Chapter Text
John rested his chin in his right hand, tapped his fingers on his cheek and scanned through the completed form on his computer screen. Checking for errors, he told himself. Definitely not dithering. He reached the bottom of the form. No mistakes. The cursor transformed into a hand as he moved it over the Submit button. It hovered there. John’s finger very almost clicked, before scrolling once again to the top of the form.
Last year some of his old rugby mates had signed up for a charity triathlon and were very keen that he join too. Using the ‘single dad with a toddler’ excuse, he’d declined the invitation. Sadly, he’d said, he was simply too busy. There was some truth to that, of course, but it wasn’t the real reason he’d said no. If they’d asked about a half marathon, maybe he’d have considered it. A cycle race? Perhaps. But an event that involved swimming? No, thank you. He wasn’t afraid of swimming exactly. He’d best describe himself as a reluctant swimmer. His mum had never learnt and had insisted that taking the kids swimming was a dad activity. His father, however, saw the only activity for his custody weekends as being ‘run around the pub garden while I drink’. John had eventually learnt at school, but had feigned illness on as many swimming days as he could get away with. Plenty of his friends loved it, but he just couldn't see the appeal. What was so good about floating around, getting all wrinkly and, let’s be blunt here, risking drowning?
The last time he entered a swimming pool had been decades ago during basic training for the army. He had had one or two nightmares in the weeks leading up to the swim test, but training was a stressful time. It wasn’t the swimming he was anxious about; it was the pressure of making sure he passed. On the day, he’d done his best to seem blasé about it, completed the absolute minimum required and exited the pool as fast as he could. He stared at the form again and a trickle of anxiety ran down his spine at the thought of ever having to take a swim test again. Maybe it would be more honest to describe himself as having had a minor, very small fear of swimming in the past. And that was before one insane criminal had tried to blow him up in a swimming pool and then another had almost succeeded in drowning him in a well. Could he really be blamed for being a little afraid of water?
Rosie didn’t seem to have the same fear. In the summer just passed they had taken their first beach trip. It had been a great success; she’d been thrilled by building sand castles, and exploring rock pools – but most of all, she had loved the sea. She had run around stomping in the shallows squealing, then lay on her stomach flapping her arms and was ecstatic at each wave rolling in. Her face had been lit with pure delight. John had watched her contentedly and realised it was time to take her swimming. He might dread it, but it looked like she was a water baby and he knew his reluctance shouldn’t cause her to miss out.
A short search had led him to a suitable toddler class at their local leisure centre. He’d filled out the forms and now here he was, one click away from spending the next eight Tuesday mornings in a swimming pool. Still hesitant even as he clicked submit, John confirmed Rosie’s attendance. It will be fine, he thought, ignoring the slight quickening of his pulse.
That evening, he dropped by Baker Street after collecting Rosie from nursery. Mrs Hudson enjoyed the opportunity to give her tea once in a while and John was glad to pass the baton; these days a night without cooking was a luxury. Bolognese was clearly on the cards tonight, the smell reaching them before John had even unlocked the door.
“Nanna!” squealed Rosie, running straight for a cuddle. “Daddy says it’s pasta for tea.”
“Correct,” Mrs Hudson said, bending down to unzip Rosie’s coat, and then directing her words to John, “Deductive skills to rival himself upstairs.”
“Is he in?”
“I believe so. You head up, I’ll get madam sorted.” Rosie was already at the step stool washing her hands, entirely unfazed by John leaving.
Though John did not, of course, have skills like Sherlock’s, he did like to make deductions about how Sherlock had spent the day as he ascended the stairs to 221b. He’d already noted that the detective’s coat was hanging downstairs and was slightly damp, indicating he had been outside this afternoon when it had rained. There was a hint of a chemical smell in the air that suggested Sherlock had been experimenting.
John entered the kitchen and was pleased to find that he was correct. Sherlock was in full mad scientist mode: gloves on, goggles over his eyes, hair frizzy with humidity and a conical flask in his hand bubbling furiously.
