Chapter 7

Less boat and more glorified dingy, the Gunslinger bobbed happily in the water as Lestrade went to park his truck.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "this is much safer. I feel snug as a bug. Certainly nothing will attack us as we take the waters in this battleship. Monsters beware for you are about to be bombarded by the mightiest of Her Majesty's fleet, the HMS Capsize and Sink."

"Oy!" Lestrade shouted as he joined them. "I'll remind you that this is a favor, Sherlock. There's not many that would drag themselves out at this hour to take a pleasure cruise. She's perfectly seaworthy. I haven't had any complaints, at least."

"Yes, you have. This is me, standing here, complaining. Observe as I complain."

"Ignore him, Greg," John said. "He's just pissy because he's got mud on his trousers."

"Yeah, how did the two of you end up looking like you've been rolling around in it? Is there something I need to know? Because we have this pool down at the station and-"

"For God's sake," Sherlock growled, "let's just get this over with. The trail is getting colder the longer you two stand there gabbing like couple of hens."

Lestrade chuckled at Sherlock as he helped the bedraggled men onboard. The vessel gave an alarming wobble under their weight and Sherlock looked at John and mouthed, We are going to drown.

"Right, listen," Lestrade started, "John said you'd found a trail, but I'll be buggered if I can see how you're going to find anything in out here."

Sherlock handed John a life jacket that was stashed under a bench. "Well," he said, "I obviously have magical powers and am following an invisible trail that leads underwater, possibly left by faeries."

John choked and started coughing, rocking the little boat even harder.

"Ha-ha. Very funny," Lestrade said. He started the motor and they began chugging along the water at a blistering one knot. "Just point the way, magic man."

The way, it turned out, was a twisting route heading steadily west. Sherlock draped his upper body over the bow of the boat, his face as close to the water as possible. He was silent but for barked commands to Lestrade to bear left or right as they swayed along the Thames.

"What's he following," Lestrade whispered to John, though Sherlock could hear him clear as a bell. Lestrade wouldn't know that though, of course.

"Ah, well, you know Sherlock. There's always a method within the madness," John said, smugly, knowing damn well that Sherlock could hear every word he said.

Sherlock struggled to block out their chatter and focus on the trail. It was much harder to follow. It was as if the water were insulating the electricity. The disparate trails had managed to merge into one thick electric rope winding about a metre below the surface. He reached out a hand to slip through the cool water. A shiver of power vibrated up his arm. There was power here. More than in the room and on the riverbank.

"Ease up," Sherlock said. The power was gathering, heavier and heavier in a widening blanket stretching to either shore. He had to know more. Closing his eyes, he plunged his arm elbow deep into the water.

Deep thrumming reverberated through his bones as the boat slowed. He had suspected it was the boat motor interfering with his senses, but the more he reached into the water the more he began to feel a beat. Slow and steady. Like the very river had become alive.

With a quiet splash, Sherlock heard the anchor hit the water. He had time to look back, twisting over himself to raise a hand in warning. No, he wanted to scream. Please, God, no!

The water erupted around them, geysers blowing up with ferocious intensity. Roaring filled the air as the boat listed hard to port. The smell of fetid, deep water and mud overwhelmed Sherlock as he clung desperately to the hull.

In the moments when cold rationality is most needed, it's the farthest from grasp. Sherlock scrambled for calm as the world exploded around him. We have to get that anchor out of the water, he thought. Iron, something about iron. Did John put on the lifejacket? I can't remember!

Three seconds. Four. Sherlock threw himself across the heaving vessel. He couldn't see John or Lestrade. He couldn't see anything but water and the deck rising up to meet him for every inch he took. Gasping for breath, water filled his lungs and he hit his face hard on the edge of a wooden bench. Stars filled his vision and for a moment he wasn't sure if he would drown first or knock his own brains out. But there it was, the chain, the wicked iron chain leading to the anchor that could kill them all. He had no leverage, but he didn't need it. His hands scrambled for the sodden links and with a roar he pulled. The chain flew up from the water, filling the deck until the anchor pushed hard to the side of the boat, blessedly free from the raging Thames.

Slowly, very slowly the water calmed. Raging rapids eased to nauseating waves. Sherlock looked frantically behind him and sagged with relief when he saw John and Lestrade clinging to the wheel, soaked to the skin but alive.

Sherlock wrapped the chain around a peg the best his shaking hands could manage. Adrenaline and power surged through his veins and he was afraid of what he might do. One wrong move and he could snap the chain in half. Lestrade might not understand. He had to be calm.

"What," Lestrade gasped, "the hell was that and if you say faeries so help me I will throw you overboard."

"That, I'm sorry to say, was our murderer," Sherlock replied.

"What?"

"Sherlock," John said, prying his hands from the wheel, "you can't be serious. You said they were small."

"Individually, yes, but en mass they'd be capable of practically anything. And maybe it's something else as well. I don't know. I might have miscalculated." Sherlock drew to his feet, his knees trembling. The deck was slick under his shoes and he worried for a moment about tripping and falling overboard like a fool.

Lestrade's face was a study in confusion. His eyes danced between John and Sherlock, his mouth agape.

"Shut your gob," Sherlock said, "you'll catch flies."

John made his way to Sherlock. "What do we do?" he whispered, not wanting to panic Lestrade more than needed.

There wasn't much they could do. The shores were within sight, light beacons shining for bearing. But the chance of starting the motor again and not upsetting the water was small. He cast about him, lifting the benches and scrambling around the boat like an overexcited octopus.

"First of all, keep that bloody anchor out of the water. And help me look for- Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, brandishing a pair of oars he'd located attached to the hull. "Now then, lifejackets the two of you. John, I'll need you to take the other oar, Lestrade you handle the rudder. One of the greatest minds in England and, well, you lot. I'm sure between the three of us we'll get out of this mess before dawn."

Lestrade hadn't moved, his knuckles were still white on the wheel. "The river just rose up and kicked our arses. Am I the only one that noticed that?"

Giving a condescending smile, Sherlock walked over and patted Lestrade on the shoulder. "Lifejacket and rudder. Leave the rest to me." He shoved the jacket at Lestrade's chest and went to stand opposite John at the side of the boat. He eased his oar into the water and waited for another explosion. Nothing came.

"Right," he said, "the near bank, nice and easy. And if anyone has an urge to sing a sea shanty, please resist it."

A boat the Gunslinger's size wasn't meant to man powered, but desperate times called for desperate measures. With coordinated strokes, John and Sherlock managed to point themselves towards shore. John was already wheezing and Lestrade had the glassy eyed stare of a man in shock.

"John," Sherlock started, turning towards his friend, "You're puffing like a bellows. We really need to get you started on some cardio-"

A pale olive face peered over the edge of the boat behind John. Wet, pitch-black eyes met Sherlock's. Faster than even he could follow, a long fingered hand snatched out to grab John's leg. Its mouth opened in a snarl as it pulled at John, dragging him overboard. In an instant, a name flew up from the depths of Sherlock's memory as he leapt towards John, knowing he would be too late.

The monster that lived at the water's edge. Stories told to children to keep them from drowning. Don't go near the water. Don't let her get you. She'll drag you down and tear you apart. Black eyes and pointed teeth the color of slick algae.

Jenny Greenteeth.