2. Shock Blanket

"We can't giggle, it's a crime scene."

"Look at me, I'm in shock. I have a blanket."

What a strange memory to surface at a time like this. Although… wait. A time like this? What time is it exactly? Sherlock wracks his brain. It is strangely blank. This should panic him; it does not. The blankness and the lack of panic combine in an equation with a terrible solution: drugs – most likely narcotic. Oh, no. That's not good. And not just A Bit Not Good, but Very Not Good.

Pain lances through his chest. He has the distinct feeling that if not for the drugs, it would be a lot worse. Morphine, then, he decides. Likely not self-administered, if the burning in his lungs and the smell of antiseptic are any indication. That is considerably less ominous. Probably.

"Sherlock?"

The fog closes in around him again.


Six hours earlier

"Well, what do you make of it?" asks Lestrade as he watches Sherlock inspect the scene. He, Sherlock, and John are standing on a narrow bridge above a countryside river, staring at the body of a redhead. Donovan and Anderson hover some twenty feet away, at Sherlock's (and therefore Lestrade's) orders.

The scene is picturesque. The old stone bridge, the rushing river beneath, the quaint village nearby. They even have the added advantage of the sun setting behind a hill in the distance. The dead girl is a macabre decoration in what would otherwise be a postcard-worthy setting.

"Ritualistic killing?" John offers, inspecting the body closely, his gloved fingers probing the wound in her throat. "Likely bled out in under two minutes, judging by the depth and breadth of the throat wound."

John says ritualistic because her arms are spread out to either side, and her ankles are crossed. Crucifix position in the middle of the rustic bridge.

Sherlock surmises that she was lying like that when the killer snuck up on her as she basked in the rare warmth of an autumn afternoon. After all, she is still wearing her dress and her jumper. "If it was ritualistic, she'd be naked," he points out. He explains his theory. "The bridge is rarely used nowadays; the path doesn't lead anywhere except into the countryside. She chose this spot to lie down. Perhaps to be close to the river without having to lie in the mud beside it."

Nobody is able to disagree with him.

All of a sudden, Sherlock freezes, his expression suddenly alarmed.

"What is it?" John asks, glancing at the dead girl. Sherlock's eyes are locked on the surface of the bridge beside her head. The exact space where Lestrade's feet are planted.

"Sherlock," Lestrade prompts, waiting for Sherlock to fill them all in.

"Don't move," Sherlock says sharply to Lestrade. "Stay exactly as you are."

Greg looks to John incredulously, and shifts his weight.

Which happens to be a very bad idea.

With an ominous crack, the edge of the bridge on which Lestrade is standing suddenly begins to crumble under his weight. The stones are coming loose from the mortar from all the sudden use after years of lying untouched.

The river is a mere ten feet below, but it is cold and moving fast.

Sherlock lunges for Lestrade as the inspector flails, searching for purchase on the rocks slipping out from beneath him. He is a half second too late, and Lestrade falls straight into the river below.

"Shit." With alacrity, Sherlock begins shedding his coat, preparing to dive into the river himself.

"Wait!" John cries out, staying him with a hand on his shoulder. He is looking at Sherlock like he is insane. He points down into the river. "There he is," he says as Lestrade's head breaks the surface. "He's conscious, he'll swim to the bank and we can pull him out there."

Sherlock's eyes are wild and impatient as they bore into John's. "He can't swim," he hisses, and dives into the river.

Cold. It slams into his body like a physical force, threatening to slow his movements. An icy finger reaches down his throat as his body cuts through the frigid water. Shoes. Should have taken off the shoes. They'll be a problem.

No time for that now. Sherlock finds which way is up and breaks the surface. His teeth are already chattering, but he has to find Lestrade. He spots him some way downstream, fighting against the current. Lestrade couldn't even pass the swim lessons they give little kids at the local gym, much less save his own life. Sherlock knows this, and begins moving with the current in a rhythmic breaststroke. Before long, he reaches Lestrade and grabs a fistful of his shirt collar.

"Are you hurt?" Sherlock demands over the din of the rushing water. The current seems swifter from here than it did from the bridge, and he can feel unforgiving jagged rocks clipping his legs as he struggles to keep himself and the D.I. above water.

"N-No," Lestrade manages. His lips are already blue from the cold.

Somewhere above, Sherlock can hear John coordinating the rescue efforts, but the sound of his voice fades as both Sherlock and Lestrade are overtaken by a wall of water.

Rock. Sherlock comes to a sudden stop and feels the rough surface of a large rock at his back. He tightens his hold on Lestrade, who reaches for the outcropping, but it is no use. The current has the D.I., and Sherlock is not letting go, so it gets them both.

"Hold your breath," Sherlock orders, trying to clear his field of vision whilst swimming counter-current. "Keep your lungs as full as you can. Buoyancy."

Lestrade is flailing, trying to do his part to get them both toward one of the banks, but he's losing strength. The cold is settling in. He wraps his fingers around one of Sherlock's wrists.

It feels like it's been hours.

That's the cold, Sherlock reminds himself. Heart rate and cognitive functions slowing, altering perception of time.

He realises this rescue plan was not very well-thought-out.

Crack.

Rock against bone. Pain flashes through his side. Lestrade is wrenched from his grasp and makes a desperate reach for the rocky bank. No use. The current drags him away.

Sherlock slips beneath the water, disoriented by pain and cold and where the hell is Lestrade.

This river did not look this angry from above.

Somehow Sherlock finds the surface. Takes a breath just in time to be dragged under again. His fingers brush seaweed. Or – this is a river, is it then riverweed? He can see lights from above. Flashing, white. Torches. John and Donovan and Anderson must be following their progress from the banks, waiting for the opportune moment to try to fish them out.

