Disclaimer-Just in case anyone forgot, I am not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, S. Moffat or M. Gatiss nor do I represent the BBC. Therefore, I own no rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. Still too bad for me.

Chapter 12

The highway gleamed darkly beneath their headlights. Ghostlike, a misty fog swirled and obscured the trees lining the highway.

The taxi had nearly reached the four-lane bridge, when the black sedan slammed into the car. Ahsan lost control of his cab, and the battered car skidded over the wet asphalt.

The car rammed through the low guard rails; the taxi plunged into the river. The airbags exploded, trapping Ahsan and Sherlock against their seats.

The taxi bobbed briefly in the steady current like a bizarre boat. The airbags automatically deflated.

Sherlock quickly overcame his shock, and he tore off their seatbelts.

"Get out. Swim to shore" the detective ordered the stunned driver. He reached over to lower the window.

"But what about John?" screamed Ahsan. The overhead light dimly illuminated the two men; blood flowed from a gash on Ahsan's forehead.

"Get out; get help! Try to get help," yelled the detective again, his deep voice cracking. "GO!"

The appalled, young Pakistani slipped through the open window as water poured in. Sherlock turned back to the boot of the car. John is trapped; John will die. No. Sherlock clambered over the seats and onto the back seat. He heard banging from the boot. John was not only alive: he was trying to escape.

CRASH. The backseat moved towards Sherlock; John had pushed it from behind. More water poured out from the flooded boot.

"No, no, no!" screamed Sherlock. Some skin ripped off one hand unnoticed as Sherlock tore frantically at the seatback, "John! John!" he screamed.

Sherlock heard a small crash and the gap into the boot widened. He pulled desperately at the seat and finally tore it away; water quickly filled his compartment. The car was completely underwater now.

Sherlock snatched a breath of stale air from the pocket under the ceiling and dove toward the boot reaching out for John. He felt an unmoving leg and then an arm. Submerged in the cold, dark water Sherlock tugged; John's limp body only blocked the gap. The dim overhead light went out, plunging Sherlock into Stygian darkness.

Sherlock shoved his fear and panic deep into his mind palace. This was John's last chance. It was Sherlock's last chance; he would not leave his blogger. He would not leave John.

Sherlock raised his head for a last breath of air, and then he sank down to the opening. He reached into the cavity and grasped John's shoulders, pulling his blogger head first into the cabin.

Using touch, Sherlock found the submerged open window; his lungs screamed for air. It was silent in the frigid water. When the detective shoved his blogger through the window, he heard only a muted thump as John's body collided against the car. Sherlock swarmed out after John.

His chest burned, and his vision filled with white light. Sherlock kicked and exploded upwards. His fist had twisted into John's shirt, and he pulled the unmoving man up behind him. Sherlock's dark head broke the surface of the roiling black water; with an involuntary sob, he drew in breath.

"Holmes!" cried a voice. Hands supported the detective's shoulders. Sherlock pulled John's head out of the water; he blew two breaths into John's cold, lifeless mouth. The detective sobbed again, choking in the frigid, dark torrent.

"For God's sake, Holmes. Let me help," it was the CIA agent, the tall African-American. The agent swam strongly and pulled Sherlock and his blogger to the river's shore.

"Is there anyone else down there?" screamed a second man who grasped Sherlock's arm, and helped drag him toward the shore.

"Ahsan was there," yelled Sherlock. John was limp. John was dead, oh God, oh God, John.

"The kid's safe. Mary's got him," yelled the man.

They were suddenly at the tree-lined river shore. The big agent lifted John completely out of Sherlock's arms and placed the inert blond on the muddy ground, preparing to do CPR.

Sherlock flung the man aside. He dropped to his knees and began rescue breathing. Breathe into John. Oh, God. Oh, God, no. Again, breathe into John. Oh, God. I know you're not there. Breathe into John. Watch John's chest rise and fall. Breathe into John. Please make him live, God. Breath into John. Make him live. Breathe in. I love him. Breathe for John. Make him live. Breathe for me, John.

