Chapter Text
John is a soldier about to die. Shot and pushed over board, he hits the sea with a reverberating splash. The sting of colliding with the surface blanched everything at first. But now, in the cold and dark, an aching numbness seeps into his bones. The sea is so infinitely more vast than he remembers. He supposes that's because last time he was in it, he wasn't watching the sunlight dim as he floated down into oblivion, the wound in his shoulder leaving a threaded trail of scarlet to the surface.
Barely a moment passes before John's sight begins to blur, his lungs having emptied upon impact. The edges of his vision are lost to the black of the sea. This is it, he thinks. Of all his life behind him; the things he's done, what he wants to do... the life he had ahead of him. This is what it's come to. Aristocrats and their politics: what he sought to escape when he joined the navy had no boundaries to speak of, it seemed. They were the ones who, with the final realisation John wouldn't acquiesce, sent him to his watery grave. Never to tell their tale of robbery from the unknowing poor.
However, before the darkness can claim him, there is movement. A shadow forming in the dark far under the boat . John distantly thinks that becoming fish food isn't the worst way to go. A shark is, by far, the least surprising thing to find him here. But by no means does the thought of being eaten appeal to him. Oh no, he'd very much like to keep his limbs during death, thank you. Maybe he'll be gone before it makes a meal out of him. That wouldn't be so bad. But, when the shape reaches out a pale hand, a dim spark of hope and curiosity lights in his dying mind. Long, strong fingers: a violinist's he would say, if there was any air left in his lungs.
This is the point he realises he really is dying. He can feel it in his still straining chest and fogged mind. He is about to die in the depths of the ocean. Too far down for any hope of swimming to the surface, and too much blood loss to do so anyway. Yet here is hope, in the unlikely form of an outstretched hand. There can't have been a way for anyone to swim down here. It's too deep, too cold, and John would have seen them, wouldn't he? All this time he's spent looking at the damn surface.
Then, he sees a face swim into view, a beautiful and striking face. He knows he cannot have seen it before: he would remember someone like this, someone so captivating. The face in question is haloed by dark hair, it's difficult to see the exact colour in the dark of the ocean, and they have the fullest of lips. Though, what held John's last moment, was their eyes. So full of intelligence and commotion. So alive. John had not felt alive in months, maybe even years. Hell, the most alive he'd felt was on the boat standing up to his superiors. He longed to live again, to live with purpose. Of all the moments to want to live, drowning at the bottom of the ocean was perhaps not the best one.
This person, this impossible man in the depths - this is something John can live for. God knows who he is, or how he got here. Or even what he is, maybe an angel or a siren. Like the stories told by sailors to scare the young. But John does know one thing - he wants to know him. Wants to ask questions and answer them, to have memories to share: he wants to live for him, with him.
What a truly dismal time to find what he'd been missing all this time, he muses. At the end. When his body is so numb he feels like part of the ocean himself, and he cannot move but for his eyes to watch. He would laugh at himself, if he could. He would not have thought himself so awfully whimsical and philosophical in death.
Actually, no. This can't be it, not now. If by some miracle he can just make it out alive- he wants to live. So as the beautiful man brings a hand to John's cheek, eyes alive and watching him - waiting - John can only think of one last thing.
Oh God, please let me live.
And then, nothing.
It is night, and the blackened clouds have smothered even the smallest sliver of starry light. The rain pours desperately, falling in large, cold droplets. The billowing clouds loom above, grumbling and yelling with thunder, burning and shining with lightening. The sea roars in answer, waves battling and rising to crash, broken, against the rocks.
John sits upon one of these rocks, soaked to the bone and past the point of shivering. He's just tired now, and alone. Alone, more than anything. He sits with his head bowed, shielding his eyes from the down pour, but water still drips from his hair and nose. Be it rain, sea water or bitter sweet tears, he could not care less.
In his hands, cradled gently in both palms, he holds a necklace. One that he holds dearly, his most prized possession. Not for its value in gold or coin, but for his heart. It was given to him, as only things like this can be given, by the keeper of his heart, and whose heart he keeps in return. He hopes so, anyway. Now, he's not so sure.
The storm becomes back ground noise, an intense accompaniment for the delicate tune this necklace plays.
In the rain, in sea water and tears, the tune is sad. It tells of longing and waiting, of wanting and hoping. Of being left behind. The little song is lonely, half of a melody meant to tell of love, but sings its heart break alone. John squeezes his eyes closed, trying to shut it all out and take it all in at once. It is too much and not enough. The pain and the anguish threatens to overwhelm him, to pull him under and drown him. Again. Yet it is still not enough, he still yearns for him, his love.
His smile and his laughter. The life in his eyes as he looks to John, excited for the world and the mysteries it holds. The way he holds John close and cherishes him, like the finest jewel, the most precious treasure. The burning kisses and the gasps of air, sharp and new and bright. John longs for him like the sun longs for the moon, as sure as the rain falls, as fierce as lightening splits the sky.
Sherlock has left him behind.
It is his nature to be unruly, as free and wild as the sea itself. John knows this, he fell in love with him for it, for Sherlock in all he is. But it doesn't stop the pain, the hurt. God, does it fucking hurt. John feels the gaping hole left, the vacuum created in his absence. It crushes him, threatens to make him crumble to his knees in defeat. No one to catch his fall, to pick him up and tell him- Tell him what, exactly? What could they possibly say to make it better? Nothing, there was nothing to say anymore.
John tilts his head back, away from his bleeding heart, and the love and misery held in his hands. He thinks of the moon up in the sky, hidden behind the clouds with the stars and the comets. He wonders if it is lonely. He looks up, to where the clouds loom and where the rain falls. He feels it land on his face like drops of ice and run in rivulets down his neck, where it soaks into the collar of his sodden shirt. Let it wash him clean, let it tear him raw.
But for all that he wishes, it doesn't rid him of the empty space, of the cavern forming in his chest. It all reminds of Sherlock, of their adventures and what he so dearly misses. It's like a knife, twisting and twisting, until pain is the only noise. He brings his head back down, back to the trinket serenading him with its lonely song. He wishes Sherlock would find him now, tell him he loved him and would never leave.
One day on land, ten years at sea. That's what he'd said, what John had agreed to. Those were the terms on which his life was saved. He fell in love with the mad man, of course. It didn't take long. But the saddest thing? It makes his heart and fist clench with frustration and longing but - he would do it again, in a heart beat. Anything to have Sherlock come back to him. But this time, he knows it does not happen, he will not come.
John doesn't know what hurts more, the fact that Sherlock has finally got bored of him, or the fact that John knew it was going to happen and stayed anyway. He feels more the fool for following Sherlock to a broken heart. He blames himself.
John shuts the locket with a click, and the storm grumbles in a curdling answer.