his fingers up and down John's spine as though reading his future in the bumps and curves.
"And I seem to find the happiness I seek - " he sang.
"Stop."
But Sherlock hummed the rest, and kissed John's hair, and felt the warmth of John's skin against his own. He was happy. He had everything, right here.
part two
There was no place to land a boat on their island. A woman pulled up to their beach in an inflatable, motored dingy. Sherlock stood at the edge of the shore, nearly dancing in anticipation.
"Hallo!" the woman called, and cut the motor, cruising in. She was approximately forty five, a round but craggy face that had seen too much sun and wind. Boat captain. She handled the smaller craft deftly, but had come alone; likely she had only one other crew member with her manning the boat in her absence. Not a fishing boat. She was in wildlife conservation. She had donned an orange life jacket for even the short trip over here. She was well aware of the dangers of the sea. She was looking at him oddly. John had helped her tow her boat ashore. They had been talking. Yellow. Four stroke engine, outboard, two horsepower. Five years old going by the fading.
"Sherlock," John said. Then, "This is Sherlock. I'm John. Watson."
Homosexual, single mother, a daughter, grown. Dog. Border collie or more likely a shelter mutt -
"Stop," John said, his voice quiet. Chapped hands, callused from boat work, often submerged in water. Three small scars, a bite, she worked with seals. John seized him by the shoulders and shook him once, firmly. "Sherlock, stop it. Shut up." Sherlock tried to listen to John. John turned and kept a hand on the small of Sherlock's back. "Mind if we grab a few things?"
"Not at all." Galway accent, but diluted; small town, coastal, Clifden, perhaps. John dragged him back towards the camp.
Galway. Clifden. Conservation. She had been out monitoring the seals and had gotten caught in yesterdays storm, blown off course, tacking South towards the mainland. What was - John was gathering the seal pelts. His lips were compressed, he was nervous, why was he nervous? The pelts were rolled up, he ran both hands through his hair, looking around him. He grabbed the empty bladder bags.
"We don't need those anymore," Sherlock said. Obviously. They were going back to civilization, blessed -
John shook out his undershirt and put it on, then his jacket. He tossed Sherlock his shoes. "Put those on," he said. Oh. That would be good. Shoes. Didn't he have socks anymore? No? Sherlock slid on his shoes and tied them quickly. John handed him his coat. He was gathering nearly everything to take with them, didn't he understand they were going back?
"We don't need seal meat, John. We'll have real food."
John hesitated, but didn't put the bundle down. "I don't know," he said. "We don't - I don't -"
Ah. John's formidable instincts of self-preservation prevented him from embarking on a sudden and unfamiliar journey without adequate supplies. Very well. Sherlock hefted up the seal skins and a small leather satchel dropped, scattering John's simple bone hooks across the earth. Sherlock stopped and looked at them. He stooped, balancing the seal pelts on one knee. He drew his fingers lightly above the slivers of bone, so carefully, dutifully carved. He picked one up and polished it with his thumb. There it was; evidence of human life. Sherlock rose and slipped the hook into his pocket. The rest, he left behind.
"Sherlock, please stop," John whispered. They were approaching the docks - Clifden, as expected. Night was drawing in, but Janet, the homosexual Clifden conservationist boat captain had radioed ahead, and now the town knew that two castaways had been recovered, so they were crowding the docks and there were people, actual human beings, and exhaust from the motors, and electricity, light-bulbs, streetlamps orange in the twilight - "Sherlock listen to me -"
The boat thumped against the dock and Sherlock staggered. John grabbed his arm, but Sherlock twisted away, and as they neared the dock again he leaped from the boat onto it. There was a boy, eighteen, he hitched the boat to the dock, he had recently broken up with his girlfriend, likely because she had left town and he helped his father with the fishing. Sherlock strolled down the length of the dock, and he could smell the algae that grew against wood, and there were lights flashing, some people were taking pictures. Sherlock could see the glow of the town up the hill, a small town, central population not over 1,000. A girl was there, six, she had two older sisters and was wearing their clothes, she had been separated from her mother, and Sherlock needed to get to the town. A bearded man wanted to talk to him and someone was calling his name, and Sherlock pushed past and broke into a run. There would be cars up there, and radios, and cigarette ash, and condom brands, and nail polish. He was going to see all of it, he was going to see the sidewalk, and door handles, tell who oiled their hinges and didn't, who painted their shutters and who couldn't afford it, and Sherlock pitched headlong into the ground because John had tackled him. Ah, the road was composed of asphalt and a mineral aggregate, coated thinly with the local mud which tasted of -
"Sherlock, stop!" John grabbed Sherlock's hair and pulled his face away from the road, then shifted and pulled him into a backwards bear-hug. Sherlock struggled to escape. The town! He managed to twist sideways and lever an arm against John's chest, but John jerked his hair again sharply and brought him in close. John was trembling slightly. His skin had taken on a slightly acrid odor; he was afraid. John was never afraid. Except when he was drowning, or that time with the arrow. Why -
"Sherlock, you have to stop," John hissed. "We don't know these people. Alright? They don't know you. I don't know what - just, please. Let's just get to the hotel, alright?"