"Keep breathing, Holmes, keep breathing for him. He still has a pulse," ordered the agent. "For God's sake, Cochrane, did you call for help yet. Morstan, where the hell is Crowe? Where the hell is everyone?"

Sherlock rolled John onto his side as the blond began to choke and cough up water. After the paroxysms ended, the detective pulled his blogger onto his lap, clutching him tightly. John coughed and wheezed harshly.

Sherlock turned to the group crowded around them. "Is this your plan? Drown him; kill him? Are you all idiots? " he barked roughly. "If John suffers any permanent injury, I shall repay you in kind…"

"Can it, Holmes!" said Mary Morstan. "Here, let me help him."

"I think you've helped him enough tonight," hissed the detective.

John roused and cried out incoherently. He struggled in Sherlock's strong arms. The tall man, looking thinner than usual in his soaked clothing, turned from the CIA agents and tried to calm John. "John, hold still. You're alright. You're safe."

Air. There was air. For a minute, John only knew that there was air; he could breathe. John coughed up more water. His chest and throat burned from repeated retching. Someone held him while he choked and gasped in the cold air.

Flashes of memory assailed him. Car. Underwater. Drowning. Sherlock. Ahsan. John began to fight weakly at the arms restraining him. Sherlock. "Sherer" John called out incoherently.

John dimly heard Sherlock's deep voice rumble in his ear. "John, listen to me. You're alright. Everything will be alright, I promise."

OK. OK. Sherlock was safe. It was OK then. John let himself fall back into the strong warm arms that held him against a warm chest.

Ahsan knelt near Sherlock, "Oh my God, oh my God. Is John Watson not dead? He's breathing, yes. Yes? But, he's hurt? He should be yelling at us. He should be very angry by now," whispered Ahsan to the detective. Ahsan shook in the cold drizzle. His sodden clothes clung to the young man. A crude, blood-soaked dressing was tied around his forehead.

"He's breathing, Ahsan. No thanks to these bumblers," said the detective.

John heard Ahsan's muffled voice, babbling about how John should be angry. Why? Why should John be angry? Ahsan's voice was so far away. But still, that meant, that Ahsan was safe. And Sherlock was holding him. OK then. Good. No reason to be angry. Brilliant.

Foreign arms tore John away from Sherlock. John opened his eyes. His vision was blurry and it was dark. Nevertheless, he saw Mary Morstan. Mary took him away from Sherlock; she claimed to be a medic. Now John should be angry.

John snorted, which set off more coughing. "Ahm," he coughed. "I'm da doc" violent coughing interrupted him, "doctor," complained John.

When Mary tried to pet his head, John tried to push her away. Then she blinded him with her torch. John punched at her yet somehow his hand missed her entirely. Bloody hell.

She made him sick with her nasty caresses. Sick. Dizzy. Nausea. His head spun. I am going to be really sick again, thought John. He closed his eyes tightly and willed himself to not be sick.

"I think we should get John to a hospital," said Mary, blowing a loose wet strand of hair out of her eyes.

"No," said Sherlock and Agent Mitchell in unison.

Sherlock turned his eyes briefly to evaluate the handsome black man.

"What do you know?" asked the detective.

"I don't know anything for sure, dammit. But this isn't right. From day one, none of this has gone down right," said Mitchell. "And the car that forced you off the road wasn't one of ours. There's a leak at the Agency, or worse," admitted the large man.

"Mitchell," warned Cochrane.

" Cochrane, whoever was in that car tracked Watson same as us; they were getting real-time Intel from inside. It has to be one of us, or Jones or the agents with him,"

"But Johnny needs a hospital," persisted Mary, caressing Sherlock's blogger. Sherlock wanted to slap her.

"If John goes to hospital, he'll be a sitting duck for whoever wants him," said the consulting detective. Mitchell nodded.

"You're in charge, Mitch. It's your call. But decide fast. Jones will be here soon," said Cochrane, a shorter, balding man.

"Mitchell, we have to follow orders," said Morstan.

"And if following orders means letting the mission fail; what then? And how 'bout if that means letting your old army buddy die?" asked Mitchell sharply.

Mary frowned down at John Watson. She looked like a blond river rat, thought Sherlock. He moved forward to retrieve his blogger.

