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The smell of wet fleece is overwhelming. Under the blanket, John is trembling, water dripping from his clothes and hair. Sherlock begins to worry that he could end up with a chill or even worse, catch pneumonia. Time to call it a day, then.
Lestrade gives them a ride in the panda car which lacks the sleek elegance of the black taxi cab but is just as quick. Trying to share some of his own body heat with John, Sherlock wraps his left arm around him, pulling him close-- to hell with Belstaff getting soaked in the process.
Thoughts, feelings, memories and flashbacks are swirling in his head like manic bees: moving in all possible directions at once and colliding with each other as if in a disorderly dance; a far cry from the orderly beauty that his Mind Palace was once. He has no energy left to organise any of that, right now.
He has hardly any energy left at all, and that is why he is probably too happy to hear that Rosie will stay with Harry this night.
Next to him, John is as exhausted, and probably as traumatised by everything they are deliberately not talking about yet. It is not a difficult deduction, from the way John's whole body has gone limp-- save for an occasional, involuntary twitch time and again-- that he is falling asleep, fast. Sherlock hugs him tighter, and looks out of the window, at the lights and traffic signs passing by. He imagines that he is at sea, and the intertwining strips of yellow and red lights outside are ocean waves and Lestrade's car a pirate's ship. Then a particular memory pierces his mind with a precision of a surgical needle, and he cannot think of the ocean any longer.
Lestrade pulls up right in front of John's flat. The second the car comes to a stop, John wakes up with a start. Yawning and blinking, he gets out of the car first and stands outside, wrapping the blanket around himself tight and thanking Lestrade for the ride in between yawns. Sherlock follows and prepares to usher John inside the flat before his shivers return. Out of the car window, Lestrade looks at them questionably, as if not sure whether he should stay or leave.
'Are you two going to be okay on your own tonight? I haven't got any plans for the evening and, if you want... That is... Um.'
'We are going to be fine, Greg. But thank you for the offer.' Sherlock gives him a small smile, reserved for the rare moments of true indebtedness, and, grabbing John by the shoulders and pushing him towards the front door, bids good-night.
Inside, he busies himself with taking care of John as much as he can.
(John needs to be tended to but also, as this is not the time for being in denial, Sherlock would do anything not to be left to his own devices, face-to-face with the newly acquired memories: not yet, not now, possibly not ever. And it is better not to dwell on the topic.)
In the kitchen, he sits John at the table and tells him to strip, as he runs to the bedroom for a change of dry clothes. Coming back with a set of pyjamas, Sherlock finds John exactly as he left him: at the table, still dressed, and seemingly unaware of his own surroundings. Small shivers are running through his body, and the paddle of water is collecting on the floor around his feet.
'For heaven's sake, John!' John jolts at the sound of Sherlock's voice and offers him a weak smile.
'Sorry, I'm feeling kinda slow tonight.'
Dropping the pyjamas on the table, Sherlock turns to the cabinet, grabs the bottle of scotch, pours a generous drink and hands it to John, 'Drink. You need to warm up. I told you to undress five minutes ago, by the way--' He stops mid-sentence, sensing the unintentional suggestiveness that sneaked into his words, making John giggle.
(It has been barely a few weeks-- not even a full month-- since they fell, somehow awkwardly but at the same time surprisingly effortlessly, into this new physical arrangement.
It started on Sherlock's birthday, with the conversation about lost chances and missed opportunities; the conversation that, ironically, just about became in itself a yet another missed opportunity for both of them to admit, each to himself and one to another, a thing or two of critical importance.
Later that day, John suggested Sherlock stayed for the night at his flat, and the next morning neither appeared in any rush to part their ways, even though they had no particular business to do together either. Over breakfast and coffee, Sherlock summoned enough courage to let himself finish the simple thought he had endeavoured the day before and inform John, as casually as he could, that the only way he could imagine finding himself in a functioning and meaningful romantic entanglement would be with one very particular person: and no, that person was not the Woman. Having said that, he gave John a pointed look and took a sip of his coffee, while everything inside him stilled in anticipation.
