Note: A few months ago, I came across a fanfic piece similar to the one I'm presenting now. The other author's story was very good but it left me wanting a different version so I wrote my own.
I mean seriously, how can you not include mouth-to-mouth resuscitation with a story line like this?
I own nothing of Sherlock.
Mouth-to-Mouth Resuscitation
No matter how long he lived, no matter what came afterwards, no matter how terrible, how horrifying his days to come, the fact would remain and never change: John Watson would never forget the moment that he had to watch his best friend fall for the second time.
The ex-soldier had been through enough the first time round, they both had. But somehow, this was just as bad. Well, not quite because in this case John understood what was happening, not that it made it much easier to bear but at least he knew the reasons and the decisions that led them both to that harrowing outcome. And what was more, on this occasion, John was actually able to do something about it, precious little it was though, but at least he was gifted the chance to save his dear flatmate. He had never been as grateful for his doctoral degree as he was in that moment, for it allowed him the ability to divert disaster and appease fate once again. If John was willing to go that far to save him, that is.
When he had awakened the morning of that gloomy January day, John never thought, nor wanted, to end it by kissing the great Sherlock Holmes on the mouth.
Even for it being the height of winter, John couldn't remember being so cold. More than once on that day, John halfheartedly wondered if they had somehow been transported to Siberia, or that the entire island of England had broken off from its solid bearing in the sea only to float farther and farther north, it was certainly brutal enough in its bitter severity, chilling to skin, bone, and soul. Like a living thing, he could feel it crawling down his jacket and up into his sleeves, blasting his face to frost. Something that even walls and a heater couldn't penetrate, even if he could have obtained those things late that night, away from their lovely warm flat on Baker Street.
However, if you stood as the renowned Sherlock Holmes' haggard blogger, you were usually not that lucky.
On yet another case that had conveyed them straight into the path and company of a serial killer, Sherlock and John had, as a result, found themselves giving chase after that very same criminal over Westminster Bridge. As usual, the excitement and thrill in his blood aroused by the adrenaline and sense of danger in these moments, courtesy of Sherlock's brilliance and inclination for catching all sorts of miscreants, was precisely what John lived for, thrived on them like a flower thrives on sunlight. He knew for a fact, real and certain, that he couldn't survive without days like these. Oh, he knew all too well.
It was even worth the fatigue, the burning muscles and lungs as he sped across the pavement and asphalt of the bridge, the glacial bite of the wind that stung and crystalized his face, even their treacherous proximity to death. Well, so he thought. At least the running warmed up his body a little more. His frozen limbs melted somewhat with the exertion, momentarily staving off complete physical torment. Unfortunately, the air that was required to keep him going seared his throat on the way down. But that was not the worst of it, not by far.
When they were not far off from the other side of Westminster Bridge, John's gaze wandered up and ahead to Big Ben, briefly distracted by the way it was lit up at night, its crevices seeming to glow in shadow, a beautiful sight indeed, and he supposed he was tired enough to let himself do it. But that was all that was needed for the criminal to gain the upper hand and for John's recovery to come too late. For once John's eyes returned their attention again to his colleague and their prey, he realized something was about to go very wrong.
Sherlock had already caught up to the suspect and was now engaged in a scuffle with him, so John sped up, veering in their direction to give aid. The consulting detective had shoved the murderer—with grunts and oaths from the same—up against the stone barrier wall to the side of the pavement but before Sherlock could do anything but grab the front of the man's coat, the glint of a hunting dagger suddenly appeared in the latter's fist and thrust downward toward Sherlock's chest just as John reached for the gun in his own belt. Considering how his opponent was the stronger one, Sherlock could do nothing more than to let his instincts take over, reacting to the man's lunge by swerving to his right but it didn't help much. In the two seconds it took to retrieve and raise his military handgun, John watched with a horrified lurch of his heart as the knife made contact with Sherlock's body, the hilt to smack against the detective's dark head, then the criminal to finish the job by tossing Sherlock's limp body over the edge of the bridge.
John gasped. It had all happened too fast for him to be of any use at preventing it.
No.
