As I said before - Sherlock whumpage. Warnings for yet another ridiculous plot. I found this one hard, and although I tried to explain how Sherlock was trapped as much as possible it might still be vague - sorry. I did my best.
AN - This is not a spoiler for the pool scene in case any of you attack me. I have no idea how the pool scene will work out.
Trapped and Sinking
Moriarty turned as fast as a snake, running, laughing. Sherlock pulled the trigger and stood still; there was nothing he could do anyway and a second later the blast rocketed outwards in a scream of white noise, shattering the tiles into a crater around it.
He felt impact on his side and fell sideways, letting John push him away, towards the pool, waiting for the clear blue water and some kind of relief from the scorching heat that ate at his bare hands and wrists.
He fell hard, painfully, dropping the gun and flinging his arms out. The water wrapped softly around his arms and head and chest as he sank down, waiting for the moment he would touch the bottom and be able to right himself.
He had his eyes pressed shut against the chlorine, but even so it seemed to be taking an awfully long time for him to sink. There was a stabbing pain in both his feet, and another along his shin. He wondered briefly if he'd been shot, but the blast would have taken care of the snipers, standing above the bomb; the balconies would have collapsed almost immediately.
He left it a couple more seconds, and then decided to investigate the reason as the why he wasn't sinking normally. He flailed his arms and tried to break the surface, trying to work out which way he was going, but all that happened was water rushed into his nose and built a white line of pain behind his eyes.
He began to panic, twisting his feet, but they didn't move. He was choking, sinking, then rising, then bursting free for less than a second with a gasp that pulled drops of water into his mouth along with air, then back under the water before he even had time to work out what was happening.
Now though, he had an idea of what position he was in, and his arms moved more steadily, lifting his head further to the surface; he had to guess where it was, because everything was pitch dark under the water.
So he did what he did best; experiment. He deduced from the airflow pushing through the rips in his trousers that he was almost all in the water, but his feet and some of his legs were out of it, balanced on the side of the pool and trapped so he couldn't move them. Easy then; apply pressure to whatever had his feet and then he could right himself and swim to safety.
He bent his knees and sensed his upper body drift through the water, but whatever was trapping him didn't budge. He felt his shoes flex though, and he could move most of his toes, so it couldn't be too bad. He just needed to pull a little harder…
The need for oxygen drove him to the surface before he could try it, and he curled his stomach muscles, attempting a lopsided sit-up that gave him just enough time for a breath before he sank back down again, abdomen burning a little.
He rested for a second, his body floating naturally deeper until his legs were fully extended again. He could hold his breath on very little oxygen for about a minute, more if he could get a couple of proper breaths first.
The logical solution was the grab the side of the pool next time. Next time he would manage it.
His fingers slipped on the tiles and plunged him back into the water, and he made the mistake of trying again before his body had recovered from the sit-up, flopping back in exhaustion. He wasn't unfit, but anyone would have difficulty doing something as tricky as a sit-up without a solid base and with their legs trapped.
The third time he made it, fixing his nails into the cracks between the tiles and breathing deeply. The place stank of smoke and chlorine, and it was lit only by a couple of lasers, unattended and pointing at the ground. He coughed twice and spat water out of his mouth, then craned to see what exactly was wrong.
A block of stone had fallen on two smaller ones, forming a sort of lopsided bridge; his legs were trapped in the gap between the tiles and the bottom of the stone, and would have been crushed if it had been any lower. He could feel his feet on the other side, so they were clear, but they were too big to fit under the bridge, leaving him hanging, hooked by them. The block was heavy and didn't look like it would be moving any time soon, no matter how hard he pulled at it.
John.
If John hadn't come to help him now he must be in trouble. Sherlock's first instinct was the check the pool, but if he hadn't made it fully into the water there was no chance John would have. He forced his rationality into action and glanced around, eyes now adjusted and able to pick out dim shapes.
John was laying only a little way from the pool, on his side. Sherlock's heart pounded in his throat for a few seconds before he realised John was breathing, fairly heavily. He didn't look too badly injured; there were no darkening stains on the tiles or obvious breaks in the limbs Sherlock could see.
"John?" he called. His voice came out as a hoarse croak, throat burning from the chlorine. "John!"
John didn't react. Sherlock struggled, pulling his feet against the block as he could; hoping to slide it off the two smaller ones, but it was too heavy for him. Then his nails broke with a crack and he was plunged back into the water.
After that he couldn't get another grip; his newly shortened nails and the slippery surface wouldn't let him. When he got a better breath in he tried to tug the block forwards, but it was useless.
The sit-ups were getting harder, the amount of time he could keep his head above the water shortening every time he broke the surface. He had to contemplate how dreadfully unlucky he was; the chance of the blocks falling at exactly the right moment was nigh impossible.