Sod this, thought John; they can talk themselves into the bloody grave. Mary's old army buddy pushed himself up, making himself dizzy.

John shoved Mary's arms away, none too gently; then he lurched into an unsteady stand. They all make me sick. Oh God, I am going to be sick.

Sherlock reached out to John, only to have his hands knocked away. John stumbled into the underbrush; they could all hear the sound of John being violently ill again.

"Where is that chip?" Sherlock asked harshly, turning back to Mitchell and trying to ignore the muffled sounds of his John being sick.

"I don't know. Jones inserted it. He didn't tell any of us where he put it." He looked up with the others at the sound of an approaching siren.

"They're here," said Cochrane unnecessarily.

"Hello? John's getting away," said Mary urgently. "I know John, and he'll make a run for it. I say we stay with him, and if Jones tries anything, we'll protect him."

"Bull. We couldn't stop Jones; he's got all the brass on his side, and then there's the guys from that other car …" argued Mitchell.

"Probably one of Dimitri's gang," offered Sherlock.

"Shit," said Morstan. "This can't get much worse."

"And where is that Ahsan? You know, Holmes, Morstan's right, you're about to get left behind. Look, far as I'm concerned, you guys can try running on your own, and right now, we'll even try to cover for you. But, you gotta find and eliminate that chip, before Jones gets lucky," said Mitchell, pushing Sherlock into the woods.

Sherlock ran into the dark woods. The only sound he heard was water dripping from the trees. He easily followed John's path to the bushes where John had been sick, but now it seemed that both John and Ahsan had vanished. The sleuth walked forward silently, part if his mind listened in the dark for clues to John's whereabouts. The rest of his mind tried to deduce where Jones had put the chip that tracked John's movements, exposing Sherlock's blogger to danger and death.


"Run, John Watson, the CIA and Russians are coming. I heard their own agent, Mitchell, he said so," said Ahsan, who dragged John away from the river's edge.

"No. No, we have to wait for Sherlock," said John, already out of breath and still confused. "Can't leave Sherlock."

"But the pretty lady Agent said to run. She told me so herself. I think you are in so much danger that we better keep moving," said Ahsan, hauling the shorter man further into the forest.

"I don't trust her," said John, as Ahsan pulled him down into a gully.

"Well, I do," asserted Ahsan.

"Fine, but… But, Ahsan, haven't you heard of 'Leave No Man Behind?' I am certainly not leaving anyone behind, and especially not Sherlock. What if they take him prisoner? And even if they let him go, how will he find us?" John almost yelled, his voice raspy. Then he started coughing some more.

"Sherlock Holmes is a genius, and he can most definitely find us," said the confident young man.

John literally dug his heels into the ground. Ahsan tugged at the stubborn army doctor in vain, "How? How is Sherlock supposed to find us in the dark?" asked John pursing his lips.

"By listening for you," snapped the consulting detective. He had to get them to safety. He had to find the chip.

"John, you breathe so loud, I could shoot you with my eyes closed." The army doctor slapped his hand over his mouth involuntarily.

"Like the dwarf, in Lord of the Rings," offered Ahsan helpfully. Earning himself a deep glare from the smaller man.

"And you argue with him like an old woman, Ahsan," chided the detective irritably. "I'm sure everyone by the river can hear you both. Now let's attempt to escape quietly. Ahsan, no talking. John, stop breathing so loud."

"Excuse me, Mr. Genius, but I happen to be recovering from a near drowning and multiple contusions and …"

"John," said the detective, taking his blogger's arm in an iron grip. "I expect you to breathe quietly and to stop arguing. Also, no more coughing or regurgitation. It's much too loud."

"Fine. Fine, I'll just magically make it all go away," muttered John. He yanked his arm away from Sherlock and stormed up the side of the gully. He quickly tripped over a log. The fall, of course, made him nauseous. He tried to be sick as quietly as possible.

Ahsan grabbed John's arm and began leading him through the trees again, following the irate detective.

"What is wrong with him?" asked the young man quietly.