The doctor's mind and body froze for only a second as he contended against a cacophony of dreadful, ravenous emotions that had reared up and threatened to engulf him. His eyes widened in panicked shock and his stomach writhed in sickened dismay as his best friend plunged into the empty air and disappeared from sight. Even unconscious, the man could be extraordinarily graceful.
It was St. Bart's all over again.
But this time, he could follow.
No longer hesitant, John pulled the trigger, shooting the suspect once in the shoulder and once in the lower leg, the ear-shattering echo of the bullets' release and the man's cry of pain seeming oddly very far away and apart from himself. Amazingly, a very small, distant part of his mind somehow managed to convince the rest of him—the bits that thirsted to revolt against his nature's integrity, that cried out for blood, for vengeance—to avoid killing the man…for now.
Then without really thinking about it, John slipped his weapon back into his trousers before rushing forward and a little to the side of the spot where he last saw Sherlock, leapt over the smooth grey stone railing without a falter, and promptly descended off the bridge. Sporadic bright lights of London flashed past him like the eyes of indifferent, mocking spectators as the frigid air blew up through the darkness to meet him, flapping his clothes and carving across his exposed skin like heavy icicles. The merciless bent of gravity contorted John's body in unnatural ways and forced his stomach to fly up into his throat, making his anxiety for Sherlock's condition magnify until he thought he would burst apart from it. After an age, an eternity of plummeting through the intolerable emptiness and fear, John finally struck the surface of the Thames, the initial impact of his fall slapping him against the water like concrete until the cutting severity of the waves covered him completely and took away his breath. With frantic strokes of his arms and legs, made stiff and languid by the freezing river and heavy by his un-discarded clothes, John finally broke through the water back into the open, proceeding to sputter and gulp down the air as he endeavored to stay afloat.
Once John tried fruitlessly to rub drops out of his eyes and became acclimated in the water, he wasted no time in searching for his friend. Even after his eyes adjusted, the black night obscured everything under its impenetrable shroud. In consequence, panic rose back up to smother him again because he doubted whether he could ever find Sherlock quickly enough now, until he remembered the tiny torch he had attached to his keychain for just such an emergency. With unforeseen difficulty, John dipped his hand down into his pocket and took hold of his keys with numb fingers.
Please work, please work, John prayed with fervent heart to whoever could and would hear, merciless deity or not.
Clicking the button on the side of the metallic tube, the bulb flickered to life, momentarily blinding him before he could direct it elsewhere, his pulse giving a thankful thump in his veins in response. Then he was feverishly looking nearby, afar, beneath, the torchlight wavering in consequence of his violent shivering.
"Sherlock!" John howled. "Sherlock, answer me if you can! Sherlock?"
Yet there came no response, no sounds, but of his own harsh breathing and flailing and the lap of the river against the grimy columns of the bridge. His insides curdled in despair.
Groping greedily through the icy water, John's foot finally slid across something big and hard yet yielding and after pocketing his keys and paddling down into the Siberian depths again, he came in contact with finely-made wool and a tangle of curls floating down below. Grasping tightly to the coat itself, John kicked with all his might until he popped back up from the river with his arms full of the great Sherlock Holmes. By some miracle, John was able to flounder above the fitful, swallowing waves long enough to haul the detective onto his back in an effort to keep the younger man's head above the water. However, the strength and footing required for such a feat was more than he owned and so he went under again.
Bit not good.
And John knew exactly how Sherlock would respond if he were conscious: Obviously, you idiot.
After brief deliberation in which distress and alarm menaced him to the point of near-crippling, John hooked his hands under Sherlock's forearms and positioned the detective's head to lean back across the doctor's shoulder like a pillow and proceeded to propel backward where John hoped waited the safety of the shore. Albeit an uncomfortable and straining way to go about it, but so far it seemed to do sufficiently well. Fortunately for him, not only did Sherlock rarely eat and was therefore underweight, but also the pebble-strewn bank was closer than he had originally anticipated, otherwise he couldn't imagine this whole reckless venture ending in anything other than disaster, for his muscles were already convulsing and seizing with the cold, not to mention screaming at him in absolute weariness and overwhelming pain and his lungs joined the fiery chorus before long, all begging to be rewarded with much-needed rest or they threatened to give out entirely.
