Raw
part fourJohn got to be in charge of the smoker and of lighting the hessian cloth. It certainly wasn't an enticing odor but still somehow the least of his complaints. Sherlock only owned the one white beekeepers suit and it was far too big for John even with the sleeves and legs rolled up. The crotch of it felt uncomfortable rubbing between his thighs and though Sherlock assured him the huge hood of thin mesh cloth on his head was one size fits all, he still felt more than slightly dwarfed by it. Somehow he expected beekeeping to not be anything like they made it look in the movies or on the telly. It was rather disappointing that it was. He looked like a whitewashed haz-mat cleaner coming in on his day off just for fun. He looked cartoonish and he felt ridiculous. Sherlock's own attire did not work to remedy it.
His own suit otherwise occupied, Sherlock wore only a pair of jeans, button down, and John's borrowed shooting jacket. Though he professed to being quite protected by a superior knowledge of bees, all John really cared about was that Sherlock looked cool and John looked like a tit. It was like going to the pool with a seasoned swimmer who insisted on floaties and a big rubber tube with a duck's head around the waist for everyone else. If not for Sherlock's finishing touch, John might have found it a bit too embarrassing to leave the house entirely. But on his head Sherlock wore his yellow hat and over that a white lace drape from one of the upstairs windows that fell like a veil around him with guipures of grapes, leaves and curling vines. He looked like summer's militaristic bride and John had no qualms at all stepping out in such company.
He kept the smoke coming as Sherlock insisted, particularly keen to keep Sherlock's bare hands scented in the pungent cloud as he gently prized up a wooden slat from a base box set near the trees of his garden. It was everything John had expected it to be, which in itself was still everything he had not. He recognized the shape and color of the honeycomb, the sheer amount of bees clinging to it in a living sheet of vibrating gold and black nothing he hadn't witnessed in some program or another. The squared off vision of his hood only added to the sense of unreal reality. He was half expecting to hear David Attenborough's narration instead of Sherlock's familiar voice.
"See that?" Sherlock asked, pointing vaguely to the bee cluster on the board. "They're actually eating the honey right now in preparation for abandoning the hive."
John cocked his head slightly, the motion completely lost in his costume. "Why are they going to abandon it?"
"Because of the fire." Sherlock gave the arm with which John held the smoker a quick tap. "Where there's smoke," he said, leaving off the well-known end of the phrase. "That's why the smoke makes them less defensive. We're a much smaller threat to them than a fire is. Smart as they are, they still haven't managed to overcome their baser survival instincts. Generation after generation they still fall for the smoke trick."
"Lucky for you." John aimed the smoke at the block again, finding it hard to tell the difference between an angry bee and a hungry one.
Sherlock nodded, his lace veil obscuring most of his face as he inspected the sample he'd pulled. "No Queen on this one."
"Is that good?"
"Well, not if I want to show you one." He thrust it close to John's face all the same. "There are some eggs, though. And various stages of larva. Do you want to know how to tell nectar from pollen?" he asked, bees walking over his bare fingers with neither the man nor the insect demonstrating a single care for it.
John honestly wasn't all that interested in bees now that he was in the thick of it. But he nodded, smoker ready, and resigned himself to the topic anyway. It was better than sitting in his chair either way. Maybe he'd even pick up a few ideas for why people always spoke on things of birds and of bees.
It didn't take too terribly long for Sherlock to run out of things to point out and describe. Over the course of the lecture John managed not to get stung though his suit apparently had. He'd wondered for a brief moment what his suit had done to offend the bees but, on further thought, the suit rather offended John and so it was very hard to blame them. He was never happier than when they got back to the house and he was allowed to toss the lot of it in the washroom and change into something less clownish and white. Sherlock had toast and tea waiting on the back patio table when he came back down, a mason jar of honey sitting as a centerpiece with a small spoon stuck in to serve. At least John assumed it was honey. It was a few shades darker than puss yellow in color and its thick, grainy consistency didn't do much for its appeal. There was jam and butter as well but John knew he was expected to try the honey first. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to ruin his appetite straight off. He bought time with tea, eying the honey jar over the rim as he enjoyed the morning air.