Sherlock breathed evenly. He wanted very much to see the town. He almost thought he would cry if he didn't get to see the town right now.
"Sherlock, please just not with all these people. I promise you we'll look at everything, you can eat the dirt, alright, just please, just not - okay?"
After a long while, Sherlock nodded stiffly. Perhaps to get to the hotel they would go through town, and Sherlock could look, and if he stayed calm, John wouldn't get upset. John was upset right now because of Sherlock.
John cautiously released him, and they both stood. Sherlock battled the urge to take off running, and instead looked stiffly at the ground. Oh God, please. He wanted to see the town so badly. Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself but didn't run. He hated being insane, it was dreadful.
"Jesus, Sherlock, please don't cry." John hugged him. His jacket smelled like blood and the island.
They did see the town, as promised, after a proper shave (disposable razor, Gillette, individually wrapped and purchased wholesale, most likely via catalogue), and a hot shower ("Sherlock, please don't eat the soap." Sodium tallowate, sodium cocoate, glycerine, PEG-6 methyl ether, sorbital, titatium dioxide - ). New clothes were delivered, expensive but poorly selected (Mycroft. One of the hotel staff purchased the clothes. Male, between forty-five and fifty, eczema), and then, under cover of darkness, Sherlock scoured the town for information: history, inhabitants, habits, indiscretions - John always somewhere nearby. They were still out when Mycroft arrived the following morning and announced that a private flight to London awaited them. (He had been in Moscow. He had lost eight pounds, quickly. He was suffering a gastrointestinal complaint, an ulcer.) Then they went back to London, and it was so infinitely superior to Clifden that Sherlock had to be sedated. He woke up in his bed in 221B.
Sherlock had a new phone, a new coat, and new contacts in his homeless network. Incredible, the crimes committed in six short weeks! Two bodies had turned up in a trash compactor. A dog had been deliberately infected with rabies. A rabies outbreak in London, delightful! It was three days before Sherlock was able to sleep, and he collapsed at the kitchen table for five and a half hours and then went back out. He was so happy he could sing.
He even went with John to Tesco. He had never fully appreciated the multitude of items at his disposal here, and he left John with the cart in front of the tea section, and went to explore.
There was meat, as many as eighty different varieties including animal, cut, and brand. An entire aisle sixty feet in length was lined on either side with nothing but beverages in plastic bottles, cans, and glass. Sherlock should have gotten his own cart because no matter how he juggled the bag of greens, the wheat-bran cereal, the silicone lubricant, the sack of apples, and four pounds of pork chops, he couldn't carry the mixed-berry concentrate he had his eye on. He would return for it, after depositing his current selection with John.
John was still where Sherlock had left him, by the tea. Jaw tense; his teeth were pressed together. Expression; carefully neutral. One hand on the cart, knuckles white, he was angry. Sherlock cautiously slowed and set his shopping in the cart. He looked at John who was looking at the tea.
It was possible Sherlock had done something to make John angry; a hardly uncommon occurrence. Sherlock briefly thought back on his own behavior to determine if it were necessary for him to apologize for anything, as apologies had the effect of mitigating John's ire, if they were convincing. Sherlock studied John's profile. It was possible he was angry with something else.