Generally, John was not that predictable, but, having known him for seven years, Sherlock was fairly certain the odds for John's reciprocating or rejecting him were 56% and 44%, respectively. As such, more than a fifty-fifty probability was definitely worth a try.
On the floor by the window, a fuzzy blob of pink against the soft yellow blanket, Rosie was playing with building bricks. With a loud bang, John dropped his mug on the floor. If Sherlock were a sentimental person, he would think that the RAMS mug was not the only thing that broke at that second. He was not though, was he, and so he waited, and thought nothing, and said nothing, and just waited for John to respond, as the silence between them grew bigger and bigger until it dissolved in the muffled sounds of John's sobs. Clutching onto a bright orange cube, Rosie was eyeing them with curiosity and a bit of apprehension, as if trying to decide whether or not she should join her dad on the sobbing activity. Stepping over the pieces of the mug, swimming in the milky liquid on the floor, Sherlock reached out to John, who, grabbing his hand and pressing it against his lips, broke down in his arms again. Not predictable at all, Sherlock thought to himself, breathing in the scent of John's conditioner, as he had not even considered the tears of relief a possible reaction.
From then on, when kisses, both chaste and heated, have claimed their place within the convoluted mosaic of their day to day lives; and two bodies, either virginal in its own way, learned each other's most intimate ways, things got better. Yet the novelty of romantic, physical affection between them, while indeed 'completing', was sometimes too thrilling, if not bordering on terrifying. Waking up with John in his bed-- until very recently, when 221 B was blown up-- or spending a night in his, or just being able to kiss him at any time and touch him all he wanted turned out to be the most fantastic and simultaneously scariest things Sherlock has ever experienced. It has been barely a few weeks, and he still feels like a child who, having just barely learned how to swim, has found himself in open sea: fascinated and caressed by the primordial sense of comfort and freedom one can only feel when floating in the water, and yet terrified of drowning all the same. Romantic entanglements are called so for a reason: Sherlock feels tangled in the vast mass of unknown data he has got yet to amass, what with the manifold ways to express affection invented by humans over the centuries-long history of romantic love. Learning how to flirt has been an especially arduous task. He never attempts to be suggestive on purpose, and whenever the things he says come off as such, without him meaning so, it is, well, scary. But John just smiles at him every time Sherlock says or does something that appears accidentally mischievous, and his blue eyes lit up with love like a starry sky-- the most precious, the most desired gift.)
What Sherlock does know is that love means care, and he intends to excel at it, making the science of care the new science of deduction, complete with a fancy website, if necessary (hopefully, it will not come to that). So he ignores John's giggles and proceeds to pull the jacket off him when a better idea flashes in his head.
'Finish the scotch, John. I'll run you a bath.' He is multitasking in the bathroom before John has the time to come up with a naughty comeback: filling the tub with hot water and rummaging in the cabinet above the sink in the search of a suitable bath salt. There are only three jars of bath salts in there, all three nearly used up, and Sherlock makes a mental note to buy some more tomorrow. For now, he chooses the lavender and vanilla-- a rich, warm combination that he knows is John's favourite. He empties the jar right into the running water and moves onto lighting up the candles, which he pulls from the top shelf in the cabinet, where they are nested in a small cloth basket, as if waiting for him.
'John, the bath is ready,' he calls ten minutes later. John walks in, finally undressed, and takes a deep breath, taking in the floral scents mingling in the air.
'Ta, this is perfect.'
'You are welcome.' Even though he has seen it many times already, it is hard to ignore the blotchy map of black and purple that is currently John's body. Cracked ribs underneath the abrasions, and bruises splattered all over his chest and backside-- from landing on his front after sliding off Speedy's awning when they jumped out of the 221 B window the other day, escaping the explosion. Sherlock has similar patterns on himself too-- John and he are a matching pair in this case, as in many others.
