Just An Ocean Apart

Tonight's The Night

Sherlock spent the day wasting away, sometimes crying, sometimes staring, sometimes thrashing his tail around angrily. He wanted company, he wanted someone to talk to, at the moment even Victor's presence seemed better than none, but still, the hall was quiet. Everything was quiet. Sherlock tried to run through what he was going to say to John the next night, trying to make it easy to handle yet emotional enough to believe. How could someone so stubborn possibly accept that they were even in love with someone so freakish? So...fishy? Sherlock was everything John didn't want, starting with his gender and ending with his tail, and somehow he had to tell John that they were in love and probably still were, deep, deep, deep down. and once that is settled, he had to figure out how to somehow convince Greg to either distract the guards, seduce the guards, or make sure the guards weren't there in the first place on the morning of the wedding, so that Victor could have a clean run from the tank to the ocean with Sherlock in his arms, and throw him into the water. Sherlock then had to get down to the potions room without anyone noticing him, get past the guards, steal the potions, and get out before anyone saw him. He needed to become a human, and Victor needed to become a merman, and Sherlock was going to make sure they both got what they wanted. He knew that Victor didn't want to go back home, but Sherlock didn't' want him up here either, a reminder of the merperson world, a reminder of his brother and his bodyguards and the days spent in agony under the waves. Of course this plan was extremely fragile, chances are that John wouldn't believe him and storm out again, and there was also a high possibility that Sherlock would get arrested and taken to his brother for solitary confinement, and if he ever got out and back to the surface John would be married and have a child and Victor would be some nobleman that totally forgot about where he came from. It would be horrific, and Mycroft would undoubtedly make Sherlock pay for all of the rules he broke, all the promises shattered and all the trust dissolved into ash. Mycroft himself would be his bodyguard; he might just tie him up to a pillar in the throne room like a disloyal dog, or put him in the stocks for the rest of his life so people could throw seahorse manure at him for letting his heart wander onto the surface. This was all so hectic, this was all so chaotic. As Sherlock was sitting in his coral, thinking dreamily of the future John and he might manage to have, someone slipped into the hall, their footprints unheard, climbing stealthily up the stairs. Sherlock lay carelessly on his coral, thinking of the wedding vows he might exchange to John, standing with his own two legs, staring deep into those hazel eyes with matching golden bands on their fingers. He was interrupted, however, when someone cleared their throat above, and nearly scared Sherlock out his mind.
"What in the..." he surfaced and stared at the worried face of Gary, the cook, holding a platter of fish and looking terrified.
"Mr. Sherlock, sir, your dinner." He muttered, his face as white as the chef hat perched on his head. Sherlock's face softened when he noticed that he had scared the poor boy, and forced a smile.
"Dinner, good, I'm starving." He decided, swimming slowly up to the docks and grabbing the tray out of the boy's hands. It was the same old fish, and honestly, Sherlock was getting quite bored of it.
"Can't you mix it up once and a while, you know, human food? I wouldn't mind to know what you humans feed yourselves three times a day." Sherlock decided.
"Oh, yes, I'll put the suggestion in. Actually, Mr. Watson requested to put some caviar on your tray, oh, and asked me to give you this." Gary muttered, fishing through his pocket and pulling out a sealed envelope. Sherlock stared up at him in wonder, and dropped the plate back onto the dock with a clang, taking the note gently out of Gary's hands and watching as the water on his fingertips soaked through the thin paper.
"Thank you Gary, that will be all." Sherlock muttered.
"Well, I was kind of thinking you were lonely, don't you want someone to talk..."
"That will be all." Sherlock insisted, silencing him with his hand and shooing him away. Gary's face fell, but he nodded, obviously able to tell when he wasn't wanted.
"Have a nice night sir." He muttered, and shuffled off down the stairs, obviously a bit disappointed. Sherlock could care less about Gary's current emotional state, John wanted to contact him, and that was all he cared about. Sherlock heaved himself onto the dock, letting his fin dangle into the water as he pried the envelope open and gently pulled the letter out, tucked inside with an uneven crease. Sherlock expected a long letter, explaining the circumstances and John's emotions and his regrets and his plans, but in fact it might have been the shortest letter Sherlock had ever seen. All it was were two words, scrawled in black ink, I'm sorry. Maybe that was all John thought was necessary, maybe that's all he thought Sherlock could understand. But oh, Sherlock couldn't understand a thing. I'm sorry had so many meanings, I'm sorry I did what I did, I'm sorry for what I'm about to do, I'm sorry I love you and can't admit it, I'm sorry I love her and abandoned you, I'm sorry I kidnapped you, I'm sorry I'm dropping you back off at the ocean tomorrow morning. It could be anything, and for once, Sherlock was at a total loss for words. If John had walked up here and personally said those two words, Sherlock would have sat on the docks and stared at him with the most perplexed expression, a blank face and a blank mind, having absolutely nothing to say on that topic. He was sorry too. And with that Sherlock tossed the letter into his tank, watching as the water ate up the paper, dissolved the ink, and left the scattered pieces of the envelope to break apart and get trapped in the filter. Sherlock was sorry too.