This Man's Heart - Chapter 7
Jul. 18th, 2011 12:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellie_hellTitle: This Man's Heart - Chapter 7
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John.
Word count: 2754
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured in a war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Beta: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
albalark who was not only a beta, but a teacher of precious English lessons (in so many pretty colours) and to disassembly_rsn whose history knowledge I envy, and who helped me revise a lot of the backstory. You two made this insanely better, I hope you know how much I appreciate your help. I also thank the lovely anarion who, once again, helped me deal with my inability to write a mistake-free header.
Back to the first chapter
Previous chapter
Chapter 7
In March the weather started getting nicer, which made it easier for Sherlock to take his daily walk to Sailboat Bay’s shore. His expectations of seeing John’s red scarf floating in the wind had renewed after he had tied his apologetic message to the tree, but as days turned to weeks, his fragile hopes were beginning to falter.
On a cloudy morning, he finally got his wish and he didn’t even try resisting the urge to jump up and down while exclaiming “brilliant!” He then ran across the ice field, his eyes never leaving the waving signal. John was waiting, wrapped in his black coat and his scarf untied from the branch as soon as he had seen Sherlock approaching.
At first they were silent. There were so many things Sherlock wanted to say, knew he had to say, but his chest felt heavy with the months that had passed without contact between them. Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, John looked at him and shook his head. Grey eyes searched blue ones, but found no traces of the fury he had seen in them at the end of their last meeting.
John asked Sherlock to follow him and they walked all the way to Round Mountain. Only once, the masked man turned back to glance at his companion who was following eagerly. They started ascending the mountain with assured steps, John leading them between the trees even though there wasn’t any visible path. A few times, Sherlock noticed hoof prints in the snow where the vegetation had been grazed. When they reached a clearing, John slowed down and Sherlock adjusted his steps to match his friend’s.
“When I raise my arm, stop walking, get comfortable and don’t move.”
Sherlock nodded and did as he was told when they reached a depression and John raised his arm. He leaned on a big pine trunk and waited as he watched John silently take a few small steps.
Small heads then emerged from the undergrowth. Long thin ears, tender and soft eyes, and quivering nostrils approaching curiously. Sherlock had been led to a white-tailed deer overwintering place. The animals must’ve recognized John’s smell; they didn’t run off and kept watching with their necks and ears up. John waited until they got used to him, then he sat down in the snow, took some small frozen apples out of his pockets and spread them around him.
At first, the deer pretended they hadn’t noticed. Then, slowly, the muzzles turned to John and a deer approached carefully, paused for a few seconds and closed the distance separating them. More deer followed its lead and very soon, half a dozen deer were surrounding John and feasting on the fruits he had brought.
John was a beast amongst the beasts and Sherlock found it wasn’t a worrying sight. In fact, it was quite heartening. He wondered how many hours and how many days the other man had spent wandering around the region before he had managed to track the deer. How many hours, how many days he had watched out silently, accepting defeat every time the animals had scampered off upon detecting his scent, their small white tails standing like bouncing pennants in the forest. Then, one day, the deer hadn’t run off. On that day, John probably hadn’t tried anything, but he had kept coming back with his pockets full of fruits and he had offered them without asking for anything in return other than the right to be forgotten.
Sherlock emerged from his reverie to see a young deer grazing John’s coat and he thought he heard the masked man giggle. The other animals were gone, but the small one was looking down with big pleading eyes and John dug up one last small apple from his coat pocket. The deer got hold of the fruit and ran off after the others.
Sherlock walked up to John and extended a hand, pulling him to his feet. He was glad to be there, not only because the sight had been fascinating, but also because he felt like he knew John a little better; he was patient and determined. Right now, he looked so serious and captivated by the grace of the moment that something playful was awakened in Sherlock. He followed John down the mountain, a small smile playing on his lips as he gathered some snow, formed a ball and threw it at John’s back. John immediately turned around, his indignant look clearly visible despite the mask.
The look on John’s face was so amusing, Sherlock couldn’t resist. He let out a deep laugh, made another snowball and threw it at the other man’s chest. Hearing that laugh loosened something in John and he retaliated with a snowball of his own, hitting Sherlock’s arm. The game was on; the two men started chasing each other, hiding behind trees and throwing snow at each other until they reached the bottom of the mountain, both breathless and laughing. They had snow stuck in their hair, glistening like diamonds where it had started to melt, their gloves were wet and so were their trousers from crouching in the snow. John leaned back against a big tree trunk, catching his breath and dusting snow off his scarf and coat.
