A/N: Hello there! Chapter 10 up, a little more explanation in the way. The flashback is in italics. Many thanks again to IO for being my beta.
Enjoy. Let me know what you think.
"John, I really think I should get you home." Greg held the doctor steady as he stood back up on his crutches shakily. "Let's get a cab."
"No," John shot him a sullen look, "we need to find Sherlock." He managed to control his quivering voice back to normal and wiped the saltwater from his cheeks. He wished that there were less people in vicinity. Both Lestrade and Dimmock were giving him that look. "If he's not taken a single one of these antibiotics, I'd hazard a guess that he's going to be harbouring himself a nasty infection by now, at least a raging fever." He tried to push on with the now, rather than linger on what just happened.
"John, you can't continue like this. Please let me get you home." Greg squeezed his friend's shoulder. "I'll get the boys onto looking for him."
"You know they won't find him," the doctor sighed.
"And you think you can?" Dimmock this time.
"I have a pretty good idea of where he likes to run off to." John started forward, turning away from the bloody crime scene and back towards the door. Lestrade followed him, stopping at Dimmock before leaving.
"Make sure you send both bodies over to Bart's for the attention of Molly Hooper."
Greg nearly didn't make the lift when catching up with the blogger. John was on a mission. Clearly the doctor was more than a little worried about the detective. Silence followed their quick return to the ground level. John was tense, the inspector had seen it enough times. How Sherlock hadn't sent his poor friend into a heart attack, he didn't know.
"Any ideas?" Lestrade finally spoke up as they made their way into the daylight and the main road.
John didn't answer immediately. He stopped, scanning his phone. "In the park." He held up the screen briefly, but not long enough for the inspector to read it. "See, sometimes he does let us know where he is. Although, I'm going to kick his sorry ass when I find him." John's fists clenched tightly. He didn't wait for Lestrade to answer and hurried out into the now steady rain.
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Sherlock's head was pounding. The cold stone floor where it was laying really didn't do anything for the thumping within it. Head injuries really were rather annoying, especially when they included a glancing bullet to the skull. The right side of his head was slick with crimson, and his ear was itchy from the sticky covering beginning to congeal. How had he fallen so easily for the trap? He knew Moran had John and Mary, but he'd managed to put himself at unnecessary risk because of it. Caring was not an advantage, and in this case it really did prove true. Perhaps the detective really had gone soft. He would never live it down with Mycroft if he made it out of this alive.
"Sherlock?" John's drugged voice pierced the detective's agonising headache. The doctor was still bound to the chair next to where the detective had fallen and not moved since. "Oh God, please, not you too."
The detective only groaned in response, eyes opening cracks to let in what little light surrounded them in the tunnel. The sound of running, rushing water started to reach the consultant's ears as he began to regain more consciousness. Fragments of what had just happened started to filter into his mind palace. Mary's demise. He screwed his eyes shut at the thought, pushing it far from his visual cortex. But then, as the feeling of cold water met his cheek and hands, and started to leak through his clothes, his mind recalled the important facts. John. Flooding tunnel. Get out. His eyes snapped open.
"John," Sherlock gurgled. The water level was already up to his mouth, and almost his nose. "Get out, we need to get out."
The detective screwed his eyes shut and furrowed his brows against the superficial pain of his scalp. He pulled himself onto all fours, water now rising quickly. The inlet at the end of the room was increasing in flow, the water gushing with a roar. With a cry of agony against his fractured ribs he pulled himself upright and staggered to his best friend.
"We have to go." The consultant leant heavily on the chair.
"I can't leave her." John's words were almost inaudible over the water flow, which was now reaching level with the detective's ankles.
"We have to go now." Sherlock shook his head, trying to help himself see straight better. He grappled uselessly at the restraints on his flatmate's wrists and looked back to where the machete he had used once lay, now covered in swirling water.
"Just leave me."