"You better be quiet, Ahsan. Maybe he's pissed about something or has some genius idea or maybe he's rearranging the smoking room in his mind palace or..."

"Or I'm trying to think. Shut up, John. You're putting me off," said the consulting detective.

John remained silent but angrily flipped off the love of his life.

"I heard that, John," said the detective who mentally reviewed everyplace that the chip could have been placed.

Sherlock had personally examined every inch of John, he had even examined his blogger's groin during the Subway Incident (Which John called, 'making love' Why did he call it 'making love'? Would John want to 'make love' again soon? File it away for later review.)

Surely they would not have made John swallow it while he was unconscious? Or perhaps they had? This puzzle was difficult and frustrating. Failure meant danger for John. The consulting detective felt increasingly frantic and took it out on his hapless companions.

Two hours later, they still followed Sherlock who led them south, along a road bordering the Delaware River. The drizzle had let up, but clouds still blanketed the sky. The sky occasionally lit up with distant lightning.

Ahsan had his arm around John's waist. He led the exhausted doctor and supported him when he lost his footing, which was becoming more and more frequent.

"John, your breathing has improved but your faltering steps are slowing us down. You know your leg pain is psychosomatic, use your brain to override that weakness…"

"You are an unmitigated ass, Sherlock Holmes. You know that? You know nothing about my leg," snapped the doctor who was tired, in pain and now humiliated. "If you had been paying any attention, you would know that my knee has been repeatedly injured over the last week starting with a nasty laceration from when I jumped off the train. It should have been stitched up but it wasn't."

"And it's been reinjured, over and over including during the bloody crash tonight. On top of all that, I think the bloody wound is probably infected. This pain is not psychosomatic, Mr. Genius," hissed the furious doctor. "The pain is due to real injuries and…Christ! What, what are you up to now?"

Sherlock had turned and grabbed John by both of his arms, rudely pushing Ahsan aside. "Of course! John, pull down your trousers at once."

"Dear God, not again. You bloody tosser!" exclaimed John, trying to slap the detective away. Sherlock quickly overpowered his weakened blogger. He grabbed John's wrists in one hand.

"John, you've once again led me to the answer. As usual, you are brilliant as a conductor of light. You are also feverish. You should share these things with me," said the detective, with a tilt of his head.

"Stop fighting me, John. You are clearly in no condition to resist me." Sherlock had unzipped John's fly and pulled down his doctor's sodden jeans.

"Oh my God, shall I strike him, John Watson?" asked Ahsan, putting his fists up.

"Oh stop it, Ahsan. It's the chip, the chip," said the detective, practically quivering with excitement.

Half-naked again, John backed up and sat heavily in a pile pine needles. He leaned back against an old evergreen whose branches near the ground were dead. At least the upper branches kept off some of the rain.

"Stand down, Ahsan. I think I understand him, maybe. Anyway, it's best just to let him have his way," said John resignedly.

"Yes, let me have my way," agreed Sherlock. "Also, I need a light."

"I need a cigarette," said John.

"John, don't be ridiculous. You don't smoke," said the detective holding his phone over John's knee in an attempt to provide light.

"You have a pack of cigarettes hidden in your back pocket and a lighter. If you give me a cigarette, I'll make you a nice torch, and then you'll have plenty of light to torture me by," offered John.

Sherlock quickly dug out his sodden cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and gave the damp, smoldering cigarette to John.

John reached around the pine tree for a large, dry branch. He broke it off and lit it with the lighter.

"Ahsan, see if you can get a couple more branches. If they have some dried sap, they'll burn even brighter," said John, breathing the cigarette smoke into his mouth only. Ahsan gathered several branches while he kept a watchful eye on the madman accosting John Watson.

"Brilliant, John, very resourceful. Ahsan, hold the torch with one hand and hold John's leg still with your other hand. John, this will be uncomfortable," warned Sherlock, who immediately began pressing and palpating John's knee, under the fitful light of the burning brand.

In pain, John drew in a ragged breath of smoke and choked on the smoke.

"Ha, I know it is here. Right here in your knee, John. It's so obvious," said Sherlock. "I am an idiot for missing it for so long."

