Naked
part threeSherlock was a terrible liar.
John had seen him in action enough to know he was rather fantastic at it if he wanted to be. He was an actor, a performer, someone who could take on the guise of anyone imaginable and make his own mother believe it. Sherlock could be outstanding in the realms of imagination when he applied himself. Problem was he rarely bothered to when it came to John. Too many tricks played, too many moments of trust betrayed, and in the end Sherlock paid for it all in honesty forever more. But only for John. For John every lie was grossly transparent, offering little more than the chance to maintain ignorance. Sometimes John wished he would just stand up and bluster around the shack with the force of hurricane in some semblance of his normal manic moods. Eventually it wouldn't be pretend. With enough repetition, eventually it would feel normal to move and act like the Sherlock John knew even in his absence. Even alone on the headland, though, surrounded by history, beauty and little else, it didn't feel like just being together again was quite enough to make things right.
Sherlock took the tallest of the crude walking sticks they'd found leaning against the firewood stack as they traveled out into the moors, well bundled for the winds and lightly burdened for the trek. They each wore a side-satchel, though Sherlock's remained empty for the time being, meant to collect odds and fascinating ends from the ground while John carted thermoses of hot tea, cold milk, biscuits and a blanket to set down for comfort in his own. He felt a bit like the old men he'd use to mock when he was a boy, the sorts who picked up litter as a hobby and belonged to rambling societies. He wasn't old enough yet to be that dull, he figured. His hands felt cold as he stabbed at the rich green earth with his own weathered branch.
The worlds' only consulting detective took to the change of scene quite well. Not entirely fond of the country to start with, the singular charm of a land scattered with ruins of forgotten dominions had enchanted him far enough from their windows and hearth to inspect the stone slab relics of times lost. He walked in silence. Much to John's displeasure, Sherlock took use of his long gait and kept ahead by several paces, as quiet as the vestigial walls they followed, deep in his own solitary meditations. John tried to spark the odd conversation but nothing seemed to stick. "Hm," he'd hum in some noncommittal reply to remarks about the moss or creeping yew and ivy. He flat out ignored most other comments about the air smelling nice or the path being a bit slippery. Dull topics, he knew, but one didn't break out with "So how long have you been back on cocaine?" while lightly panting from an expansive incline.
They stopped for a rest next to what was likely an old church. Less than half of the building still stood though at over ten feet the lonely walls were impressive on their own. The stone slabs didn't look to be all that sturdy--like a very old game of Jenga just waiting for the right slab to slip to send the whole thing crumbling. The walls didn't seem to mind a six foot tall man climbing over what could have been windows and pressing against ancient alters, though. John took out the blanket and set it out on a flat square of earth, taking seat under the shadow of a vanished ancestry. He unscrewed the caps off the thermoses and poured out two steaming cups of tea. He popped a few cubes of sugar in Sherlock's before passing it over, his friend's good timing allowing him to be served just as he took his seat beside him, looking down the moor towards the black cliffs where the sounds of the sea forever followed.
John broke the plastic wrapping off a pack of chocolate digestives and set it down between them, bending his legs as he sat forward to watch the clouds for a change. "Roman, you think?"
"Possibly." Sherlock snapped a biscuit in half, dipping one part into his tea while the other sat in the wrapper with the rest. "The design is consistent with that found in the surrounding villages, though, making it seem more likely to simply be the remains of an early Cornish settlement."
"Mm. Wonder what made them abandon it." John said as he helped himself to the other half of Sherlock's biscuit.
"Weather, I'd imagine. Close to the cliffs, plenty of storm surges. Possibly open for attack from ships as well. With the bay-facing walls destroyed, the best possible guess is that whatever it was, it came from the sea."
"Don't really see too many churches without a village nearby, though, do you? So... wooden houses rotted and swept away?"
Sherlock smiled, nodding slightly, as he broke another biscuit in two.
They stayed sat there for over an hour while their shade slowly turned to sun. They spoke about early Roman colonization and of trades with the Phoenicians and more. Sherlock knew quite a bit about piracy on the Cornish peninsula and John wordlessly took all of it in, listening to the quiet passion in his friend's voice as he regaled upon smugglers and thieves. John stretched out his legs and laid his head to the ground. It was beyond comfortable in the late afternoon air and John wouldn't have found anything amiss with a light nap. Though his feet tired of walking, his brain never gave rest to the concern that had brought him here.
"So how's work?" he asked once conversation had died to silence once more, flexing his feet first right then left as he glanced at the dark monolith of Sherlock's coat-covered back.
Sherlock's shoulders rose in a shrug as he leant back on his palms. "Busy," he said, reiterating John's own statements from earlier.
"Yeah, I know that. But how are things at the Yard and the like? Any danger that didn't make it to the papers? Seems like the best cases were the ones that only made it as far as my blog."
The detective sighed. "There've been a few chases. Three involved gun fire, I was nearly hanged on another, and in all cases I made the perpetrator look like the least intelligent criminal known to man. Mostly petty theft in all honesty, though. A rare thing it will be the day mankind disproves the theory that all life is inherently selfish and self-serving. Not that I'd have much of a job if people genuinely cared about one another. I supposed I'm the most guilty of profiteering of them all."
John scowled at the back of his head. "Where's all this coming from, then?"
"Experience. Observation. Please don't start with that ghost of Christmas past, people love people, charity and good will towards men rubbish. Even most religions base good deeds on future personal gain. It's just the way the world works. It's not a bitter sentiment; it's simple fact." Sherlock leant his head back, bright eyes peeking around at John's frown with their usual sharpness. "As though to prove my point, not everything I have to say is in some way a reflection on you."
