Prologue:
It was on the battlefield that Captain John Watson first dreamt of dark water.
His tent and bedding seemed to fade away as water slowly surrounded him, drenching his clothes as the murky depths began to claim him as its own. John gasped for air that wasn't there and felt the sting of salty water trying to flood his throat. He kicked desperately at the current to find the surface, seeing only a vague glimmer somewhere far above. His breath was running out as he neared what he could only assume was moonlight. But mere inches away from breaching the surface, he was ripped back down. Something perfectly smooth had wrapped around his ankle and was pulling with a force even a soldier couldn't compete with. John quickly maneuvered himself around to pull the thing off, barely able to make out what the dark tentacle was. As soon as his mind could comprehend it, several more suddenly shot out all around him and enveloped him in their pure blackness.
John shot up from his bed in a cold sweat. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely make out what his tent mate was saying to him.
"Oy, Watson! You gonna respond or what?"
John looked up at that, still in a confused daze from his sudden consciousness, "Sorry… what was that?"
The soldier only rolled his eyes, "I asked what you were havin such a fuss about in your sleep?"
John finally managed to catch his breath, seeing that he was dry and out of harms way now. "I was drowning." It still seemed so impossibly real.
"You're pretty safe from that here." The soldier gave a small chuckle. "No chance of drowning in a damn desert."
Safe. That was a funny thing to say when they were still in a war zone. But still, John relaxed a bit from those words. He was as far away from water as he could be with very little chance of coming near a large body of it any time soon.
It was later that same day that Captain John Watson was shot in left shoulder, the bullet narrowly missing his heart, and sent back to England on discharge.
Chapter 1
Despite his near death encounter, things had begun to pick up for Dr. John Watson. Life had moved rather fast when he found a new flat and perhaps the world's strangest flat-mate, but the action suited him just fine and before he even knew it, he found himself complacent in the flat of 221b with a man he could only describe as positively inhuman.
There was nothing ordinary about the detective, from odd eating habits to his exceptional brilliance. Though there were times where for a few moments, John wondered if it was more then a case of his flat-mate being a tad eccentric. When Sherlock would flash that deceiving smile of his to get his way, were his teeth a tad too pointed? Or was he just being ridiculous and looking far too much into it? He knew of course that must be the case, but still, John couldn't help feel a bit uneasy at times when those marbled sea foam eyes were on him.
* . *. *
John had just sat down to a nice hot cuppa when Sherlock ran past him in a flash, grabbing his coat and scarf. John had to hold onto his cup with both hands to prevent it from spilling.
"I suppose you have a case then?"
"We do," Sherlock flashed him one of those grins that could make John walk on water if he so desired it.
John sighed and put his mug down. At least there was never dull moment anymore. "Alright alright, let me grab a jumper at least." He stretched a bit as he stood up. It was far too early in the morning for a case. "Where are we going, anyway?"
"The Thames." Sherlock's face was illuminated by the glow of his phone as he typed something out on it.
This struck John as particularly odd as the flat was usually well lit. He glanced toward the window; the sky was nothing but dark clouds. Of course it was probably about to rain, making the river extra high- John froze. He had had that same dream again last night. The one where he was drowning. How had he forgotten that when he woke up?
"John?" Sherlock cocked his head as he looked at him, phone still in hand. "We really need to get there before any evidence is washed away."
"Right, of course…" John went to get his jumper and paused again. Maybe he could just tell him he wasn't up to it. That something had come up at work or he was getting a bit sick and shouldn't be out in this weather. No, that wouldn't work at all. Sherlock would of course see right through any lie he came up with and he really didn't want Sherlock prodding about as to why he didn't want to go. That brilliant git had to make everything so difficult.
Sherlock had held it in long enough for the cab to arrive at the crime scene before allowing himself to laugh. "John, you look utterly ridiculous. Its not even raining yet and you look like you've prepared for the storm of the century."
John huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. He was wearing a ridiculous yellow raincoat, boots, and a hat. "Maybe I just didn't want to get soaking wet. Your coat is going to get drenched."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Its just fabric, it will dry. And your boots wont save you from drowning." He smirked and stepped out onto the muddy shore.