“Sample tube,” he said, thrusting his spare hand towards John without looking up. John shook his head in amusement but did as told anyway. He assisted in the rest of the experiment, finding it relaxing to let his mind idle as he followed Sherlock’s orders.
Experiment concluded, John and Sherlock seated themselves in their respective armchairs. Sherlock began a monologue on the results he expected and the impact they might have on his future work. John nodded along, sometimes listening, sometimes just watching the patterns Sherlock traced as he gestured with his hands.
“…and ultimately, it will provide an improved evidence base for the identification of aerosol solvents,” Sherlock concluded and sipped his tea. He paused for a moment before seeming to remember that social convention dictated he now ask John to speak. “And what of your day?”
“I signed Rosie up for swimming lessons,” John said, aiming for a casual tone.
“An important skill I believe.”
“Yeah. I’ve got to be in the water with her too. Hate the thought, to be honest. Not the best of experiences with water.”
“Indeed,” Sherlock responded with a wry smile. “Though I don’t think any murderous siblings of mine will turn up to a toddler's swimming class.”
“You’d hope,” John agreed, smiling back at Sherlock.
They held eye contact for a moment, neither speaking. John was recalling the cold shivers he had felt post-rescuing from the well, his hair dripping, a blanket around his shoulders. And the way those shivers were quelled by the warmth he had felt when he met Sherlock’s eyes. That day had only further cemented the deep bonds they share. He opened his mouth to express something to that effect when footsteps could be heard pounding up the stairs, breaking the moment.
Rosie barrelled in, clothes and cheeks stained with tomato, “Daddy! I ate it all up.”
John raised his hand to high five her, “Well done, little one.” She scuttled across the room and slapped her hand against his then turned to Sherlock and squeezed at his legs.
“Hi, Sherlock,” she spoke to his knees. He ruffled her hair in response and detached her from his legs to lift her up into the air.
“Enjoyed your dinner, Rosamund?” he enquired, looking up to where she now hovered a foot above his head. She nodded and patted him on the head giggling. He swung her back to the floor and she turned to John.
“Please can I have cake please, Daddy? Nanna said I had to ask.”
“Of course. Home time after though. You’ll need a bath before bed,” he said, assessing the amount of bolognese that had made it into her hair. “I’ll be down in 5.”
Rosie scurried back down the steps calling ahead to let Mrs Hudson know she would indeed be partaking in cake. John looked over to Sherlock who was smiling fondly at the door through which Rosie had left. He felt John looking at him and schooled his face back to blank.
“Are you going to come down for some cake before we go?” John asked.
“No. More work to do,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the equipment still laid out in the kitchen. “I’ll see you at the Yard tomorrow, 9am. There’s new evidence in the Moreau case.”
John responded in the affirmative and headed downstairs before Rosie could convince Mrs Hudson to serve her a second slice of cake.
The following Tuesday found John and Rosie outside a community swimming pool where concrete steps led up to a glass-fronted building with towering double doors. A mild scent of chlorine surrounded the centre, increasing each time the doors opened. A large Aqua Darlings banner signalled the way in; its photo of a happy mum and toddler grinning at each other in the water made John roll his eyes. He took a deep breath and headed up the steps, Rosie in tow.
“I’m nervous,” she whispered, dragging her bag along the floor.
“Me too, Ro, me too. But we’re going to enjoy it, I’m sure.” He gestured to the grinning photo, “That’ll be me and you soon.”
After they’d changed and made their way into the pool, John was pleased to find that he wouldn’t actually be swimming at all. The pool was barely five feet deep; he would simply be walking around holding Rosie, no swimming required. The teacher began the class with action songs and Rosie joined in splashing her hands in the water excitedly. Her delight was doing an excellent job of reminding John why he had decided to do this. This is fine, he thought, good even.
The parents and toddlers were performing a water-based Hokey Cokey when John glanced up at the pool’s viewing window where parents and grandparents could sit to watch. A slight, dark haired man in a well tailored suit was leaning against the glass, phone against his ear and for a moment he looked familiar…
Moriarty.