"John," Sherlock ventured, and the tense silence snapped.
"Why are there so many different types of tea?" John shouted. Ah. Not Sherlock's fault, then. "I just want one, regular, normal tea, that's all I want! Who needs this many types of tea?"
The simple solution would be to select a generic brand of black tea, but before Sherlock could complete this action, John began sweeping the contents of the tea shelf into the cart. Boxes scattered along the floor, and John grabbed the cart handle and stalked away. Bit of a limp again; interesting. Ah! Lemongrass. And what was - raspberry tea? Excellent. Sherlock picked these varieties up off the floor and jogged to catch up with John. He was surly and no longer seemed interesting in doing the shop, so Sherlock was left to complete it. The results were very eclectic indeed.
At home, John left the shopping on the kitchen table, then stood at the window with his arms folded, overlooking the street. Sherlock warily hung his coat near the door. It was unlike John to be quite so temperamental. Was this recent? How long had this been going on? Not on the island, surely.
Suddenly, Sherlock felt he would very much like to have sex with John. They had been reunited with civilization no less than six days, and in that time, Sherlock realized, they had seen very little of one another. Sherlock had been catching up on all he had missed, and John had been...Well, it appeared John had been straightening up the flat; nervously organizing, as was his wont. The place had never been so neat.
Rather than staring moodily out the window, Sherlock would prefer John to be writhing beneath him, sweating and cursing, panting and calling his name. Yes, that would be much, much better. Sherlock approached John from across the room, his eye on that nippable patch of skin above the collar of his jumper. That delectable warmth unfurled in Sherlock's groin, but as he ran his hands down John's arms and nosed his neck, John tensed frigidly and said, "Stop."
Sherlock drew back as though burned. John had never once used that word or that tone, and Sherlock felt a dangerous uncertainty curl up along his spine. He had been mistaken. Sherlock quickly ran through the scenario to determine the root of his error, and stepped back once he had.
Prior to their liaison on the island, John had never displayed any signs of physical attraction to Sherlock. The circumstances on the island had been extenuating. Sherlock's fingers closed around his palms and he instinctively buried them in his pockets. Sex was clearly an island activity. It had been idiotic to presume it would continue upon their return to London. John would wish to resume dating. Women. Not Sherlock. Obvious. A plummeting feeling akin to nausea swept through him, which Sherlock decided to ignore. He swallowed tightly. It would perhaps be best if he stepped out for awhile.
Sherlock went to the tube station to watch the people. He was able to do this innocuously now: it seemed his sanity had been restored with his return to London. It was nearing five and the streets were beginning to flood with businesspeople. Sherlock saw a man who was having an affair with the nanny; common, and a woman who appeared to be swindling money from her employers in electronics development in order to fund an online gambling addiction; less common, but not unique.
Sherlock had everything he could possibly need. He had new mysteries, a few curious crimes on his website. He had fourteen varieties of tea in his cupboard, blood samples from the rabies outbreak, six different cuts of meat in the fridge, various articles of clothing, and more electricity than he could use. He had running water, both hot and cold. He had a high powered microscope and a selection of deadly toxins from around the globe. There were people on the streets at all hours. There were cabs, trains, buses, birds, all manner of bustling lifeforms; everything he could ever need. Sherlock ran his thumb over the bone hook in his pocket and winced when it caught in his skin.
John was sitting at the living room table when Sherlock returned. The package of silicone lubricant Sherlock had purchased was set before him. Sherlock slowed, then removed his coat and hung it, and carefully straightened his blazer. He had left the lubricant in with the shopping, which John had evidently cleared. John raised his eyebrows and Sherlock slid his hands into his pockets and leaned against the door jamb, his eyes involuntarily narrowed.
John looked as though he would speak, but then his gaze drifted back to the table. Sherlock went into the kitchen. He washed his hands. He hadn't even examined his rabies samples yet, he realized. He had been distracted. Perhaps he would have a look now. Sherlock felt rather than observed John sitting silently in the living room. He paused before the refrigerator. John, sitting sadly at the table. What time was it? It was late. Sherlock had been out a long while. Sherlock could hear the cars on the street, and the water rushing through the pipes as Mrs. Hudson flushed her toilet. The flat was quiet, and another car went by.
