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Across the Sky

Chapter Text

The Persian Gulf, 2009


“What the everloving fuck was that?”  Murray shouts from the back.

The thundering boom from the right engine of Lieutenant John Watson’s F117 stealth fighter echoes across the water, startling both pilot and RIO.  John leans hard left on the stick, trying desperately to correct the severe right spin caused by the loss of the right engine, which had sputtered to a halt when a passing F18-A had cut their flight path and the turbulence John couldn’t avoid destroyed the airflow into the engine, stalling it. The tail swings wildly as John shifts, trying to correct the imbalance.

“Shit, we’ve flamed out! We’re coupling up, Doc, we’ve got to stabilize—“

“Fuck, yes, I know, let me get the reins on—“John slams the stick hard right this time, tries to gain some measure of control over the spin, but the aircraft is fighting him, trying to force him back. He pulls again, feels the wings start to catch air, start to slow, but the ocean is rising fast and he knows he can’t save it in time.

“We’re low, Christ, we’re low!” The warning lights are flashing; alarms and sirens fill the cockpit with a cacophony that makes John’s head hurt. Panic is swelling in his chest, but years of training take over and direct him, his course of action desperately clear.

John can barely reach the panel, the centrifugal force holding him pinned to the side of the canopy, but his fingertips reach the radio button. “Mayday, mayday, Ghostrider Zero Six Five, we’re spun, ejecting immediately!” John tries to arch his head back, enough to move his shoulders to the point he can reach the ejector handle. “Murray, we’re out on my mark. Three. Two. One. Mark!” John pulls the ejector handle, hears the explosion that lifts the canopy from the body of the aircraft, and closes his eyes as the seat throws him into the air at 400 miles per hour, the wind screaming past his ears. The seat reaches the height of its trajectory and falls away, and as the parachute opens and John watches the ocean rush up to meet him, Murray is nowhere in sight. He lands hard, the waves as unforgiving as concrete.  Before he can get his mind clear and his body oriented, the wind snags his chute and drags him across the water, the lines tangling in his legs and pulling him inexorably down no matter how hard he kicks against it. The last thing he thinks as he feels the water close over his head is that his CO is going to be really, really pissed off that John lost his airplane.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

 

Seychelles - Near Somalia, 2011

 

GHOST RIDER ONE ONE SEVEN. CONTACT ONE BOGEY, 090 AT 15 MILES, 900 KNOTS OF CLOSURE.

“Got him, Doc. Bogey on your six, Rex. Oooh. He’s an ugly one, too. Fully loaded. Watch it.”

“Roger, Copper, no radar lock. What the hell is he doing back there, checking the license plate?”

“He likes your arse, Rex,” John says, and peels off hard right, pulls back on the stick of the F/A-18 and feels the g-force push him back in the seat.  “Don’t worry, dear. We’ll make sure he doesn’t disrespect you like that again.” The plane rolls, wings shuddering slightly with the pull, the sun flashing through the canopy until he tilts left, spots Rex just above the grey miasma of cloud that hides them from the swell of the ocean. The MIG-21 is a black streak behind, and if he times it just right, John can drop on his six without anyone the wiser.

“Fucking roll him,” crackles over the radio – Rex’s RIO, Archer – “he’s got a goddamn lock on! Rex!”

Rex’s plane swings wildly, cutting across the sky in ever larger gyrations, trying to shake off the lock-on. John doesn’t hesitate; he pushes hard, turns nose down into a dive that leaves him less than a thousand meters behind the MIG.

“We’re low on fuel, Doc, just so you’re aware. Not that stalling out over the ocean matters or anything,” Copper says, and John can practically hear Copper’s eyes roll.

John notes it in the back of his mind, but his chest is tight with adrenaline, with the need to fight, and still tries to lock on. “Goddammit, girl, steady,” he mutters, the green triangle of the targeting screen shifting wildly until, in an instant, there’s nothing left to target. The MIG peels off and straight up, right at the sun, hoping to lose them in the glare. “Oh no you don’t, you fucker,” John says, and pulls up after him.

“Whee! It’s like one of those car chases you see on the TV!” Copper cackles from behind him. “Get this asshole, Doc.”

GHOSTRIDER ONE ONE SEVEN, YOU ARE ORDERED TO DISENGAGE AND LAND IMMEDIATELY

“He’s bugged out, Doc,” Rex says, and his voice sounds shaky. “I’m headed in.”

“Roger,” John returns, and pauses for a split second. “Hey, Copper, you feel like a little bit of wildlife photography?”

Copper’s wheezy laugh crackles through the radio. “I thought you’d never ask.”

John pushes hard on the stick, sending the F/A-18 straight at the sun.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“Oh holy shit, Doc, did you see the look on his face”? Copper doubles over with laughter on the bench next to his bunk, towel nearly slipping off his waist and water dripping from his dark hair. “Oh wait, you did!” Copper holds out his phone to John, who takes one look at the canopy-to-canopy picture of the MIG pilot, one hand raised in a half-hearted wave, and loses it all over again.

“Well, when he broke off, he should have known we’d get between him and the sun and he’d never see us from there. Moron.” John, still chuckling, pulls his tee shirt on, runs a towel over his hair. “Besides, we’d not pushed this plane into an inverted dive yet, I say it’s only good for it. Test it out a little. Make it work.” And oh, did it work. Handled beautifully; a sleek, nimble change from the clumsy, subsonic  F-117 stealth fighters he’d been flying before.

“Yeah, well, you were just fucking arou—“

“Doc! Copper!” a voice bellows from the hall. Shit. John hurries to pull his trousers on and cracks open the door. Lieutenant Donovan, their deputy CAG, stands in the hall with her hands on her hips. “Dimmock says straight to his office, now.”

John tries hard not to roll his eyes. They take a MIG off Anderson’s tail and they still get dressed down. “Yes, Ma’am,” he says instead, and finishes getting dressed. Copper playfully  kicks him in the calves a couple of times as they make their way up to Dimmock’s office, but as they reach it, they see Rex—Lieutenant Anderson—leaving with a sober look on his face.

“Thanks, Doc,” he says to John’s surprise, and walks slowly down the corridor without looking back. Before John can turn to Copper and ask what the hell that was all about, Dimmock yells.

“Get your asses in here. You’re on my time, not yours.”

John and Copper step in and stand at full attention, trying hard not to glance at each other.  Their little stunt probably didn’t go unnoticed by radar, and he’s sure at least two of the LSOs are snitches, the little shits.

Dimmock stands, all six-foot-three, reedy height of him barely contained by the low ceiling of his deck side office. “Doc, Copper, you both, for reasons that pass my understanding, managed to fuck up even something good.” Dimmock puts his hands on his hips. “You want to explain why you disobeyed a direct order?”

John swallows. “I had the MIG in my sights, sir, and as they were fully loaded and had locked on Rex, I thought—“

“You don’t get to think! You did an incredibly brave thing, but what you should have done was land that plane, not chase off after MIGs that had already bugged out! Do you have a death wish, Lieutenant?”

“No sir.”

“And you,” he turns to Copper “are not helping. I know you’re along for the ride, but Jesus H. Christ do you have to participate in every single stupid thing he comes up with?” Dimmock punctuates his statement with a finger jabbed in John’s face. He breathes through clenched teeth, then closes his eyes and drops heavily into his chair. “You’re a hell of a pilot, Watson. Better even now than you were before the Gulf, but so damn reckless. You’ve lost your section leader quals twice, put in hack three times just by me for high-speed passes over two air control towers and one Admiral’s wife—“

“Chelsy Brennan, right?” Copper mutters

“You’re lucky you’re even here, Copper, so I’d advise you shut up.” He turns back to John. “The Navy, your squadron, hell, the reputation of yourself and your RIO should be your concern. Orders are given because we know things you don’t, and our responsibility is for you, the safety of your fellow seamen, and the millions of taxpayer dollars you’ve been entrusted with. Got that?”

John nods. He knew it was stupid, but damn it, he’d won, and it still felt good.

Dimmock continues. “I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I’m giving you two your shot. I’ve got to send someone to Fallon.”

Copper sucks in a breath. “I thought it was Rex, sir,” he says. John feels butterflies start up in his stomach. Dimmock can’t mean, he can’t…

“Rex lost it. That bogey getting a lock on him cost him, and he turned in his wings. I’m sending you two idiots to Top Gun.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Text

The sun shimmers off of the sand, the heat rising in lazy, undulating waves that John can almost see out of the corner of his eye.

Out in the middle of Nevada the desert is almost unforgiving. But it’s perfect – flat, smooth, and oddly stable, compared with the pitch and roll of the carrier. John kicks the bike up another gear and screams down the side road that parallels the runway, racing an F-16 as it lifts from the ground and streaks into the sky. John laughs, his body alive with the reverberation from the afterburners and the power of the motorcycle, and he knows that this, the complete immersion in nothing but flying for the next six weeks will be everything he knew it would be, everything he and Murray had dreamed of when they were teenagers and watching the planes race wingtip to wingtip across the sky.

Murray. John hadn’t called him when he’d been offered the spot, unsure of what he should say. “Hey, mate, I’m off to fulfill a childhood fantasy, sorry the leg you lost in a crash I caused is preventing you from being here with me” doesn’t seem appropriate, nor does the actual joy he feels, albeit tinged with guilt. He has to call, he knows, and he stops on side of the road at the end of the runway, pulls his mobile out of his pocket and hovers his thumb over the buttons.

The phone rings, and it startles John so badly he almost drops it. Jesus.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Murray snaps in his ear.

John cringes. “I don’t know?”

“You bastard! You didn’t even tell me you were going! That’s fuckin’ incredible man! Congratulations!”

John breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah, it’s insane. I can’t believe I’m here. How the hell did you find out anyway?”

“Look, all these old goats do around this place is gossip. Did you really chase off a MIG?”

“Yeah, it was intense. Let me get Copper to send you the picture he took. You’ll never believe me otherwise.”

“You, I believe. That bastard Lestrade would lie to his own mum. Hey, speaking of Copper, put that idiot on the phone, yeah? I want to talk to him.”

“Sorry, can’t, he’s back at barracks. I’m out on a bike.”

“That didn’t take long to find.”

“Yeah, rented it. Had to have something out here in the middle of nowhere.” John pauses. “How’s the job going?”

“Fine, fine. You posh assholes need to stop spending so much money out there. I’ve got three Admirals up my ass because the Vinson ordered extra urinal cakes last time they were at home port. What the hell do you guys do with them all?”

“Piss on them, you idiot. I can’t help it we’re skewed more male than the average carrier.” John draws in the dirt with the toe of his boot. Every time he hears about Murray’s job as budget director of the carrier fleet, his stomach curls. He likes Copper, he’s a damn fine RIO and a lot of fun and a good friend, but he still misses that voice and ridiculous yellow helmet behind him, as it had been for 8 years. “Look, I’ve got to get back. I’ve got orientation at one, and I promised I’d go trawling with Copper later.”

“Oh, I get it. Shove me off so you can go on the hunt for a piece of ass. I see how it is.”

“Not for me, you dolt, for Copper. His divorce came through last week.”

“Poor sod. Well, Carole never was meant to be a Navy wife. Anyway, you should find your own fine piece. You’ve been alone too long. None of those able seamen catch your eye this tour?”

John rolls his eyes. “They’re all about 18 and most have spots. I’d be drummed out for fraternization. Besides, I’m here to focus on flying. The last thing I need to deal with is a relationship.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“Top Gun was created to teach ACM – Air Combat Maneuvering. Dogfighting.”

“I’m getting hard just listening to it,” Copper whispers in John’s ear.

“Shut up, you idiot,” John whispers back, and tries to pay attention to the man at the front. Commander Mycroft Holmes, call sign Iceman. He’s tall, with dark hair and a cool, calculating expression that John imagines gave him his name.

“…With the tensions in the world today, the potential for confrontation is greater than ever, and carrier pilots will be the first ones there. Air combat excellence is vital.” Iceman’s voice drones on, and John really is ready to be done with this and get to the flying. Of course ACM is vital, he’s done it, hasn’t he? He beat a MIG head to head, the only one in the room to have even seen one.

Copper has his head turned, examining the 14 other pilots and RIOs in the class next to them. “Holy shit, Doc, I think that’s Whiphand. You heard about her? Yeah, it’s her, that’s her RIO next to her, Molly. Bonesaw.  And if that’s Viper I’m going to shit myself, seriously.”

John risks a glance even as he elbows Copper to shut up. He’s sure that the tall, dark-haired woman near the back is Whiphand. John’s heard of her, one of the most experienced pilots in the Navy. She’s flown almost every aircraft that exists, he’s heard, at one time or another.  The man Copper thinks is Viper may very well be; John doesn’t know him at all, but when the man catches his eye, he gives a sarcastic smirk and winks.

Commander Holmes pauses and John turns back to the front, but not fast enough. Iceman’s eyes are on him. Caught. “You're the top one percent of all naval aviators,” Holmes says, and John wonders if that’s sarcasm he’s hearing. “The elite. The best of the best. We'll make you better. You fly at least two combat missions a day, attend classes and evaluations. On each combat sequence you will meet a different challenge. We'll teach you to fly the F/A- 18 faster than you've ever flown before.”

