Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock


Chapter 2 – Falling

The inside of the telephone booth was unbearably hot compared to the icy cold of the outside world. The door slammed shut behind him, effectively locking him inside; he wouldn't be able to push it open again in his state. He reached for the telephone and dialled the number that he mercifully remembered off by heart.

"Mycroft Holmes," the voice on the other end said.

"Mycroft, I n-need some help," Sherlock stuttered through his chattering teeth.

"Why aren't you using your phone?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

He had been running through London, the killer almost getting away, but Sherlock was faster. The streets were empty this late at night, the only real sound being the very distant traffic and their own footsteps and panting.

The killer took an unexpected left turn, rushing onto Westminster Bridge. Sherlock almost didn't make the turn fast enough, crashing into the wall of the bridge before continuing his pursuit. He ignored the sudden pain and persevered, nearing the killer as he got closer to the iconic Eye.

Suddenly, the killer reached into his pocket, and Sherlock knew what he was doing, but didn't have enough time to react. His target pulled a gun, and rounded on the detective.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his arms raised. He wasn't surrendering, but in the off chance that the known killer just happened to decide to shoot, it would be a lot easier to convince him to change his mind if he thought that his victim was no longer a threat.

The killer took a step forward, the gun still raised between his eyes. Sherlock stood his ground.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock smirked. "You don't know?"

The killer frowned. "You're with the police," he said. "You're after me. I could get sent to prison because of you."

"No," Sherlock disagreed, "you're going to get sent to prison because you murdered your ex-wife and her parents."

"She had it coming!" the killer roared, and surged forward in a fit of fury. He crashed into the detective, shoving him against the wall and leaning him over the edge.

Sherlock fought back against him, swiftly changing his position so that the killer was now hanging over the watery depths. He pushed him back farther until he was practically lying on top of the bridge wall, one hand clasped around the detective's lapel and the other holding onto his gun.

"Let go!"

"Drop the gun!"

Bang!

The gunshot rang through the air, and the killer's expression changed. In the struggle, the gun had been turned around, and was now facing his own chest. He looked down at the spreading crimson on his torso, before meeting the detective's eyes with an almost pleading expression.

He began to tip over the edge, but in his last moments of life his countenance became furious. In a feat of strength that could only have been fuelled by the adrenaline surging around his body trying to find a way to keep him alive, his grip tightened and he pulled Sherlock over the edge with him.

Half an hour later, the detective was effectively washed up on the banks of the Thames, coughing, spluttering, and freezing. By some miracle he was both alive and conscious, and – in the knowledge that the river water would have destroyed his phone – headed for the nearest telephone booth.

"I fell in the Thames," he answered his brother, now finding it difficult to remain upright.

"Where is Dr Watson?"

"I left him at home, I didn't need him for this one."

"Clearly you did. Where are you?" Mycroft asked, in the business-like tone that he only reserved for matters of ultimate urgency.

"Don't you know?" Sherlock gasped, leaning against the wall of the telephone booth for support; his vision was beginning to blur, and the cold was seeping into his very core.

"Are you saying you don't know where you are?" There was a pause. "Never mind, we've found the signal. Stay awake."

Sherlock chuckled, but it turned into a cough. The shaking was making it hard to hold the phone to his ear, and he could feel the darkness clouding over him.

"Thank you," he gasped, as he slid to the floor.