Whale of a Tail

"Go, go, go!" John barked out as he ran down the winding corridor behind Sherlock and Molly.

The three of them were in the partially underground compound of the final piece of Moriarty's network. It had taken them nearly two years, but they had finally gotten the last of it. They had retrieved the information they needed and sent it to Mycroft, and now, all that was left was getting out in one piece.

"Vatican cameos!" Sherlock suddenly yelled from further up the corridor.

John was close enough to Molly that he reached a hand out and pulled her to the floor with him as a gunshot rang out. The bullet zipped over their heads, and John glanced up to see Sherlock stretch out his hand, sending the guard flying up towards the ceiling. The man hit his head and crumpled down to the floor.

"Move!" Sherlock yelled, leading the way further down into the building.

John could hear the echoing sound of boots from somewhere behind him; their pursuers were getting closer. As they reached the end of a corridor, John turned and flung his arms out, waiting. When the first guard came around the corner, he sent a shockwave of telekinetic energy down the hall, sending him and the other guards flying into the wall. He then turned and raced after his friends.

He rounded a corner into the room they had been trying to get to: a maintenance room with access panels to the tunnels of water underneath them. Sherlock and Molly were at the pipe they were going to use to escape, having just taken the cover off of it.

"John!" Sherlock called.

John started in their direction, but then gunfire erupted as guns began spraying bullets from the second entryway to the room. John ducked behind some metal pipes, the bullets pinging off the metal in the room as Molly screamed. John looked over towards the corner across the room, where Sherlock was shielding Molly behind some shelves. John judged the distance between them. He would never make it. The bullets were coming too fast to catch them all.

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes moving to the side. He waved his arm, and John watched an access panel on a water pipe five feet behind him fly into the air. "That one leaves the compound, too! Go!"

John turned, using his telekinesis to move a thick piece of metal into the air between him and the pipe. He ran to the access panel and looked back at his friends. "What about—"

"Go!" Sherlock yelled at him.

John turned and jumped into the water pipe.

Molly watched John disappear into the water, ducking her head down when the bullets came close to their shelves.

"When I say run, run!" Sherlock told her.

"No!" Molly told him. "You can't—"

"I can!" Sherlock told her. He threw his hand up as he stood, stopping the bullets from hitting them. "Run!"

Hesitating for only a second, she turned and dove into the water. She immediately turned so she could try to look up through the surface of the water. She could just barely see Sherlock's torso and head, his wavering form backing towards the water. Suddenly, he made a gesture with his arm and turned, jumping into the pipe. As he came through the opening, trying to dodge the bullets, his head collided hard with the edge of the metal access panel.

No! Molly thought, kicking her newly transformed tail to get to him.

He was unconscious, and blood was streaming into the water from his head. Molly glanced up through the surface of the water, pulling his body further down the pipe so the guards couldn't see them. Sherlock's body suddenly transformed, and Molly turned his head to look at the wound, but there wasn't enough light from the room they had come from to see anything. Setting him adrift in the middle of the tunnel of water, she swam forward enough for her tail to have enough clearance in front of his head. She held her hand behind her, mentally latching onto him, and then took off swiftly through the water.

Within ten minutes, the pipe let out into a lake, and Molly pulled Sherlock to the surface. "Sherlock!" She shook him a little, mindful of his head injury. "Sherlock, wake up!"

But he only floated there, unconscious.

Molly glanced around, looking for somewhere safe, before setting off with Sherlock in tow.

Molly pulled Sherlock's body up onto the wide ledge that ran around the dock in the rundown boathouse. It was low enough that it was covered by about two inches of water, which was essential. They were always stronger in their mer forms, and they would have to stay that way if Molly was going to help him heal faster.

It was a gift she had discovered a few years ago shortly after graduating with her doctorate. Human blood was mainly water, and if she concentrated hard enough, she could direct white blood cells and platelets to an injury to heal rapidly. And it helped that they naturally healed faster than the average human.

Molly pulled herself up onto the ledge, sitting next to Sherlock's head. She leaned over him, placing her hands on either side of his head, closing her eyes and concentrating. She felt her power latch onto the fluid in his body, and she sifted through it until she could discern its chemical components. Giving a burst of energy, she set the blood moving, directing the healing cells to where they were needed the most.

Setting the process of keeping the blood moving to the back of her subconscious, she opened her eyes, keeping one hand in contact with his shoulder as she turned his head with the other, inspecting the wound. The wound had been trickling blood into the water lapping at them, but it was now congealing and knitting itself back together. It wouldn't heal for another couple of days—especially the trauma to the brain—but at least it was on its way.

Molly awoke to a grunt, and she quickly raised her head to look over at Sherlock. He was still unconscious—he hadn't woken up since they had arrived early that morning—but he was moving his head slightly back and forth. Not removing her hand from his arm to keep the healing going, she eased up onto her elbows to look carefully at him. He didn't appear to be in any pain, just vocalizing as his mind tried to emerge from under the blanket of unconsciousness.

Sherlock grunted again before his head stilled. Molly turned his head away from her so she could look at the wound again. It had scabbed over, and what bruising had started up on his scalp had disappeared. Molly glanced through the window across from them, seeing that the sun was low in the sky. She had slept most of the day. Once again, she found herself hoping that John had made it safely back to their safehouse.

