Fusion between BBC Sherlock and Outlast.
"John!" The beam from Sherlock's flashlight blinds him. "John," he breathes with benediction as he turns the light onto his friend's slumped body.
"Sherlock..." John wants to stand; his thighs twitch with effort that's aborted before it can begin. "I can't feel my ankle," he says.
Sherlock sloshes through the shin-high water. John feels small waves lap at his ankle where the jeans are rolled away from his wound.
"Can you move?"
Earlier John had managed to drag himself onto a pallet that was shoved against the sewer wall. Sherlock kneels beside him on the soggy and decayed wood now.
"Not on my own," John tells him.
Sherlock reaches out for John's upper arms as though to heave him up, but halts and then lurches forward to wind his arms around his friend. "Thank God I found you." A pair of arms come up to grip at the back of Sherlock's mottled, bloody, sweaty dress shirt and John buries his nose into Sherlock's neck.
A piercing splash make both men go rigid. John's nose leaves the warm curve of his friend's collar bone and he scans the darkness. The splashing is steady; the splashing is footsteps. Heavy footsteps of a giant man.
Sherlock is half out of the embrace when John puts his all into a mighty twist, in spite of his injury. He forces Sherlock under him, curls over him, ducks their foreheads together.
Unwilling to make such a foolish mistake as to speak, Sherlock tries desperately to convey his disapproval.
John's lips brush Sherlock's ear. "One of us has to get out of this hellhole, and you're the detective. You know what you're doing. Expose Murkoff."
Suddenly Sherlock feels fear stronger than anything since entering Mount Massive. The splashes are too close now. Chris Walker has either already seen them or will very soon.
Sherlock grips John's jumper. He feels every cord in the fabric under his raw hands.
"Little pigs," they hear.
John's hefted up in the air, grunting and tugging at the neck of his restrictive jumper.