Chapter Text
———5 MONTHS LATER———
John is startled out of a nap by a loud noise.
It takes him a moment to realise it's the Battle Alarm.
He nearly falls off his bunk as he scrambles to his feet and shoves up his sleeve to check whether this is a drill. A few taps of his finger, and he can see the War Clock, expecting to see it adding seconds to the quite high count of time passed without a kaiju incident.
The War Clock has stopped.
The War Clock is red, and it has stopped.
There's a moment of hazy panic, then experience and training start kicking in and John runs to the locker next to the door, flinging the door open so violently that it bangs loudly against the wall.
An announcement sounds through the door to the corridor—the loudspeaker in John's room has been broken for a year, must get it fixed ASAP if we're back to this happening— commanding all on-duty LOCCENT and technical personnel to their posts, and for the pilots to make their way to the Underdome's launch level.
John works on autopilot as he discards his shorts and T-shirt, trying not to think of Harry. It's easier now than it has ever been because the need to think about Sherlock is much more acute. John had last seen him an hour earlier, headed to first get his wrist console serviced and then to the Command level to file his seventh application for a double room. Sherlock fills out one per month just to spite those who could change this rule if they wanted to, sending an electronic copy of each form to his brother. Maybe one day, these small acts of rebellion might bring on changes in the Corps. Sherlock invariably sees any and all shortcomings of the PPDC as his brother's responsibility and any bit bad PR as a way to spite the Marshal. There have already been some articles in prominent papers after their Ravager assignment investigating the position and treatment of sexual minorities within the PPDC. It hadn't taken long for word to get to the press that the pilot team of the Corps' newest and finest Jaeger is an all-male couple; sometimes John wonders if Sherlock hadn't been the one to provide the media with that bit of trivia.
What had he thought of when the alarm had gone off, and a glance at the War Clock revealed that this is real? Is Sherlock in his own room, now, putting on his quite new and thus stiff-in-the-joints battle armour?
John raises his chest plate vest above his head and lets it slide down his arms. When it's adjusted into the right position, the pneumatic clasps close automatically, moulding it to his body in the most comfortable possible way without compromising structural integrity. Crossing his hands and reaching them to opposite shoulders, he attaches the shoulder guards to their magnetically sealed joints. It still feels odd not to feel a twinge of pain when putting his left arm through its paces like this.
Healed, but not forgotten.
Just like his memories of Harry.
Without Sherlock by his side, John would never have agreed to go through a battle simulation based on the kaiju encounter that had taken his sister's life. John had handled it fine—or so he had thought—until the simulation had ended. When the adrenaline dissipated, he couldn't calm himself down. Hands shaking, cold sweat pouring in, he was left hyperventilating, leaning his palms against the wall. Sherlock had left the room moments earlier to get some water, and John had foolishly believed he could conceal his distress from his partner in the commotion of coming out of the neural handshake. When Sherlock hurried back with two bottles made out of recycled dense cardboard in hand—the PPDC has banned plastic ones for environmental reasons—he nearly dropped them when he saw John.
Sherlock called out his name through their connection, trying to gauge what was going on; John could offer no other reply that a simple shook of his head. That was all that was needed; Sherlock understood. After all, he has experienced, second-hand, what it had been like to lose Harry, for her and John's connection to be severed so violently. John is certain the thought has crossed his mind that it could happen again.
Maybe Sherlock somehow sensed that his partner needed something concrete, something real with which he could ground himself, so he held out a hand, and John took it. Sherlock pulled him into an embrace, surrounding him with his body and flooding the torrent of John's anxiety with a resolute calmness.
It did not matter if Colleen saw them. Everyone knew. She'd been one of the first to find out, and she has been nothing but supportive. 'I knew it, I think,' she told them, and that was that.
After holding on to Sherlock like a life line for several minutes, John could finally speak. "We did well," he said, voice hoarse, breathing still off. He tried to count his breaths, to regulate them to a rate of ten per minute. He's a doctor, he knows how hyperventilation works, but it hardly helps him to prevent it when he gets overwhelmed.
"We won," Sherlock confirms. "Just like you did. You and Harry. I've read seven analyses of the scenario, and Harry's efforts were instrumental in ensuring your survival. You won, together."
John opened his mouth to protest that Harry hardly won if she lost her life, but then he realised that Sherlock is right: without their joint efforts, they could not have weakened the kaiju enough that John would have been able to finish it off while trying not to pass out from the strain of piloting alone.
Harry hadn't sacrificed herself for him. She'd done what they went out there to do—fight. She'd given her life for the Corps. For everyone. To think that she'd done it just for John would be egotistical.
He doesn't owe her anything else than to live.
Besides, Harry was never one to meditate on such high ideals. 'Pretentious noble bullshit,' is what she usually said after listening to the speeches at every big ceremony at the Hawaii base. 'Those fuckwads with their arses shoved full of medals would shit in their pants if they saw an actual kaiju.'
John suddenly giggled hysterically into Sherlock's shoulder.
God, Harry was really something.
"You miss her," Sherlock said, pulling John along to sit on a bench.
I'm not trying to replace her, he added.
I know. That's not what bothered me.
In Sherlock's eyes there was a question. Rather than to try to plunge the depths of John's psyche, he seemed to acknowledge the fragility of the moment.