"Before you torture me to death, which by the way, is against the Geneva Convention. Please explain," requested the doctor stoically.

"Dear Lord, do you never think, John? I mean really think? You had a 'nasty laceration" and no doubt the jeans were also torn open, yes?" said Sherlock. "I'm certain that it took no time at all for Jones to insert this chip under your skin while you were briefly unconscious."

The army doctors eyes widened in comprehension, then he peered down at his exposed knee. He suddenly closed his eyes and bit down on the end of his cigarette as more pain overwhelmed him.

"I think that this is hurting John Watson," said Ahsan, who also lit a fresh branch for more light.

"Never mind, John is very strong," said the detective. "I have it! With the swelling, it is hard to see, and Jones must have pushed it far enough towards the vastus medialis that it should have stayed hidden indefinitely. Still, it is quite easy to feel under the swelling."

"Well, John, there's nothing for it, but to remove it," Sherlock said brightly. "This may be difficult, John."

This was bad. This was very, very bad, thought John. The last time Sherlock said difficult, John ended up in the boot, nearly drowned… Right, never mind, thought John.

The army doctor forced his best fake smile and said equally brightly, "Fine. It's all fine. Go right ahead…Christ! Sherl!" John dropped his cigarette and shoved his hand over his mouth to keep silent despite the pain, while the detective began trying to push the chip out.

After a minute, John's hand shot out and swiped the detective's hands away from his leg. "Sherlock, knife. Use a knife. In fact, give me the knife," said John trying to keep his voice steady. At least the dark would hide his watering eyes. Stupid allergies, thought John.

"Yes, you're right, John." Sherlock pulled out his pocketknife, which John immediately snatched away.

John took a deep breath. "Ahsan, go sit down, before you pass out. Sherlock, you hold the light with one hand and hold my leg still with your other hand, please. And I need another cigarette. No don't light it. Too bad you don't have a cigar; I'd really rather have a cigar," muttered John, biting down on the cigarette.

John tested the blade across his arm. He put the knife into burning brand for half a minute. Then, his lips tightly pursed around the cigarette, John made a small incision. He inserted the blade under the skin and popped out the capsule containing the chip.

Sherlock had held John's leg firmly, his mouth a grim line while he watched his blogger cut himself. Sooner or later, Jones would pay for John's suffering not to mention the danger in which he had placed John.

Sherlock pocketed the chip and tied strips of his shirt around the wound, which seeped blood and pus. Biting his lower lip, Sherlock used his thumb to gently wipe the tears off John's face.

"Aren't you going to throw that bloody chip away?" asked John, embarrassed by his weak sounding voice and his watery eyes.

"Eventually, John. But first, we need to go a few more miles. Can you manage?" asked the detective.

"Sure, let's go," John stood up and his leg buckled. Sherlock caught his blogger.

"Perhaps you should accept my assistance, John. I'm here to help," said the detective disingenuously. John stared at him in open-mouthed disbelief. Ahsan shook his head skeptically.

"Come along, John. Time is of the essence." Sherlock put his arm around John's right shoulder to help bear some of John's weight. He began pulling John along.

"I wish you and Ahsan would stop dragging me around like a sack of potatoes," complained the doctor.

"Yes. Yes," said the detective dismissively as he tugged his blogger alongside him.

John was winded after only a couple of miles. "Aren't you going to complain about my breathing?" asked John,

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You have to breathe. After nearly drowning, I am relieved that you seem to have recovered so quickly," said the detective. John and Ahsan exchanged incredulous looks. "Ahsan, we will make better time if you support John's other side. Put your arm around his waist so that you do not disturb his shoulder; it was injured in the war."

"John, I do not understand why you are pursing your lips and scrunching your face at Ahsan. Have I said anything untoward?" asked Sherlock with wide, innocent eyes.

"No. Of course not," said John. "You are a model of tact and diplomacy."

"Thank you, John," said Sherlock with a small grin. He was pleased with the compliment.

John didn't have the energy or the heart to explain the sarcasm to the smiling detective. He quietly allowed his friends to drag him like a sack of potatoes to Sherlock's destination.

TBC