“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” he said between fits of giggles.
Still laughing, Sherlock leaned against the same tree, his arm pressed against John’s. The air became charged with small snowflakes tormented by the wind; they seemed to be fluttering around instead of falling. It looked like thousands of miniature birds were invading the atmosphere, and Sherlock was reminded of his dream in which John had been swallowed by a feather storm. He could still hear the screams.
“I have invented a game. A treasure hunt,” John said carefully.
Sherlock was all ears, waiting for John to continue.
“There are ten wonders – or treasures – I want to show you. The deer were the first one.”
“In the end, what do I win?” Sherlock asked, amused.
“My heart,” John replied gruffly.
Sherlock felt shivers running down his spine. Out of bravado, he darted his grey eyes on John, who felt observed and turned his head towards the other man. His eyes softened and he seemed to be regretting his harshness, he continued in a softer tone.
“You win beautiful images, memories, perceptions… feelings, maybe. My ten treasures are ten ways to convince you that I am not a prisoner. My sister is opposed to me seeing people. To people seeing me, actually. It’s true and you can guess why, but I could do as I please. If I accept, it’s because I want things to be the way they are.”
He paused. “You are… the exception.”
Sherlock agreed to play, of course he did. The afternoon they had just spent together had done nothing to quench his thirst for knowledge on John. If possible, he was even more interested. He was also a little smug; he had spent his whole life being disliked by almost everyone, to be the exception of someone who avoided the company of everyone was flattering.
Soon after, John told Sherlock to keep an eye open for his red scarf and they parted ways, Sherlock hoping it wouldn’t be long before the signal was raised again.
:::
Several times a day, Sherlock ran to the shore of Sailboat Bay, his eyes scanning the horizon in case John had decided to tie his scarf again. Martha wasn’t blind and it wasn’t long before she noticed her nephew’s increased round trips to the shore. She questioned him almost a dozen times before he finally caved in and told her about Lover’s Island, the porcupine, the owl, the deer, the snow, and the treasure hunt.
“A treasure hunt? Well there’s someone who knows how to hold your interest for longer than an hour,” she said with a devious smile as she placed a cup of hot tea on the table in front of Sherlock.
“He’s the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. At first it was just the mask, but it’s not anymore, most of the time I hardly notice it. I’m most intrigued by this treasure hunt, the first step wasn’t like anything I had ever seen before.”
Martha let out a genuine laugh. “I’m sorry dear, but I can’t picture you staying still for that long. You would be the last person I would bring with me if I wanted to feed deer.”
“It wasn’t difficult, I wasn’t aware of the time passing. I didn’t even want to move,” Sherlock reflected as he thought of the peace he had felt when he had been with John.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said, before adding, “I know you don’t like repetition, but be careful.”
She was worried, but a part of her was so grateful she could barely resist the temptation to dance. Sherlock had found a friend in Gregory Lestrade who, surprisingly, also seemed to enjoy Sherlock’s company. Then, he had met John Watson and he too seemed to like Sherlock. Two friends, it was more than she had hoped for. On that night, while she was sitting outside, she told the stars about the new people in her nephew’s life and from the way the stars were twinkling and blinking, she felt the sky was as excited as she was.
:::
Martha continued to watch as Sherlock ran to the shore several times per day and came back trying to hide his disappointment. All she could do was conceal her smile in her cup of tea and hope for the next meeting to come soon; Sherlock was on the verge of digging up a path in the ground from their house to the shore.
On a nice April afternoon, Martha was knitting in the living room when Sherlock stormed out of his room, ran down the stairs and announced that he was going out to study the migration patterns of the returning birds.
“Before you leave, can you walk to the shore and see if you can find my glove? I lost it yesterday while taking a walk and I think it could be in that area,” she said while grinning behind what would eventually be a scarf as she pretended to count the stitches.
Sherlock found it suspicious; he hadn’t noticed his aunt was missing a glove. However, he didn’t mind walking along the shore, so he went without a word and he understood his aunt’s manoeuvre when he looked towards West Birches Bay. John’s scarf was floating in the wind. He had already checked twice in vain that day, so John had obviously waited for the sun to start its descent before sending the signal.
Forgetting all about the missing glove that probably wasn’t even real, he enthusiastically started running towards the rendezvous point, silently cursing the ice field that prevented him from using his boat that was, by far, the fastest way to reach the other shore.