Sherlock spooned and spread honey on his own slice of toast. Even then, it lacked the glossy shine John knew honey was supposed to have. "It's raw," Sherlock said, taking a crusty bite of toast. "It has pollen, enzymes, propolis, vitamins, amino acids, antioxidants, and minerals. It's supposed to help with allergies by allowing one to ingest small amounts of pollen to build an immunity. So they say."
John licked his lips, picking up the spoon from the jar to investigate the texture. It certainly smelled like honey.
"I have some which I've pasteurized if you prefer. Tastes the same but the process removes the health benefits. It seemed you might better from the pollen content. You rub your eyes quite a bit."
John hadn't the will to tell him he wasn't rubbing out discomfort. He spread a small sample of the honey on some toast--trying not to think of puss--and took a tentative bite. Surprisingly, it tasted of honey. He didn't even really mind the texture as it warmed on the toast and turned runny. "It's... good. Tastes normal."
Sherlock frowned slightly at that. "Well, it's a first attempt," he said in unnecessary defense. "In a couple years I should be able to improve upon it."
John chuckled, finishing his toast with a few large bites. He didn't suppose he'd ever get used to the idea of Sherlock producing foodstuffs out of his backyard. It was something of a dream and a nightmare combined. Sherlock always managed to succeed in everything he attempted and of course, even uprooted in the country, the ever adaptable Sherlock Holmes was thriving. Good for him, he continued to try to think. It was harder and harder to be pleased for him when the facts put them so far away. Even the taint of his bitterness could not diminish his pride or envy, though. "You know, you're something else, Sherlock. I can't imagine what made you think to pursue all this but just look at you. It's really something. I mean that. I mean, I wish I had that. The ability to just say 'Fuck it, I'm going to do something new' and then actually do it." John sipped his tea, the mild flavor helping to wash away the sweetness of honey still lingering on his tongue.
"You could."
It was worth the laugh. John shook his head, his smile far from cheerful but not willing to scowl in the face of Sherlock's better attempts at optimism. "I have a house, a mortgage, a great job that pays the bills and a daughter who needs a lot more stability than daddy off on a whim. I can't take those kinds of risks. It affects a lot more than just myself if I fail."
Sherlock did not seem daunted in the least, crunching through another slice of toast. "Then don't fail," he said with no sense of sarcasm and crumbs along his bottom lip.
"Sometimes I wonder if it's really that easy for you, Mr. I-created-my-first-job. For the rest of us mere mortals, it's not. We don't have big bank accounts to bail us out if it all comes crashing down around us." His bitterness was showing. John swallowed it with his tea, not wanting to wear out his welcome before he was ready to say goodbye. He tried to think of the yellow play pen in the second guest room and of the unspoken promise he applied to it as a symbol. Sherlock's success was a good thing for them both even if it did mean visits few and far between.
Sherlock didn't seem concerned. He sat back in his chair with the sun sweeping the roof's shadow over his lap. "What is the worst that could happen?"
"Are you serious? Well, we can start with jobless, homeless and starving and then multiply that by the weight of having brought it on myself and Analise."
"You're ignoring the fact that I wouldn't allow for it, but so be it. And if you stayed exactly as you are?"
John shrugged. There was nothing he could think of that could go wrong if he stayed with his current life and lifestyle. Boredom almost certainly but nothing more pressing than that unless he listened to the hollowness that liked to remind him of the Browning usually stored in his safe. He didn't really care to think what it said about his mental state if some days the only reason he didn't act on the impulse was because it seemed like far too much effort.
Sherlock stacked their dishes on the tea tray, tipping crumbs into the wind. "What do you want, then?" he asked. "What would make you happy? Forgetting about Analise for now."