John doubts that very seriously. He’s pushed his aircraft to the limit, and sometimes a bit beyond (a bit too far beyond, his mind whispers). He looks around again, sizes up the competition in the room. He’s sure he’s good enough to win. He has to win, for himself, for Murray.

“Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” Holmes says, and John’s about to apologize for his inattention when Copper cuts in.

“Just wondering, sir, who the best really is,” he says, and John breathes out a sigh of gratitude.

“Ha! Well, I’m sure we all would. That’s why you’re here, after all. But the best of the best, the previous winners of Top Gun, have their name on that plaque on the wall. You think you’re going to be on it?”

A chorus of ooohs and ahhs  comes up from the class, and before John can stop himself, he says “Yes, sir, I do.”

“That’s a pretty arrogant attitude, considering the company you’re in.”

John looks down, fights a smile for a moment. “Yes sir.”

Mycroft smirks at him. “I like that in a pilot. But remember – teamwork is a major component of success. Keep that in mind and you’ll do well. Dismissed.”

John, a little chastised, stands up and wanders to the back where the plaque hangs on the wall. The entire class has gathered, all getting a good look at their goal: the little brass name plates attached to the large wooden shield. Thirty years worth of names, all in neat, polished rows, and John very badly wants his to be one of them.

“The plaque for alternates is in the kitchen,” he hears to his right, and he turns to see the pilot who winked at him earlier standing next to him.

“You’re such a laugh riot, Viper,” Copper cuts in. “Gah, you’re killing me, you really are.” He points up at the plaque. “There are two P’s in Copper, by the way.” He grabs John’s arm and pulls him away, out into the hall.

“What’s his problem?” John asks.

“He doesn’t have to have one. Viper’s a nasty piece of work, Doc. Vicious and touchy. He flies like that, too. Calm, cool, then at the last second he strikes. Hell, half the time you don’t even know what he’s going to do next.”

John nods. He’s seen a few like him before. “At least we won’t be fighting him.”

“Yeah, but even being in the same room with him gives me the creeps. Come on, let’s get changed and get a drink.”

John takes one last look back down the hall at the pilots leaving the classroom, and follows Copper to their quarters.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The Afterburner bar is completely packed, full of officers and enlisted and civilians, all mingling happily from the bar on one side to the dance floor on the other. It’s raunchy and friendly and loud, and John loves it immediately.

“Now this is what I call a target-rich environment,” Copper says, and gives an appreciative stare to a woman at the bar, who winks back.

“You would, you old letch.” John smoothes down his white dress uniform shirt and drags Copper to a table. “Looks like half the base is here.” John takes a sip of the beer the waitress drops off, glances around. The dance floor is crowded with couples and groups, none of whom can dance, but at least they’re all having a good time. An officer at the corner of the floor catches John’s eye and smiles, his big blue eyes lighting up when John smiles lazily back. Target-rich does seem like it, and maybe a quick, no-strings tumble wouldn’t be such a bad idea, after all. It had been months, and his own hand wasn’t all that fulfilling any more.

“Copper! I can’t believe its you!”  A young woman in dress whites hugs Copper from behind and drops into an open chair. “Your sorry butt shouldn’t be anywhere near here!”

Copper grins, pushes the woman playfully in the shoulder. “Cheers, Molls, thanks. Knew I’d see you here eventually. Doc, this is Bonesaw, Molly Hooper. Best RIO we had on the Lincoln.”

John reaches across and shakes her hand. “John Watson, nice to meet you. Bonesaw, eh? I like it.”

“Yeah, I was a pathology student for a while—“

“Two months,” Copper interjects.

“Shut up. Okay, fine. Two months, when I finally realized how ridiculous it was that I was throwing away thousands of dollars when I really wanted to be flying. I met this idiot on the Lincoln. Saved my skin a hundred times.”

“Nah, just inexperience, Molls, and once you got that—unstoppable.”

Molly smiles and looks a little embarrassed, hiding it behind a sip of her drink. “Irene’s around somewhere. I’ll introduce you when she gets back. Did you really see a MIG up close? That’s the story going around.”

Copper pulls out his phone and flashes the picture he took of the MIG, and Molly’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit, that’s amazing! I want to know all about it.”

“Well, this MIG was on Rex’s tail…” Copper starts out, and John smiles, nods along with his enthusiastic retelling.  But he’s restless, his skin stretched taut as he watches the dancers on the floor, the heat and the closeness of too many people making him edgy. John stands and heads for the bar to get another drink, something stronger, something that will calm him, leave him a bit more mellow.

He orders a whiskey, leans forward on his elbows and waits. The bar is u-shaped and wide, and as John looks across to the other side, his gaze is arrested by a pair of bright, pale eyes framed by a head full of dark curls.

Jesus he’s beautiful. Tall and lean, high cheekbones and a pale, slim throat just begging to be kissed. His lips, too, plump and full and red, and when they wrap around the mouth of a beer bottle and take a sip, John gasps. He’s not in uniform, but in a beautifully cut green shirt that brings out his eyes. John can’t stop staring, and when the man looks his way their eyes lock for a brief moment, a flash of heat and mutual interest obvious. The man lifts a corner of his mouth in a tiny smile, and John’s about to drop everything and find out exactly who this maddening creature is when an another man, much, much older, walks up to him and whispers in his ear. John stares as the dark haired man smiles faintly, then nods and turns to go along. But before he does, he glances back at John once more.

John groans. Of course he’s taken, beautiful thing like that would be. Well, perhaps he can give it a try with the blonde from the dance floor. He takes his glass back to the table to find Copper in conversation not just with Bonesaw, but her pilot, Irene Adler, call sign Whiphand. He’s introduced, and as he settles back into the conversation, he finds Copper has his eye on the redhead he saw earlier.

“She’s gay,” Whiphand says.

“Like hell! She was checking me out earlier. Trust me, I know when a woman is interested.”

“You don’t know anything,” John says. “Like last month, that woman trying to pick you up in Tokyo? Jesus, oblivious isn’t even the name for it.”

“Like you have room to talk. Your bed’s been cold for six months.”

John flinches. “Five.”

“Close enough.  I know how we can settle this.” Copper leans back in his chair, a look on his face that has John on high alert.

“What,” John says flatly.  “You…have that face. That ‘I’m doing something and you’re helping’ face. I hate that face.”

“What face?” Irene says, and Molly starts snickering. This can’t be good.

Copper just grins wider. “She’s lost that lovin’ feelin’, Doc.”

John drops his head back. Fuck. “No.”

Copper stands, gestures toward the bar where the redhead is sitting, chatting with her friends. “Oh yes,” he says, and heads that way.

“I hate it when she does that,” John mutters, and pushes away from the table, unable to let Copper be humiliated on his own. Molly comes with him, obviously knowing what’s about to happen, and John’s glad at least there will be a couple of backup singers this time, instead of just him.

“You never close your eyes any more when I kiss your lips,” Copper croons, and the woman turns in confusion to see Copper with one hand over his heart, serenading her.

“And there’s no tenderness like before in your fingertips,” John continues, trying not to laugh and screw it up.

“You’re trying hard not to show it,” Copper sings, and  holds a hand out to her in invitation. She’s laughing, but takes his hand anyway.

“Baaayyybeeee,” John and Molly sing. He can’t believe it’s working this time.

“But baby, baby I know it!” Copper kisses her hand and they all join in on the chorus, as does half the bar, who had gathered around to watch.

“You’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’, oh that lovin’ feelin, you’ve lost that lovin’ feelin’ now its gone, gone, gone, woah…”

John and Molly finally lose it at the “Bah dum, bah dum, bah dum dum dum,” doubling over with laughter, and when the woman, laughing and blushing, tells Copper to have a seat, the crowd goes up in cheers. John sketches a salute and leaves Copper to it, the ridiculous idiot. He never could be that forceful with anyone, or that daring, but when he really wanted someone he’d not had any trouble at least talking to them.

Except that gorgeous man at the bar. But that had been a flameout before it even started.

John waves Molly back to the table and heads for the toilet. He may as well go home, they have an early day tomorrow and he really shouldn’t drink any more. The door squeals loudly as it opens, and when John steps in he’s startled to see the man from the bar washing his hands at the sink. Gorgeous pale eyes flash up to the mirror and meet John’s, and John can’t move, can’t even think of what to say.

“Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” he says, and oh that voice. A warm honey rumble and John’s ready to melt.

“Yeah, you might,” he says, and lifts his chin. He’s not wanted someone this badly in a long time, and he’s not about to crash and burn now.

“That so? Long cruise, was it?”

“Eight months,” John breathes.

The man smiles. “Well, were you thinking of the floor or the counter? Because they both look uncomfortable.”

John blinks. That’s rather unexpected. “I thought you were with someone.”

“I am. But my, how I love being accosted by horny sailors just home on leave.” The sarcasm is dripping from that lovely voice and John’s a bit annoyed.

“I’m a pilot,” he corrects automatically. “And I wasn’t accosting you.” The man raises an eyebrow. “Well, I wasn’t, but I could be …” Shit, this isn’t going well. What is it about this guy that has him so flustered? The eyes. It has to be the eyes.

“My apologies, horny pilots that drop in and out of this place every year like clockwork. I’m comforted to know you aren’t one of them.”

“I could be,” John says. He’s lost control of this conversation somewhere but he’s desperate to hold on as long as he can.

“What?”

“A comfort. Save you from making a mistake with a much older man.”

The man cocks an eyebrow in disbelief and leans back against the counter. “So I can go on to make one with you?”

Now they’re getting somewhere. John smiles, steps just a little closer, close enough to smell the man’s subtle cologne. Heavenly. “Yeah, with me.”

Black curls tumble forward as the man tips his head toward John a fraction. John’s heart starts beating wildly, anticipation thrumming through his veins, and God help him, he even can feel himself getting hard. It really has been too long.

“I’m flattered. But I don’t date pilots,” the man says, and neatly steps around John and toward the door, leaving John staring at the empty space. Dammit, crash and burn. But maybe he can still…

“Wait,” John calls. “At least tell me your name.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, winks, and ducks out of the door, leaving John standing alone in the deserted men’s room with a throbbing erection and shaky hands.

Chapter Text

John wakes up the next morning with a headache, but on the whole doesn’t feel too bad. Which is lucky for him, because their first flying exercise is later that day and he wants to be completely sharp. But for the life of him, the only thing he can think of as he goes through the motions of getting ready for the day is Sherlock Holmes; his eyes, his voice, and the smart, sarcastic lilt in his voice that made John shiver down to his toes.

This is exactly why he doesn’t need a man right now, he thinks, as he realizes he’s been sitting on the bed without putting on his shoes for the last ten minutes. He tries to focus on what they’re about to do today, and it seems Copper is having trouble focusing this morning, too.

“She’s just really amazing, Doc,” Copper says, for at least the fifth time.

John finally asks. “Who? That redhead?”

“Yeah. God, she’s amazing. I mean it.” Copper has a faraway, dreamy smile on his face that only means one thing.

 “Don’t think with your cock,” John says automatically.

“Like you aren’t,” Copper retorts. “That dark-headed guy got your knickers in a twist quick enough.”

John frowns. “That obvious, was I? But it doesn’t matter,” he says. And it doesn’t, really. It’s ridiculous to let himself get so distracted by someone he’ll likely never see again. “Let’s go fly.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

The classroom is ominously quiet, everyone slumped in their desks holding their heads or talking quietly. Irene is rubbing both of her temples and Bonesaw looks in her eyes, concerned.  John chuckles to himself. They should have all known better, though he knows that when it matters, every single pilot and RIO in this room will snap to attention, their focus laser sharp. It has to be, two rounds of flying every day, classroom discussion and breakdown worked in around it. The seriousness of what John’s about to embark on is beginning to sink in, and his stomach is tight with nerves.

Viper has his chair back on two legs, a picture of relaxed calm, and is chatting with his RIO, Tiger, until he spots John and drops his chair on all four legs, leans forward on his elbows as John passes.

“If you need any help with this, Watson, you just let me know,” he says. “I know this sort of classroom thing can be difficult to understand.”

John stops dead. “You have a problem, Viper?”

“Just offering to help,” he replies, all innocence. “In case you had trouble figuring it out.”

“Figuring what out?”

“Who the best is.”

John snorts a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure I can figure that out on my own.” Copper is giving John a questioning look from the back of the room, and John brushes off the implied offer of rescue.

“I’ve heard you like to work alone,” Viper continues. “You flew alone for over six months after the accident, running A-10s out of Ramstein.”

“Which was my decision,” John starts, but Viper continues.

“Then you get lucky enough for carrier reassignment with the best RIO on the fleet, you chase off a MIG and Rex collapses from nerves and you end up here. That’s a lot of luck for one man to accumulate, don’t you agree?”

John clenches his fists. One snap of temper here and he’ll be out on his ear. “However I got here isn’t a damn bit of your business.”

“How is Murray, by the way, in his interesting and influential position at the Pentagon?”

John’s had it. He’s about to dive forward and grab Viper by his neck and smash his gleeful, nasty expression right into the desk when Copper grabs his arm.

“Don’t worry about him, he was an abused child.” He guides John to a desk across the room, chattering away, trying to diffuse the tension. “This is going to be great. The best time, I swear.”

John blows out a breath and tries to calm his rage. He still feels like he could drop-kick Jim Moriarty off a high cliff and be fine with the outcome. Is that what people here think? That Murray got him here? Jesus.