The banks are high and rocky, though; Sherlock knows there may not be an opportune moment. Dragging somebody out of a river over a rocky ledge is difficult. However, climbing out might be less difficult and more expedient. He must catch Lestrade again, and try to get to the bank. They have a better chance of getting themselves out than relying on the police and John to pull them up.

The river is very wide, Sherlock suddenly realises.

He cannot see Lestrade.

When he breaks the surface again, the D.I.'s name is on his lips. He cannot feel the ends of his fingers anymore, and his shoes feel like they are weighing him down. He kicks them off clumsily and cooperates with the current, desperate to find Lestrade. The bloody idiot can't swim to save his own life; he's probably tiring himself out trying to dog-paddle upstream, when he should be moving downstream, diagonal to the bank. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How did they get into this sodding –

"Ah!" Their bodies collide and it's Sherlock who's crying out because it is agony on his broken rib. Lestrade is completely unconscious. His head is bleeding. Sherlock grabs hold of him round the waist and tries again for the bank. The pair collide with rock again and this time, Sherlock uses all his remaining energy reserves to pull Lestrade to him, placing the inspector between the rock and himself. The swift current presses their bodies together and Sherlock is grateful that Greg is not awake for this.

How completely embarrassing.

Oh, hello, John.

"Here," Sherlock sputters. "Here, here, here, here, here…" Somebody hear me, please.

John's face reappears over the edge of the bank, and he's reaching down a hand. Sherlock pushes Lestrade toward the bank. He's got one hand locked on Greg's wrist; he lifts, transferring the wrist to John's grip.

"Head wound," Sherlock shouts above the din. "Possible concussion." Water crashes over his face, disorienting him for a moment as he struggles to keep track of the sky. "Bodily injuries to be sure."

Sherlock pushes, John pulls, and Lestrade disappears over the bank.

Thank goodness.

John appears again, reaching for Sherlock. Just in time to watch the river drag him away from his safe haven beside the rock.

The strength has gone out of Sherlock. His muscles are on fire from the strain. He allows the current to carry him a moment, the cold addling his brain to the point that he thinks, I just need a minute. Just a rest. Then I will make for the bank again.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His face makes abrupt contact with a rocky outcropping and smashes all his sense away.

There is a long period of nothingness. Blackness. It's nice. Cold, but nice. And then…

"Sherlock!" A pause. There are awful noises in the background. "Come on, breathe, you stupid… arrogant… fucking…"

Hm. Interesting. Sherlock's never been called stupid before.

"Breathe!"

This gets his attention. He can hear that it is John's voice. Furthermore, he can hear that the one-word exclamation is in fact an order, because John is saying it in his Captain Watson voice. The Captain Watson voice is much more authoritative and scary than the Doctor Watson voice or the Detective's Assistant voice.

Sherlock's fingers are tingling. How bizarre.

Oh, yes, he was supposed to be doing something – that's right!

With a great sputtering cough, Sherlock struggles to obey the command, sucking air into lungs that are too full of water to comply. Someone pushes him roughly onto his side and he coughs up water and vomits from the strain.

He is very cold, but he has lost the energy for shivering. Someone pries his eyes open one at a time, peering into them. Hello, John. Goodbye, John. Hello, John. Goodbye again.

"Hypothermia," someone declares.

Must've been in the water a lot longer than he'd thought.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Yes, thinks Sherlock. Of course I can. I am not deaf, nor have I ever been, except that one time when the park exploded and you had to text me for three days because my eardrums were blown.

Ha, ha. Funny memory. Sherlock smiles vaguely.

The world goes dark again.


"We can't giggle, it's a crime scene."

"Look at me, I'm in shock. I have a blanket."

Strange memories. Pain, and someone's voice, and the vague awareness of narcotic painkillers in his system. Blackness again.


The next time Sherlock wakes, he feels considerably more coherent, though he's acutely aware that he is still being pumped full of drugs. Without opening his eyes, he frowns, struggling to remember something but not entirely sure what. I'm supposed to be thinking about something, he muses foggily. What is it…?

"Sherlock?" a familiar voice asks tentatively, gently.

Ah! With a gasp, Sherlock's eyes snap open and he moves swiftly to sit up. "Lestrade!"

John's firm hands have more strength in them than Sherlock's entire body, and they force him back down. "Easy," John soothes, "just take it easy. Greg's okay. Mild concussion, hypothermia, a couple minor fractures. He's fine."

Sherlock is engulfed by pain and does as he's told, lying back against the starchy hospital sheets as he listens to the news of Lestrade's condition. His eyes slide closed. Good, he thinks, because falling into a river is a stupid way to die.

"You, on the other hand…" John says pointedly, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting back in his chair.

Cracking an eye open, Sherlock waits.

"Pneumonia, from inhaling water. Plus the obvious hypothermia, two broken ribs, various lacerations. Three stitches in your head." He lifts an eyebrow and leans forward, uncrossing his arms. "One man is much easier to fish out of a river than two."

"Lestrade doesn't swim," Sherlock states drowsily.

"You almost…" He doesn't say it.

Sherlock opens both eyes and looks over. John's left hand is on top of the bed, picking at a loose thread in the blanket. Sherlock places his hand over it and applies gentle pressure.

A beat. Two. The tension drains from John's posture.

"Tell them to pull the morphine," Sherlock says on a sigh. "It's A Bit Not Good."

He slips back into sleep again.


A/N: This chapter has an epilogue! It is called "Against Medical Advice," which is a standalone two-shot. If you are interested, please go to my profile and click the link.