Carefully-- most of John's injuries are still very raw-- he helps him get into the tub. John lets out a low groan of satisfaction, settling in, water splashing around him softly. Sherlock thinks it is time to jump onto the next task in the project of making himself useful.
'Are you hungry? It is too late to order takeaway but I could look in the fridge or in the pantry--'
'Sherlock--'
'Or would you rather have another drink? Let me get it--'
Reaching one wet hand out, John grabs his wrist.
'Sherlock, get in here.'
'But John--'
'You need this as much as I do, if not more, so...'-- John shifts in the tub, making room for Sherlock who feels just a tad apprehensive, all of a sudden.
'We have not shared a bath before.'
'Time we did. Come on, before the water gets cold. It feels amazing, you'll see.'
It does. What is truly even more amazing though is that they manage to fit themselves in the tub, Sherlock's limbs wrapped all around John and John's back snug against his chest, his head tucked in the nook between Sherlock's neck and left shoulder (feels tight but perfect nevertheless). The water is so hot it makes his chest tight for a moment or two, and Sherlock takes a couple of deep breaths to adjust to the temperature. John places his hands on Sherlock's thighs, rubbing them lightly, and he eases out, warmth spreading through his sore body and making him pliant and sleepy, every intrusive thought and a ghostly flashback slowly fading into the background.
They sit like that for a while.
It is quiet in the early hours of the morning. All Sherlock can hear are the sounds of his and John's breathing. They have always been comfortable not talking to each other, without the need to make up excuses for chit-chat and other kinds of meaningless words exchange-- just enjoying being together in silence. Being comfortable talking to each other, especially about painful, serious things, is a part of what is their new arrangement, and sometimes it is not comfortable at all, but always very, very necessary (if Ella is to be trusted, and Sherlock does trust her).
Sometimes it feels like an honest conversation between them still needs an innocuous intro, a modicum of pretence.
'You smell awful,' Sherlock reaches for the shampoo, puts some in John's hair, and starts massaging his scalp in the earnest. John chuckles.
'I did not exactly spend the afternoon in a thermal spa.'
Sherlock smiles at that, despite the slight tremble in his fingers. The quiet serenity of their bathing, so carefully achieved, is now dissipating, being chased away by the memories of the abandoned well where he has found John hours earlier: the well reeking of mold, decay and, ultimately, old, forgotten death. Not exactly a thermal spa indeed.
John runs his hand over Sherlock's left forearm, past the healing track marks, stopping at his wrist to take the pulse.
'Your heart beat has just elevated.'
'Excellent observation.'
'But you are not'-- John wiggles his bum against Sherlock's crotch-- 'turned on.'
'That is correct.'
Still holding Sherlock's wrist, John listens attentively.
'You are not having a panic attack, are you?'
'John, please.' This is not that far from the truth, but Sherlock is not willing to go there yet.
'Do you want to talk about... About anything?'
'Not particularly.'
'Okay.' John now has both Sherlock's hands in his, intertwining their fingers together and placing them on top of his knees. Sherlock loves John's knees: small and bony, connecting soft skin and wiry muscles of his thighs and legs together. He likes touching them when John and he are sitting on the sofa in front of the telly or riding a cab to and fro a crime scene. He might as well be waxing poetic about John's knees out loud, because it is if John can hear him, as he, guiding Sherlock's hands, rubs them back and forth over his knees, all the while shifting forward in the tub, until his head rests on Sherlock's chest and the water comes up nearly to the tip of his chin. This position is very comfortable.