The door opens and Iceman strides in, takes his position in the front of the class. “Good morning. I trust you all had an interesting evening,” he starts, and looks at the rows of drawn faces with a sardonic smile. “In this class we will be dealing with F-5's and A4's as our MIG simulators. Technically the F-5 does not have the thrust to weight ratio of the MiG-21—it also does not bleed energy below 300 knots like the MIG-21 does. The A4 does not turn as well as the MIG-17 but has significantly better visibility.”

John has his pen out, taking a few notes. He knows these things, but he better get into the habit now. He scribbles a few more things and as it looks like Commander Holmes is about to speak when the door to the classroom opens and when John looks back he can feel his jaw drop.

Sherlock Holmes, dressed impeccably in a dark suit and beautiful, gleaming white shirt, strides into the room and drops his briefcase on a table. He heads to the podium and stands slightly off to the side. Iceman raises his eyebrows in chastisement, and turns back to the class.

“Allow me to introduce our civilian consultant—Sherlock Holmes, call sign Mercury. Also my brother, just so you’re aware.  Mercury has a PhD in astrophysics and engineering, and you should listen to him, because the Pentagon listens to him about your proficiency.”

John watches Sherlock take the podium and can feel his face heat. Sherlock had to know that he’d see John here, but pretends as if they’d never met. He doesn’t look at John, won’t even cast his eyes toward his side of the room. What the hell kind of game is he playing? John catches the look of amazement on Copper’s face, and the hungry, desperate look on Viper’s

“To continue from what Commander Holmes was saying,” Sherlock starts, and despite the awkwardness that smooth, deep, resonant voice still stirs him. “A MiG 21 has a problem with inverted flight tanks. It won't do a negative G push over. Even below one G, they risk a flame out. Operationally, they will do a zero to one G only.”

John snorts. That’s not even remotely true. Copper pokes John in the side a couple of times, excited.

“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” he hears, and finds Sherlock’s laser-sharp gaze focused on him.

“The data on the MIG is inaccurate,” John says, carefully. Despite Sherlock’s civilian status he has to tread very carefully here, and it’s likely Sherlock’s security clearance is higher than his.

“How’s that?”

“I just happened to see a MIG—“ Copper clears his throat. “Sorry. We just happened to see a MIG do a four-G negative dive.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “When was this?”

“Three weeks ago. Right, Copper?” Copper nods sagely. “Yeah. Three.”

Sherlock gives him a searching, skeptical look. “The Pentagon sees to it that I know more than you do.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say it, but perhaps that’s not the case this time.”

“So how, exactly, did you see this supposed negative G dive?” Sherlock leans against the podium, a picture of unconcern.

“Well, we were on his six when he peeled off, up toward the sun. I pushed up, went above him.”

“If you were above him, how did you see him?” Sherlock asks.

“Because I was inverted,” John says.

“Bullshit,” comes the call from the back. Tiger, the stupid bastard.

“No, no, he really was,” Copper chimes in. “It was incredible.”

“So, you were in a four G inverted dive with a MIG 21?” The look on Sherlock’s face is priceless – disbelief and annoyance and curiosity all warring for supremacy.

“Yes, sir,” John says, fighting not to laugh.

Sherlock walks around the podium and stands right in front of John’s desk. Those eyes are even more devastating this close. “At what range?”

“About two meters,” John says.

“Two—“

“Yeah, we have a great picture. Show him, Copper.”

Copper pulls out his phone, holds it up for Sherlock to examine.  He looks at it, turns to John with a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “So you’re the one,” he murmurs, and goes back to the podium to finish his lecture.

John can’t stop smiling the rest of the class.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Well, this is an interesting development,” Copper says. “He’ll be hell to handle.”

Copper’s been talking his ear off since he caught John skulking outside of the classroom, waiting for Sherlock to finish his conversation with his brother. John just wants him to go away.

“I’m not handling anything,” John snaps.

“Ooh, touchy. I’m just saying. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not one for the gentlemen, but he’s something else.”

“Would you just fuck off?”

“Now what sort of friend would I be to leave you here without any kind of support? I mean really.” Copper leans against the wall and gives him a smirk. John’s about to tell him exactly where he can stick his support when the door creaks open and Sherlock steps out. He doesn’t look at all surprised to see John standing there.

Sherlock stops, raises an eyebrow in Copper’s direction. Copper gets the hint and pushes away from the wall.

“Don’t be late again,”  Copper teases in a sing-song voice. He brushes at John’s shoulders, goes to straighten his collar before John swats his hand away. “You look great.”

“Shut up,” John mumbles, and turns to Sherlock, who is watching with barely-concealed amusement. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a Pentagon rep?”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Would it have made any difference?”

 “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.” John pauses. “I still want to take you to dinner. Talk. I want to know you.”

“Lieutenant, I see new hotshot pilots every eight weeks. I’m sure even you can determine where I stand on dating them. But I would like to hear about that MIG—it could be very important to my work.”

“Call me Doc,” John says, because he can’t stand the arm’s length feeling Sherlock continuing to call him by his rank generates. “And if you want to know about the MIG, you can read the report.” John turns to walk away, but he’s not feeling defeated just yet. He’ll be here for six weeks, seeing Sherlock almost every day. He just needs another chance. And when he glances back to see Sherlock staring after him, looking amused and intrigued, he thinks he might just have one.

Chapter Text

GENTLEMEN, THE HARD DECK FOR THIS EXERCISE IS 10,000 FEET. GOOD LUCK.

John eases back on the throttle and cruises at 30,000 feet, scanning the scope and the horizon for any sign of Jester, their instructor that is serving as their opponent for this first round.

“Got him doc!” Copper calls. “He’s on our tail, coming fast! Hard left! Left, damn it!”

John pulls hard on the stick, rolling the F/A-18 into almost a hairpin turn as Jester roars by in a wide arc. John comes back around in a circle, trying to fight his way back onto Jester’s six, but Jester’s F-5 has a bit more power and smoother control, and Jester leaves him baffled with a quick laid-out loop and around the back side of a mountain.

“Christ he’s crafty,” Copper says. “We’ve only got three more minutes. We should call draw, that’s a hell of a lot better than losing. I was sure he was going to have us before now anyway.”

“Thanks for that,” John says, but something isn’t sitting right. Jester wants him to chase, he knows, but diving in and out of mountains he’s not flown before now isn’t really on his list of favorite things. But he can see that the range splits up ahead, so he hits the throttle and darts toward the opening, hoping he can cut Jester off with his lighter, more maneuverable aircraft.

He blasts through the pass, the rumble of the engines echoing across the valley, catching sight of Jester’s nose at four o’clock just as he clicks into range on the scope.

“Got you, you bastard,” John mutters, and pulls back, hard, until the plane goes almost vertical, leaving Jester blind under a patch of cloud and the operation clock counting down at 2 minutes, 20 seconds. The sun is bright over the cloudbank and John uses it for cover as he pushes over in loop that gains him even more momentum on the downside, his aircraft starting to shudder with the strain.

“No joy, no joy, I’ve lost sight,” Jester calls over the radio.

John grins as he drops out of the clouds right on Jester’s tail, and as he closes in for the kill, the tiny triangle of the target lock flashing on the scope, Jester drops altitude.

“We’re below hard deck. Flight’s off, gentlemen,” comes over the radio.

Copper chimes in. “He’s right, Doc. Ninety six hundred.”

John ignores them both, watching the triangle of the gunsight start to center, to flash, to turn red. “No way, I’ve got you, you bastard.” The beeping of the targeting computer gets louder, faster, until it turns solid red. “In the envelope, Fox Two missile locked and shot. You’re down, Jester!” John’s elated, he can’t believe it. One of the best, and he beat him.

 “Roger Fox Two,” Jester says over the radio, and his voice is obviously angry. “Get your asses above hard deck and return to base immediately.”

The cockpit is silent for a moment with the ramifications of what he just did until Copper finally can’t stand it.

“Holy shit, Doc, we beat him!” Copper crows. “I can’t fuckin’ believe it!”

“Believe it,” John says, and his grin feels like it could split his face.

“We’re screwed, though,” Copper points out. “We were below hard deck.”

“Yeah, but we still won!” John, ecsctatic, rolls the plane onto its side, wings perpendicular to the ground. He rolls back to the other side, and as he approaches the runway, peels off left.

“Ah, Doc, what are you doing?”

John laughs. “A little victory celebration.”

“Oh shit, no, please, last time there was scrubbing involved. And pushups. You know I hate pushups…”

John just laughs again and ignores him. “This is Fox Two Ghost Rider requesting a flyby.”

NEGATIVE GHOST RIDER, THE PATTERN IS FULL.

John hauls on the stick and pulls the plane back over, banks hard right and races past the tower, almost level with the top line of windows, behind which sit the controllers, the brass, and probably Sherlock Holmes.

“I did, at one point, want a navy career,” Copper says, wearily.

“Oh, relax,” John says, as the adrenaline screams through his veins. “What’s one more for the record books?”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

John saunters into the crowded pilot’s ready room to the delighted “Congratulations!” from Bonesaw and a handshake from Whiphand, a heavy whack on the back from Hollywood and a thumbs up from Wolfman.

“Can you believe it?” John says, as he twists the cap off of a bottle of water. “We were down to less than a minute, I swear.”

“He had us in thirty seconds, man,” Hollywood says, shaking her shaggy blonde head ruefully. “I was like, Wolf, where’d he go?  And Wolf was all ‘Where’d who go?’”

The room erupts in laughter and John gives her a sympathetic  smile.  “How about you, Molls? Survive the day?”

“Yeah, we drew,” she says. “Whip had him dead to rights when time was called.”

“That was the ‘getting to know you’ round,” Irene chips in. “I’ll have him tomorrow, just wait. I’m off, Molly, this headache is killer.” Irene winces and walks toward the door, and as she reaches for the handle the door flies open.

“We won!” Viper announces. “All hail the conquering heroes.”

Irene rolls her eyes. “They won too, you jackass,” she says, and points toward John and Lestrade.

“Yeah, but they went below hard deck. Disqualified. Doesn’t count as a win in the points.  Looks like me and you, darling, are one and two.” Jim gives Irene a leer that has Copper wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Irene leans in close, flashes a dangerously sweet smile. “Call me darling again and I’ll feed you your teeth,” she says, and leaves.

“Touchy,” Viper retorts. “Anyway, as we’re the only ones to have won today, I’ll take that as a sign.”

“A sign of what?” John says. He shouldn’t engage, but he can’t help himself. Vipers smug grin is just so irritating.

“Of a winning combination, of course. Unlike you two idiots.”

“Doc and I do just fine,” Copper cuts in. “And unlike you, we’re cute and our mothers love us.”

Viper ignores him, and instead focuses on John. “You know what I don’t like about you, Doc? You’re stupid. You refuse to use that thick skull of yours and you hope you’ll get by on luck and guts. Well, you’re playing with the big boys now, Johnny boy. You’re going to have to up your game a bit.”

“You know, Viper,” John says, walking up into his personal space. He’s got maybe three inches on Viper but it feels like a foot right now. “Perhaps I am stupid. Stupid enough to do this—“ John pulls his arm back, ready to lay Jim out on the floor when he hears an annoyed voice from the loudspeaker.

DOC AND COPPER, TO COMMANDER HOLMES OFFICE IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS AN ORDER.

“Ooh, saved by the bell. Later boys,” Viper says. “That’s twice now. I’m beginning to think you don’t mean it.” Jim brushes off his shirt and goes to stand by Tiger—Sebastian Moran— who is waiting quietly by the table, seemingly content to let Viper fight his own battles.

John looks apologetically at Copper, who has his face in his hands. “Well, let’s go face the music,” he says, and Copper just groans, resigned.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

When they get to Iceman’s office, the door is closed but the person inside is shouting loud enough to be heard anyway.

“—two of your snot-nosed air jockeys buzzed my tower at over 400 knots!  I want some asses on the line!” The door bangs open and McCollough, the Air Boss, stalks out of the door, a picture of Naval command fury. When she catches sight of John and Lestrade standing at rigid attention she stops and puts her finger right up in John’s face. “Pull at stupid stunt like that again and I personally guarantee you’ll be flying the supply haul out of Siberia for the rest of your career. Are we clear?”

John swallows. Maybe that flyby wasn’t such a great idea, after all. “Yes, Ma’am,” he says.

She gives them a glare before retreating back to her office.

“Come in, Doc. Copper,” John hears from inside Iceman’s office. They do, and maintain attention, looking straight ahead, and John a little nervous as to what, exactly, will happen. Reluctantly, John can at least admit to himself that Jim was right about one thing: this isn’t a place to be stupid.

“Well, I think that covers the flyby,” he starts, and John breathes a sigh of relief. “But you still broke two rules of engagement during your very first hop. Lieutenant Candela called no joy, and yet you failed to respond. Why?”

“I had him in view at the end of the dive, sir. He saw me move in behind him, and as there was no danger…”

“Is that how you remember it?” Iceman asks Copper.

Copper nods. “Yes sir.”

“The hard deck for this hop was ten thousand feet. Yet you continued. Why?”

“We weren’t below hard deck for more than a few seconds.  Jester called off the fight just below. I had the shot, and I took it.” John’s suddenly exhausted, the exhilaration and hard work of the day catching up to him, the fear and nerves of answering yet again for something he’s done wearing him thin.