“I brought blankets, it’s going to be cold,” John said as soon as he saw Sherlock approaching, his cheeks reddened by the cold and the effort.
They walked side by side along the shore until John led them through the path ascending Enraged Cape. Some timid buds had stated to emerge and the air smelled like imminent spring, mud and melted snow. Looking back, Sherlock could see the manor; there was light in several windows.
“Is your sister home?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes, but she’s drunk,” John said while looking at his companion. “She’ll be knocked out until at least tomorrow morning.”
Sherlock wondered if John had waited for his sister to be completely drunk to tie his scarf. He wondered if deep down he was scared of her or if it was out of concern for Sherlock’s safety. He thought that maybe Harry’s threats hadn’t been empty, that perhaps it was dangerous to venture around the manor. Nevertheless, it wasn’t the kind of thing that would keep him off the forbidden grounds, especially if John was leading him there.
They followed the path until they reached the top of Enraged Cape. There, John found a large rock with a smooth surface and he climbed on top of it. Sherlock followed and John opened his bag to take out the heavy blankets he had brought with him. He handed one to Sherlock who wrapped it snugly around his shoulders while John did the same with his own blanket. For a long time, they stayed still and silent while Sherlock wondered what the second treasure was.
Sometimes, the wind blew harder. Nothing major, but the silence amplified everything and even the smallest murmur seemed deafening. The trees were stretching towards the sky and the small creaking sounds they made seemed loud enough to saturate the air around them. After a while, Sherlock realized the ice field was moaning, as though an animal under it was trying to escape. A long mumble was coming from the frozen sea, but one had to be very attentive to hear it. Then, he noticed the air was filled with the secret cackling of the forest behind them and the wind was blowing again. Softly.
The sky grew darker, as dark as the spruce’s bark with blue reflections. Sherlock could feel John moving beside him and he realized how close they were, how intimate the proximity felt. Barely raising a hand would’ve been sufficient to touch the leather of the mask. He closed his eyes and could easily distinguish the smell of leather from the smell of John. Opening his eyes again, he turned his head towards his companion. Did he know he was being observed? The mask was well in place, concealing everything it was meant to conceal and it was too dark to see the shapes of the ravages under the thin leather.
Either John was feeling observed or he felt the shivers running through his companion’s body. He turned around and Sherlock was surprised by the intensity of his eyes. In the twilight, they looked almost black and so close, so huge, that he felt intimidated, but didn’t look away. John’s pupils were barely distinguishable and the irises were streaked with glimmers, as if light could emanate from darkness. Sherlock finally looked away, shivering.
Noticing that Sherlock’s shivers were getting worse, John closed the small distance remaining between them and flung his blanket over the other man’s shoulders so it would cover them both. Their sides were pressed together from thighs to shoulders and suddenly, Sherlock couldn’t feel the cold anymore. He felt the urge to wrap his arm around John, to feel the weight of his head on his shoulder, maybe even feel the leather against his skin and run his fingers through the soft-looking pale hair. The thought startled him; it wasn’t something he had felt before and the sensation was foreign.
Just as he was about to analyze the strange vertigo that was taking hold of him, Sherlock was distracted by the moon. It had just started being visible over the trees and it was still pale and mysterious. They watched it in silence, observing the perceived changes in width as it got higher and higher. The sky was getting darker with each passing minute and more stars were becoming visible in a slow but steady rhythm.
“The night… second treasure,” John whispered.
“My aunt loves the sky, especially at night. She talks to it,” Sherlock said while grimacing at his aunt’s eccentricity. For as long as he remembered, Martha had been fascinated by the stars and she had often tried to transfer her passion on to him, without success. Sherlock had never seen the interest, but on that cold evening, while sitting with John, he started to understand why his aunt loved it so much. It was soothing to look at the twinkling stars while the wind softly caressed his face.
“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock added and he wasn’t quite sure if he was talking about the moon, the general atmosphere or the closeness, but his comment could’ve easily applied to any of the three.
Once the moon reached its peak, they extracted themselves from their improvised blanket fort and went their separate ways. As he walked towards Sailboat Bay, something felt heavy in Sherlock’s chest and when he finally slid under his covers, his bed felt abnormally cold and empty compared to the flat rock on Enraged Cape.
Next chapter.
:::
Click here for the timeline.