Once John was able to stand on rubbery feet in the shallows, he clenched his teeth and took to carefully dragging Sherlock's dead-weight across the rocks— stumbling and scraping all the while but no worse for wear—before both crumpled on the sand as soon as John considered them far enough away from the water to be undisturbed by the incoming tide.
John did not sit idly by, however, to catch his breath and recover his strength as his body yearned for, not yet. Directly upon reaching stable ground, John immediately went to work, his medical training taking over and giving him a sense of confidence once more, providing him with an anchor to keep him grounded in the midst of this tempest. Feeling the tell-tale signs of hypothermia in himself, he knew Sherlock would be worse off but first and foremost he forced one of Sherlock's eyelids open and flashed the torch back and forth across the blue orb there. Pupil reaction, good sign. Next, he focused on studying Sherlock's wounds—in the chest from the blade and the blunt force impact in the head—neither of which were anything more than superficial he discovered once he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt with quivering fingers and pulled aside his mop of dark curls to find only the skin pierced but no further damage, though a concussion was probably likely.
His relief was so great it made his chest ache and his head swim a little. That was until he glanced down at Sherlock's chest once more and realized it wasn't moving. Own heart stopping mid-beat, John hovered a hand over Sherlock's nose—no air movement touched him. Then he checked the pulse in the detective's neck—there wasn't one. John's sanity wavered and suddenly he and the world around him began to crumble and dissolve and all that was left behind was the crushing agony and fearful desperation that settled over him like a suffocating chain.
"Sherlock, can you hear me? Come back, now, Sherlock. Come on!"
Only silence answered.
This can't be happening, not really, not again.
Cursing nonsensically, John moved as close to his friend's side as he could, his knees probably pinning Sherlock's arm to his hip in the process, but he forged ahead nonetheless. Putting one hand's palm above the back of the other, John placed them on Sherlock pale rimy torso and over his sternum, locked his elbows, and began to pump whilst trying to ignore the way Sherlock's ribs were showing through his skin again. Why couldn't the bloody fool eat more often?
How could John have let this happen? Why had he failed him yet again? What if he was too late?
Please come back, like last time, please. I need you, Sherlock! You can't leave me behind again…
Thinking ahead, John realized something with a sinking stomach as he continued administering the adequate amount of chest compressions, and thus returned to being terror-stricken and doubtful. Inevitably, once he was through with this part, he would have to move on to mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, there was no other choice, for the man was definitely not breathing. Call it ridiculous and stupid, call it narrow-minded if need be, but the fact of the matter remained: he would have to kiss Sherlock Holmes and he wasn't sure if he was willing, even platonic as it was.
During the time it took to try and revive Sherlock's heart, John gravely pondered over the consequences of each choice. If he went ahead and did what was necessary, someone might be witness to the scene, the wrongful assumption over their relationship and his sexuality could get out, solidify people's remarks of which he would never be able to live down; not only that but it might make things terribly awkward between him and his friend. What if this ruined their friendship altogether, put a shambles to the only real thing, the best thing John had in his life? What if he needed more therapy over this and screwed up his mind yet again?
On the other hand, John could try and risk it by not doing the mouth-to-mouth in which case probability dictated his breathing might not recoil on its own. Not having a free hand at the moment to make certain, John guessed both of their phones were probably useless now, no longer serviceable after their little freestyle in the Thames, and so help was beyond reach for a good while, much too long to wait before Sherlock accumulated brain damage or worse with the lack of oxygen to it. Giving a cursory glance he could distinguish none about at this hour. He could run and get help but leaving Sherlock behind was never an option, would never be one. In short, the odds were stacked against him for that course.
If he didn't do it, Sherlock would die, simple as that, and yet it was everything.
John could recall easily enough, although he hated to do it, what it was like after Sherlock faked his death, how it felt to watch what he thought was his best friend lying in his own blood on the pavement, all-seeing blue eyes lifeless and dulled, smirk vanished, caustic comments stolen, his body pitched below ground like he had been nothing more than just another life lost, just more fare for the worms and not in actuality a brilliant hero who could save the world one criminal at a time. But he had known better, knew better now. And he never wanted to suffer through that torture again. It had been too much, all too much for his emotions, his spirit to endure. And so, even without the tears already flooding his cheeks or the premature grief that racked his body and gripped his heart hard enough to shatter it yet again,
John already knew what he needed to do, and was strangely at peace with it.