'So how are you feeling?' John finally asks, and the question hangs in the air, heavy and demanding, too big to ignore. Sherlock imagines standing over his Mind Palace and peeking in through the windows, checking. There is water everywhere in the Palace: floor to ceiling, it is being bathed in Sherlock's emotions which flow and flow, like waves on the quiet beach of his childhood memories, murmuring their tales of the deeply buried sorrow and despair. How is he feeling, anyway? Such a simple, direct question. John has been trying, for Sherlock and their newly found completeness together, to ask direct questions and make direct statements-- no more lies, avoidance and deflection. Sherlock has been trying to do the same for John.
'I am being confounded by the newly found memories of my early childhood, John. It is not a pleasant feeling, I must admit.'
'I bet. Tell me more.'
Sherlock swallows. Suddenly, being direct is not easy. But he is going to give it a go, for John.
'I still haven't got a clear picture in my head. Of what happened, when... You know. Eurus. Victor.'
'Yeah.'
As soon as his sister and best friend's names are uttered, though, the disorganised swarm of random flashbacks that has been buzzing at the back of his mind ever since they got inside Lestrade's car and has been calmed down by the lavender infused bath just so, comes forward, shaping into sharper, clearer chains of memories: visuals, sounds, smells, and tactile perceptions all come together.
'I remember being very happy that summer.'
'Because of Victor?'
Sherlock nods, knowing John can feel the small movement of Sherlock's chin against the top of his head.
'Tell me about him.'
So he does.
'Even though I have recovered the memories now, there is not much to tell.
'I was six. Our friendship was new. We only met that summer. His parents had been renting a summer cottage next door, and we met when their dog tried to bite me. There was a dog in the story after all, you see. He didn't actually bite me, but I was still a bit terrified, I think, and the next day Victor and his parents came to the beach where my family were picnicking, to apologise. The adults started chatting, and so did he and I. I said, "Let's play pirates," because I had just read "The Treasure Island" and was obsessed with seafaring and maritime adventures. We became inseparable after that. Every day, we would spend hours hanging out by the water, and when we were not playing, we would sit somewhere, and talk to each other, pretending we were still on the beach, two pirates sailing away. He was Redbeard, and I Yellowbeard. We drew maps of imaginary oceans and hidden treasures. We even buried a box full of trinkets, mostly pebbles and coloured glass, in our mansion's backyard. Someone dug it up and destroyed it, however. I assume it must have been Eurus, but back in the day, that thought did not occur to either of us.'
John says nothing to that, and just keeps on stroking Sherlock's hands.
Sherlock continues.
'She said today that she had no one. And that is why she did what she did.'
A memory of the little girl with sad eyes pops up in his head. Small and thin like a willow, dishwater hair in two pigtails, she reaches her tiny hand out to him, palm up.
'Did you bring my hair band?'
'I... John, I remember now, she had always kept to herself. Or so I thought. She had learned to read very early, at the same time as me, and she was a year younger. She would just read all those books, every day, by herself. I suppose I thought she preferred that to my or Mycroft's company, or to anyone else, really.'
The girl, obviously disappointed and tired of waiting for her hair band-- why can't he remember what the bloody thing even looked like?-- turns away from him, disappearing into the waves of black water. Taking her place, a particularly violent flashback-- visual memory blended with a feeling of visceral horror-- comes to Sherlock, crushing, like a tsunami, over the Mind Palace. He shudders. John squeezes his hand tight.
'Victor disappeared on Tuesday, in August. There was a search party, several of them, actually, and the police were everywhere for a couple of weeks. His parents were devastated. Victor's father... He had a bit of a drinking problem, mostly under control at the time, but of course he could not cope without hitting the bottle as soon as it was clear that Victor was gone for good. Some people actually suspected foul play and thought he was responsible. People are like that-- always jump to the easiest conclusion, ignoring the data all the way. I do not know what happened to Victor's parents in the end but I doubt they stayed together. I... I had been searching too, on my own. I would go looking for him every day. First to the beach, then into the woods, and around the village. Why I did not think of checking the well at Musgrave Place is a mystery to me now.