"I'll worry about you," John said and looked into those inquisitive, concerned eyes. "I'll worry about you every time we deploy."
"I'll worry about you, too."
How had that not occurred to John? He had worried about Harry and Harry about him, but they had both been so good at pretending nothing could ever happen to them. Until it did. He won't be able to adopt that God complex ever again, that fantasy that a Jaeger can never become a coffin; needing to guarantee Sherlock's safety will be something he'll struggle with because he can't pretend anymore.
Sherlock took his empty cup and put it away. It had felt odd, him looking after John like this, especially considering where they had started from—John being his physician. They both still have lessons to learn about reciprocity. About trust.
Thank you, John said.
They both knew it was for much more than just two decilitres of iodine-smelling water. Others may think that John has done most of the heavy lifting on this journey, but he's pretty damned determined to help Sherlock prove to everyone that they're perfectly balanced halves of a whole, more than the sum of their parts.
Parts. Armour! He needs to find a pair of bloody socks! Otherwise his feet will be blistered to hell by the armoured boots. He grabs a pair from the laundry basket, nearly trips over himself as he quickly pulls them on,then quickly dons the rest of his armour.
He hurries out of his room and runs down the western perimeter corridor to the back lifts—a small, separate set reserved just for the pilots. He unlocks the lift controls with his wrist console just as Sherlock sprints in to join him. He's a formidable sight in full gear.
They exchange a nod.
"Got your console fixed?" John asks, watching Sherlock bend his neck in both directions to make it easier for him to pry his neck curls out from being pinched under the neoprene neck seal of the undersuit.
"They gave me a temporary replacement. The technician thought that it, too, was malfunctioning when the War Clock reset the zero."
"I never noticed back then that they reset it before sounding the alarm."
"Maybe they don't, and some recent recruit messed up."
John is slightly amused at Sherlock's snooty tone which completely disregards the fact that he is still a relatively recent recruit himself.
Despite the banter, they're both on edge. No one knows yet how containable this threat is. How will the kaiju have evolved during their absence, and will humanity's answer match that? What size will it be? What are its weaknesses? Where is it heading? Will there be civilians there needing protection and thus forcing pilots to split their concentration? Can the Ravager withstand what the Intercept couldn't?
John can sense the frantic pace at which Sherlock's thoughts are going through these same issues, and the sharp focus he finds there helps him feel less nervous; with Sherlock's brain and his experience, they should be nicely covered for whatever is out there.
Still... it's a kaiju! Horror mixes with anticipation. A thirst for revenge flirts with duty.
They step into the lift and turn to face the doors. Sherlock programs in the access code for the Launch level and turns his head so that the retinal scanner can see his eyes. John feels him reach out, seeking to strengthen their connection. After a Drift, he tends to take a moment for himself; the experience is obviously more intense for him than it is for many other pilots. But, after he has done that, he always wants to reconnect with John in other ways, and they both find great reassurance in the other's physical presence. The initiation of the neural bridge is no longer a slideshow of the worst moments of both their lives because they've created so many new ones. Good ones. Ghost drifting while scuba diving at Princess Alice Bank together. Sitting in Sherlock's lap and kissing him on one of the upper gun decks after the Ravager team announcement. The agonizingly slow, tight heat of breaching Sherlock as he rode John after their first time going out with the Jaeger.
If John wants to be accurate, he should not treat the Ravager as a separate entity. The two of them are the Ravager, and it is a more potent emblem of their union than any ring or ceremony could be. Two halves of one consciousness. A union.
He watches Sherlock slip on his gloves. They're thinner than any other part of the armour since they need the dexterity to grip the upper limb control consoles. It can get cold in the Conn-Pod if there's a fracture to its graphene-enforced armoured glass and the Jaeger has a long trek back, so skipping the wearing of gloves is not an option.
"Think I'll get a new collectible card?" John asks, tone mock-serious.
"If you do, I hope it's got a better haircut than the old one. I think I'll send a copy of mine to Mycroft with an autograph. You do know there's one of him?"
John chuckles and adjusts the wrist straps of his own gloves. They need to be adjusted perfectly; otherwise there might end up being a crease underneath the wrist clamps which will result in chafing.
Sherlock is watching him, looking slightly hesitant. "I can't help wondering... You've seen your fair share of these things and the death and destruction left behind. Are you absolutely sure you want to see some more?" he asks.
"God, yes," John replies and every bit of the proud conviction in his voice in genuine. "And it's pretty fucking late to be asking me that. Stop second-guessing us, Ranger Holmes."
"I'm not. Just wanting to gauge your mental state. Isn't that what co-pilots do?"
"Well, what about you, then? I'm guessing you no longer want to let the world burn?" John teases. It has become their private joke, employed especially when Sherlock gets bored and snarky. So many difficult things they used to keep hidden in their own heads have now been softened, put into perspective by sharing them.
"You're in this world, so that would be a no."
John lets his arms hang by his sides and shakes his wrists; it's his ritual of mental preparation for walking into the Conn-Pod.
The tinny voice of the automated elevator announces their arrival at Underdome Launch Level.
As the doors slide open, John glances at Sherlock. "Ready?"
A triumphant smile lights his co-pilot's face. "Lead the way."
––– THE END –––
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