"I can't. I'm telling you, it doesn't work like that." John wasn't sure in what way he wasn't making that fact clear. Perhaps Sherlock felt he'd won the argument before but there really was no assurance he could give him that stood strong against the feeling of wrongness at the idea. Whether he loved her or not, Analise came first. It was just the way parenthood worked. He ran a hand through his hair, the back of his head warm under the sun. "I mean, Mary and I talked about what I should do after she died. There was some talk about moving closer to work, maybe even Baker Street. Maybe get back in touch with The Strand and see about writing full time. Everything we talked about revolved around me being closer to or having more time for Analise. Literally everything has been built around what's best for her and easiest for me."
"And yet you want out."
It should have been a question and John nearly hated him for it not being one. "I don't know what I want," he said through his teeth, growing more and more tired with his insistence.
Sherlock nodded, standing with the tray balanced between his hands. "Analise isn't what's holding you back, John," he said, leaving it as his final word on the topic as he turned to go back inside.
"I never said I blamed her," John retorted, though he could not escape the thought of how quickly he might have asked to stay if it wasn't somehow for her.
+++
There wasn't much in the way of birdsong but the crash of waves kept the world from going quiet. Their feet against the earth cracked and thundered, shins parting the grass, the wind blowing by in an unsteady roar to cool the burn of the sun on their backs. John could not help the deep breath and sigh as he took longer steps to catch up with Sherlock's pace. It was far from the excitement he used to expect from walking in his friend's shadow but there was still a comfort to his presence that made John glad he'd come. It was going to be hard to leave, really. Sherlock lived entirely too far away and their luck, time and time again, seemed to pit what was best for one of them against the needs of the other. It was John's turn now to be lonely and dissatisfied. Part of him felt it only fair.
It wasn't long before Sherlock's trailless path lead them closer to the mainland borders, nothing but the horizon and the Channel in front of them and Sherlock ignoring all chance to turn around. "Now I know I'm not from around here but I'm pretty sure this isn't the way into town," John said, his breath heavy in his chest from the excursion thus far. "
Sherlock offered him a tight smile that failed to light his eyes. "Don't worry, we won't be here long."
"No?"
"No, you're going to jump off." He pointed out towards the edge of the headland that opened into sky. "Straight ahead, fast run, good jump, legs together, feet pointed," Sherlock instructed as though giving directions into the town they were obviously nowhere near.
John chuckled with nervousness, shaking his head. "You're insane."
"You don't trust me?"
"It's not a matter of trust," he said. John wasn't all that amused by Sherlock's little joke. He raised his brows at him, challenging his sincerity, and moved to step closer to the edge to see just how high up they were and how truly crazy Sherlock's suggestion was. Sherlock grabbed his arm to stay him, though. John looked down at his hand around his arm then back up to his silver eyes. "What?"
"You don't get to look. Just jump," he said. Face calm but eyes burning, he really was genuinely telling him to do it.
Sherlock had always been a little on the side of crazy but this truly took the cake. If Sherlock thought for one second that John was going to jump off a cliff just because he told him to, he was far too impressed with himself to remember the facts of reality. The absurdity of it almost made it funny despite his seriousness and for that John continued to smile and laugh it off. "I think you've been stung by one too many bees, Sherlock."
Sherlock stood still and staring. "And you've been listening to far too many idiots spouting generic nonsense. Work the safe job, keep the same routine, do everything for your daughter, be the nine-to-five drone whose only pleasure in life is the solitary accomplishment of raising a child?" He let go of John's arm, circling in front of him instead with no care to personal space and no plans to include them. "You fought in Afghanistan," he recounted. "You chased criminals, were kidnapped, saw the deepest depths of hell that London can offer. You didn't get married and start a family because you wanted stability, you did it because it was something new, something different, something exciting that could be pursued and won. The more people try to help you the worse it is because they're stealing your struggle, robbing you of the fight, handing down to you false wisdom that tells you to forget everything that has made you who you are and to become more like them. They are the ones who want to go to sleep every night knowing nothing surprising can possibly happen tomorrow. That is their safety net and you have it wrapped around your neck like a noose. You don't need endless stability, you need the thrill of never knowing. And you won't know what's at the end of that cliff if you don't jump."