That nauseous, sinking feeling returned, and Sherlock couldn't ignore it this time. John would want to clarify that now that they'd returned to London, their relationship would be strictly platonic. Sherlock could accept that. He didn't think it necessary to have an embarrassing conversation about it simply to state the obvious. The truth was, he didn't want to hear it clarified. Sherlock stared vacantly at the baseboards, which John had scrubbed clean this week. It appeared he had been at the corners with a toothbrush. Today, John had thrown a tantrum over tea.
Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, thinking. The process was agonizingly slow, and sickening, because Sherlock knew he was wrong about something but he didn't know what. He felt wrong, like he wasn't thinking, like he had done something stupid. Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
John had thrown a tantrum over tea. He had scrubbed the baseboards with a toothbrush. He had barely left the flat all week. John had a psychosomatic limp which had made it's first appearance in over a year, and Sherlock had observed all of these things without seeing.
This wasn't good. Not - no, this wasn't good because John was upset, but this also wasn't good because Sherlock wasn't putting things together. Sherlock put facts together and drew conclusions, that was what he did. But he had overlooked something very basic and very obvious, and that wasn't good. Now that they were back in London, this wasn't supposed to happen anymore, it meant he wasn't well. Not being well in London was quite different from not being well on the island, and if John no longer wanted him, as would appear to be the case and as would be entirely warranted due to Sherlock's gross oversight regarding John's emotional well being, then Sherlock would almost certainly be sectioned. That meant that people other than John would want to restrain him, and that was so very much the opposite of fine.
Sherlock did not want to be insane, it was terrifying. However, he was not going to panic. He was going to remain calm, and that was precisely what he was doing as he paced a tight circle before the sink, fingers curled and hovering inches from his head. He was not insane. He wasn't.
"Sherlock," John said. Sherlock was most assuredly remaining very calm. He was taking deep, even breaths that were not jagged, and did not resemble gasps. "Sherlock," John repeated.
Sherlock anchored his attention on John. He said, "You're disconcerted with the useless excess of the city. The trivialities of daily life have compromised your sense of purpose; you don't even need tea. I see that, John. I didn't, but I do."
"Sherlock - "
Sherlock wrenched in a breath. Okay, he was losing it, he realized. His eyes pricked painfully and he folded onto a kitchen chair.
"I'm not insane, John." Please tell me that I'm not.
"I know that. Sherlock, I know that," John said. He pulled a chair in close and sat, rubbing a warm hand firmly up and down Sherlock's back. Sherlock dropped his head into his hands and John pulled him sideways into an embrace. He pressed a kiss to the back of Sherlock's neck, and when he did that, Sherlock began to cry. He wanted John to mean this. At that moment, Sherlock longed for something he would have never expected; to be back on the island, in the rain of all things, curled in their miserable little shelter under a reeking seal skin. His mind recoiled from this thought because he hated the island so extremely. John rocked them very gently, and he rested his head atop Sherlock's. His shirt smelled like Persil detergent. "We'll adjust, alright? These things just take time."
Sherlock didn't want to adjust if it meant that this tenderness was false, if it meant that he had lost his John. Into the obscurity of John's shirt, he said, "I liked what we had."
John rubbed slow circles on Sherlock’s back. "On the island?"
Sherlock didn't know how to answer that. Yes, on the island, but no, absolutely not. It was nonsensical that that could have been simultaneously the best and absolute worst experience of his entire life. He had been at his happiest and most painfully distraught.
"Me too," John murmured. "I liked what we had." Then he drew alarmingly still. He grasped Sherlock by the shoulders and pushed him away, looking earnestly into his face, which Sherlock didn't care for at all. He looked staunchly over John's shoulder at the wall. He stopped crying.
"Is that what you thought? That I didn't - I was - Sherlock."
Since John hadn't technically asked a comprehensible question, Sherlock did not feel obliged to answer. His face was wet, but he did not want to be seen wiping away tears; it was more pathetic than the tears themselves. Of course, Sherlock had cried in front of John before, but that had been on the island.
"Look," John said. "I didn't - when - Sherlock, that just wasn't a good moment, earlier. It's not because I didn't want to, ever. You haven't been - I didn't know that you still wanted that."
