After it becomes obvious that they're stranded off the coasts of Port Elizabeth, it's John who springs into action. He's got the experience, and the know-how, and he knows not to panic, because he'll be able to make them manage until-...well, no doubt Mycroft has people watching them. It shouldn't be a few days before somebody arrives with a helicopter and a shock blanket.

They have a few sparse things leftover from their bags, but nothing really helpful. There's a Dan Brown novel, that was from John's hand-luggage, and some suncream. Sherlock has his phone, but the battery is critical and there's so signal.

They find this out very soon, and Sherlock sighs, tossing the phone into the sand of the beach and heading for a tree that has shade. From across the blinding sand John watches him settle beneath the tree, getting comfortable to watch John like a prize idiot, hands raw from the scraps of wood he could pull together. It's hot, and the wood is dry, and before long John had made decent progress, but he's fed up.

After about an hour or so, John has something standing, and goes to gather the enormous leaves on the beach to make some kind of roof. Sherlock stays under the tree, his eyes are closed and his breathing is steady, so John assumes he's sleeping. Well, that is until he reaches out for a few of the smaller leaves and jumps to hear a deep, rumbling voice.

"Rhus vernix, don't touch," And John rolls his eyes, because he's not sure he likes that Sherlock gets to be all smug while he works in the hot Caribbean sun. Their eyes meet for a second when John reaches for a few of the enormous leaves above Sherlock. Sherlock is cold, and is trying to be nonchalant, but his eyes betray him.

When Sherlock comes to, it's storming above and raining something awful. He's mostly dry from being under the tree, and there's a little fort further down the beach. By a dwindling fire Sherlock sees a silhouette cast, and it's John. His face catches the fire and he's worn, his face attractive in the orange glow.

The small settlement is a daunting twenty feet or so away and Sherlock isn't sure if he's up to it. The rain is gentle but he's read enough to know it will only worsen. The dys are supposed to be sweltering, and the storms come and go during the evenings. That is, Sherlock assumes, unbeknownst to John, who is fussing over the fire and binding some enormous leaves logether. Likely for the roof, which is half-done. It's a fine effort, Sherlock thinks, but it could be better.

Eventually he strdies over to sit by the fire, which is fighting against stray drops of rain. John looks up at him and, maybe because of the sun, or the fire, he looks strong in the lambency. It's a little awkward, and Sherlock has to say something.

"Not a bad job," He offers, which is generous for the most part. But Sherlock isn't sensitive to John's fatigue: his sore hands, the cuts up his arms, eyes that water from the salt in the ocean. Sherlock doesn't look for those kind of things, because he's taken by the view. Every inch the 'army doctor'. "There's a leak by the corner," he points out, innocently.

"Yes, I know," John mutters irritably, back to his work on the leaves, a frown poisoning his face. Sherlock isn't done. He never learns when to finish.

"You could use those, but they'll rot, eventually. Better off with-"

"Alright, Sherlock!" John's heard enough of Sherlock. He might be clever beyong belief, but he's been utterly useless and would mostly die without John to feed him and keep him warm and dry. "Have you seen anything we can eat?"

There are three yellow fruits that are declared safe. They share the first that night and the roof is, for the most part, finished off. Sherlock still doesn't help, of course, because he had a better time watching John. In the end, the storm does worsen and john is still starving when they settle beneath the roof. When the fire goes out it gets colder and they end up helpless furrowing into the sand, back to back. Neither wants to make the first move.

A small mountain is visible behind the rainforest. For the most part, they stay on the beach. The day is hotter than Afghanistan and John spends all of his time either strengthening what stands of the fort or spreaing unsuccessfully for fish or birds. The fish are rare and small, but if it's a good day they get a few and it's enough to last them. Birds are harder to catch and John only gets one. He plucks it with a sad look on his face and cooks it something similar to spitroasting. It's a good night.

Things stay like that until an enormous strom ravages the beach, moving down from the mountains. Thunder cracks overhead and flashes of lightning threaten in the overcast sky. The rain is the worst part, and they end up huddled beneath a tree, spitting and shivering. All of the yellow fruits are gone and the fish have learnt all of John's tricks. He manages a crab after hours of fighting with it, but there's so little meat, and he ends up whimpering the cold, his stomach ruumbling away like a broken car engine.

'We're going to die' John thinks, despite himself. 'We're going to die and I never even-'. Sherlock finishes the thought with conviction.

"We'll be alright," He promises, and John is delusional enough that he thinks he can trust those words. They're nervous, that much is obvious, because it's cold and the rain is bucketing down on the beach. Even though it's partially dry under the tree, there's little room and they shift, have to lean into eachother to stay warm and make room.

"You need to-" Sherlock fusses, falling to rest next to John. He's warm and soft and it's the most comfortable sleep he'll have for days to come. Thing is, he knows he's not going to die because they're both so cold and miserable. He remembers reading somewhere that before you die, this feeling of warmth and comfort takes over. So long as John's still sniffing and his stomach is still growling, theyr're okay. "There isn't much room, so..." They don't look at eachother, but both of them shift to get comfortable.