Click here for the map.
:::
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Eventual Sherlock/John.
Word count: 2754
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured in a war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Beta: Thanks to
albalark who was not only a beta, but a teacher of precious English lessons (in so many pretty colours) and to disassembly_rsn whose history knowledge I envy, and who helped me revise a lot of the backstory. You two made this insanely better, I hope you know how much I appreciate your help. I also thank the lovely anarion who, once again, helped me deal with my inability to write a mistake-free header.Back to the first chapter
Previous chapter
Chapter 7
In March the weather started getting nicer, which made it easier for Sherlock to take his daily walk to Sailboat Bay’s shore. His expectations of seeing John’s red scarf floating in the wind had renewed after he had tied his apologetic message to the tree, but as days turned to weeks, his fragile hopes were beginning to falter.
On a cloudy morning, he finally got his wish and he didn’t even try resisting the urge to jump up and down while exclaiming “brilliant!” He then ran across the ice field, his eyes never leaving the waving signal. John was waiting, wrapped in his black coat and his scarf untied from the branch as soon as he had seen Sherlock approaching.
At first they were silent. There were so many things Sherlock wanted to say, knew he had to say, but his chest felt heavy with the months that had passed without contact between them. Just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, John looked at him and shook his head. Grey eyes searched blue ones, but found no traces of the fury he had seen in them at the end of their last meeting.
John asked Sherlock to follow him and they walked all the way to Round Mountain. Only once, the masked man turned back to glance at his companion who was following eagerly. They started ascending the mountain with assured steps, John leading them between the trees even though there wasn’t any visible path. A few times, Sherlock noticed hoof prints in the snow where the vegetation had been grazed. When they reached a clearing, John slowed down and Sherlock adjusted his steps to match his friend’s.
“When I raise my arm, stop walking, get comfortable and don’t move.”
Sherlock nodded and did as he was told when they reached a depression and John raised his arm. He leaned on a big pine trunk and waited as he watched John silently take a few small steps.
Small heads then emerged from the undergrowth. Long thin ears, tender and soft eyes, and quivering nostrils approaching curiously. Sherlock had been led to a white-tailed deer overwintering place. The animals must’ve recognized John’s smell; they didn’t run off and kept watching with their necks and ears up. John waited until they got used to him, then he sat down in the snow, took some small frozen apples out of his pockets and spread them around him.
At first, the deer pretended they hadn’t noticed. Then, slowly, the muzzles turned to John and a deer approached carefully, paused for a few seconds and closed the distance separating them. More deer followed its lead and very soon, half a dozen deer were surrounding John and feasting on the fruits he had brought.
John was a beast amongst the beasts and Sherlock found it wasn’t a worrying sight. In fact, it was quite heartening. He wondered how many hours and how many days the other man had spent wandering around the region before he had managed to track the deer. How many hours, how many days he had watched out silently, accepting defeat every time the animals had scampered off upon detecting his scent, their small white tails standing like bouncing pennants in the forest. Then, one day, the deer hadn’t run off. On that day, John probably hadn’t tried anything, but he had kept coming back with his pockets full of fruits and he had offered them without asking for anything in return other than the right to be forgotten.
Sherlock emerged from his reverie to see a young deer grazing John’s coat and he thought he heard the masked man giggle. The other animals were gone, but the small one was looking down with big pleading eyes and John dug up one last small apple from his coat pocket. The deer got hold of the fruit and ran off after the others.
Sherlock walked up to John and extended a hand, pulling him to his feet. He was glad to be there, not only because the sight had been fascinating, but also because he felt like he knew John a little better; he was patient and determined. Right now, he looked so serious and captivated by the grace of the moment that something playful was awakened in Sherlock. He followed John down the mountain, a small smile playing on his lips as he gathered some snow, formed a ball and threw it at John’s back. John immediately turned around, his indignant look clearly visible despite the mask.
The look on John’s face was so amusing, Sherlock couldn’t resist. He let out a deep laugh, made another snowball and threw it at the other man’s chest. Hearing that laugh loosened something in John and he retaliated with a snowball of his own, hitting Sherlock’s arm. The game was on; the two men started chasing each other, hiding behind trees and throwing snow at each other until they reached the bottom of the mountain, both breathless and laughing. They had snow stuck in their hair, glistening like diamonds where it had started to melt, their gloves were wet and so were their trousers from crouching in the snow. John leaned back against a big tree trunk, catching his breath and dusting snow off his scarf and coat.
