He wants to drag John down.
Down down down. Down to the green-black places where the water is a cave closing in on you. Down to the ghost-blue glimmers of the kelp forest. John would look so beautiful with his hair tossing in the green-blue haze among the fronds.
He tells John this, and John pulls back a few wary inches, face furrowing between his brows. "I can’t breathe water, you know.“
“Of course I know.” That isn’t the point.
How can he explain? Sherlock drags all his treasures down to the grotto-waters. It’s the place for keeping. The place where there is nothing else, nothing but the keeper and the kept, where the pressure crushes the water down till it can hold secrets in place where you put them.
“Where the sea shades black,” he tells John, “it’s too deep for time to reach.”
John smiles, uncomprehending, and presses a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “You’re immortal, under the waves?”
“Not me.”
He just wants to keep John forever.
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