It wasn't funny anymore. If there was one thing Sherlock's eyes and words and presence were not it was humorous in the least. John shook his head, arms up between them as though Sherlock might simply toss him over if he persisted in his refusal. "I'm not jumping. I'm not jumping! Are you completely out of your mind?!"
Probably. Sherlock moved around him, coming up from behind and leaning in towards his ear, never touching, John's eyes following him though his body seemed rooted to the spot.
"There's nothing quite like it. Standing on the edge, looking down, knowing the only reason your life is on the line is because you make that step that takes you over. Millions of years of evolution and we still fear the fall. Your life in your hands, everything in you screaming not to do it, survival instincts kicking into high gear and then the sink of your gut when it's too late, it's over, it's out of your hands and there is nothing left but trust and hope as you plummet."
John could feel his heart pounding in his chest, blood rushing at the thought of the feelings and fears Sherlock described. He knew them. At different times he'd felt them whether in the trenches or on the pavement, pushing past that last resistance of safety, the cold dread of repercussion, the echo of excitement that made it worth it long before the true success of the cause. He swallowed thickly. No, he was not considering it. It was completely out of the question. It wasn't even worth entertaining in memory though he could not help the compression on his chest of a longing to feel that fear and excitement again. "I can't.. If anything happened--"
Sherlock shook his head, orbiting him again as he moved to the side. "If anything happened, she'd be taken care of. This isn't about her."
"I'm not doing it. I'm not doing it, Sherlock."
"Give me your shoes."
John rubbed his face, trying to look away from the grass and the sky and the unknown beyond it. He used the toes of his feet to peel the heel of his shoes off his foot, kicking them aside with socks to follow. It wasn't the same as saying 'yes' but his body was gripped by it just the same. Endorphins surging, senses heightened, pulse louder than the wind in his ears as it whipped across them both. "This is suicide," he said.
Sherlock followed the flight of his shoes with his eyes. "Only because there are no witnesses," he agreed.
John had to laugh at that. If he didn't, his whole body might explode. Most of the cliffs he'd seen dropped into shoreline; he was trusting completely that Sherlock would not dare him to jump to his death. He didn't feel as assured of that as he would have liked. Looking down, knowing for sure, would have made it so much easier. But he didn't want to anymore. He didn't want to know everything was going to be okay. In some ways it would be okay if it wasn't.
He was really considering it. He was actually considering jumping out over the edge. He laughed at himself for how stupid he must be. He hid his eyes as he cried for himself and how much he shouldn't want the excitement that gave him this thrill. He wanted this; he needed this. No one could take the steps towards the edge but himself, nothing but his own mind and body in unison working to throw himself to certain death or an icy swim. What man on earth with an ounce of sense would blindly follow such an idiotic suggestion?
A man who had lost something more precious than the love of another: the love of himself.
"Straight ahead, fast run, good jump, feet together, toes pointed," Sherlock repeated, stepping back to give him room.
John opened his mouth to say something, maybe one last attempt to talk himself out of it or ask Sherlock if he was completely sure this was a good idea. Instead he ran, heart saying 'fuck it', and chased towards something new. He sped up before the earth ended and found the open air so much sooner than expected. He didn't look down until he'd already jumped. Sherlock was a bastard. There was water there and plenty of it, only it appeared to be fifty feet below. John's stomach fell faster than he did, his mind already chastising him for a phenomenally stupid death as he flailed with no real purpose on a descent he could not stop. But he did not regret it. The wind was outrageously loud and he cut through it like a spoon, hardly built for the task but managing anyway. He'd always heard that those who fell to their deaths often died of heart attacks before they hit the ground. He could believe that. John's chest positively ached for all the thundering inside him, his ribs surely bruised by the strength of the pulsing muscle. Seconds left and then he'd know whether it was the heart or the waves that killed a man or if in the end he could overcome them all.