He had performed it dozens of times before on strangers, why shouldn't this be any different, right?
"He's just like everyone else, Dr. Watson. Don't make it into such a big deal," John consoled himself, only partly succeeding.
Fingers fluttering, teeth grinding, mouth drying out, John paused. His heart drummed so brutally against his ribs that it made his own breathing a task and his head to twinge. Abruptly he wished there was some procedure that could transfer some of its power into Sherlock's veins, but there was none. In a haggard whisper, John pleaded to his unheeding friend, his voice jagged and feeble, "Sherlock, please wake up, right now, so I don't have to do this. Look, I'm being stupid, sentimental. I could be doing it wrong. You need to tell me off, eh? I really don't want to do this." He groaned. "You sodding clot, why can't you ever listen to me, do what's good for you? Sherlock, I need you to come back!"
But glancing over to the detective's still-vacant, deathly ashen face, John acknowledged there was no escaping it.
Allowing his CPR instincts to have total reign so as to try and separate himself from the situation, John shifted his hands to Sherlock's head, using his right one to tilt up the detective's chin and open his mouth whilst the left one plugged his thin nose shut.
"Here it goes. Sorry, Sherlock," John muttered.
Wincing considerably, John bent down and closed the distance between them, clamping his lips over Sherlock's thick violet pair and puffed a heavy breath down the detective's throat and into his lungs. It lasted only a second or two and strangely wasn't so bad all in all, especially since Sherlock's mouth was too stone-cold, too empty of life to be cause for any concern on John's part. In truth, John was so affected, so devastated by his own worry and misery and dread that he couldn't feel much else beyond that.
Yet, thankfully, he had no…physical reaction to the experience—heterosexuality confirmed. Not that he ever questioned it in the first place, but it's always nice to have it upheld. And even better, Sherlock would probably never know what transpired, if he ever returned to consciousness that is, for Sherlock had still not reacted to his efforts, his pulse and breathing still not responding to his frenzied persuasion, whether bodily or verbally. Furthermore, either by some freak spurt of hallucination bred by peaked fear or an inexplicable development of otherworldly intuition, John was plagued with the sense of a dark force like that of the Grim Reaper hovering, poised and impatient, hungrily licking his fangs above his back, just itching for the chance to swoop in and rob him of the one thing that meant the most to him, that saved him and changed him forever for the better: Sherlock.
No, no, no, no, no, please no.
It seemed so unreal, so beyond possibility. How could someone so extraordinary, so god-like and invincible be taken, gone? How could his only friend, his best friend, his entire world, depart from his side, to die? Could fate be so cruel?
Apparently.
"Damn it, wake up!" John roared, his voice breaking into pieces. How long had it been since Sherlock had hit the water? How long had he been doing this, going back and forth between counting compressions and forcibly pouring breath into his friend's lungs with a grimace of concentration plastered on his face? He didn't know, couldn't think well enough to even guess.
Before long, John realized he was sobbing uncontrollably.
Finally, finally, a water-logged cough erupted from somewhere near the doctor's elbow. John started, whipping his head to the side to see Sherlock blinking and turning his head of his own volition as liquid spewed from his mouth. Assisting Sherlock to a position on his side, John patted him on the back to help free the detective of the last of the stowaway Thames.
Not a moment after Sherlock stopped coughing and could sit up on his own accord, aware and sharp as ever, John allowed himself to collapse beside him. He made an attempt at calming his trembling, his breathing, even his frayed nerves and emotions but it took a while to even begin to make any progress of it. Despite his need to embrace his friend, to touch him, to ensure he was not just imagining the man was still alive and there with him, he instead threw an arm across his eyes, trying to pull himself together and conceal the residual tears of staggering relief and joy that threatened to give him away to the very man who practically made it his life's pursuit to scoff at feelings.
Regardless of the oncoming mockery, John reveled in the sensation of euphoria that was by now romping just beneath his skin like a living thing.
"I th-think I can con-conjecture accurately e-enough, but I'd still like to know, John: Wh-what exactly happened?"
