Inspired by this piece of artwork: feyuca (dot) tumblr (dot) com/post/8107732807
As a way of dying, drowning was one of the ones that Sherlock hated most. He ignored the bite to his wrists as they were bound. The bite of his scarf, now water-logged, tight against his throat. The bite of the air in his lungs that he tried to hold on to. The bite of how sheerly cold the water is.
Eyes closed, the water leaves him little to imagine, little to think save the pressing choice of drowning.
There were two.
Keep his breath and wait to be rescued. Though chances are, no one saw him being dropped into the Thames. And if anyone had seen, fewer would be inclined to dive in after him in order to pull him from sinking to the bottom like a common stone. If he held his breath, it meant hope and struggle.
Or he could breathe in the tepid water of the English river and allow himself to drift off, let go, give up.
Two choices. Like the pills the cabbie offered. Like the decision he faced with the needles back when...
Choose the latter and John would be disappointed.
But then again, who was to tell when they pulled his body from the river that he had sucked in the water himself or held out and waited until he had nothing left?
He scowled, feeling faint now. He hated drowning. And being weighted down, they likely wouldn't find his body until after it was bloated and hideous. And of course, after death, one really couldn't retain vanity... The end then...
He started at hands grabbing his face and lips pressing into his, air, precious air released between his lips, more breathed into him. He risked opening his eyes, John—blessed John's face before him. But then he was grabbing Sherlock's shoulders and kicking upwards—did swimming competitively for a short while then, but then they were above the surface and a rope was tossed to John and, the other man's arms tight around him, they were being dragged out. And air was everywhere. He sucked it in, greedy, lying on his back, eyes shut as the ropes were cut on his wrists and the scarf pulled away. Good. Air. Good. John. Worried. Scrutinising. Amused?
"Don't think this gets you out of dishes..." he panted, leaning over, hands on his knees as he also sucked in air.
Sherlock blinked and then fell back, his coat squelching, laughing at it all. Exhilerated.
"Cheated death enough for one night then?" John asked with a grin, offering a hand.
Sherlock took it and waved off the orange blanket, dropping his coat and leaning on John's shoulder for support. "If I weren't filthy and probably now diseased, I would be put off showering, but I'm cold and need to be clean."
John chuckled. "Let's go then." He turned and took steps towards Lestrade.
"John...?"
He stopped and looked back, brows up, expectantly.
"How did you... How did you find me?"
"I followed." He smiled and then went to clear them both with the DI before going home.
And perhaps, not having to choose was a much better option, Sherlock smiled.