"That's preposterous," Sherlock said with some heat.
"Well." John worried at his palm with his opposite thumb. "I thought...perhaps you thought it had just been a way to pass the time."
That stung. Sherlock tensed and said coolly, "Is that what you thought?"
"No! I - Sherlock, we got back to London and you just took off. It really didn't seem like you were interested."
Oh. Sherlock eyed John narrowly, measuring how to proceed. He wasn't used to being so consistently in error, and he didn't like it.
"So," John hesitated. "I take it that you are, then. Interested."
"Obviously," Sherlock snapped, and regretted it. He closed his eyes. When he opened them John was looking at him with his face completely neutral. Sherlock steeled himself. He would clarify this for once and all, and never broach this mortifying topic ever again.
"John, you are the single best thing ever to have come into my life, and I would very much like to continue with the full nature of the liaison we established on the island."
John looked at him. Then the bastard began to laugh. "Sorry. I'm sorry," he said. "That was...that was just so you, it was absurd." His expression changed to a mirthful impression of solemnity. "Okay. In that case I guess I'll bin that lube, then. 'Cause I've got some seal oil in the fridge."
"The nature, John, not the questionable technicalities."
John laughed again. He looked Sherlock in the eye and said, "Alright. Good. I would very much like that as well."
Sherlock paused. "I mean it, John," he said quietly.
John leaned forward and touched his head to Sherlock's. He stroked the side of his face and his hair, and when Sherlock exhaled, John breathed in his breath and kissed him. "I know," he said. Then Sherlock kissed him back.
"Do you really have seal oil in the refrigerator?" Sherlock asked. He was kneeling on his bed, warming the silicone lubricant in his hands. John lay casually on his side before him. The bedside lamp was on, casting the room in a warm halogen yellow.
"Yes," John said. "I'm afraid to get rid of it." He glanced at Sherlock from the corner of his eye. "I probably will be until it goes off."
"Then I'll leave it," Sherlock said.
"Thank you." John closed his eyes. "I'll get over it eventually, it's just - "
"It's fine." Sherlock eased John's leg forward with the back of his hand, trailing his knuckles along the soft hair on the underside of his thigh. "I'm sure I can think of something to do with it."
John sighed softly. "Good. Just don't tell me about it, please."
Sherlock smiled. He eased the slick side of his hand along the back of John's testicles and stroked slowly. John's breath deepened, and Sherlock watched the lines of his face relax. How he had managed to overlook this activity for six full days was utterly baffling, and also no longer relevant. Though it was somewhat awkward, Sherlock reached around and took John's penis in his other hand; still soft, but swelling. He dropped his nose to John's hip and kissed him there. He smelled like warm, clean skin.
When Sherlock was able to, he pressed inside, then spooned closely against John's back and stroked his length languidly. Sherlock kept them like that for a long time, quietly reveling in the warm pressure of John wrapped tight around his cock, opening up for him and allowing him close. He closed his eyes against John's back. He loved his John, a lot.
Sherlock stroked him firmly, slowly, until each breath caught in John's chest with a low moan. Then Sherlock shifted his hips, drew out, and pushed in slowly, keeping constant pressure on John's shaft. John's lips parted with an indulgent sigh, and Sherlock kissed the nape of his neck. He pulled out, and John arched his back as he thrust back in. He was so lovely, so perfect, that it hurt somewhere in the space between Sherlock's lungs. He pressed his lips to the crook of John's shoulder, and began to pick up speed.
It was likely the gentlest sex they had ever had. Sherlock turned John onto his back and then watched himself thrust back in, John's legs spread wide beneath him. Sherlock dropped his face to John's neck and breathed him in. He wanted to be closer, and when John held him tightly it still wasn't enough. Sherlock sped up his rhythm until John gripped the sheets and the headboard knocked against the wall. He raised himself on one arm and watched John's face as he gripped his shaft, and pumped him fast and hard. John's mouth dropped open and he tipped his head back, exposing his throat. He raised his hips and Sherlock came inside him with a stuttering cry.