If it was possible, Sherlock's heart broke at those three words. John's voice was broken and defeated. The doctor's eyes did not break the stare from his now deceased wife. The detective staggered back to where he had once lain himself, and grabbed haphazardly under the water. His hand connected with the blade and he ignored the sharp sting as it sliced into his palm. Racing back to the doctor, the waterline was at his knees now, almost waist height for the doctor bound in the chair. Sherlock cut the bindings on both legs with ease, taking his utmost care to not catch the already bruised skin of his friend's ankles.
"I'm staying here." It was emotionless, dead.
Sherlock ignored the comment. Slashing the rope in one cut, he freed both John's arms. The doctor made no effort whatsoever to move, his sullen silent stare remained forwards even as the flood now surpassed his waist and started to rise at an alarming rate. The detective knew it would be difficult for his friend to walk in his state but didn't really think through having to carry him.
"Let's go." Sherlock pulled John up by the arms, ignoring the torturous pain it caused his ribs.
"No." John tried to resist, almost falling face first into the raging water which was now swirling in endless eddies around them.
"Yes." Sherlock pulled him again, this time under the arms. In one swift motion he lifted John up and onto his shoulder, biting his lip to restrain a cry of pain, so hard it drew blood. He turned and took one more look at the woman who had saved him in more ways than one, and not long ago, saved London itself. He silently thanked her and apologised in one, before turning away from the body.
The water was now at chest level, rising at impressive speed. The escape shaft was some yards down the tunnel. Sherlock could barely make it out in the dull light and the spray of foaming tide. He pushed on, water threatening to wrench his feet from under him. John did not resist, and as the water reached towards the top of the detective's chest, he let his friend down and started to drag him along in the flow.
"Hold on, John," Sherlock's grip remained steadfast across the doctor's wrist. This was one time being handcuffed together might have actually proved useful. As the water reached his neck, the flow took his feet from under him, into the stormy torrents and angry whirlpools. The two went under, swept into the speeding, relentless flow and away.
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Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, breathing fast and shallow against the memory. His cheek was pressed into the soggy grass, and for a moment he thought he was there again, back in the tunnel, with John with Mary. A pair of brown eyes came into focus then and then disappeared from his fuzzy, blurred vision.
"Who is you?" The detective struggled with the muddled words, his mind palace cursing his sluggish speech.
"Drunk, are ya?" The dirty face moved closer to the consultant and Sherlock rolled himself over, pulling himself weakly upright. Bending his knees so that he was now sat on them, the mud was soaking into his skin.
"What?" The late reply came, the world spun around him, and for several moments he was sure that there was more than just one man before him.
"Got any gear, matey?" Yellow teeth smiled and Sherlock gagged at the rotting aroma that met him. The man was a foot from the detective's face, and the younger of the two started to shiver again. Rain had penetrated the unruly curls, and water was starting to run in rivulets down his flushed, hot cheeks.
"Well?" The homeless man, who was clearly not part of Sherlock's network, bent closer, and the detective tried to bat his hands forward. He swayed again. His stomach convulsed at the movement but he didn't vomit. "Well, have ya?"
"Clean!" Sherlock slurred, breathless. "Promised. I'm clean."
"Oh well." The tramp's grime covered hands grabbed at the detective's coat, rummaging in the pockets. He removed the iPhone, wallet, and magnifier, throwing the latter on the grass. Sherlock hadn't the energy to fight anymore. His eyes rolled and fluttered, and he shook with renewed vigour, both arms lax at his sides and hardly able to remain upright.
"This will do." The homeless man pulled out the wad of notes in the wallet and stared at them.
"Excuse me?" The man turned at the sudden voice behind him, and a fist collided with his nose sending him several feet across the grass, out cold.
"John!" A breathless Inspector Lestrade came tearing around the small copse of trees to catch up, clearly seeing the entire scene.
"John," Sherlock's weak voice echoed the inspector, "Nice to see you."