“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” he said between fits of giggles.
Still laughing, Sherlock leaned against the same tree, his arm pressed against John’s. The air became charged with small snowflakes tormented by the wind; they seemed to be fluttering around instead of falling. It looked like thousands of miniature birds were invading the atmosphere, and Sherlock was reminded of his dream in which John had been swallowed by a feather storm. He could still hear the screams.
“I have invented a game. A treasure hunt,” John said carefully.
Sherlock was all ears, waiting for John to continue.
“There are ten wonders – or treasures – I want to show you. The deer were the first one.”
“In the end, what do I win?” Sherlock asked, amused.
“My heart,” John replied gruffly.
Sherlock felt shivers running down his spine. Out of bravado, he darted his grey eyes on John, who felt observed and turned his head towards the other man. His eyes softened and he seemed to be regretting his harshness, he continued in a softer tone.
“You win beautiful images, memories, perceptions… feelings, maybe. My ten treasures are ten ways to convince you that I am not a prisoner. My sister is opposed to me seeing people. To people seeing me, actually. It’s true and you can guess why, but I could do as I please. If I accept, it’s because I want things to be the way they are.”
He paused. “You are… the exception.”
Sherlock agreed to play, of course he did. The afternoon they had just spent together had done nothing to quench his thirst for knowledge on John. If possible, he was even more interested. He was also a little smug; he had spent his whole life being disliked by almost everyone, to be the exception of someone who avoided the company of everyone was flattering.
Soon after, John told Sherlock to keep an eye open for his red scarf and they parted ways, Sherlock hoping it wouldn’t be long before the signal was raised again.
:::
Several times a day, Sherlock ran to the shore of Sailboat Bay, his eyes scanning the horizon in case John had decided to tie his scarf again. Martha wasn’t blind and it wasn’t long before she noticed her nephew’s increased round trips to the shore. She questioned him almost a dozen times before he finally caved in and told her about Lover’s Island, the porcupine, the owl, the deer, the snow, and the treasure hunt.
“A treasure hunt? Well there’s someone who knows how to hold your interest for longer than an hour,” she said with a devious smile as she placed a cup of hot tea on the table in front of Sherlock.
“He’s the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. At first it was just the mask, but it’s not anymore, most of the time I hardly notice it. I’m most intrigued by this treasure hunt, the first step wasn’t like anything I had ever seen before.”
Martha let out a genuine laugh. “I’m sorry dear, but I can’t picture you staying still for that long. You would be the last person I would bring with me if I wanted to feed deer.”
“It wasn’t difficult, I wasn’t aware of the time passing. I didn’t even want to move,” Sherlock reflected as he thought of the peace he had felt when he had been with John.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said, before adding, “I know you don’t like repetition, but be careful.”
She was worried, but a part of her was so grateful she could barely resist the temptation to dance. Sherlock had found a friend in Gregory Lestrade who, surprisingly, also seemed to enjoy Sherlock’s company. Then, he had met John Watson and he too seemed to like Sherlock. Two friends, it was more than she had hoped for. On that night, while she was sitting outside, she told the stars about the new people in her nephew’s life and from the way the stars were twinkling and blinking, she felt the sky was as excited as she was.
:::
Martha continued to watch as Sherlock ran to the shore several times per day and came back trying to hide his disappointment. All she could do was conceal her smile in her cup of tea and hope for the next meeting to come soon; Sherlock was on the verge of digging up a path in the ground from their house to the shore.
On a nice April afternoon, Martha was knitting in the living room when Sherlock stormed out of his room, ran down the stairs and announced that he was going out to study the migration patterns of the returning birds.
“Before you leave, can you walk to the shore and see if you can find my glove? I lost it yesterday while taking a walk and I think it could be in that area,” she said while grinning behind what would eventually be a scarf as she pretended to count the stitches.
Sherlock found it suspicious; he hadn’t noticed his aunt was missing a glove. However, he didn’t mind walking along the shore, so he went without a word and he understood his aunt’s manoeuvre when he looked towards West Birches Bay. John’s scarf was floating in the wind. He had already checked twice in vain that day, so John had obviously waited for the sun to start its descent before sending the signal.
Forgetting all about the missing glove that probably wasn’t even real, he enthusiastically started running towards the rendezvous point, silently cursing the ice field that prevented him from using his boat that was, by far, the fastest way to reach the other shore.
