Naked
part nineIt didn't take long to air out the shack. To be safe, Sherlock took the logs from the hearth and tossed them out over the cliff's edge while John swept up the ashes till the fireplace was clean. Lunch was a split can of beans with toast, the least amount of effort required in preparation. They didn't even bother with cheese.
For his part, John was exhausted. His muscles ached from stress and his head was pounding with the worst headache he'd had in weeks. His eyes felt as though were boiling in their sockets and roughly squeezed. The only thing that didn't seem to hurt anymore was the muscle that had been the most roughly taxed of them all. Sitting opposite Sherlock, the pair of them chewing their toast like bored cows, John found himself oddly at peace. What there was to say, they both already knew. What was to be done about it was just as clear. No more shouting, no more fighting, no more tense moments together wondering when the topic would come up again. It wasn't what either of them wanted but somehow that was part of what made it okay. Struggling against it only made it worse--like quicksand or a Chinese finger trap. Sometimes it was okay to settle without a struggle. Sometimes you won more by giving up the fight.
"Do you like sailing?" John asked, his fork weighing a hundred pounds as he tried to pierce a bean.
Sherlock shrugged, most of his remaining energy focused into tracing the knife-marks in the table with his thumb. "Sounds abysmally boring," he said, sighing as though there were further need to demonstrate his reluctance. "Ropes and water and procedures and tackle. When are we going, Captain?"
"Tomorrow."
He chuckled, leaning back in his seat with his neck stretched and face to the rafters. "We'll be fishing next."
"Only when we're older," John promised. He took their plates to the sink and dropped them clattering within.
Neither one of them lasted another five minutes awake, both retreating to the rooms above for much needed rest and rejuvenation despite the early hour. The sleep was so deep not even the nightmares he'd revisited in the daylight could wreak havoc on John's slumber. It was dreamless and black and peaceful. It was heaven. It was needed. Still, his body not accustomed to an excesses in anything, John woke up at nearly 3am with a full battery and a much improved condition. He tried to go back to sleep but found the rustle of wind too distracting to his conscious mind, no longer preoccupied by thoughts of what was going to come next in their trip but rather what he was going to do once he returned home. More head-colds to treat, probably. More sniffles and sinuses and earaches and coughs. Dinner out with Mary to catch up on her trip and a quiet conversation at home to explain the details of his own. He didn't regret the holiday. As Sherlock had said, it was a far better goodbye this time than what they'd had before. Goodbye, perhaps, to their bachelor days of codependent domesticity but never, not in a hundred million years, would it ever be simply goodbye to Sherlock Holmes.
John felt at the table by the bedside for his book only to find the space empty. A flash of memory reminded him of its place by the hearth down below where he'd been reading in wait for Sherlock's return. The quiet hobby was the only means to perhaps lull him back to sleep or eat up the remaining hours of the night. Sighing, he threw his legs over the side of the bed, himself still fully dressed from the day before, and stepped out into the hall with a scratch and a yawn. On his way he peeked in through Sherlock's door, looking down at the splotch of black on the white pillows where his friend lay face down, his long legs peeking out the bottom of his haphazardly drawn blankets. Out cold. Between the long walk, the flame activated drug and their final shouting match, John wasn't the least bit surprised. He retreated quietly, taking the steps as slowly as needs be to keep the weathered creaks to a minimum as he descended back into their den. The book lay on the table exactly where he remembered it, the cover facing out with its nondescript images of dread and flashy title. It was a shame, really, that the Cornwall case had been largely investigated around him rather than with him. His last real murder mystery and he'd enjoyed it along the same lines as he enjoyed the books he used to fill in the gaps of interest that still existed without Sherlock's intervention. Still, it had been fun. Sherlock's methods and cases were always invested and unique. He didn't get that in his books. There was no one like Sherlock in his collection back home. They were all clever men, to be sure, but nearly perfect in every way as they got the killer and the girl. But, of course, they were fictional. And Sherlock, calamity that he was, was a true detective the likes of which the world had only had a small, censored glimpse of.
Those who can, do. And those who can't...
John left the book on its table and picked up instead the laptop still left half-forgotten on one of the kitchen counters. The battery life was thankfully still good after its lengthy hibernation as John made no effort at all to find its cord. He sat down his chair, pulling open a list of scarcely used programs until he found the one he was looking for.
Sherlock would probably never meet his children, the care for his feelings outweighing the want to share that honor. But John could very well make sure his children and the world knew the man who had been the greatest influence in John's life and to whom he owed everything. No summary would do, no two page rehashings of an amateur lost in the glamour and posted on a blog with no attention to the details or literary merit. He'd do it right this time. For them. For Sherlock. For their past that was more beauty than burden.
And he would do so from the beginning.
Chapter I. Mr. Sherlock Holmes
IN the year 1998 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army...