The moment he had, he could smell it. Practically sense it in the salty air around them. It was that tingly sensation that meant a storm was coming. The Thames wasn't quite the ocean, but it was connected to it, and Sherlock's body ached for it.
John clenched his jaw at Sherlock's rude remark. He wasn't getting anywhere near the water if he could avoid it, but as he shuffled out of the cab, he noticed Sherlock's odd expression.
"Everything alright?" He nearly put a hand on the detective's shoulder, but something held him back.
Sherlock was staring at the water intensely, almost as though he was searching for something. His gaze snapped back to John in a nearly startling speed. "Stop dodeling, we need to hurry."
John huffed, "You're the one taking in the scenery." He muttered.
Forensics was already there, gathering as much as they could. Other investigators frantically searched the shore in case evidence had washed up elsewhere, but it was a race against the tide. A man lay nude, face down on the beach, body covered in lacerations.
"Some of these are post mortem, but most were before he died. Tortured?" Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who seemed to be a bit of a nervous wreck.
"I really need you to figure this one out fast. I can't keep the body here for more then a few minutes longer. It could rain any time now and I need this body on route to the morgue before that." Greg fidgeted a bit with a notepad he was holding.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit. "Its not the first body you've found? There's at least one other, more likely more that you think are connected."
"Stop deducing me or whatever you call it and focus on him," Lestrade gestured to the dead man. "I'll tell you the rest once he's on the road."
Sherlock was annoyed, he wanted far more details first, but they would have to wait. "His wrists were tied behind his back for an extended amount of time." The body still bore the rope burn on his wrists, his arm muscles clearly strained from the unnatural position. There were multiple knives used to inflict his injuries, though the main one appears to have been a fish gutting knife."
Lestrade was writing everything down, but he wanted something more solid. Some clue that could actually result in a lead.
"The wounds appear to all be of different varieties though. Some deep, others shallow. Most are right handed, but a few were made with a left hand. There were multiple attackers."
"Like a gang?" John came a bit closer. The body had clearly been in the water a while. Seaweed and barnacles clung to him. But it had been cold enough to partially preserve the remains.
Sherlock bent down closer to the body. There was something sticking out of the man's left shoulder. "A fish hook?"
John shrugged, "A gang of fishermen?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He does have a wedding ring on. We should see if anyone reported a missing husband recently."
A drop of rain fell on Lestrade's note pad. "Shit." He really needed more time. This was the third body in three weeks. He didn't want to find a fourth. "Bag it!" He called out as two forensics quickly got to work on taking the body away.
"Some kid found him like this." Greg groaned. "He could have been laying there all night. But now we have almost nothing to work with."
"Something more could still wash up," Sherlock was looking at the water again, eyes distant.
"If it does, I'll give you call. But I'm not sure how long I can keep people out here. Some big storm is supposed to come."
John's brow furrowed, "I never heard anything about a storm?"
"No one did, apparently. Just got reported this morning. Stealthed the weather satellites or something."
"Odd." John's heart sped up a bit. In his dream where he was drowning, there always seemed to be storm. He had never feared the water or bad weather before, but these dreams were relentless.
"Call us. We're leaving." Sherlock turned without so much as a goodbye, already switching his focus to his phone.
John had to do a bit of a jog to catch up with those damn long legs of his. "Hold on! We only just got here, they might find something any minute?"
"Then they'll call." Sherlock was typing something out.
"Yea but… well, its still rather rude." John genuinely liked him, but even then it was difficult at best to deal with Sherlock's lack of social understanding.
The detective didn't respond. He was busy huffing at new message he had received. John attempted to hail a cab as he looked down to see what it said. But as he looked back up, a black car had approached.
"How does he even know where we are?" John got in, knowing it was of course sent by Mycroft.
"He always knows… probably Lestrade though." Sherlock tossed his phone down, looking rather defeated as he slumped back the seat, looking at the ceiling.
"What does he want from us now?"
"Nothing, actually. Except perhaps to kill me with boredom." His eyes finally returned to John's. Those terrifyingly over analytical eyes. "He's meeting us at the flat. I'm about to be on house arrest."