'Perhaps--' Sherlock chokes at his own words but continues, determined to voice every dark thought currently dancing in his head, 'Perhaps I knew, or at least suspected, that he was there, that the old well would be where I would find him-- dead. Drowned. Perhaps I suspected the truth, John, and could not face it.' His voice finally breaks at this, and the tears start flushing down his face, 'I invented a false story, a fake memory, and deleted the truth! For many days after Victor's disappearance, Eurus kept coming to me with gibberish songs about riddles and the drowned Redbeard. I could not solve her puzzles but ended up picking on the Redbeard part. Everything is so clear now: I started talking to parents about Redbeard, my beloved dog, who got sick and had to be put down. They were terrified at first, I assume, and yet they never confronted me. Neither did Mycroft, or anyone else. They all started playing along. Everyday I kept complaining-- how I missed my dog and so and so-- and you know what they did? They got me a dog's bowl. And a leash. I kept them in my room, in our mansion, until Eurus set it on fire, which I did not know about at the moment, obviously.'
He is sobbing now, unable to control himself, shoulders shaking. John is squeezing his both hands in his, quiet, and Sherlock assumes he might think that the story is over, that there is nothing else left to say. There is one more thing, however, the most important thing that he still has not put into words.
'It appears now, John, that nearly everything we have been through, including Moriarty, my fake suicide and exile, and every consequence of those events on your life and on mine, all of this is the result of Eurus' jealousy. Consequently, it all could have been avoided had I invited her along to play pirates with Victor and me. It is, therefore, my fault. Everything that has happened'-- he swallows, shudders running through his whole body now-- 'happened because of me. I do not think I could be forgiven.'
The little girl with pigtails is back, standing next to him, looking over the Mind Palace which is now nearly fully underwater. It is raining heavily around them, and yet her hair and dress appear completely dry, while Sherlock is soaked through and through. He cannot see the expression on her face but imagines it must be one of mild amusement.
'Sherlock!' John is reaching back, twisting his neck to look at him over the shoulder, his lips so very close. 'Please, stay with me.'
Sherlock does his best. He reaches forward to meet John's face and kisses the corner of his mouth, ever so slightly. John smiles against his lips-- a brief reprieve in the midst of Sherlock's panicky self-flagellation. John's hands are back on Sherlock's thighs, all caressing touches as he speaks in an even tone.
'You do realise you are talking about the actions of five and six year olds. You were kids, all of you.'
Some time ago Sherlock would think that this habit of John's to state the obvious is irritating. Now he has no such thoughts on the matter. He has barely any thoughts left at all, defeated.
'It does not matter.'
'Actually, I think it does. You know what, scratch that. I am a hundred percent certain that it does, and at least a part of you knows it. You just don't want to admit it.'
On any other day, Sherlock would complain how boring it is that John is always right.
Not tonight. John is right, and it is painful, not boring.
'Alright, alright. Of course it matters. She was a child. She did not understand what she was doing. She cannot be blamed for what she has done. I cannot blame her. I cannot blame anyone, really, save for myself. I could not find him.'
'You were a child too, Sherlock. And you punished yourself the way only a child would: mercilessly.'
No, Sherlock thinks, I just tried to avoid the pain. And explains.
'That was mostly Mycroft's doing. I can only assume he was coming from a good place, as he was, perhaps, freaked out to see me disassociate over the loss of Victor day after day. He must have feared that I would descent into madness too. Do not forget, he actually had already lost one sibling, witnessing Eurus being committed and all. He did not want the same fate for me, I imagine. Perhaps that is when he decided that caring is not an advantage and sentiment ought to be avoided, if one intends to succeed as a functioning human being. Or hold a minor position in the government, which was the same in his case. So he started training me, by playing along with the Redbeard fantasy and reinforcing the idea that my emotions over his death were illogical and a sign of weakness. Come to think about it, what else would you expect from a highly impressionable adolescent?'
Sherlock pauses. The realisation of how thoroughly his whole family has been traumatised by Eurus clear before his eyes, he does not know what else to add.
