The blood almost choked Sherlock, tipping down his throat and gagging him. He could see the red swirl out into the water around him, fading off. Sherlock wondered dimly whether it would attract the sharks before he passed out from the pain. When he woke up he saw the sorcerer with a hint of blood smeared on his cheek and saw a tongue dart out and lick the lips. Sherlock watched him with disgust. It took him a moment to register what was missing. The pain was gone and so was his tongue. Sherlock could still feel it, despite knowing it was gone and it disconcerted him.
"Are you listening?" the sorcerer said with Sherlock's voice. Yes, he liked this one very much. He'd liked the other one too, at the beginning. But it needed replacing, and they lasted much longer when you took them from the living.
Sherlock was shocked to hear his voice coming from another mouth, and he opened his mouth to protest but he couldn't form the words. He closed it again, staring at the sorcerer.
Jim smiled. "Good. You're listening then. When you walk, it will feel as though you are walking on the tips of sharp knives."
Sherlock frowned at the sorcerer.
"Forgot to mention it before," he shrugged.
Sherlock lunged at the sorcerer, propelling himself sharply through the air. Sherlock felt his fingernails dig into the flesh, satisfied. The sorcerer simply gave a choked chuckle and said (in Sherlock's voice),
"Now now, Sherly, don't you want this?" he said, waving the vial near Sherlock's face and the merman swam back a few metres, wishing there was more distance between them, clasping the vial in his hand.
"Swim east," Moriarty said, composed once again. "And you'll be able to find your way from the first piece of land you hit." His tone was more bored now.
Sherlock left immediately, putting as much distance between him and the merman with his voice as possible. His mouth stopped bleeding soon, and it only ached dully. Sherlock was aware he looked a mess, a trail of blood led behind him, dispersing into the water. He stopped at nightfall, catching some fish and eating it, sharp teeth tearing through it neatly, the lack of taste quickly becoming irrelevant. He coupled it with some familiar types of seaweed and fell asleep, allowing him to drift through the water. The current was not so strong down here, and he only had to go east when he woke up to find himself where he wanted.
Sherlock woke up near dawn, flicking his tail and propelling himself towards where he'd seen the sun rise, the vial clasped tightly in his hand the whole time, because it didn't fit properly if he tried to tie it to his waist with the twine he kept there. Sherlock travelled at a leisurely pace, aware that even though he wanted to see the human world, it could not offer many of the things that the sea could.
It was sunset when John had been home almost two months when he noticed something strange in the sea. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but it hardly mattered. Part of the (really quite brilliant) sunset, he supposed. Slowly he got off the rock he was sitting on and walked back along the beach in the direction of the castle.
It was hardly surprising that he tripped over the unconscious man in the dark. He wondered to himself how many unconscious men were washing up lately as he turned and looked down at him. Well, he couldn't just leave him, he thought. Certainly he couldn't leave him lying there naked, he might be hurt. John knelt down and tried to move him and jumped back as the man rolled over, vomiting sea water.
Sherlock stayed in this position for a few seconds, adjusting to the unpleasantness of it all. Firstly, the sand was sticking to his still damp body, he could feel it sticking to his hair, and secondly, sea water was never a problem before. He took into view some things, the human equivalent of flippers. Feet, he thought. Sherlock raised his eyes up to the face of the human in question who was looking concerned. The human said something and Sherlock frowned, not quite hearing, looking down again. He moved away from the sand which he had vomited on, rolling over and lying on his back, looking up for a moment before sitting up. He was interested to examine his new feet and his surroundings on his own, but right now it seemed that would have to wait. The human was talking again, something to the effect of was he okay and what was his name. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but could make no noise. Oh, he thought. He nodded, wanting to be left alone, too distracted to realise that this was the human he'd saved before.
John frowned when the man didn't say anything. Was he a mute? He couldn't be deaf, he was certain he'd heard him speak. He put his arms around the man, pulling him to his feet. "I'm going to get you to the castle," he told him.
From the moment Sherlock first stood on his feet, it felt awful. It was like he was walking on knife points; he wondered his feet weren't bleeding. He leant heavily on the stranger, telling himself he needed to learn to deal with this. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock dimly wondered whether he knew the sandy coloured hair from somewhere.
John didn't tell his father or let anyone know about the stranger who was almost delirious by the time he got him into the castle. His mother was the first to find out that one of the guest rooms was occupied. John knew she feared that trouble would come of it, but John ignored it. Neither his father nor Harry ever commented on it if he ever noticed. His friend Gregory (though John called him Greg to irritate him on occasion) was curious about him and wanted to know why John brought him back. John just laughed and said he empathised with people who washed up on beaches.