John seems grateful for the logical argument.

That night, Sherlock dreams of John tossing him over the shoulder and going down to the damp sand. They make love in the cool of the day and it's good, so fantastic because the swash is warm between his toes and there's nobody around to hear him scream. John's biting his neck and taking him brutally hard with broad easy touches over Sherlock's body, teasing the inside of his thighs until it's too much and he howls, shooting his load in two or three spurts.

It's just before sunrise when he wakes, half-hard against John's sleeping form and he sighs. There's no chance he can slip away without notice. Helpless, unseasy and delirious, he lays there and tres to think of something off-putting. Things are already hard between them, it would only make things worse to have John wake to a half-crazed sociopath dry-humping his legs to get off.

It could be worse, Sherlock supposes. But then, he thinks, no. It couldn't be much worse.

There's nothing that can be done, so he tried to take his mind off of it. The things is- he's drowsed, sun-dozed and all he can think of is John fucking him against the rough of the coconut trees, or on the soft sand, underneath the invincible sunlight blazing through the sky. Eventually his mind settles elsewhere, on how long it will be until they're home, back under the London drizzle, under the starless skies.

Part of him misses it dearly.

Part of him never wants to go back.

John's skin becomes a golden-brown with time and he looks good. It's all Sherlock can do to please himself; there are no drugs he craves touch and pleasure. There isn't any to be found in the raw fish or the yellow fruits. When they run out and John hands Sherlock the hand-rafted spear, he laughs out of desperation. He was never much good at physical activity apart from fencing, and that was all about technique.

Unlike John, Sherlock's skin is sore and pink, like a lobster, and it's painful to sleep in the gritty sand against his skin. He's ankle-deep in sapphire waters and scowling, because his head is light and he feels dizzy. Meanwhile, under the tree, John is whittling something sharp. They're going to find some water, and Sherlock insists there'll be some in the mountain.

In the end he doesn't catch anything and gives up. He stumbles across the lumpy sand, dazed, but the sun makes it hard to see and walk

He hits the sand with a heavy thud.

Sand is scattered when John comes running over, fine and muscled, the gold of his stubble unusual to Sherlock. By the time he comes to, he's in the shade, being splashed with cool water. John must have carried him over, Sherlock realises, and he feels shame that he isn't stronger. When John sees him, though, his expression softens and he offers Sherlock the last of the roasted seagull, tough as it is.

"You need to eat, Sherlock," John says, because he doesn't want to die alone on an island, and he certainly doesn't want Sherlock to die. Sometimes, when he's spearing in the cool green water for fish, he thinks about it.

If anything, Sherlock will die first, because he might be clever but he's starved and lazy. John can't bear to think on it too much, like what he would do with the body, or how he could live with that. The stormy nights when they sleep on eachother for warmth he thinks about how much Sherlock is to him, and that he can't bear to lose something so important.

After that, they look to eachother constantly. Sherlock doesn't faint again, because John does most of the work in the sun, before the heat of the day, and Sherlock stays in the shade more, works on the shelter, the weapons, the food.

At night, they lie next to eachother in silent agony, wanting what is forbidden. It's agony to be the last to fall asleep, and have to remain static, unable to touch; to taste the warm skin. Naturally, they both dream, and it's hot and flustering. Always on the shore, where nobody hears Sherlock shriek in delight, John's throat crack in pleasure.

Forget who goes first, it's the lust that'll kill them both.

There's a waterfall high in the mountains. water means being able to drink safely, and shower. Water means food. There are many vegetables and fruits high in the trees and ferny forest floors. Both of them eat well on the first night of settling, find shade to sleep in, where the stream makes the ground soft, and the bird fusses. It's perfect, for a few hours, a little paradise where the carailli are unpleasant but edible.

Showers under the waterfall have to be separate.

They aren't, at first, because both men are weary from hiking up the mountain in the hot sun, hysterical, water is clean and cold and they strip, forget about eachother, and throw themselves in deep.

It's deeper than they expect, but shallow enough that John can just about stand. When they notice eachother, naked, soaking, shining like tribal Gods in the Caribbean sun, it becomes food for a new fantasy.

Between edible food and washing and drinking it becomes an effort not to get caught. Sherlock take his showers early in the day when John is out collecting food and he rubs off in the deep water. It drowns John's name out on his lips, but it can't hide the images in his head.

It's John, it's always John, but this time he's taken against the silver rock beneath the waterfall. John fucks him standing, Sherlock's legs wrapped around like a decorative bow, and when John loses it and orgasms they both fall into the water.

He makes sure to shower privately.

John does the same, when Sherlock is distracted, but not away. Sherlock rarely leaves their settlement, because John does most of the work. So, he's forced to shower in sight. He makes it quick and painless, just cleaning.

He thinks of Sherlock with his torn pants around his ankles, behind the mango trees, when he's away. It's not like Sherlock's fantasy, because it never involves too much action. He thinks of Sherlock's neck, and his hands, and how his legs go on forever. John reaches his edge wondering what they'd feel like, or how they'd taste.