Involuntarily, John gripped Rosie with a strength that caused her to protest loudly. Her squeals brought him back to reality and on second glance, he thought the man bore very little resemblance to Moriarty after all. Noticing John’s unease, the teacher gave him a reassuring smile. He attempted to smile back, but his face wasn’t cooperating; he hoped he didn’t look too much like he was grimacing at her.
“We’ll move on to kicking now,” the teacher explained. “Little ones, you’ll lie on your stomachs like this.” She took a willing toddler from his mum and demonstrated. “Adults, you’ll have one hand on their chest, the other on their stomach and move them forwards in the water. And little ones, we will kick, kick, kick like this… Perfect. Great job, Rohan.”
Rohan was passed back to his waiting mum and the adults positioned their toddlers into the demonstrated position.
“And we’ll sing… In the pool, we go kick kick kick,” she continued, breaking into a simple tune. “Grown ups, we’ll walk in a circle around the pool’s perimeter allowing them to feel the glide and get used to the motions.”
John proceeded as instructed and Rosie was soon kicking up a splash as he walked her around the pool. He was enjoying watching her so much that he slowed down and was only aware of just how much when the dad and son behind them in the circle had caught right up. The boy reached his arms out toward John, and said “You’re in my way!”
John faltered and stopped completely. You’re in my way?
“Daaaddy, speed up! They’re catching us,” Rosie groaned.
Apologising, John sped up and continued to float Rosie around the pool, but all he could think was Moriarty. Hadn’t he spoken those exact words?
The smell of chlorine that had initially seemed mild was growing. John felt his nose and throat and lungs filling with it and he began to cough and splutter. Embarrassed, he moved to the edge of the pool covering his mouth, acting as though he was concerned about spreading germs. His ears were now betraying him too, certain he could hear the Irish sing-song voice, repeating “Now you’re in my way”... “in my way”... “my way”.
“Poor Daddy. Cough cough,” Rosie said sympathetically, patting him on his chest. Her eyes roamed around his face taking it in. “You okay now, Daddy?”
John nodded and brushed her cheek. With a concerted effort to breathe slowly, he caught his breath and they rejoined the group who were now practising going under the water. Rosie watched the other children being dunked by their parents and burst into tears. Realistically John knew that she would recover quickly from her tears and likely enjoy going under. But this provided a good excuse to get out and get out, he did.
In the changing room, the firm ground made his behaviour in the pool seem foolish. He was embarrassed that a simple glance at an average-looking man had caused him to react so extremely. Rosie was unbothered by their early exit and chatted happily between bites of banana. John shook his head at his own idiotic reaction and carried Rosie and the bags out to the car. He felt his breathing even out with each step they took away from the centre, and the smell of chlorine lessened until it was drowned out by a nearby chicken shop.
Rosie was due for a nap when they arrived home and she fell asleep almost as soon as John tucked her in. Heading into the kitchen, he flicked the kettle on and stared into space as he waited for it to boil. The sounds of tea preparation, from the click of the tea caddy opening to the spoon against the cup as he stirred, were soothing for him. He sat down at the table with his cup of tea and reflected on the experience. Had it been worse than he’d expected? Not exactly. The lesson itself wasn’t terrible. He’d been dreading the swimming, but that bit wasn’t too awful. If it weren't for the Moriarty-alike in the viewing window, he might have actually enjoyed himself.
Rising to put his cup in the sink, he spotted their swimming bags where he’d dumped them by the door. As much as he’d like to use all of Rosie’s nap time to sit and stare into space, the laundry was not going to do itself. He collected the bags and crouched down to load their wet clothes and towels into the machine. Unzipping the bag released a fresh wave of chlorine and John fell to the floor as a flashback hit him.
He was back there in the pool where Carl Powers had died, and Sherlock stood in front of him with a USB stick held aloft.
“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”
John startled at the sound of his own voice. Before he could register what was happening, his past self had stepped out, hands tucked into a large parka. Somehow the present John was watching the scene in third person; he could walk around the scene and see his own movements, watch his own reactions, hear himself speak.
“What…would you like me to make him say…next?”