Life wasn't precious because it could be lost; life was precious because only while living could a man fight for the right to be miserable amidst the struggle for happiness.
John struck the water with his feet together, toes pointed, and sliced through like a bullet, falling still even without the air. There was no time for elation or relief. The chill was a punch in the gut all its own while the surface seemed to have become impossibly far above him. John kicked his feet, clawing his way up, chest burning in a new way as the breath he hadn't taken left him empty and with want. If he survived the fall, he sure as hell was not going to fail at the climb. His clothes weighed him down but he kicked harder, no excuses tolerated, as he fought his way back up.
His first breath was equal parts air and water, a heavy cough causing him to spit back up most of it while he tread against the waves, keeping above the crests, to breathe in till his lunges were full. The pain of it felt amazing even as he continued to cough and choke. He looked up to where he'd jumped from and could not for the life of him imagine ever thinking he could survive such a fall. But he had. And it was amazing. And somewhere between the earth and the shore his hollowness had abandoned him. There was simply far too much still for him to seek out and experience to allow himself to remain shielded in a safe bubble of nothingness that comforted the living but not the truly alive.
"Sherlock!" he called up, not quite sure he could be heard but positive he did not see his head of black curls peeking over the edge at him. That had been amazing, surely Sherlock would have watched. One didn't talk a man into a leap of faith just to turn and walk away.
There was a small splash beside John, the water slapping against the back of the head out of tune with the roll of the waves. He spun around, seeing Sherlock wet in the water behind him, lips tinted by the cold but no less pulled into a smile. "You really think I'd choose to stop following you now?" he asked.
John could have kissed him. He let his head roll back with a laugh, looking up at the clouds and the sun all shifting against the blue canvas of the sky. His body hurt from the tension of fear and the breaking of the cold water. More than that, it hurt with the weight of mourning finally allowed to settle on his heart and be felt and experienced and understood. John didn't mind the tears on his face when there was already so much water in the world.
"I miss her so much I can't breathe sometimes."
Sherlock nodded, treading water at his side.
John smirked at the way his chattering teeth made the words sound tentative in the air. He didn't feel that way in the least. "I'm alright being sad. I can handle the hurt. I'm not even afraid to be alone, I just don't want to be. And now you're way out here and god, Sherlock, I can't look at you out here and ask you to come back."
"Then stay."
Quit the job, sell the house, settle the mortgage, chase something new. John let his doubts wash over him in a laugh, replacing the fear with anticipation and a sense of invincibility. He'd just jumped off a cliff. If life thought it could top that with the technicalities of a mundane life, it had another thing coming. John looked over at Sherlock, smiling with full knowledge that he had never met a greater man. "Okay," he said and watched as Sherlock smiled. It was going to confuse and worry a lot of people when John returned to throw everything but himself and his daughter away. But that was okay. They would get over it. Eventually, everyone did.
He looked up at the cliff some more, frowning as another thought occurred to him. "Our shoes are still up there, aren't they," he said.
"Yes."
"I thought so. And the shore?"
"Further than either of us wants to swim."
John sighed, his body protesting to the cold. "Brilliant," he groaned, wondering exactly how the rest of Sherlock's plan was supposed to work out.
Sherlock offered him a smirk as he began to swim ahead. "Which is why there's a path carved out."
"Oh. Nice." And really quite handy. John took to splashing his way back to Sherlock's side, making up for Sherlock's longer strokes with the forcefulness of his kicks. "So lots of people have jumped here, huh?" he asked.
"Enough that they felt cutting out a path was called for."
"I see. And how many times have you jumped?"
Sherlock's face lifted with a shrug, his eyes steady on the hidden path. "Every time I knew I needed to."