This was not going to be a fun way to die, he reflected five sit-ups later, when his muscles were almost too weak to lift him again. He tried using just his arms to swim his way up and stay afloat, but the block was long and trapped him halfway up his shins, meaning no matter how hard he swam he could never quite get above the surface without curving his stomach.
He made renewed effort, and this time, when his head emerged, dripping out of the water, he didn't breathe in; instead he shouted "John!" before his muscles gave way and he flopped back down.
Now his lungs were completely empty; bubbles burst from his mouth in a scream as he fought for the surface again, flailing his arms in a way that, under any other circumstances, he would have berated himself for. He must look ridiculous.
He took a breath prematurely because he had no choice, and inhaled half a mouthful of water with the other half air, choked and went under again, fighting his way upwards, wriggling his legs in a way he knew was useless but couldn't stop himself doing.
A swell caused by his struggling lifted him at the right moment and he managed to take a proper gasp before sinking, leaving his brain with a little more room for thought. He had about a minute's time to think in before he'd become too weak to do the next push. The police wouldn't arrive for another half-hour he guessed, although he had no idea how long he'd been here. It felt like an hour, but it was probably only ten minutes.
Even if the police were called immediately they would be careful before entering the building. So long as nothing else collapsed John would be fine, even if Sherlock would have drowned long before then. The thought was very comforting.
What on earth had he gotten into?
His lungs were beginning to burn more ferociously than his stomach muscles, so he forced himself into action, getting a fairly decent rush of air before he was back under again. The future was a little more hopeful; maybe next time he could try another call. Maybe, just maybe, he could wait it out.
The next three breaths were disastrous. The future suddenly seemed very bleak. He contemplated John as he slipped back down. John wasn't coming. Maybe he was badly hurt, maybe he was never going to wake up, but spend the rest of his days strapped to a slowly beeping machine in a blank room.
He wished he'd amended his will sooner. He supposed Mrs Hudson would still get her share, but he would have liked John to have something. The skull maybe – John would have liked that.
He considered giving up, waiting until he was too weak and then just going to sleep, but he told himself, one more, just one more breath, one more shout, and then I'll stop, then I'll give up.
He was just getting back into the routine when things went from terrible to disastrous.
He'd misjudged it; finally he'd made a mistake, overestimating the power in his muscles and taking his breath too soon. Water rushed into his lungs with a sigh as it finally got its way and he fell backwards much faster this time, arms drifting out. He let himself to limp and tired, because he was tired, so tired.
Dear John, he thought fuzzily. I'll miss you. So much.
Sentimental, foolish last thoughts, but they were comforting. Dying was so much easier when you just gave up and let the water fill your lungs. He watched the bubbles drift upwards, past his face in silver streaks, like tears falling the wrong way.
There was a movement above him, a second of gentle drifting, and then he was being hoisted out of the water and thrown onto something hard. Someone was scrabbling around him, and he could hear sounds but not understand what they meant. He tried to breathe, natural as he felt the cold air tickle his cheek, but found he couldn't.
Someone pounded on his back and he fell forwards – something arrested his fall with a jerk – and his muscles worked reflexively, but it seemed there was no getting the water out of his lungs now it was there. He choked on the substance that had before seemed so gentle, struggling to stay awake as white spots danced mockingly in front of his eyes.
A fist thudded into his chest and he choked and finally was able to cough, chucking water out of his lungs in a gush of warm liquid.
"You idiot," someone snarled, clasping him tightly. "What were you thinking asking him for a meeting? You complete, pompous ass, you idiot, you…if I'd been just a minute later…"
"Joh-" He was cut off by another burst of coughing that left him limp in John's arms. "John I'm s-s-sorry I…"
His teeth were chattering. John's arms tightened and he spun Sherlock round to look at him; there was a long cut over John's right eye and another on his cheek.
"John, how…"
"Thought I heard someone calling to me. Woke up, pried the block off with a plank as soon as I realised what was happening." They were moving, he realised, when had that started? He attempted to move his legs but failed miserably. "Dived into the water and saved you before you drowned."
"T-thanks."
"You're welcome." Sherlock might has well have been thanking him for passing his phone for all the worry that showed in his voice, but he could feel John's hands trembling, and knew he was just as terrified as he was.
"Where are we…?" He trailed off with a sigh, too tired to go on.
"Going? The hospital. You need at least three stitches in your leg, and I could do with a couple in my forehead."
"At…at home?"
John stared at him, blue eyes shining in the darkness. Sherlock tried to look past them and focus on his surroundings, but found it impossible.
"I'm an army doctor; I'm not in any fit state to deal with a case of dry drowning, which is probably what you're going to die of if we don't get you help soon." Sherlock drifted out for a couple of seconds, wrapping his arms tightly round John's chest and feeling the comforting warmth bleeding through their soaked clothes.
"I'm f-fine."
"You are not fine. Now stay the hell awake whilst we get to the hospital."
To be continued!
Thanks for reading - reviews/constructive criticism welcome! Thanks to everyone who was so kind about my first chapter.