Iceman examines him for a second, seeming to weigh something in his mind. “The rules of engagement are not flexible. They exist for your safety. You will obey them. Is that clear?”

John can feel the need to answer back, to assure him that there was no danger, but his better sense finally kicks in. “Yes sir. Absolutely, sir,” he says instead.

“Then you are dismissed,” Iceman says. “And John? Next time keep your celebratory antics to the desert, will you?”

John smiles and snaps a salute. “Yes sir.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The heat of the shower bleeds most of the remaining tension from John’s shoulders,  and the quiet time alone gives him some time to think.

He needs to get his head straightened out. He has a responsibility to Copper, to the Navy, to be the best pilot, the safest pilot, the smartest pilot he can be. How he balances those things has almost always eluded him, but he seems to have lost the “smartest” part of the equation, and that recklessness, that devil-may-care attitude that has had him busted more times than he can remember, could cost him his career. Could cost Copper, too.

Copper. John knows he owes him an apology. Problem is, Greg Lestrade’s got enough of that mischievous spirit in himself that instead of being the steadying influence that Murray was, he’s usually pretty happy to fall in with whatever John has planned. But still, when John has control of the stick, Copper is his responsibility, and John knows he could do better.

John pulls on his tee shirt and jeans, and bangs the locker door shut with a clang before he makes his way  toward the elevators and punches the button. Copper said he’d be in barracks tonight; John decides he’ll drop in and talk with him now instead of waiting until tomorrow. The elevators seem to be running slow, and just as John is about to abandon them for the stairs the doors slide open and he finds himself facing Sherlock, who is leaning against the back of the car.

John smiles as he gets on and carefully positions himself also at the back, their shoulders barely a foot apart.  He’s dressed more casually than before in white tee shirt and jeans and black motorcycle jacket, tempting and sexy and cool all wrapped up in a body John itches to get his fingers on.  The elevator starts up and John sucks up his courage.

“I still would like—“

“I saw your—“

The both speak at the same time, then look at each other in surprise and chuckle.

“No, you first,” John says.

“I had a front row seat for your performance today,” Sherlock says, and John can feel his face heat. Fantastic. “While I don’t officially recommend breaking the rules of engagement, privately your tactic did what it was intended to do: confuse your opponent. Well done.”

John grins, feeling warm inside and relieved Sherlock didn’t mention the flyby. “Thanks. Our enemies don’t recognize a hard deck, so I still feel pretty happy with the outcome.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I will say, though, a rolling reversal earlier would have worked well, and left you above threshold.”

The elevator dings and the doors slide open but John sure as hell isn’t leaving this conversation now. He leans across Sherlock’s body and presses the door hold button. Sherlock looks at him curiously.

“But by looping over, I got the momentum to be in missile range at least ten seconds faster.”

Sherlock smirks. “At that speed, a full inverted loop is a little aggressive, don’t you think?”

“Aggressive?” John lets go of the button and the doors slide shut, leaving him alone with Sherlock in the quiet little space. “I guess when I see something I want, I go right after it.”

Sherlock’s eyes drop to his mouth and the tension between them ratchets up, heady and sweet. John reaches out to touch Sherlock’s cheek, to press the moment forward but before he gets even a whisper of a touch to that pale skin Sherlock captures John’s fingers with his own.

“I don’t date students,” he says, and his voice is low, a little husky.

“Any student or just this one, specifically?” John tightens his fingers around Sherlock’s and holds on. The elevator has started ascending again, and he knows his time is short.

“Any of them. It’s not appropriate.”

John lifts Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, kisses his fingertips. Sherlock closes his eyes and bites his lip just slightly, as if he doesn’t want to betray his reaction, to let John know that he’s affecting him in any way. It’s sexy and maddening and John wants him badly, but now isn’t the time, not with how he’s feeling, not with the day he’s had.

“You don’t seem like the sort of man that worries over much about what’s appropriate,” John says, and as the elevator doors open again John backs away, dropping Sherlock’s hand and leaving Sherlock staring at him with burning eyes as the doors slide closed again.

Chapter Text

The next two weeks race by in a whirl of ever-more difficult dogfights and intense classes, so much so that John dreams vectors and weight-to-thrust ratio and angles of attack.  He’s so focused and so busy the only time he sees Sherlock is during class, and every time he waits to talk to him, he finds Sherlock has either slipped out the back or is deep in animated conversation with his brother.

John can’t shake the sensation of Sherlock’s fingers against his lips, the spicy sweet smell of him in the heat of the day and way his eyes had darkened with lust when John had touched him. And it’s more than that – he’s brilliant, blazing with intelligence and knowledge. John soaks up everything he says like a sponge, and despite Sherlock’s lack of practical application, his understanding of engagement, of gamesmanship, is like no one he’s ever known. And what’s even better, he values creativity and ingenuity, and the rare moments John manages both and draws a genuine compliment from Sherlock’s lips he feels like he could fly all by himself.

They finally have a Friday afternoon off and John joins Copper, Irene, and Molly at the nearby community park, where they’d staked out a sand volleyball court near the pool. John pulls off this tee shirt and slathers on sunscreen, then hops across the blistering sand. Christ, it’s hotter than hell today, the sun pounding down, and John can feel the sweat beginning to gather across the back of his neck.

“Damn, Copper,” John snarks. “Put on a shirt! There’s a glare!” Copper’s lilly-white skin gleams, the product of too many hours covered head to toe in a flight suit, and the bright white shorts with yellow hibiscus flowers aren’t doing his pale complexion any favors. Though John has to hand it to him – for almost forty, he’s still as hard-bodied as he must have been at 25, and John knows he’s pushing almost too old for an active RIO. He hasn’t asked.

“Well, fuck you, too, Doc. Not all of us got a week in Bermuda last month.” Copper picks up the ball, bounces it a few times on his forearms. “You ladies ready over there?”

“Bring it,” Bonesaw says, dropping low and ready. Her expert stance gives John nerves.

“How good is she, exactly?” John mutters as he passes Copper and gets ready at the net.

“Division 1,” Copper says. “Don’t get under her spike. It’ll break your arms.”

“Great,” John says, and readies himself.

They play the first game, John and Copper losing spectacularly and casually bickering as to whose fault it is.

“The ball is this big white thing,” Copper says. “Bouncy. You hit it with your arms. Over the net.”

“Indeed you do.” John says. “Then again, I thought the net was your responsibility, since you think the ball should live in it.” John tosses up and serves once more, watching Molly pass to Irene, who sets flawlessly. Molly jumps, smashes the ball down the line and John dives for it, only to miss entirely and end up with sand up his nose. Irene cracks up watching John trying to blow it back out, until John dumps a handful down the back of her suit.

They play two more games, taking breaks in between to throw themselves, hot and laughing, into the pool. The water is almost as warm as the air, but being wet is refreshing and Whip and Bonesaw are just as much fun as John had hoped they would be.  They attract a lot of attention from the other pilots at the pool, especially Irene in her blood-red swimsuit, but brush them off with a smart remark or a smile.

“None of those flight engineers good enough for you?” John asks Irene as they sit at a table under the shade of a giant umbrella and watch Copper and Bonesaw start a splash fight. “They are eager.”

Irene smiles, shark-like and sharp. “They wouldn’t know what to do with me,” she says. “Probably run within the first five minutes. And what about you? I saw a few admiring looks tossed your way.”

“Nah,” John says. “Too busy.” He looks away, scans the pool deck. He’d been hoping … well. He’d been hoping  that he might catch a glimpse of Sherlock at some point today, and was trying to figure out how to get back to base early enough he might catch him before he leaves.

“Not too busy for Mercury, I’ll bet,” Irene says with a smirk.

John flicks water at her and she laughs, then grimaces.

“You okay?” he asks, just as Molly trots up from the pool.

“No, she’s not, the stubborn idiot,” Molly says.

“I am, I’m fine, I just need a few days for the antibiotics to kick in.”

“She’s got an ear infection,” Molly says. “Won’t take a single day to rest. At least you’re actually feeling up to doing things now; I thought you were going to pass out last week.”

“Will you shut up?” Irene hisses. “Look, we’re third. We drop out for a day and we’re done. I felt okay, so I’m okay. Period.”

Molly rolls her eyes behind Irene’s back and pulls a sandwich from the cooler. John starts for the pool to rescue Copper from a knot of kids that decided that Copper throwing them into the water was the best new game.  God, he really needs to put a shirt on; the sun was turning his shoulders pink, and he’s not entirely sure he got enough sunscreen on his nose, which would be hell behind the mask tomorrow.

An engine revs in the parking lot as he’s walking by and when John glances over, there’s a black Jaguar convertible pulled up next to the fence with the top down and Sherlock Holmes sitting in the front seat.  But before John can make his way over there, Sherlock merely holds his phone in the air and wiggles it a little bit in a sort of signal, drops the car into gear and peels out onto the street.

John laughs as he watches the back end of the sleek Jaguar disappear from view. Madman. He wonders what was up with the phone – oh. John goes back to the table and digs around in his bag until he pulls his phone out. A text alert is flashing.

 Dinner, my house, 7 pm. 221 Baker Street. Don’t be late.

John stares stupidly at it for a moment until he realizes the time is now 5:30.

Shit. Shit! He scrambles to pull on his clothes and get his stuff together. He still has to get back and take a shower, find some clothes …

“Who set the world on fire?” Copper asks, toweling off.

John doesn’t even answer, just slaps him on the shoulder. “See you later.”

Copper snatches his phone and looks at the message before John grabs it back. “Woooo,” Copper singsongs, and Irene and Molly giggle. “Got it bad, got it bad, got it bad, I’m hot for teacher,” he sings, and John shoves him playfully, not even remotely caring that Irene and Molly are laughing at him. He does, he is, and it’s utterly fantastic.

“Not a Goddamn word out of any of you, got it? You know this is dodgy at best,” he says, and they all nod. “And wish me luck. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Sherlock’s house is a tiny little bungalow tucked in the back corner of one of the older residential streets outside of Fallon – and on the side opposite the runways, John notes with amusement. As the doorbell chimes John can hear footsteps echoing from inside.

“I wasn’t sure you’d received my message,” Sherlock says as he leads John into the living room. It’s lovely and cool, furnished with old-fashioned wood chairs and cushion-covered sofa and every available surface is covered with diagrams and blueprints and flight-path trajectories. John loves it.

“I was a bit surprised,” he says. “I thought you said you don’t date students.”

Sherlock gestures to the sofa so John sits, leans back to study that lovely profile, highlighted by the low sun streaming through the windows.

“This isn’t a date,” Sherlock says, a smirk twisting the lovely corner of his mouth.

“It’s not?”

“No. It’s dinner. There are ethics considerations regarding relationships between students and teachers.”

“But not between military and civilian. It’s not fraternization.”

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock says, and walks back toward the kitchen. “But barely appropriate.” He comes back to the living room balancing a tray with wine and a platter of cheese and prosciutto and melon. John jumps up to take pluck the wine and barely-balanced glasses and places them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “You intrigue me,” Sherlock says, pulling the cork on the wine and pouring. “I’d like to know you a little better.”

John takes the glass, his fingers barely brushing Sherlock’s as he does. Sherlock pauses, pulls his hand back and picks up his own glass, then settles on the sofa, half turned toward John.

“Why didn’t you tell me who you were that first day?” John asks. Because honestly, that would have made things a tiny bit easier.

“I didn’t have much opportunity, did I?” Sherlock says, and his eyes are sparkling with mirth. “Besides, I still find dating within Fallon problematic.”

“What changed your mind?”

Sherlock takes a sip, chases the wine from his lips with his tongue. John watches, waits, fascinated as Sherlock’s brows furrow as he thinks. “I love watching you fly,” Sherlock says, and the admission sounds difficult.  “You act like you don’t have a care in the world when you’re up there, but at the same time, you anticipate like no one I’ve ever seen. You’re always three moves ahead.  Yet so terminally reckless. Why is that?”

“I’m not reckless,” John says, ruffled by the sharp truth in Sherlock’s words. He shifts a little on the sofa, turns more toward Sherlock. “When you fly, you’re on instinct, always. If you take the time to think, you’re dead. Period.”

Sherlock smiles, shakes his head. “Always the same with you flyboys—heart before head.”

John spears a piece of melon on a fork, holds it out for Sherlock to take. He does, wraps his lips around the fork and pulls the fruit into his mouth. “Nothing wrong with letting your heart lead every once in a while,” John says, and scoots close enough their knees touch.  Sherlock smiles lazily, puts his wine on the table and glances toward the platter.

“We should eat,” he whispers. “Dinner, remember?”

“Later,” John says, and slides a hand around Sherlock’s neck to pull him into a kiss. His mouth is sweet with fruit and wine, and John melts into him when he feels Sherlock’s arms wind around his back. They kiss softly, slowly, hands shifting over shoulders, chests, waists until Sherlock breaks away and leans his forehead against John’s, breathing heavily.

“How did you end up here in the back end of Nevada?” John asks, and he wants, oh, how he wants, but Sherlock’s skittishness means things will have to move slowly if they’re to move at all. “How attached are you to Fallon?” Please say not very, John thinks.