John studied himself; he could recall the panic he had felt in this moment, how his heart had thudded so hard against the vest that he had feared its movement would set off the bomb. But his past self did not hold his eyes for long. He moved closer to Sherlock, drawn to his face. The stark contrast between the man in front of him and the older version he had seen only yesterday gave him a jolt. He looked so young. John was struck by a strange urge to reach out and touch his face, to cup his smooth cheek and brush the curls from his unlined forehead.
Watching the scene unfold, John felt a knot in his stomach. His present self’s heart thudded, a mirror of the past, as Moriarty appeared. A ghost arisen; no sign of a gunshot wound, his voice as lilting and unsettling as John remembered.
"But the flirting’s over, Sherlock...Daddy’s had enough now!"
The scene continued to play out in front of him and he watched intently as he offered to take Moriarty down with him, looking at the determination on his face as he committed to sacrificing himself for Sherlock. He had told himself he would do this for anyone, that this was the act of a soldier, a man who had been trained to sacrifice himself for Queen and Country. But would he really? His eyes were revealing. They sparkled with a fierce devotion.
Moriarty’s threats and taunting began to fill the pool, echoing around the walls. John listened closely to his words, finding that he had forgotten most of them.
“No, no, no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you,” Moriarty spat.
Sherlock responded, eyes steely, “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”
“But we both know that’s not quite true,” Moriarty replied with a smirk.
John stared at the nemeses: Moriarty insouciant with hands in his pockets and Sherlock, a fierce, determined look on his face, gun pointed ahead.
Present John’s mind whirred. Not quite true …
The rest of the scene played out as he recalled: Sherlock removing his bomb vest and him making a joke at the comments people had always made - continued to make - about them. The scene froze before his eyes. A tableau of his past self collapsed against the cubicle, with Sherlock stood above him, smiling at one another.
He watched the look on his face, in Sherlock’s eyes and –
“Daddeee! I’m awake! Daddeee! I want a ham sandwich,” Rosie’s voice ricocheted through the house, snapping John back to reality.
John sighed and went to get her up. He wished she could have slept a little longer; he felt like he was on the verge of something important.
Later that evening, once Rosie was fast asleep, John sat at the kitchen table staring at the bag which still contained their wet swimming kit. He considered giving it a really deep smell half-hoping it would trigger another flashback. The other half of him felt ridiculous at even contemplating it. He imagined himself leaning over the bag huffing it like a drug and the image embarrassed him enough that he got up, held his breath and loaded the washing machine before he could change his mind.
Breathing deeply, he returned to the kitchen table and contemplated what he had seen earlier. Seeing his own face like that from the outside… his eyes had been full of relief when the vest had come off, but when he looked at Sherlock, he had seen – there was no other word for it – love. He knew he had loved Sherlock then, but in his recollection it had always been the love of close friends. And yet that wasn’t what he had seen in his eyes. He knew that he had never looked at his other friends like that. His eyes spoke of adoration and attraction and desire.
And even more earth shattering was what he had seen in Sherlock’s eyes. Those feelings were mirrored right back at him.
Burn the heart out of you…
Moriarty had seen what John had not. He had known how Sherlock had felt and wanted to take John from him. And he had succeeded, hadn’t he? Maybe not in the way he had planned, but Sherlock had returned from his faked suicide to find John in love with someone else. His heart had been burnt out after all. Christ. Sherlock loved him. Used to loved him? God, so much had happened since then. It was perfectly possible that this was all in the past and Sherlock now felt nothing for him but friendship.
There was no past tense for himself: he loved Sherlock today. He ran back through their most recent interactions, thinking of how often he was drawn to watching Sherlock’s lips, how often he made excuses for physical contact. He could no longer pretend this was the love of good friends. He felt like an idiot. How had he not seen this? He thought of the romantic comedies he’d watched with Mary. Back then he’d thought the heroines foolish: busy looking for love in all the wrong places, somehow ignoring the perfect person who was there all along. And yet here he was living out that storyline.
John laughed, then laughed again at the sound of his own laughter reverberating around the walls in the empty room.
I love Sherlock, he thought, I’m in love with him. God. What on earth am I going to do?