For a moment, Sherlock rode the aftershock of his orgasm, collapsed heavily on top of John. Slowly, though, he pulled out and dragged himself down to where he still held John tightly in his fist. He took the head of John's cock in his mouth, then sucked down hard along the shaft. Without losing suction he pulled his head away and John's panting breaths tightened into a wanton groan. Sherlock bobbed his head, and John's hips flexed taught, one hand caught in Sherlock's hair, and then he was coming, and Sherlock drank it down.
When John relaxed, Sherlock shifted and rested his head on John's hip, nestled lazily between his legs. He let John clumsily stroke his hair, fingers heavy with post-coital torpor. Sherlock remembered he had meant to do something, and he crawled back up over John and examined his neck. Sherlock's mark was nearly gone. He turned John's head and leaned in to mark the other side. John squirmed and raised his shoulder to ward him off.
"Don't," Sherlock said, and with a long suffering sigh, John surrendered.
Sherlock wanted John to get his name tattooed on him somewhere. He wanted John to sign a notarized contract approving Sherlock's claim on him. He wanted John to sleep in his bed, and wear his clothes, and smell like him. Sherlock sucked a new bruise onto John’s neck, high enough that it would be seen, and when John's breath caught and he cringed, Sherlock released him. He examined his work, and then mouthed over the spot.
"Satisfied?" John sighed. Sherlock grunted and laid down beside him. He pulled John's hand up to his lips and kissed it, then ran his lips lightly over the smattering of hair there.
They laid this way a while when John said quietly but abrupt, "You saved my life." Sherlock felt this to be generally the case about John as well, so he didn't bother to reply. He stroked John's knuckles with his thumb. John turned and looked at him. "I never thanked you for that."
Sherlock opened his eyes. John seemed to be referring to something in particular.
"When I fell off the boat."
Ah. Sherlock closed his eyes once more. "You think too highly of me, John. You always have. I wasn't saving your life."
John digested this statement for a moment. "Oh. Well, it seemed that way."
Sherlock passed John's hand over his lips again. "Allow me to rephrase," he said. "I wasn't saving your life."
They lapsed into silence again. John's tone this time was comprehending. "Oh." He squeezed Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock looked at him.
"I love you," Sherlock said simply. John looked back, brows raised in surprise.
"Really?"
"Yes, really," Sherlock said, annoyed. He watched John shift further into the pillows with this new knowledge, mulling it over. Sherlock rolled his weight on top of John and pinned his hands beside his head, and kissed his ear. "Yes, really." He drew back and met John's curiously solemn gaze for a moment.
"I love you too," John said, as though he had never expected to say those words.
"Good. Unrequited love is so undignified." Sherlock kissed John's ear again and then bit it. He rolled back to his spot beside John, but then changed his mind, pulled John in close and nipped his shoulder, then his arm in quick succession.
"Ow, then why are you biting me?" John half-heartedly tried to escape, and Sherlock nipped his chin and then his ear again.
"Because I'm happy."
"Fabulous. Can you find a less violent way to express your feelings?" John twisted and held him at an arms length, trying for stern annoyance and failing. Sherlock flopped back onto the pillows.
"It’s not violent," he said, then looked at John. He began to hum.
"Don't."
Sherlock did. He leaned up on one arm. "I'm in heaven - "
"Stop."
"And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak - "
John covered his face with his hands and Sherlock leaned in towards him.
"Don't sing, Sherlock, it's scary."
"You love my voice," Sherlock growled.
John dropped his hands and looked at him. "I do. I love your dulcet tones." Sherlock pulled him in close and nipped his other shoulder. "Ouch!"
"My tones are sonorous."
"Oh right, my mistake. I love your resonant...nebulous baritone -"
"Nebulous?"
"Shut up!"
Sherlock had John tucked entirely against him now, and he squeezed him tightly and rubbed his cheek on John's head. John slipped his ankle between Sherlock's and entwined their legs, then Sherlock pulled the blankets over them and switched off the light. He settled in with John's breath against his chest, and traced his fingers up and down John's spine as though reading his future in the bumps and curves.
"And I seem to find the happiness I seek - " he sang.
"Stop."
But Sherlock hummed the rest, and kissed John's hair, and felt the warmth of John's skin against his own. He was happy. He had everything, right here.