Sherlock twists until he’s leaning into John’s side with his head on John’s shoulder. “I’m not. I’m from New York, originally. Father taught at West Point. Civilian, not military. He was brilliant.”

“Your brother joined up.” He strokes Sherlock’s hair, trails his fingers across the shell of his ear and grins when he feels Sherlock shiver. “Why didn’t you?”

“Ugh, Mycroft and his devotion to duty. Definitely not my particular philosophy. Besides, can you imagine? I’d be kicked out for insubordination within a week. I don’t take well to people telling me what to do against my better judgment.”

John laughs. “It’s definitely not for everyone. But working for the military is almost as restrictive as working in the military.”

Sherlock shifts, presses a kiss to John’s neck.  “Obviously,” he says, and sighs when John dips his head, and they get lost in soft, warm kisses again, John finally losing his tenuous grasp on control enough to pull Sherlock across to straddle his lap. He gasps when their hips meet, the pressure and friction building as they twist and grope and shift against each other until John’s sure he’s about to come in his pants, but he can’t make himself stop.

Suddenly Sherlock pulls himself away, slides sideways onto the couch, panting. His lips are red and wet, and John’s about to dive forward, pin him to the cushions when Sherlock pulls his knees up, blocking him.

 “Tell me about the MIG,” he says breathlessly, and it takes John’s lust-hazed mind a moment to process what he’s just said.

“What?”

“Tell me. At least lend a veneer of professional interest to this. Give me something to fall back on.” John pulls away, rigid. Of course. He always has said he doesn’t date students, hasn’t he, and despite one of the best snogs he’s ever had, John’s not stupid enough to fall for it.

“I can’t believe this,” John says, and stands, ignoring the erection pressing against his jeans as best he’s able. The question cuts at his heart. He thought … well. He thought he’d had a chance, and the way Sherlock touched him, kissed him, it seemed Sherlock wanted him, too. “Is that the only reason why you brought me here? To talk about that damned MIG?”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide. “No, of course not! But you have to realize the position I’m in, why I can’t—“

“I can see that you’re more than willing to kiss me to get what you want,” John says, and his anger flares. “How far would you have gone?”

“What the hell does that mean?” Sherlock says.

John can feel in the back of his mind that he’s pushed too far, that he might be wrong, but now that he’s at this point he can’t seem to back down.  He manages at least to keep his mouth shut and simply pulls the door open. “You’ve got the reports.  Read them.”

“Like the one about your accident in the Gulf?” Sherlock snaps. “You’re smarter than that. I don’t believe a word of it. What happened out there that left you so disdainful of the rules? So untrusting of other’s judgement?”

Jesus, he’s read the accident report. John swallows, raises his chin. “You’d know all about untrusting, it seems, if you think I would say anything about the two of us if we’d decided to make a go of it,” John says. “And I don’t need a fucking therapist.” The sound the door makes as it slams behind him is satisfying just as long as it takes to start the motorcycle and start off down the street.

 

Chapter Text

The next few days are harder than John had hoped they would be. Sherlock rarely looks at him in class, seems intent on avoiding calling on him, and doesn't use breakdowns of his flying as examples.  Only once does John catch his eye, three days after their disastrous date, and the flash of hurt he could see in Sherlock’s expression has him kicking himself all over again.

He should just apologize. He should just march up there and apologize and take whatever Sherlock bestows, because he knows he overreacted and the feeling sits like lead in the pit of his stomach. Even if their chance has passed, John still wants to set things right, to bring things back to equilibrium where perhaps they can still be friends, because whenever he sees Sherlock smirk at one of Copper’s outrageous jokes, or sees him in the canteen talking tactics to Irene with big, sweeping motions of his arms, John realizes he’s missing out on the most important part of Sherlock’s company.

By Wednesday, John is resolved. He waits outside the classroom, nods at Copper’s whispered “Good luck, Doc,” and tries to calm his nerves. Ten minutes, then twenty, go by and still no Sherlock. John finally takes charge and walks back into the class to find Sherlock sitting on the front table, his head bowed, and Viper leaning against it, a predatory smile on his lean, smug face. John stops dead.

Sherlock’s head snaps up. His face is drawn, obviously uncomfortable. “Something I can help you with, John?” he says quickly.

“Yeah,” John says, and moves cautiously toward the front. “I had a question about dual overthrust acceleration. I thought you could help.”

“Mercury and I are in a bit of a conversation, Johnny,” Viper says, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s profile. “Can it wait?”

“Doesn’t sound like it can,” Sherlock says. “I’ll talk to you later, Jim. Send me a text.” Sherlock’s tone is instantly dismissive, and if John’s not mistaken, a bit relieved as well.

 Jim looks between the two of them and cracks a slow smile. “I see. Well. Tomorrow, Doc. Me and you. Mano y mano.”

“It’s a team exercise, you twit,” John says. “We’re on the same team.”

“Yeah, but someone has to win,” Viper says. “See you later, boys.”

John watches the door swing shut, waits for a beat before turning to Sherlock. “What the hell was that about?”

Sherlock stares at him a moment, looking for all the world like it’s the first time he’s actually seen John since the previous Friday. “He wanted to ask about the new design for the F/A 18A,” Sherlock finally says. “It’s a one-seat. Sounds like he’s trying to ditch his RIO.”

“That didn’t look like a design discussion to me,” John says carefully. “Anything else going on?”

“Not that its your business, but he’s asked me out almost every day since you got here.” Sherlock hops down from the table, starts to gather his things. “It’s annoying, but he is rather brilliant, and his experience is interesting.”

“So you’ve not gone out with him?” John says, and his voice is embarrassingly tight.

“That creepy little snit? No.” Sherlock says. “I was perfectly serious in what I told you. I don’t date students.” He zips his laptop into his bag and hoists it onto his shoulder before turning to John. “Now, did you really have something you wanted to discuss, or were you just interested playing Neanderthal today?”

“I wanted to apologize,” John starts, trying to keep his temper in check. Neanderthal, of all the things. “I overreacted Friday, and I said some things I shouldn’t have. You were only trying to protect your job, and I had no right to treat that lightly. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock looks at him with surprise. “You’re serious. You’re apologizing.”

“Yes. Completely. I was wrong.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “Is this just your way of trying to charm yourself into my bed?”

“Is it working?” John grins, and Sherlock huffs and rolls his eyes. “No, no, it’s not. I’m only teasing. I just—I think this entire thing started off on the wrong foot, and I think if nothing else we could still be friends.”

Sherlock considers that for a moment before he walks closer to John. “Perhaps,” he says, “If you promise to behave.” He slowly reaches out to straighten John’s collar insignia. “Can’t you ever keep this  thing straight?” he teases, and he’s almost to the door when John finally can speak. He hates how he gets so flustered by Sherlock’s proximity.

“Wait,” John says. “I have some time booked this afternoon. I wondered if you’d like to go fly. Put some of those exercises to practical application.”

Sherlock smiles. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Copper’s off. You have a suit and helmet?”

“Yes, but  I … I’ve not used them in years. You’ll really take me?” Sherlock looks eager, excited, and John can’t help but grin in return.

“Suit up, Mercury, and I’ll see you on the line in 15 minutes.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

“Must you be so freaking tall?” John complains as he straps Sherlock into the RIO seat. “Your knees are hitting the panel!”

“Why the hell do you think I didn’t become a pilot?” Sherlock retorts. “It’s not like I had any control over how tall I got. Besides, you like that I’m tall.”

John chuckles ruefully. “Yeah, yeah. You’re going to hold this over me forever, aren’t you?”

“Until the end of time,” Sherlock says. “Hurry up!”

“Keep your shorts on,” John says, and climbs into the front seat. “Comm check.”

“Roger, comm check,” Sherlock says in return. Okay, so at least he knows that much.

“How long since you’ve gone up?”

“Um, three years. At least.”

“You know the drill, right? I’m not going to pull more than 3G with you in here, you’d pass out. Don’t throw up because Copper would have my skin for a jacket. Touch his instruments and he’ll have yours.”

“Got it. Don’t touch, don’t throw up, remember to bear down in climb. My brother is your flight instructor; it’s not like I’ve never done this.”

John pulls down the canopy, completes his preflight checks and straps on his mask. “All right then, smartass, let’s rock and roll.” This friendship thing might actually work, John thinks. Better than nothing, and he can at least try to move past his embarrassingly obvious crush.

He realizes just how difficult a task that might be when he kicks the afterburners and Sherlock’s shout of delighted joy rings in his ears, making his heart swell to near to bursting.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Well, you didn’t throw up,” John says soothingly, patting Sherlock on the back as he sits on the bench in the locker room with his head between his knees.

“No. No I didn’t.”

“But you did pass out.”

“For less than thirty seconds.”

John rubs his back in small circles, trying to soothe the tension from his shoulders. He takes the silver helmet with “Mercury” stenciled on the front from between Sherlock’s feet and puts it on the bench next to him instead. “You need to get out of the suit, get some rest and water.”

“Stop coddling me,” Sherlock says, then groans softly. “Oh God, it’s like my head exploded.”

“Come on.” John lifts his arms a little, enough to get the zipper down on the flight suit. He peels it off Sherlock’s shoulders and leaves it hanging around his waist, terrified to go any further. “Just … get changed, and I’ll drop you off home.”

“Okay,” Sherlock mumbles. He kicks at his boots before remembering to untie them. “I distinctly remember you saying nothing over 3G. A loop is most definitely more than that.”

John watches Sherlock fumble with his shoes, guilt gnawing at him. “You were doing so well! That double barrel roll barely fazed you.”

Sherlock finally gets his boots off and before John can turn around, stands and unselfconsciously peels down his flightsuit, leaving him in tee shirt and blue boxer briefs. John stares at that slim, hard body longingly. God, he really did screw this up.

“See something you like, flyboy?” Sherlock drawls, and John looks up to meet his eyes, a little sheepish. “Friends, remember?”

“Can’t blame me for at least looking,” John says, and he needs to leave before his interest gets any more obvious. “I’m just … going to get you some ibuprofen, okay?”

“Please do,” Sherlock says, and John can see the laughter lurking in those gorgeous eyes.

John takes a deep breath and walks away. He can do this. Friends. No problem at all.

When he gets back, Sherlock is dressed and waiting outside the locker room. John walks him to his car, bundles him in, and drives him back home. Sherlock is quiet, the headache sapping away the unbridled  energy that usually characterizes his every motion.  John squeezes his hand when they pull into his driveway and his eyes flicker open.

John follows him to his door, trying to prolong the time they have together. “You’ll feel better tomorrow,” he says, and shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. “If you have severe pain, call an ambulance. That could mean a ruptured blood vessel, but that not likely to happen.”

Sherlock watches him natter on with a fond smile. “I’m fine, I told you. Thank you.” Sherlock reaches out, puts his hand softly on John’s shoulder. “You’re an amazing pilot, John. You have it in you to win this, just stop getting in your own way.”

John reaches up to pat Sherlock’s hand where it rests on his shoulder, content with that small touch, that moment of connection. But instead of leaving it at that, Sherlock bends to kiss John softly on the cheek and goes into the house, closing the door behind him.

John blows out a breath. Sherlock thinks he’s amazing. An amazing pilot, that is. But that’s a start, and something John thinks he can build on. He told Sherlock he wanted to be his friend and that’s still true; but it seems like there might still be a tiny sliver of hope for more, and John's ready and willing to try when the time is right.

He starts back toward Fallon, fully intending to walk the mile or so back to base, when a car pulls up to the end of Sherlock’s driveway.

“Goodness, look what we have here,” Viper says. “I’d heard you’d given him a ride. I didn’t think this was quite what they meant.” Viper leers at John from the driver’s side.

“Charming. I took him for a hop, he passed out, got a headache, so I drove him home. End of.”

“But such a sweet kiss,” Viper says. “Does he dole them out like rewards for extra credit?”

John strides up to the car. “You’re thinning my last nerve, Viper. Now fuck off, we’ve got flight tomorrow and I need to get back.” John starts walking back, determined to ignore him from now on. Whatever he’s doing here, whatever he thinks he’ll get from Sherlock, John’s pretty certain he’ll be disappointed.

“Sure thing, Johnny boy. Can’t wait to fly with you,” Viper calls after him, and the sarcastic lilt in his voice leaves John instantly wary.  He’s never looked less forward to anything in his life.

Chapter Text

The next day John’s leading with Viper on his wing, scanning the scope for the two bogeys he was told would appear at some point. The sky is a deep, lustrous blue without a cloud, perfect for flying, and John’s managed to put the sight of Sherlock shimmying out of that flight suit out of his mind, though he did get a nice look at those briefs and Jesus, John’s sure he dresses left, and is his cock is just as—

“Earth to Doc,” Copper says in his ear. “Get your head out from between his legs for a second. We’ve got two on the scope.”

“Two at seven o’clock, Jester. Scramble,” crackles over the radio, and there’s no mistaking that calm, cool voice.

“Holy shit, it’s Iceman,”  Copper says.

“Keep your shirt on, he’s probably saying holy shit it’s us.”

The two bogies split and Viper rolls off hard left to track Jester.  John stays back to cover him, losing sight of Iceman for the moment.