"Well, excuse me. I think I would have remembered if my best friend were a fatalist."
"Realist."
"Pessimist."
Sherlock shrugged, his hair long enough to scrunch like a loaded spring at the nape of his neck. "Either way, I'm not mad at you for getting married and having a new life without me. You don't need to apologize with holidays or gifts and what I do in my own time is not relative to your own habits. We both have our own, individual lives now. That's what people do. People grow apart."
"Yeah, well, we're not going to," John said, sitting up on his elbows. "Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, nothing's ever stopped you before, but you're not ready to just leave it as us growing apart either. You're here, aren't you?"
The detective said nothing, his body stone still as a strong breeze blew over them. John sighed and sat up fully, packing up the half-eaten pack of biscuits and making sure the lids were fastened tight to their thermoses. He didn't want a fight. Day one and the last thing he needed was a cold walk home to the isolated shack with regrets on top of concerns piling up in his chest.
"Up you get," John instructed, giving the blanket a gentle tug. "We should pack up and start back home for a proper meal before we wander too far out."
Sherlock complied, rolling off to the side of the blanket as he stood up, dusting grass from his shins while John folded the cloth at his feet. "If I hadn't come," he started, "If I'd declined and asked to go home, would you have come by to see me or would you have spent your time between work and home as you normally do?"
John paused for a moment, head down as he pressed the patterned corners together between his hands. "You saying you came because it was the only way to be sure I'd spare some time for you?"
"That is my answer, yes. What is yours?"
He tucked the blanket into his satchel, adding in the rest of the items one by one, eyes to the soil till he rose up on the balls of his feet, lips pressed into a firm line. "In my defense, I was the one who extended the invitation," he said. "Maybe I wouldn't have made the time either way but you have to meet me halfway. Or, apparently, in Cornwall."
Sherlock kept his eyes steady on him, cold and calm but powerful as the sea. "We won't always be here."
"I know. But that's not just something only I need to work on. You could come by sometime. Call. We could just... talk. Like normal blokes."
"Hardly." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he started walking back down the path they'd ventured forth on, his steps smaller this time to allow John to keep pace.
John shook his head. "You could start by acting like you have even a remote interest in my life."
"You're a doctor. Doctors are boring."
"Not everything I do is related to head-colds. Besides which, me and my other mates don't just sit around talking about work all the time. There are other things."
"Fine then. So, John, how is the sex? Quite good or just fairly good?"
The hairs along John's back and arms stood straight in a cold shiver, his face puckering on instinct with the forced charm in Sherlock's voice. "Know what? Never mind. Should have known you'd take the piss."
"Just being 'one of the guys'."
"Yeah, well, stop. You're terrible at it."
"What am I supposed to ask you about then?" Sherlock's frustration seeped through just slightly but enough to fall to John's radar. He looked up, Sherlock's face obscured by the pop of his collar. The detective continued, "I think your work is boring, I don't care to idle my time with sports, the movies and programs you like are to me transparent and dull, and I firmly believe that the fact that you no longer spend your hours in my company is the greatest tragedy to ever befall you. Truthfully, John, the only thing we ever had in common was the fact that you and I both think I'm brilliant."
John watched him for a moment, catching glimpses of his furrowed brow when the wind swept his curls back and away. "Never were the humble sort," he said.
"Never mattered," Sherlock conceded.
John smiled just slightly, trying not to be dissuaded by the truth in his words. "Well... we've got the rest of the week to figure out what you and I can still have together."
"I liked it when it was me."
"I know. So did I."
They carried on down the lost roads of ages back towards the lonely Look Out House in relative silence. They were still miles out when the winds began to press harder against their chests. What had started as clear skies turned to grey over the bay as the crash of crests against the black rocks roared louder almost than the rustling leaves. They ran the last several yards, boots slipping on the dampened grass as they flew to escape the coming downpour. That was the risk of a spring retreat near the sea. John watched Sherlock duck inside as he himself stooped to gather wood from the tarp-lined pile for the night. At least there would be no risk of a power outage with the winds throwing the sails of the windmill in happy circles. Sherlock held the door open as John rushed inside with his arms full, the wooden exit slamming shut in the absence of his counter force against it.
John set the wood beside the fireplace, shaking his dampened coat from his shoulders as he knelt down by the floor. The late afternoon looked more like evening through the windows with a dust colored sky chasing away the clouded blue. He rubbed warmth into his hands as he stared at the ashen logs from that morning. He'd get another fire going. Get the kettle going. Heat up a pot of beans and see about grilling the fish in the freezer. The rain hardly put a damper on the day but rather added its own randomness to the mounting uncertainty. It was a topic of conversation, at least, though neither of them said a word.
John was pleased but somehow not surprised when a towel dropped over his hair and shoulders after heavy footsteps returned from the bathroom cabinet. John rubbed the damp from his hair as he watched Sherlock, shoulders draped, help himself to the kitchen to fill the kettle with fresh water and set the burner on high. After years of living together, domestic details were second nature. Sherlock lit the burner with a black hooded match then carried the box over to John for the fire, not a word need spoken between them. There was tea and a warm hearth within a handful of minutes with two gentlemen sat on the floor under towels with mugs in their hands. The flickering firelight made shadows dance even under the light of the lamps. John breathed deep, filling his lungs with the smell of burning elm and English Breakfast.
"There must be something very wrong with two people who care about each other more than almost anything else but still don't know how to be friends," John said at last, lips pressed to the top of his steaming mug.
Sherlock nodded quietly beside him while the firelight drew his shadows into the ghostly haze of a smile.