Glancing up at him, John smiles the saddest smile.
'You have a magnificent brain, Sherlock. And surely you understood that what she did was not logical. So you decided to stick to logic to save yourself from heartbreak in the future. This is not how it works, though, because all this time you were running away from emotions but it was not emotions in the first place that made Eurus kill him. Usually, when a child is jealous of another child, she or he does not end up killing the rival.'
'Obviously,' Sherlock cannot help but interject.
'What Eurus did was beyond all logic and all emotions, because that was simply the way she was,' John continues. 'Mental illness does not operate in these categories. You cannot comprehend it, it's just what it is. Do not blame yourself or anyone for what happened. It is not anybody's fault.'
Sherlock takes a moment to digest what he has just heard. There is immutable logic to John's words and perhaps even wisdom.
'They did not have to institutialise her,' he whispers, and John nods silently. 'Granted, Mummy has always been a bit aloof, I share that with her, so she might have had a hard time figuring out her children's emotional states, even though she has loved the three of us with all her heart. Daddy is used to believing himself a moron so much that he has always valued other people's opinions over his own: it happens when one is surrounded by exceptionally intelligent people.'
John snorts but nods again.
'So Uncle Rudy locked her up and no one stopped him.'
'This is not your fault, either,' John says quietly.
Sherlock agrees but remains silent. Word by word, sorrow and despair have left him, dissipating into the early morning hours. An unexpected shiver runs through him: neither John nor he noticed that the water around them has gone lukewarm.
'Okay, that's it, then,' John gets up, stepping outside the tub and stretching his hand to Sherlock. 'Let's go to bed.'
Fifteen minutes later, once they are settled in the opened-up sofa bed, their positions are reversed: John spoons Sherlock, arms around his middle and face resting against his shoulder. His hands, knowing and strong, trace lazy circles over Sherlock's chest and belly, slowly travelling south, as he kisses him down the spine, careful around the bruises and whispering encouraging, unintelligible things into his skin as he goes. Sherlock-- eyes shut tight, his body all goosebumps and prickled hair-- lets the heat slowly pooling in the bottom of his stomach take over. Pushing back, into the warmth of John's embrace, he lets go.
His Mind Palace is fully submerged, but the waters are shallow and still.
John flips him on his back, spreads his thighs apart, settles in between.
His memories-- of Victor, of the the dog that never existed, and of the little girl with sad eyes-- are put to rest, each in its own corner, under water translucent and tranquil.
John kisses around him before swallowing down and beginning to move.
Sherlock is in the swimming pool again, in its shallow end. He is floating on his back, safe, knowing he can always touch the bottom with his feet if he wants to. He knows he is not going to drown.
This image disappears too, and Sherlock is with John, surrounded by him-- warm, wet, loving. Where Sherlock ends, John begins-- and together they fill up the whole universe. He puts his fingers in John's hair, tugging lightly, and John hums happily, reaching up for his nipples.
John pinches once, twice, and Sherlock comes with a single, abrupt moan, feeling his orgasm in his scalp and toes as the mighty endorphin cocktail washes over him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, John slides up, looking down at him and grinning.
'This is your present for staying alive tonight. With me.'
'I didn't know we were having a gift exchange,' Sherlock grins back, getting up on his elbows and pushing John down into the pillows, intent, as always, on reciprocity.
Christmas came early this year, he reads in John's smiling eyes.
The joy and wonder of human connection-- lost and found, he thinks, following, with his tongue, the trail of golden hair down John's stomach, enjoying the soft, relaxed warmth of his skin and muscles as he responds to Sherlock's hands and mouth with little quivers of pleasure. All those things he used to despise because someone took them from him too early, and Sherlock never allowed himself to memorise what it was like-- to be connected to somebody else. Things he chose to forget and did not think he needed-- he can have them now, with John.
With him, Sherlock is always in the shallow end, not afraid to drown.