“Stay with him, Viper! Your six is clear,” John says, and tries to get a better angle to help but can’t manage it. Jester makes a quick loop and Viper almost loses him for a moment, but Viper regains his advantage, pursuing  Jester ruthlessly, unrelentingly on his tail until Jester attempts to turn back, but Viper follows. Jester bugs out hard right, circling back behind the fight, but not defeated, not yet, and there are still two targets stalking them.

“Three o’clock high, Doc,” Copper suddenly calls. “The Iceman cometh.”

“I’ve got him,” John says, kicking up the throttle and facing Iceman nose to nose in a quick pass that leaves John almost breathless with the proximity of it. Iceman loops around in a rolling maneuver and tries to get on John’s tail.

“Looks like you boys have it all worked out,” Viper drawls. “I’ve got Jester.”

“Don’t be a greedy bastard,” Copper says. “Stay with us, mutual cover, remember?”

“You’re a big boy, Doc. You can get him all by yourself,” Viper responds, and peels up and away to streak off after Jester.

“You fucking idiot,” John snarls. Two bogeys need two fighters providing mutual cover, to protect each other’s rear from the second bogey sneaking up on them. Viper’s just broken a major rule of this engagement, and it means John’s going to lose badly. He can feel it. Iceman passes John from above and eggs him on to chase, showing him every move he’s got – rolls, sliding into quick verticals and peeled off dives that end barely above hard deck.   John stays with every move, pushing his aircraft as hard as he can remember, completely focused on one target until Copper starts shouting.

“Jester’s back, three o’clock high, break, break!”

But it’s too late. Jester streaks past with Viper on his tail, and in the distraction John hears the lock on almost immediately.  Iceman and Jester have led him straight into a crossfire ambush.

“Fuck!” he yells, and pulls his mask off. “Viper, you stupid shit, you were supposed to be my cover!”

“Doc’s dead,” Jester calls over the radio. “Viper’s on my six.”

“I’m on his,” Iceman responds, and John watches him peel up and away.

“Doc, get my rear!” Viper calls, and John turns back to watch the fun, a dark line of three aircraft careening around the mountains.

“How long do you think he’s got?” Copper says, laughing.

“Less than two minutes. Three if Ice is kind.”

“We should get his six. It’s part of the exercise.”

“Fuck him. I wish I had popcorn.” John pulls down and away as the three jets come screaming back his direction.

In the end, it takes less than one minute before Viper goes down, once Jester had broken loose and swung back around on Iceman’s wing. It was like a pack of dogs taking down a deer, and John and Copper had the best seat in the house.

“He’s gonna be pissed,” Copper says. “Just wait.”

John lands, taxis to the line of F/A 18s parked along the hangar and climbs out, stretches. That was a hard run, and now he’s sure he’ll be tied with Whiphand for second, based on that lousy performance.

Vipers plane pulls in and shuts down as well, the heat from the engines adding to the shimmering midday sun, and John figures it’s in his best interests to head back to the showers with as much lead time as he can manage. He’s almost to the edge of the tarmac with Copper when someone shoves him hard in the back and he almost goes sprawling. Viper.

“You fucking idiot, you left me out there alone!” he shouts, and before John can talk himself out of it, he rounds on Viper and lays a solid punch across his jaw.

“You ditched team maneuvering within the first thirty seconds, so don’t whine to me when no one backs you up you pathetic little brat,” John snarls. Viper’s on the ground holding his face and looking murderous and Copper has John by the collar, trying to pull him back from wringing Viper’s traitorous neck.

“C’mon, Doc, let it go,” Copper says. “He’ll hang himself one day, and you’re going—oh, hell.”

“Watson! Moriarty! What the hell is going on here?” Jester yells, trotting up, holding his helmet. “You two jackasses in Commander Holmes office, now. And you too, Copper, Tiger.  Now.”

John clenches his teeth and shakes Copper off. He stalks to Holmes’ office and stands at attention, refusing to look at either Moriarty or Copper, fury raging in his chest and only years of training and discipline keeping him from jumping Moriarty right here and kicking his teeth in.

Commander Holmes walks in swiftly, flightsuit rustling. He stands behind his desk and glares at all four of them.

“I dislike being in my office after a hop without a shower. I’m not interested in hearing explanations or excuses. You—“ he points at Viper, “—ignored the rules of engagement for this exercise, leaving your teammate in a position of extreme vulnerability. If this had been a true encounter, he would have died. And you, Watson. You saw your teammate was in trouble and you did nothing to help him. Lives matter, Lieutenant Watson, and I would hope you would not leave a member of your squadron out to die because of a petty feud.” He pauses.

“No sir, I would not,” John answers. “I would never do so during a live sortie. I apologize, sir.”

“You need to get that temper of your s straight, Watson. You need to realize you are on a team, and the members of that team depend on each other for survival. And you, Viper, this is at least the third time I’ve had to remind you that the rules of engagement and the criteria for this training exist to teach you something. This mission is not yours to dictate. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir,” Viper bites out.

Holmes sinks into his chair and passes his hand over his face. “I know there’s more to this than I care to discuss, but I swear to you both if I hear a single whisper of misconduct out of either of you, you’ll be suspended from the program and sent to the South China Sea for a year. Your conduct is to reflect well on your squadron, the Navy, and the country that pays for it. Get out.”

John nods, salutes, and walks out with Copper close on his heels.

“Great, Doc. Just great. Thanks for that.”

“Christ, I’m sorry, Copper,” John says, and pushes his way into the pilot’s lounge.  He drops into a chair and rubs his face with his hands. How the hell has it come to this?

“When we got here I thought we actually had a chance to win. Now I’m just hoping we graduate. I gotta tell you, Doc, I’m not getting any younger. I just want one more promotion, then I can retire in glory to Florida and run hot girls out on a dive boat all year. This was it – winning Top Gun was going to get me my gold leaf and I was done. And what about you, huh? You’ve got a hell of a career ahead of you, Doc, if you just get your head straight. You’re the best pilot I’ve ever flown with, hands down.”

John nods miserably. Copper’s right. He’s got to get his head out of his ass and do what he knows he can. For himself, for Copper. For Murray, who’s bound to hear the chatter coming in and God knows what he’ll think. And Sherlock; oh Jesus, what is Sherlock going to think of him now?

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Word gets around the class fast, and John fights not to respond to the low murmurs the next morning. Irene and Molly smile sympathetically, Irene leaning in to whisper “I’d have at least gotten a kick or two in, the bastard,” before Commander Holmes comes in to begin class.

Sherlock is there, too and looks at him with a disappointed expression. John knows it’s not more than he deserves, but it still feels like a knife twisting in his heart.

It doesn’t keep Sherlock from finding him later, though, where he’s leaning against his bike at the end of the runway and watching the planes lift into the sky.

“He deserved it,” John says, as Sherlock walks up. “He’s a poisonous little rodent, and he deserved it.”

“Doesn’t make it smart, though,” Sherlock replies, and positions himself in John’s line of sight. “It makes you look like a loose cannon.”

“Always going on about my temper. I’ve never hurt anyone, or abandoned them. Not on purpose.”

“Your record is your record, John. The details of this training are kept in your file forever. It is who you are to the Navy, and it carries weight.” Sherlock reaches out and nudges John’s boot with the toe of his shoe. “Now, if you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, I’ll buy you dinner.”

John looks up, finally smiling for the first time since the flight. “I thought you didn’t date students,” he says.

“I don’t. This is dinner. This is us, being friends. Right?”

John nods. “Absolutely. But is the charm working yet?” he says, and Sherlock snorts back a laugh.

“Keep trying, flyboy. One of these days you might get lucky.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

John does keep trying—during dinner, after dinner, when he kisses Sherlock goodbye quickly in the parking lot of the restaurant. When they meet Copper and Irene and Molly at the pool and John teases Sherlock about wearing a tee shirt in the water (‘I’ll burn!’ he complains.) When they share lunch at the canteen and Sherlock catches John staring at his lips again. He doesn’t want to be overwhelming, but desire simmers under his skin, no matter how many times a day he wanks. It’s difficult to be so close and yet know that there’s so little time left that he might not get close enough. He can sense the start of a lifetime of regrets every time he meets Sherlock’s level gaze, and is more determined than ever to win, to prove himself.

With only two weeks to go John, Whiphand, and Viper are, for all intents and purposes, tied in points. The exercises are exhausting, flying twice a day, and the classroom work is even more intent. Sherlock looks like he’s not sleeping, the dark circles under his eyes growing bigger every day, and he tells John he’s up all night most nights, reviewing film of their flights and working out what he wants to discuss the next day.

John’s been on his best behavior, ignoring the dark looks Viper shoots his way whenever their paths cross. He treats Viper like a non-entity, which seems to drive Viper completely mad. John’s sort of amused by it all, and keeps ignoring him as obviously as he can. Copper’s caught on to John’s defense mechanism and pointedly pretends Viper doesn’t exist as well, to Irene and Molly’s amusement.

Iceman walks in for class at the start of their next to last week and immediately dims the lights for training flight review. He points to the screen and circles the red dot over the freeze-frame image of John’s flight the day before. “The bogey has good position right here,” he says without preamble. The video capture of the flight plays again for a few moments. “Freeze frame.  A moment of choice. The F/A-18  is defensive. He has a chance to bug out right here. Better to retire and save your aircraft than push a bad position. Mercury, feel free to contribute any time.” Sherlock nods from his seat at the side of the classroom. Holmes walks to the other side of the podium to address John. “Another three seconds would have cost you. You take a hard right, select zone five...You can extend and escape. You made a poor decision. Mercury?”

Sherlock stands, stares at the screen. He looks exhausted, completely drained, and like he’s lost weight. “Aircraft one performs a split S?” he starts, and his cool, dismissive tone is a surprise. “That's the last thing you should do. The MIG's right on your tail. Freeze there. The MIG has you in his gunsight. What are you thinking?” He addresses his question directly to John, who is caught so off guard by Sherlock’s blunt assessment he’s not sure what to say.

“I’ve told you before, it’s instinct,” John says, slowly. “You can’t think about your next move in acceleration diagrams and what your book might say. If you think, you’re dead.”

Sherlock eyes him critically. “That’s a serious gamble to take with a thirty million dollar airplane.” He continues, starting the video again. “Unfortunately, it worked. The MIG never got a clean shot. Doc makes an aggressive vertical maneuver and defeats him with a missle. Ultimately, the encounter was a victory, but I’d use it as an example of what not to do.”

John’s stunned. Sure, Sherlock has given him criticism of his flying before, but never has he been so sharp, never so dismissive. He feels like Sherlock just punched him in the chest.

“Gutsiest move I’ve ever seen,” Irene whispers, and John just nods.

“Now, let’s view yesterday’s flight by Viper and Tiger. This is an example of a perfectly executed textbook maneuver …” Sherlock continues, but John can’t hear him over his mind furiously trying to work out why Sherlock would cut so keenly at the heart of the one thing he knows John values more than anything else in his life.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

When class is dismissed John heads straight for the parking lot and his motorcycle. He needs to clear his head before his temper gets the better of him again. His flying style is instinctive, born of years of experience and education and sheer guts, and when he finds things that work, he sticks with them.

“John,” Sherlock calls from across the parking lot. John ignores him, starts the engine and revs it a few times.

Sherlock jogs across the lot and stands next to the bike. “Dammit, John, listen to me,” Sherlock says. “My review—“

“Can’t hear you,” John says, and revs the bike again. He just can’t deal with this at the moment.

“My review of your performance—“ Sherlock tries again, but John just shakes his head and peels out onto the street, leaving Sherlock staring after him.

He rides for a few minutes, and as he feels his temper start to calm, he hears an engine revving behind him at a red light. He looks behind him to find Sherlock in his Jag, looking determined. John hits the gas as the light goes green and he speeds off faster than he should. But the road is two lanes wide, Sherlock’s Jag is very fast, and Sherlock manages to pass John before he jerks the wheel hard right and cuts John off. The jag squeals as it spins 180 degrees and faces John on the street. Sherlock jumps out and stalks up to where John has stopped his bike in utter shock.

“Jesus Christ, and you call me reckless!” John shouts. “I’ll have you know that when I’m up there my crew and my plane come first!”

Sherlock doesn’t back down despite John’s fury. “I’m going to finish! My review of your performance was spot on. I see real genius in your flying, John, but I can't say that in there. I was afraid they'd see right through me, and I don't want anyone to know that I've fallen for you.”

John stares, disbelieving. Then he steps forward and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and pulls him into a hard kiss that has every bit of his frustration, his longing, his passion behind it. Sherlock responds instantly, lips parting, and when he traces his tongue along John’s bottom lip John gasps.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, and he shudders when John kisses his neck below his ear.

“Yeah?”

“Come home with me,” Sherlock murmurs, and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I’ve been sufficiently charmed.”

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

John’s seen Sherlock in the bright desert sun, the deep orange of a sunset, the glare of classroom lights and the sunflare through a canopy, but he’s never seen him in moonlight, and never as beautiful as this—shirtless and leaning against the wall of his bedroom, inviting John to touch. To take.

It’s overwhelming, his senses overridden, synapses firing uselessly and leaving him operating on nothing but base instinct, instinct that has him pressing forward to kiss the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, his collarbone, the tendon that leads from neck to shoulder. Sherlock sighs and gasps, lifts one leg to wind around the back of John’s knee and pulls him closer. John hasn’t wanted anyone or anything this badly in a long time, and when Sherlock slides both of his hands down the back of John’s shorts he grins.