“I brought blankets, it’s going to be cold,” John said as soon as he saw Sherlock approaching, his cheeks reddened by the cold and the effort.
They walked side by side along the shore until John led them through the path ascending Enraged Cape. Some timid buds had stated to emerge and the air smelled like imminent spring, mud and melted snow. Looking back, Sherlock could see the manor; there was light in several windows.
“Is your sister home?” Sherlock asked.
“Yes, but she’s drunk,” John said while looking at his companion. “She’ll be knocked out until at least tomorrow morning.”
Sherlock wondered if John had waited for his sister to be completely drunk to tie his scarf. He wondered if deep down he was scared of her or if it was out of concern for Sherlock’s safety. He thought that maybe Harry’s threats hadn’t been empty, that perhaps it was dangerous to venture around the manor. Nevertheless, it wasn’t the kind of thing that would keep him off the forbidden grounds, especially if John was leading him there.
They followed the path until they reached the top of Enraged Cape. There, John found a large rock with a smooth surface and he climbed on top of it. Sherlock followed and John opened his bag to take out the heavy blankets he had brought with him. He handed one to Sherlock who wrapped it snugly around his shoulders while John did the same with his own blanket. For a long time, they stayed still and silent while Sherlock wondered what the second treasure was.
Sometimes, the wind blew harder. Nothing major, but the silence amplified everything and even the smallest murmur seemed deafening. The trees were stretching towards the sky and the small creaking sounds they made seemed loud enough to saturate the air around them. After a while, Sherlock realized the ice field was moaning, as though an animal under it was trying to escape. A long mumble was coming from the frozen sea, but one had to be very attentive to hear it. Then, he noticed the air was filled with the secret cackling of the forest behind them and the wind was blowing again. Softly.
The sky grew darker, as dark as the spruce’s bark with blue reflections. Sherlock could feel John moving beside him and he realized how close they were, how intimate the proximity felt. Barely raising a hand would’ve been sufficient to touch the leather of the mask. He closed his eyes and could easily distinguish the smell of leather from the smell of John. Opening his eyes again, he turned his head towards his companion. Did he know he was being observed? The mask was well in place, concealing everything it was meant to conceal and it was too dark to see the shapes of the ravages under the thin leather.
Either John was feeling observed or he felt the shivers running through his companion’s body. He turned around and Sherlock was surprised by the intensity of his eyes. In the twilight, they looked almost black and so close, so huge, that he felt intimidated, but didn’t look away. John’s pupils were barely distinguishable and the irises were streaked with glimmers, as if light could emanate from darkness. Sherlock finally looked away, shivering.
Noticing that Sherlock’s shivers were getting worse, John closed the small distance remaining between them and flung his blanket over the other man’s shoulders so it would cover them both. Their sides were pressed together from thighs to shoulders and suddenly, Sherlock couldn’t feel the cold anymore. He felt the urge to wrap his arm around John, to feel the weight of his head on his shoulder, maybe even feel the leather against his skin and run his fingers through the soft-looking pale hair. The thought startled him; it wasn’t something he had felt before and the sensation was foreign.
Just as he was about to analyze the strange vertigo that was taking hold of him, Sherlock was distracted by the moon. It had just started being visible over the trees and it was still pale and mysterious. They watched it in silence, observing the perceived changes in width as it got higher and higher. The sky was getting darker with each passing minute and more stars were becoming visible in a slow but steady rhythm.
“The night… second treasure,” John whispered.
“My aunt loves the sky, especially at night. She talks to it,” Sherlock said while grimacing at his aunt’s eccentricity. For as long as he remembered, Martha had been fascinated by the stars and she had often tried to transfer her passion on to him, without success. Sherlock had never seen the interest, but on that cold evening, while sitting with John, he started to understand why his aunt loved it so much. It was soothing to look at the twinkling stars while the wind softly caressed his face.
“It’s beautiful,” Sherlock added and he wasn’t quite sure if he was talking about the moon, the general atmosphere or the closeness, but his comment could’ve easily applied to any of the three.
Once the moon reached its peak, they extracted themselves from their improvised blanket fort and went their separate ways. As he walked towards Sailboat Bay, something felt heavy in Sherlock’s chest and when he finally slid under his covers, his bed felt abnormally cold and empty compared to the flat rock on Enraged Cape.
Next chapter.
:::
Click here for the timeline.
Click here for the map.
:::