For a minute, John could do nothing but stare at his friend, at his achingly familiar "deduction face", the frown and narrowed eyes as he scanned their surroundings, the same Sherlock as ever. And, for some inexplicable reason, it all made John explode into hysterical giggles.
Predictably, Sherlock's puzzled expression turned to an irritated sneer. "What is it?" he snapped.
"No-nothing, Sherlock, just…" John wrested his sanity back into its rightful place, obliging his laughter to die down and his body to function properly. But once he peered over at Sherlock again, how the detective was now consumed with shivers and his grey face marked with exhaustion, he understood they were not out of the dark quite yet. They needed to get home, straightaway. "I'll explain later, okay? We need to first get somewhere dry where we can phone Lestrade and avoid the hypothermia from settling in anymore. I'm not too fond of the idea of either of us catching pneumonia."
"Yes, yes, hypothermia, pneumonia: boring. Just tell me now, John!" Sherlock retorted sulkily. "The suspect got away, didn't he?"
"Not very quickly, if at all," John admitted. "Gunshot wounds tend to slow you down."
"Oh? Do tell."
John unleashed a long-suffering sigh. "Not yet." Stubbornly, the doctor side of him refused to surrender the likelihood that their bodies could still be in the danger zone. "Hold on, will you?"
Ignoring Sherlock's grumbles and complaints, John stepped over to the detective where he supported the man enough to regain his feet, nearly knocking John back to the ground as a result. After helping each other wobble up the shore of the Thames, the doctor and the detective began weaving their way to the main road, their arms clinging to their chests to try and stimulate some circulation and warmth back into their soaking and chilled skin to no avail. They would need dry clothes soon, preferably now so as to evade the worst of it.
Soon afterwards, thank their lucky stars, they happened upon one of Sherlock's renowned Homeless Network who volunteered his services once Sherlock and John exchanged their dead phones for a couple of blankets and information regarding the nearest access to a phone that didn't require the notes that were no doubt soggy with water in their pockets and thus, for the moment, beyond standards of acceptability. With the patchy old blankets wrapped tightly about their shoulders in an attempt to dry themselves off as well as guard against the insufferable January atmosphere, the all-knowing detective and his blogger were now shadowing the bearded homeless man who was willing to guide them to a nearby phone-wielding building of which he knew would be unlocked at this hour as the janitors cleaned throughout the night.
Clearing his throat, John remarked matter-of-factly through chattering teeth, "Well, you need a shock blanket now, don't you, Sherlock?"
The subject of his purposefully-provoking jab snorted derisively. "It's hardly shock, John. How stupid…"
"Just making sure your brain is still functioning correctly," John explained with a smug air. That was certainly a change.
"Functioning—and flourishing, far better than your unused one and you well know it."
Attributing his friend a sidelong glance with raised eyebrows, John noted the unmistakable mischievous gleam of humor in Sherlock's clever ice-blue eyes and knew he meant to offense. John chuckled under the fog of his breath.
Abruptly, Sherlock emitted a hiss of pain as he rubbed at his upper torso and flinched. "My chest hurts. Why—oh!" Just then, Sherlock must have perceived the way John's face blanched and deadpanned and, because he caught the look, he undoubtedly had put two and two together as it were and came out with aversion. The ex-soldier shuddered in trepidation then hunched up his shoulders as though expecting a verbal blow.
"Did you—"
John succinctly interrupted his flatmate, his words blunt and hurried. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Obviously." Sniffing once, Sherlock continued. "People might talk, you know."
Shooting him a fleeting glance, John unexpectedly grinned. "I don't really care anymore. I certainly didn't at the time. You scared the hell out of me, you know. Don't do it again, Sherlock, or I'll follow after you and make you sorry," he ended in a monotone.
"Deal."
After a moment of silence of which was oddly void of awkwardness, Sherlock broke it once more. "By the way, thank you."
John almost couldn't believe what he was hearing. But his heart flew all the same. "My pleasure—well, not really," he blushed profusely. "Though it was vastly unpleasant I am still glad to do anything to keep you safe, Sherlock."
"I know, John. I know."
Sorry Johnlock fans, but it is what it is. Regardless, I truly hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review or ideas for improvements!
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