“Been wanting to touch you for so long,” Sherlock says, in between kisses. “God, too long.” He pushes John onto the bed and lifts one long leg over John’s thighs, straddles him. John’s hands immediately grip Sherlock’s hips and he rocks up against Sherlock’s arse gently.

“What else do you want?” John asks, and runs his thumb up the hard ridge of Sherlock’s cock where it’s pushing against the restraining fabric of his underwear.

“I want you naked,” he gasps, rocking himself against John’s hand. “I want to be naked.  I want everything.”

John gently pulls him down so they’re chest to chest and kisses him deeply before rolling them over so he can grasp the waistband of Sherlock’s underwear to pull them down, stomach clenching at the sight of Sherlock bare, trusting and willing under his hands. He’s exquisite, the dim light from the window highlighting the hollows and planes of muscle, hipbones, cock. John dips his head, presses his lips to Sherlock’s sternum and feels the thrum of his heart under the skin.  

He wonders what it would take to win that heart, to hold it for more than a few weeks, maybe a few months, a few years. John wants to try, wants to give himself into Sherlock’s keeping, to his every need and desire. Sherlock understands John like no one ever has, and being with him is like slotting himself into a place he never knew he belonged.

Sherlock slides his hands across John’s head, around the back of his skull and down his shoulders, encouraging with gasps and shudders and the lift of his hips. John listens to it all, drowns in it, learns what makes him cry out, what makes him shake, where he’s sensitive to the touch of tongue or fingertips. He works his way down Sherlock’s body until he reaches his cock but doesn’t touch it, not yet, simply breathes, drawing the moment out as long as possible until he flicks his tongue out to caress silky, warm skin.

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock says brokenly, and John does it again, holds Sherlock’s cock against his mouth until the soft press of the head breaches his lips and he slides his mouth down, taking as much in as he can. The salt-bitter of precome on his tongue and the heady heat of Sherlock’s body surrounds him as he licks, sucks, uses his hands to draw a beautifully rolling orgasm from Sherlock’s trembling body. 

John swallows quickly, slides back up Sherlock’s body to hold him, kiss him, bask in his languid, satisfied smile.

“I thought you asked me what I wanted,” Sherlock says, and tugs on John’s underwear.

“Greedy,” John teases, but takes the hint and pulls them off quickly, a little smug when he sees Sherlock’s appreciative gaze. 

“Still want you,” Sherlock says, and pulls John toward him until John straddles his chest, cock at Sherlock’s lips.  John’s body goes hot then cold, and he shivers in anticipation.

Sherlock glances up from under his eyelashes, quicksilver eyes gleaming, and parts his lips, a clear invitation. John braces his hands against the wall over his head, leans forward until his cock just touches Sherlock’s mouth. God, even the heat, the electricity of that simple touch has John trembling.

Sherlock skims his hands up the back of John’s thighs, settling him into position before he looks up again, winks, and takes John’s cock fully into his mouth, sucking with sweet, wet pressure until John groans and thrusts forward just slightly, desperate for more but terrified of losing control with Sherlock’s head trapped against the headboard. Sherlock just hums in response, sucks a breath in through his nose and his hands on John’s thighs urge him forward again in a short, quick thrust. Sherlock’s tongue flickers against his cock, a teasing, maddening feeling counterpoint to the long, delicious pulls of his mouth. John can feel himself teetering on the edge of orgasm, and desperately tries to think of something, anything, to stave it off, make it last.

He wants to be closer, to feel himself wrapped around that long body as he comes, wants the friction and glide of skin on skin. He pulls out of Sherlock’s mouth, gently turns him on his side so he can tuck in behind him. His cock slides perfectly into the cleft of Sherlock’s arse and between thighs, rubbing against his hole and nudging his perineum. God, it’s perfect, hot and tight and slick, and as he thrusts he reaches around to feel Sherlock growing hard again under his hand.

“Lovely,” he breathes into Sherlock’s neck, inhaling the sweet smell of sweat and musk and sex from Sherlock’s skin. “I’m close, Oh god, I’m so close,” he says, and as he comes he can feel Sherlock’s orgasm ripple down his back, his release hot over John’s hand.

They lie together a few moments, breathing heavily, John pressing kisses to Sherlock’s back until Sherlock giggles and shifts.

“Tickles,” he says, and rolls out of bed, going out into the hall. John can hear the bathroom tap turn on and Sherlock comes back a few moments later with a wet towel.. He cleans up, tosses it in the basket and pulls Sherlock back into bed.

“We should have been here weeks ago,” John says, curling up on Sherlock’s chest.

“You almost were, remember?” Sherlock strokes his hair fondly. “But yes, two weeks are all that’s left.”

The wistful tone of his voice catches John’s ear. “You hated it, didn’t you?”

“Hated what?”

“Watching all those military families wave goodbye. You grew up watching it at West Point. That’s why you nag your brother all the time. He did. He said goodbye.”

Sherlock shifts, silent in the darkening room. “He did. It was hateful. Hence, middle of nowhere, Nevada. Now you see why I really don’t let myself get involved with students.” Sherlock stops touching his hair, his hands falling to his sides.

“I plan to win,” John says. “And when I do, I plan to stay.”

Sherlock says nothing, but swallows heavily. “Okay,” he says thickly, and wraps his arms around John again, hugging him tightly.

John hugs him back, kisses him one last time, and falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

 John wakes in the middle of the night, the moon barely a sliver and leaving Sherlock’s bedroom in the shadowy dark. A flicker of light comes from under the door and John realizes, as he shifts in the bed, that he is alone. He shakes himself awake a little more, realizes it’s 4 AM, pulls on his jeans and pads into the living room.

Sherlock is there, a blue silk dressing gown wrapped around him and his dark curls sticking up every which way. He’s propped with his bare feet up on the sofa, a file in his lap and his laptop at his elbow. John watches him for a moment, fond.

“Bit early for that, isn’t it?” John says and Sherlock’s head snaps up, startled.

“No,” he replies, and closes the file. “I have a lecture tomorrow. As do you.” He lifts one arm in invitation and John is happy to go to him, lean down and drop a quick kiss on his lips. As he does, he catches sight of the folder on his lap. Closed, but unmistakeable.

“And what does that have to do with my accident investigation?” John says, nerves tightening his stomach. He did tell him to read it, but Jesus, did he have to right now?

Sherlock pointedly places the file on the table and pulls John down to sit next to him on the sofa. “It only does peripherally. I received a copy yesterday afternoon. Why they couldn’t just email it I have no idea.”

“Red tape,” John says, and tries to relax, but it’s almost impossible. Everything Sherlock has thought about him is about to be rewritten by six pages of dry, official typescript.

“Likely, given your location. Yemen isn’t exactly providing explicit support. Especially not in 2009.”

“The mission was entirely classified. I’m just lucky the accident didn’t start a lot of high level questions.”

“Yes, but that’s not why I’m interested.” Sherlock nudges his feet under John’s thigh.  “But the Investigation Board statement isn’t clear. You had an F/A 18 cut your flightpath as you were returning to the carrier. You lost an engine due to turbulence from the jetwash, causing a flat spin that you could not completely recover from. You and Murray ejected into the sea, Murray got hit by the falling canopy and shattered his leg, necessitating amputation.”

John swallows heavily, trying to control his breathing. It’s difficult to hear something that is still so vivid in his mind recited in such a cool, detached way. But he’s determined not to lash out; something tells him Sherlock might have more insight into what happened than anyone else. “Yes, that’s about the gist of it,” he says tightly.

Sherlock picks up the file again. “What I wanted to know was how you were still able to eject. I’d never seen the black box data from your Stealth, but from what I had heard from Mycroft was that the aircraft was completely out of control when you pulled the handle. Given the g-forces involved, that in itself is surprising.”

“It was hell,” John says, loking Sherlock full in the face. Because if he’s going to tell him this, he’s going to tell him everything. “I thought I’d never reach it. Murray had passed out; I was almost there. Another few seconds and I would have.” He blows out a breath and puts his head in his hands. “I saw that plane coming, but I was on a landing trajectory.  We were returning from a covert mission and had been ordered to land, so I thought I had priority. I did have priority. But I still should have broken protocol and aborted instead of relying on someone else to do it for me.” So fucking stupid, the entire thing. Higher rank, larger aircraft, the glory of an undercover mission and the belief in protocol and his own superiority. A deadly combination, as it turns out. “And now Murray is paying for it behind a desk at the Pentagon.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “He’s alive because of you, John.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I should have been able to recover. The Stealth is stable, even on one engine. But I didn’t. Too fucking useless when it really mattered.” The guilt and the fear is upwelling in his throat, still feeling as if it happened yesterday instead of three years ago. And now Sherlock knows that John isn’t the brilliant pilot he thinks he is, that he couldn’t get it done when it was the most important. That he failed. 

Sherlock puts a cool hand on his neck. “You did recover. The telemetry is clear. You recovered well enough to slow the spin, allowing a safe ejection. Is this news to you?”

John blinks, stunned. “I…no one ever said so. I was simply absolved of the accident. Told there was nothing else I could have done.” John still remembers, standing at attention in front of the Accident Investigation Board, fighting to control his trembling and praying for at least a reduction in rank and not a dishonorable discharge. “I never read the report. I just wanted to get back to work.”

“Perhaps you should have seen the F/A-18. Perhaps you should have aborted your flightpath. You relied too fully on the assumption of rules, to your detriment.” John looks at him, amazed. No platitudes, no soothing lies. Just honest assessment, exactly what Sherlock has been giving him all this time, without fail.  “However. It is how we react to the unexpected that marks us, and your handling of your aircraft was exemplary.  It couldn’t have been done better, and believe me, I tried to determine if it could.” He turns and places both hands on John’s face, forces him to look at him. “You’re one of the best pilots in the Navy. What you do up there, its dangerous. But you’ve got to move on.”

John chokes out a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob; he can’t believe after all this time of trying to repress everything that happened he’d managed to miss the most important part. That he had done the right thing, that he hadn’t completely panicked, that he had saved their lives. The feeling is like helium in his chest, lightening a space that had been weighted so long he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to not feel burdened by guilt and sorrow. And all because of Sherlock and his nosy need to understand and diagram and explain everything.

John blinks up at Sherlock’s half-worried, half-pleased expression. “Thank you,” he chokes out, and pulls Sherlock toward him and kisses him until the sun comes up, and they find their way to each other’s skin once again.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

The last two weeks disappear in a whirlwind of clases and dogfighting exercises and spectacular se, and John comes into the last major team exercise tied with Viper, Irene close on their tails.

“I’ve never seen you so relaxed, but still so focused,” Copper remarks, as John vaults into the cockpit. “Should I have been getting you hookers all this time? Because getting laid agrees with you.”

“Like you aren’t getting any,” John says. “You’ve not been back at night for almost three weeks. How’s Elizabeth?”

“Beautiful, as always. I think I’m in love,” Copper sighs, and John is taken aback by his serious tone.

“What, really? I didn’t think you were the type.”

Copper reaches over the seat and whacks John on the helmet. “Fuck you. She’s perfect. Her son is perfect. I think I’ll revise that retirement plan. Fallon speaks to me. I could run a kitschy souvenir shop.”

“I’m trying my damndest,” John says, and he is, for both of them. “Get your ass strapped in and let’s go win this thing.”

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Welcome to your final exercise, ladies and gentlemen. The object is to eliminate equal targets, and each pilot must make a kill. First to land earns highest points. Thirty minutes on the clock, and good luck.

“Jesus Christ,” Copper says, as one of the MIGs darts over the canopy. “It’s like a swarm up here.”

“Don’t worry,” Bonesaw says in the radio. “We have point.” Whiphand peels out hard right, drawing MIG one with her. John checks the scope.

 “MIG two and three circling back,” Tiger says. “They’re trying to sneak up on us.”

“Good luck,” John says, and breaks hard left as MIG two screams down at three o’clock high. John chases it, spinning off through the mountains. This is his chance. If he can get MIG two locked into a race through the valley he can easily overtake him.

But Jester wants not part of it. He makes a tight hairpin turn that looks like he’s been bounced off of a wall and careens back over John’s canopy with a shockwave that shakes his plane.

“Dammit,” John growls, and gives chase. He comes out of the mountains just below a circling Viper, who is trying to outmaneuver MIG three and appears to be doing well.

The desert pinwheels as John swoops and dives and chases after Jester, the little glowing triangle on his targeting scope bouncing around and unable to get a lock.

“Come on, come on,” he mutters. “Fuck, switching to guns,” he says, hoping the closer range will help his accuracy.

“MIG three coming up from below,” Copper shouts, and John has to abandon the chase, rolls away in a quick maneuver that keeps the rogue MIG off his tail. Viper swoops by and cackles into the radio.

“Always did like to play with my food,” he says, and John rolls his eyes.

“I’d love to go head to head with him,” John grumbles, as he tries to reset his angle on MIG two. “Sick bastard.”

“I’ve got MIG one on target,” Bonesaw says. “Switching over.”

Dammit, Whiphand is about to make a kill. John shakes off his worry and climbs, loops a wide dive to the right, and reengages with MIG two.

