Hero Down

John was sitting up in Mycroft’s giant bed with the computer on his uninjured thigh. The giant bed had been a surprise because it took up most of the master bedroom. There was room for at least three full grown adults to spread out and never touch another person in the bed. Finding it had promoted a fit of the giggles on John’s part, wondering aloud if Mycroft ever used it with a small gathering of people.

“I don’t even want to know…” Sherlock chuckled, rubbing his forehead to rid himself of the thought of his brother doing anything remotely interesting in bed.

Both were without luggage. Unlike the pharaohs of old, John and Sherlock weren’t allowed take anything with them into their voyage of the hereafter. Anything missing aside from themselves may lead to suspicions. Mycroft had promised servants to do the cooking and cleaning… also an allowance to gather a wardrobe more suited for the temperate climate of the Mediterranean.

Already the season was warm. The relative seclusion of the villa allowed for windows to be open to catch the breezes.

John wore a pair of loose linen trousers he had found in one of the drawers without a shirt, Sherlock the same. It was too warm to think much about clothing.

“Look at this.” John patted Sherlock who lay near him on the bed. Sherlock roused to John’s call for attention.

“It’s my obituary.” John read through the small summary of his life. “Surgeon who served in Afghanistan… Survived by his sister, Harriet… Life tragically cut short by a homicidal madman…”

“It doesn’t say THAT!” Sherlock cried, indignant as he looked over the obituary. “It says that you were killed by complications after being shot in the line of duty, aiding Scotland Yard.”

“Same thing.” John sniffed, scrolling down the page. “Here’s yours.” John looked it over. “Your mother’s name is Millicent?”

“What of it?” Sherlock asked, giving John a hard look.

“Nothing…” John chuckled, continuing to read about his companion. “…After a long struggle with depression lost the battle with the loss of his closest friend and lover, Dr. John Watson.” Shocked, John sat back. “They can’t say THAT!”

“I know… it wasn’t a LONG battle with depression. I was put on medication after I started showing signs of…”

“No! I mean the part about you being my lover!” John replied.

Sherlock blinked at him a few times. “It’s part of the ruse, John. The reason I died was because I lost you. You heard my brother.” With annoyance Sherlock shut down the computer and pulled it from John’s lap.

“But people will think…”

“What?” Sherlock cast him a hurt look. Silently he got up from the bed and padded across the room.

“Where are you going?” John asked, edging his way to the end of the bed. His injury was getting better despite the rumor that it had been lethal.

“Swimming.” Sherlock replied, stepping out of his trousers and boxers. His pale form escaped the bedroom onto the patio deck from the master bedroom’s sliding door. Taking a deep breath he dove into the pool, willing the cool water to clear his head.

With a sigh John eased off the bed and limped towards the open sliding door, picking up Sherlock’s clothes on the way. Finding a deck chair outside he sat down, watching his friend swim.

Sherlock made several laps before pulling himself out on the side closest to John. He sat on the edge with his legs dangling in the water.

“I’m sorry.” John spoke softly. “I know you’re just as annoyed at having to stay here… inactive while someone else does all the dirty work. You’re bored. And it’s… a good plan. Opportunities like that don’t happen all the time…”

“John… shut up.” Sherlock lay back on the slate surrounding the pool, exposed to the sky and John’s eyes.

“I just want to say… I’m sorry your obituary had to proclaim to the world that you had a lover. It’s your reputation… and it will forever be linked to… me.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Why?” John leaned forward in the chair, looking down at the brunette.

Rolling over the younger man crawled over to John’s chair and sat at his feet, running his fingers through his damp curls. “Why should I be concerned with what anyone else thinks of me?” Idly his fingertips picked lint off of John’s trousers.

“I think you care very much what people think of you… the way you dress… the way you act.”

“It’s an act.”

“What?”

“An act to get what I want. Who would take me seriously if I didn’t put some thought into what I wore around them? Besides… my brother buys all my clothes for me. If I look the part then they will believe me when I tell them what they need to know. Otherwise it’s my pajamas. Get up.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s warm and you’re getting all hot and sweaty. It’s time for a bath.”

“No… I don’t think you’ll get what you want this time.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you, sir, are naked.” John suppressed a smile.

“Well then give me back my clothes.” Sherlock smiled back.

“No, I will not.” John placed them on his lap. “They are mine now so I can get people to do what I want them to do.”

“Fine… I’ll just parade around like this all day. What will the neighbors think?” Sherlock stood up and folded his arms across his chest, facing out at the imaginary neighbors.

“You’re bluffing!” John taunted him.

“Am I?”

John raised an eyebrow. He looked over his shoulder. “Bonjourno, Eduardo!”

Sherlock blushed a fierce shade of red and snatched his clothes off of John’s lap. As he struggled to dress he realized that his brother’s servant wasn’t actually there. Pulling up his boxers he made a face. “You are so going to get it, John.” Casting John a wicked smile he strutted back towards the villa.

“What can you do to me? I’m already dead!” John yelled back over his shoulder. For a while he sat there, enjoying the sunshine. Gently he rubbed at his wound through the dressing. The pain was becoming dull as his muscles knit back together. Closing his eyes, he lifted his face to the sun, feeling the heat on his cheeks. The sea was nearby and he could hear the faint sound of sea birds calling to each other. A presence manifested behind him, he could feel the body mass near his shoulder and cheek.

“Time for your bath, John.” Sherlock whispered warmly into his ear. “It’s ready.” Gently hands caught John under the arms and guided him up to stand.

“It’s very peaceful here.”

“Almost mind numbingly so.” Sherlock agreed, pulling his friend back into the villa. The marble bathroom was cool on their feet. Helping John undress and sit on the wide edge of the tub, Sherlock took a sponge and scrubbed between John’s shoulder blades, tracing out the edge of his old war wound.

“If I had to be here alone…” John began, frowning.

“You’d hate it.” Sherlock finished for him, re-wetting the sponge to work down his friend’s back. “As would I. It’s just barely tolerable with you here. I try to think of it as a long sleep.”

“Like… what death would be like.” John whispered, shutting his eyes and leaning forward to allow easier access to his lower back.

“The question is… is this heaven, hell or purgatory?” Sherlock mused.

“It must be purgatory for you.”

“How so?”

“You’re waiting to be released from it.” John answered.

“But I’m not alone.” Casually he moved the sponge to John’s front and started south.

John squirmed a bit. “Hey! I can do that myself!” His hand caught Sherlock’s and took the sponge from him.

“Payback for teasing me.” Sherlock snickered against John’s neck. His forehead rested on John’s shoulder as his fingertip traced the contours of the old war wound. The texture of the skin that had reformed was different from the rest of John’s back. It interrupted the otherwise flawless skin. No doubt it had been very painful… even more so than the most recent brush with a bullet.

John paused in his washing, feeling Sherlock’s weight behind him and the finger tracing his wound. With his eyes closed, he waited for his friend to finish touching his brush with death.

“John…” Sherlock whispered, his breath warm and soft on the doctor’s back.

“Hmm?”

What could he say? How could he even begin to put into words what he was feeling in that moment? They were strange and new. A part of him screamed out to protect John from everything horrible and nasty… to keep him safe. But the other part wanted to share it all with him so he could feel the exhilaration. The ache in his chest returned and he almost felt like crying.

“Sherlock?”

“Nothing… it’s nothing.” Casually his lips brushed John’s shoulder, pausing there a moment as he got up from the bath ledge. “I’ll go prepare lunch. Let me know when you’re done.”

John stared up at his friend and watched him leave the bathroom. He sat there for a time, pondering what he had felt on his shoulder the moment Sherlock had pulled away. Was that a… kiss?