Molly hurried through the water back towards the boathouse. She had hated leaving him, but if he was going to have any chance of getting through this—not to mention her—they would need some sustenance. She had sped off under the cover of darkness, finding a seaside market that she was able to knick some fruits, bread, fish and juice from. She had put these into a few sealing Ziploc bags nearby and set back off towards the boathouse.

Molly swam under the closed doors of the boathouse, surfacing and looking anxiously towards the ledge. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Sherlock lying where she had left him. She swam over to the ledge, setting the bags of food on it before pulling herself up to sit next to Sherlock. Breaking the seal on a bag, she pulled out a bottle of orange juice, setting it behind her on the floor of the dock. Easing Sherlock's head up, she moved so that she was now sitting with his head propped up on her tail.

Grabbing the juice, she brought it to Sherlock's mouth and carefully tipped some in. Sherlock's throat worked as he instinctively swallowed the liquid. Molly kept at it until the bottle was half empty, and she put the lid back on it, setting it aside. As she moved his head back to the ledge, she noticed that Sherlock was shivering. The temperature had dropped after the sun went down, and it would probably get worse throughout the night.

Molly glanced around the boathouse, spotting some old rotting oars in the corner. She raised her hand, and they flew over to the dock floor, breaking apart and forming a pile next to them. She clenched her fist above the wood, which started smoking before bursting into flames.

Molly then turned and laid down next to Sherlock, laying half over him to share her body heat. Just before she drifted off, she set his blood to healing again.

Molly glanced down as Sherlock started moving his head again, his eyelids fluttering. After a few seconds, his eyes opened, his gaze hazy.

"Sherlock," said Molly gently.

Sherlock blinked a couple times, and then he looked up at Molly. Molly slid off the ledge and moved through the water until she was floating next to his arm, so he could look at her without straining his neck. Sherlock slowly turned his head to track her as she moved, and he opened his mouth to speak, but only a few sounds escaped.

"Shh," Molly told him. "Don't strain yourself right now. You're still healing."

Sherlock closed his mouth, staring at her.

"Can you understand me?" she asked him.

He nodded.

Molly smiled. "Good. Do you remember everything?"

Again, he nodded.

Molly nodded. "You hit your head pretty hard when you jumped into the pipe. It was a bad wound; I could practically see your skull. I found this old boathouse—" she gestured around them, "—about fifteen miles away from the compound. We've been here for almost two days now."

Sherlock frowned in confusion.

"I've been helping you heal," Molly explained. "It's rather simple, actually. I mean, blood contains water, so it's really just a matter of directing the platelets to the site of the injury."

Sherlock's frown cleared, and he actually looked quite impressed. But then, the frown was back.

Interpreting his expression, Molly gave him a sad look. "I don't know what happened to John. With all luck, he's at the safehouse, waiting for us."

Sherlock moved his arms to push himself up, but Molly put her hands on his chest.

"No," Molly told him, pushing him back down. "Your wound may be healed, but your brain needs more time. He'll still be there when you're better."

Sherlock reluctantly relaxed back against the ledge.

Molly pushed herself up to grab the food left on the floor. She brandished it. "Ready to eat?"

Molly opened her eyes, taking in a deep breath as she stretched her tail and arms. She glanced over at the ledge next to her to find it empty.

Molly glanced around the water. "Sherlock?" She slid off the ledge, diving into the water to search the bottom. Coming back to the surface, she turned on the spot. "Sherlock!"

"Boo."

Molly gasped and spun around towards the voice, and Sherlock materialized in front of her, a smirk on his face. "Don't do that to me!"

Sherlock's grin widened, and he chuckled.

"You're feeling better," said Molly.

"Much," said Sherlock, swimming closer. "Thank you." He gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Molly blushed a little. "Ready for a swim?"

"Definitely," said Sherlock. "I spent the last half hour getting my bearings. Follow me." He sunk into the water and swam under the doors.

Molly followed as Sherlock took off in a burst of bubbles. She caught up to him, and they swam side by side for the thirty miles to the beachside safehouse. Sherlock emerged into the grotto in the basement first.

John jolted up from his spot on a cot in the corner, his frantic gaze shooting straight to the pool. "Oh, thank God. What happened to you two? I've been worried to death."

Molly popped up to the surface next to him as Sherlock said, "Molly was healing me."

John frowned. "Healing you?"

Sherlock swam to the edge, pulling himself out of the water. "I suffered a blow to the head when I jumped into the water. Molly's been speeding up my healing." He raised his hand and began to dry himself off.

John turned his frown onto Molly. "You can do that?"

Molly nodded as she pulled herself out. "Would you like me to teach you? It's easier when you've had training in biology—like a doctor or a chemist." She nodded over at Sherlock. "That way, you recognize the chemical composition."

"Sounds great," John told her, going over to the other two cots in the room and grabbing the duffel bags with changes of clothes in them.

"Has Mycroft been in contact?" asked Sherlock, standing up.

John handed him one of the duffels. "Several times. The first was to say they've taken down the compound. The rest were updates on his search for you." He handed the second duffel to Molly as she stood.

"So, Moriarty's web is gone," said Molly, sharing a relieved smile with the two of them. "It's finally over."

"Yes," said Sherlock, pulling his Belstaff from the bag and smiling. "We can go home."