When it gets colder, and they see ships on the horizon, they move back down to the beach, but takes hour-long trips everyday. For food and water. They've nothing to carry anything in, and have to drink it straight from the fall. It's wearying, and they ever go alone in case there's danger.

After a substantial amount of time, they have to share another shower under the clear water of the fall. It's the height of awkwardness, with red faces and caught looks. It's shady enough that they bathe peaceful, satisfied with the foul taste of the carailli on heir tongue, in their bellies.

"Do you think they'll ever find us?" John asks, because he's not sure what he wants to hear, aside from sherlock's deep and baritone voice.

"Mycroft knows we're here, I'm sure," Turning, Sherlock moves towards where the falling water meets the still and bathes in the falling water. He knows John is looking, and he feels cruel from the lack of touch. "Though, I suppose he's taking his time,"

But supposing wasn't enough.

"Do you want them to find us?" This time, more quietly. Again, he doesn't know what he wants to hear, but he needs an answer. Without it, he'll do mad for certain.

Sherlock looks at him then, pale from staying in the shade, pink from where the sun has caught him. Their hands brush a little, it's the last time they'll touch for a while.

"We should get back,"

After that, Sherlock doesn't touch John. Forget handjobs, not so much as a handshake is passed between them. It's a long time, especially since there's not much else to do but eachother. Outside of showering and climbing and hunting and eating, all hey have is eachother, and now, they don't touch.

The heat makes the mad blood stir. John starts to watch sherlock obsessively, and feels the bile rise in his throat when Sherlock returns soaking from his shower. All he wants is a touch, a taste of Sherlock's pale flash. It gets to the point where he invents ways to encourage contact. And, when each time, when he fails, he rubs out again between the trees when he's going back up to the mountain.

Each time Sherlock finds a way out of it, John only becomes even more stricken with lust. He lies about having a rash on his back; Sherlock tells him to bathe in the saltwater and stay away from the crab. Then, John tells him that he's cut his foot on a rock, and would like to have it looked at. Sherlock finds something citrus to give to him.

He's got a migraine: "Stay out of the sun,"

He's cold in the night: "Move away from the damp ground,"

He needs Sherlock to hold something for him: "Set it down on the floor, it'll be fine,"

It makes John jealous of inanimate objects, would you believe. starved of touch, affection, he's never really awake because he's worried about sleeping. Insanely graphic dreams about Sherlock haunt him. They still don't touch, which nurtures John's sexual frustration.

Why should a dead fish get more attention from those dexterous and precise hands then him? Does Sherlock find it more sexually appealing? Have days in the sun made John so unappealing that people are afraid to touch him?

He snaps, eventually. Sherlock is innocently eating a mango-type fruits by he edge of the water, dipping his hand in the cool clean water. His lips work away at the soft fruit, his teeth tear through the ripe and juicy texture. After each bite Sherlock licks his lips clean. It's killing John with every bite until sherlock rises to fetch some firewood.

"You," John growls in the a low tone, addressing the fruit. Where the light his the juices, It appeared to wink coyly at John. "He's only using you, he doesn't care," The mango remains steadfast and silent, watching John, mocking him. "You think I'm wrong?" Apparently, the fruit says yes, and that makes John howl.

He advances on the mango, fuming. "You're not even a nice fruit, you taste awful and-and-"

"John?" He turns, mango-in-fist, to see Sherlock, with a pile of sticks dropped at his feet. "What's going on? You look-" The mango is dropped, discarded, forgotten about and before he's aware John is charging at Sherlock, grappling him and they both tumble into the depths of the water.

"Sherlock-" He gasps, still gripped onto the other man, surfacing from the water. "Jesus, Sherlock, touch me, please, God-" And he obeys, stroking over John's brazen skin, raking through his hair. They kiss feverently, bobbing in the water. Sherlock does as ordered, and tears through john's clothes, they're tattered and fall apart in his hands.

Tongues flick at collar bones, and they're rutting in the water, turning, desperate for more than just the open-mouthed kisses that lay hot on face and necks. Sherlock can feel John's longing in his hands, in his touches, in the small thrusts against his hip.

"You feel-" Clothes are rising in the water, the days are endless but it would seem like a race from an outside's eye. "Good, John, so good," they wind around eachother and grind messily, twitching, Sherlock moaning, dipping below the water at points because he's boneless against John. His hand is the catalyst and sherlock throws his head back, squeezes his eyes shut and comes, twitching, drowning in pleasure.

John follows him, rubbing against Sherlock's grasps, loosing it hot and sticky in the water. He falls, for a moment and resurfaces gasping. Sherlock watches him with a lazy, satisfied expression.

For a while, they lie naked on the bank and laugh, and just touch. They think less about home afterwards.

Days later, a helicopter touches down on the beach and there are people wrapping Sherlock up in a shock blanket and passing around the liquid oxygen. Things go back to the way they were, for the most part.

Until John gets home from the office one day to finds a mango on the kitchen side.