“In range,” Copper says, and John settles in, watching the targeting screen minutely until he hears the tone start up. Christ he’s close. He blinks, looks out for a second, and sees Irene slice around the mountain, trailing the MIG closely until it attempts to loop back on her. She anticipates perfectly and targets.

“MIG one dead,” she says, and Molly whoops in triumph. “Been nice flying with you, boys.” She executes a double barrel roll and turns back toward base.

Shit. If he can just—John dips the nose of his plane slightly, dropping altitude, then points back up again. The angle of the shot is different, but the target of the bottom of the plane is larger, so if he can…

Perfect. “Target locked, missiles fired. You’re dead, MIG two,” Copper yells triumphantly in his ear and John screams back toward base, expecting to see Irene on her way. But she’s not. Instead, Viper dives back in on the same trajectory.

“Race ya,” he says, and John pushes hard on the stick. He finally spies the blip that is Whiphand and Bonesaw almost a mile off to the right of the landing path. Strange.

“You okay over there?” he calls.

“Doc, you’ve got to help us. Whip’s disoriented,” Bonesaw replies. “She’s convinced she’s upside down.”

“I am, you twit. Jesus, everything is upside down,” Whip responds, and she sounds off, woozy.

“Her fucking ears, I told her. Come on, Irene, trust your instruments. Look at your horizon line. You’re fine. Let’s just land and you can go to the clinic, it’ll be fine.” Copper says.

“Every time I try to turn it around, it just goes back,” Irene says.

John watches Viper closing in on his wing. They’ll just have to call this one off. “Come on, Viper, we’ll have to help guide her in. You take the left, I’ll take the right.” Disorientation after tricky maneuvering isn’t uncommon, but Irene seems to be unable to shake hers, likely due to her infected ears. They need to provide her a reference point, as the desert horizon can be difficult to distinguish.

“You’re kidding me, right?” Viper says. “Tiger, tell me he’s kidding.”

“I don’t know,” Tiger says, and he sounds uncertain. “She’s been pretty sick.”

“Fuck this. I’m going to help her,” John replies, and pulls up and away.

“Have fun,” Viper calls. “See you at graduation. I’ll be the one with the trophy.”

“What a dick,” Copper mutters. “Come on, we’ll be there in thirty seconds.”

John  finds Whiphand and Bonesaw flying in a low, slow loop near the base of the nearby mountains. John recognizes the signs of blurred vision in the drag of her wing on the right side, and he pulls into formation with her.

“Can you stay on my wing?” John calls, and looks over toward her canopy and sees her thumbs up. “Okay. You just need to stay with me, I’ll keep the world from turning upside down, okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Christ, this is shit. I had you, you complete prat.”

John snorts a laugh. “Yeah, you did.  Now let’s get back and get your trophy.” He starts to turn, slowly, and is relieved that Irene seems to be able to follow him, the close proximity of his aircraft providing a stable, fixed point for her to focus on.

“Ghostrider and Maverick requesting paired landing,” John calls to the tower, and prepares for his final touchdown of the program—and now saying goodbye to Sherlock.

“Cleared for landing on runway 3A,” the tower responds, and John’s shocked to hear Iceman’s smooth, calm voice. “Excellent work, Ghostrider.”

Chapter Text

Sunset finds John knocking on Sherlock’s door. When he opens it and John steps inside, he’s surprised to find most of the surfaces free of paper, open boxes piled around.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “Are you going somewhere?”

Sherlock rubs his hand across the back of his head. “Just cleaning up,” he says, and gathers a sheaf of papers from the sofa and tosses them into a box. “I heard what happened.”

“Yeah,” says, and sits down heavily.  “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock snuggles down next to him on the sofa. “I expected nothing less of you.”

“But I was so close. If I’d not been such a jackass and been busted on the first hop…I could have stayed here.” The ‘with you’ is left unspoken, but John knows Sherlock understands what he means.

“Ashes and sackcloth don’t suit you, John,” Sherlock says, and he turns to tuck his face into John’s neck. “Let’s just make the most of what we have.”

John does, takes Sherlock to his bed and makes love to him slowly, deliberately, trying to hold on to as much of the experience as he can. Sherlock’s focus is breathtaking, frightening, and John can feel the edge of desperation in his voice when he comes with John’s name on his lips.

He feels that same desperation himself, that need to stay wrapped together, breathing across each other’s skin. But their time is ending fast, and John, despite furious and futile brainstorming, has no good way to prolong it.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Graduation rolls around three days later and as he and Copper wait in the vestibule for things to start, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. John’s texted him at least a dozen times over the three days with no response, and not-so-subtle inquiries at Commander Holmes office were met with “He’s in Fallon, as far as I know.”

“Sir,” John had asked, the third time he stopped in. “Would there be any other positions available here at Fallon for a pilot? I mean, I understand not an instructor position, but perhaps patrol, or extra training for the instructors? I … enjoy being here, sir.”

Holmes looks at him with a knowing smile. “There are not, Watson. You are a highly trained fighter pilot. I suggest you continue to use those skills accordingly.”

John had been crushed. Now there was certainly no way to stay, and another two years before his enlistment was up, but at least twelve more before he could retire.

He’d left Sherlock’s house the previous Wednesday with a kiss and a promise to see him Saturday, but those three days without Sherlock’s kiss, without his touch, were maddening. John had spent the last couple of days finishing up work, packing, fighting off the urge to hunt Sherlock down, and wondering where he ended up in the standings. The winner of the Top Gun trophy is announced at the graduation ceremony and not before. He knows he didn’t win, but perhaps second? He has to have beaten Viper, at least, if there were any justice left in the world.

“Would you mind taking a picture,” Viper says from his left, and holds out his phone. “I mean, Tiger and I won’t be able to, so if you could just get a good shot of us holding the trophy I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure thing,” John says, and Viper looks shocked as John takes the phone. Until, that is, John tosses it into the trash can next to the door.

“You shit,” Viper says, and dives for it. John and Copper just laugh and make their way in to sit down. John looks around once more for Sherlock, but he still can’t find him.

“Stop that,” Copper says, and elbow him in the side. “He said he’ll be here, so he’ll be here.” Copper waves to Elizabeth, who is standing in the back with her son. Her eyes are glassy and her smile wobbles a bit.

“Will she be okay?” John asks.

Copper pauses. “Yeah. It’s been five years since her husband was killed, but it’s her first time back on base. I’m … I can’t believe she’s here for me.”

“I can. I’m happy for you. Really.” And he is, he’s thrilled for Copper, but it just emphasizes the Sherlock-shaped hole in his life. Where could he be?

“Welcome, everyone, to the 45th Top Gun Naval Aviation Training Program graduation ceremony,” Commander Holmes says from the podium, and John finally turns around, settles in his chair. It’s pointless to keep looking now. It’s obvious Sherlock’s not going to be here.

“I know that everyone is most interested in the winner of the Top Gun trophy,” Holmes continues. “Rest assured, this is why we’re here, and I’ve never been fond of making people wait unnecessarily.” The room stirs, everyone sitting up a little straighter and craning their necks to see. John’s heart pounds.

“The winners flew a flawless performance under difficult circumstances. They showed intelligence, bravery, commitment to duty and seriousness of purpose. Their flying skill is second to none, creative and lethal. I’m honored to present the Top Gun trophy for exemplary performance to pilot Irene Adler, call sign Whiphand, and RIO Molly Hooper, call sign Bonesaw.”

Molly whoops and crushes a stunned Irene in a massive hug. John stands and claps as hard as he can despite the gnawing feeling of dread in his gut. He knew it wasn’t going to be him, but the final nail in the coffin of his future with Sherlock is still difficult to hear.

Irene and Molly smile and shake hands and pose for pictures. When John looks around for Sherlock once again, his attention is caught by the ugly, angry sneer on Viper’s face. He’s slumped down in his chair, the picture of an indignant pout. John nudges Copper in the side and he turns around as well.

“Oh Jesus,” Copper mutters, and pulls out his phone. He holds it up at an obvious arms length. “Watch the birdie,” he chirps, and snaps a picture when Viper’s pout turns into a snarl. “That’s lovely. Gorgeous. You should have been a model.”

“Shhh,” John says. “We’ve still got the certificate thing to do.”

Copper just snickers and turns back to the front as Irene and Molly take their seats again and Iceman walks back up to the podium.

“Now, before we move on to the rest of the ceremony, we have a special presentation.” He reaches below the podium and pulls out two small, black, velvet boxes. “In a training situation, it is rare for our participants to go above and beyond the call of duty. The situation is generally controlled, and without the sort of risk that comes with being deployed. Lieutenant John Watson and Lieutenant Greg Lestrade, please come to the front.”

John and Copper look at each other in disbelief, but shuffle their way through the seats to stand next to the podium.

“These two men flew an exemplary program, with a couple of notable exceptions,” Holmes starts, and gives them both a wry look at the chuckles that make their way through the crowd. “And despite that, they remained tied for first place going into the final hop. However, when it became clear a fellow pilot was in trouble, they abandoned the completion of the exercise to assist, most certainly costing them a first place finish. For exemplary dedication to their fellow officers, and for exhibiting that dedication in the face of personal sacrifice, I present Lieutenant Watson and Lieutenant Lestrade with the Medal of Commendation for Meritorious Achievement.”

John is stunned. He had no idea this was coming, and by the look on Copper’s face as Holmes pins his medal to his uniform, neither did he. When it’s John’s turn, he stands straight and shakes Holmes hand, accepts his congratulations. He’s pleased, and proud, and it feels even more real, more weighty, than the Top Gun trophy ever could.

“I have one more small announcement,” Commander Holmes says. “It is also my privilege to offer Lieutenant Watson and Lieutenant Lestrade training positions with the program, if they choose. Congratulations again, gentlemen.”

John and Copper share a look of shocked disbelief for a moment before Copper punches the air, shouting “Yes! Yes!”  Elizabeth is laughing, tears in her eyes, and John is thrilled to his toes. It’s almost everything he’d hoped for.

He just wishes Sherlock were here to share it with.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

John sits in Sherlock’s driveway after the ceremony, trying to manage the conflict he’s feeling.

He hasn’t been able to reach Sherlock in three days, and now, when it matters most, he finds Sherlock’s house dark and a ‘for sale’ sign in the front yard. Christ, he’s left, despite what Iceman told John earlier. He’s left without saying goodbye, without any sort of message or note of any kind. John can’t believe it, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself before he ends up looking like a complete fool in Sherlock’s driveway.

John rides back toward base in the gathering dusk. His plan was  to leave tomorrow afternoon to go back to the USS Carl Vinson for a short deployment before he coming back to Fallon, but without Sherlock there, he’s starting to rethink his decision to accept the position. He wants to, but now that it looks like the bright dreams of sharing the little house with Sherlock, the secret fantasy he’d nurtured in his heart, will never happen, and it’s crushing.

The road turns at the end of the runway and John slides around the curve at top speed. As he is about to pass the observational lay-by at the end of the runway he sees Sherlock’s black Jag pulled off the side and Sherlock himself stretched out on the hood, shoulders propped up on the windshield, watching the planes take off overhead.

John hangs a sharp turn into the small lot, scattering dust and stones as he skids to a stop and knocks down the kickstand. Sherlock sits up partway and the look on his face is terrified.

“Why haven’t you returned my calls?” John starts.

“I…I’ve been very busy,” Sherlock says, and his fingers are tapping out a nervous rhythm on the hood of the car. “It’s overwhelming, the end of the program. Paperwork to do.”

John sits back on the seat of his bike. “That’s not true. You said you were going to be at graduation. You weren’t. And now I just saw that your house is for sale. Were you going to let all of this go without even saying goodbye?” John wants to go to him, to wrap his arms around him and never let go; but it seems Sherlock may have other plans.

"I wasn’t. I didn’t know how to tell you, and what you would think of it.” Sherlock crosses his legs, his arms, perfectly defensive. Or protective. “I found a position in Norfolk,” he says.

John stares for a moment before the realization of what Sherlock is telling him slowly sinks in. Norfolk, home port of the USS Carl Vinson. His ship. His home port. Sherlock was moving to be closer to him.

John climbs of his bike, strides over to Sherlock and pulls him down into a deep kiss. “You idiot,” John breathes against his mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it was too soon,” Sherlock replies. “I couldn’t let you go, John. I couldn’t say goodbye forever, and when you gave up the trophy, I knew I would have to. Unless I could find a way to go with you. Even if I have to say goodbye for six months at a time, I would always know you were coming back to me.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John says, and his throat is tight, burning. “I was just offered a position at Fallon. This was the happiest day of my life. I was coming to tell you I could stay. I was ready to leave the Vinson forever for you. ”

Sherlock chokes out a laugh. “Then I suppose I can take the sign down at the house,” he says.

“If you want to. But we still have some options.”

Sherlock slides down off of the hood of the car, opens the door and pulls John into the back seat, open to the stars with the convertible top down.

“This is going to be complicated,” Sherlock says as he hitches a leg over John’s lap and settles against him.  

John groans at the tight heat against his hips, his stomach, and the long, lithe body wrapped around his. He slides his hands up Sherlock’s back, revels in the heartbeat under his ear.

“Yes, but you like it complicated,” John says as he starts to work open Sherlock’s shirt buttons. “And thank God you don’t date students,” he adds as Sherlock laughs, the roar of a rising jet shattering the sky overhead.