DISCLAIMER: I own nothing! I make no profit off of this. This is solely for my enjoyment and hopefully for the enjoyment of others! ;)
––––––––––
"There's got to be some kind of release or something. No one in their right mind would build this without a way out from the inside," John muttered to himself as he inspected the door of the 6x8 room.
Sherlock leaned against the back wall, hands slipping into his coat pockets. It was moments like these that made him thankful for the fact that he never went anywhere without his coat and scarf.
He and John had been on a case for the past three days. Lestrade had enlisted Sherlock, and by default John, to help him pin down a serial killer that the papers had deemed The Cleaver. Sherlock thought it was rather tacky but the name at least went along with the man's treatment of the victims.
The Cleaver would first strangle his victims to death, then hack off a body part at random. Or rather, Scotland Yard deemed it as random. Sherlock figured out the pattern after the third body turned up. The Cleaver was sick, old. He was taking parts from younger bodies and attaching them to his own.
It was a fairly straightforward case. Sherlock and John had shown up at an old warehouse, where Sherlock believed the murderer to be operating out of. He'd expected The Cleaver to put up a fight upon discovery. What Sherlock didn't expect was the speed at which the older man was able to run.
Naturally, Sherlock had given chase, John following along at a slightly delayed pace. To the present, Sherlock still wasn't quite sure how The Cleaver had given them the slip, circled back around behind them and managed to shove the pair into what appeared to be a walk-in meat freezer.
Neither Sherlock nor John were quick enough to prevent the door from slamming shut, plunging them into a wintry darkness, a sliver of light coming in from a slim rectangular window just above eye-level.
There was a thud as John slammed the side of his fist against the door. "Please, tell me that, just this once, you actually called the police?"
Sherlock didn't waste his breath with a response, choosing inside to burrow his chin down further into the flipped up collar of his coat, letting his eyes slip shut.
A heavy sigh resonated around the compact room. "Sherlock…"
"I wonder, John, if you know that I am never going to call the police, why don't you do it yourself?"
There was a pause in which Sherlock could imagine the doctor was clenching his fists and counting to ten in his head.
"Because, Sherlock," John said slowly, "I keep holding out hope that one day you'll actually listen to me for once and do it yourself."
Again, Sherlock didn't bother replying. He cracked one eye open as a serious of beeps sounded. John had got out his mobile and was holding it at various heights, taking small steps around the room in a desperate attempt to get service.
Sherlock let his eye slip shut as his flatmate continued around the room, three quick beeps signifying every failed attempt at a connection. "John." The minute steps continued, each accompanied by the three persistent beeps.
"John."
There was a huff followed shortly by a growl.
"Jo–"
"What, Sherlock!" John burst out, spinning around to face the man lounging against the wall.
Sherlock had opened his eyes at the outburst, blue eyes attempting to meet grey in the less than ideal lighting. "There's a thermometer on the wall to your right. What does it say?" He asked, keeping his voice level.
John blinked rapidly for a moment before he turned his head to stare at the thermometer mounted to the wall. "-6˚…" He murmured, then hissed a few choice words under his breath. "Okay, okay… okay, it's fine," he sniffed. "Lestrade knew we were out looking for the suspect. He'll know something's off when we don't check in."
"You give him more credit than he deserves." Sherlock said, quirking an eyebrow.
John fixed him with the look. The look he does when someone speaks ill of people he considers his friends. Sherlock has noticed that when John goes into protective mode, he becomes flint. Unyielding and ardent. "And you don't give him enough," John says, voice steely.
Sherlock doesn't argue, but instead shifts the conversation back to the matter at hand. "It's -6˚. Seeing as neither of us are dressed for extreme temperatures and most likely won't be getting out of here any time soon, we need to be smart. We've been in here ten minutes already, so I presume we have less than half an hour until hypothermia begins to set in. Put your hands in your coat and stop panicking."
"I'm not panicking," John said smoothly.
An inkling of a frown ghosted across Sherlock's face. "Well then don't start."
John shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat and joined Sherlock against the back wall. "You familiar with the symptoms of hypothermia?" He asked after a moment.
Sherlock let his head hinge back on his neck, resting the crown of his against the frosty wall, eyes falling shut once more. "First we'll start to shiver, the body's first attempt to warm itself back up. You've entered that stage already," he said, eyes flicking down the John's slightly vibrating form. "Eventually, our vital signs will all began to slow. Respirations, pulse, thought processes. Drowsiness and irritability will set in. Finally, our hearts will beat to sluggishly to keep up with the needs of our body. The brain will stop commanding the lungs to breathe and we die."
There was silence as John slowly nodded, taking in everything Sherlock had said. None of it was news to him. He knew the three stages of hypothermia; he'd treated many patients for it.
"You could've just said yes."
1 Hour
The two men had taken to sitting on the floor, both with their knees drawn up to their chest as they shivered violently. John had checked the thermostat on a hunch that room was getting colder. It had, fact, dropped another three degrees.
Sherlock had drawn his scarf up around his nose and mouth, hands shoved into his armpits in a desperate attempt to generate some heat. John had burrowed his beneath his jumper and had wrapped them around his sides, utilizing the skin to skin contact to his advantage.
There was an ache blooming in Sherlock's jaw as he made an effort to stop the irritating chattering of his teeth by clenching his teeth together. His mind was racing with different scenarios as to how this could end. So far, he'd come up with eighteen possible diegeses of their predicament.
He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he barely noticed that John had stopped shivering.
2 Hours
"Cacaesthesia."
Seeing as no reply was forthcoming, Sherlock jabbed his elbow against the drowsing man beside him.
John snorted slightly as he returned to awareness. "Wh-what?" He stuttered languidly.
"You've got to stay awake," Sherlock chided, looking across at the doctor who's eyes were already slipping shut again. Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought one hand out of his coat and slapped John's cheek. "Wake up!"
John's head jerked away from the wall, eyes blinking rapidly as one hand came up to touch his smarting cheek. "Ow…" He said absentmindedly. "What letter are we on?" He asked dazedly.
"D."
"Deeeee…Dacryocystorhinostomy," John spewed.
Sherlock's eyebrows went up marginally. "Not bad," he conceded. "Eellogofusciouhipoppokunurious."
"Gesundheit," John mumbled. "Fasciolopsis."
Sherlock spared the thermometer another glance from where he was sitting. He couldn't be absolutely sure, due to the distance, but he was pretty positive that the temperature had dropped another degree. This brought his predictions of the outcome of today down to seven.
"Sherlock?" Came John's voice, snapping his out of his thoughts.
"Gamophobia."
3 Hours
Sherlock had long since stopped shivering. One half of his brain was screaming at him, chiding him for succumbing to the cold, while the other half was whispering soothingly that it was time to rest. He knew he was entering dangerous territory now. Despite how much he had berated John for slowly losing his grip on consciousness, Sherlock was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open.
John was slumped against Sherlock's side, barely holding on to reality.
"John?" Sherlock asked, the word feeling like putty on his tongue.
A noncommittal hum was all John seemed capable of in the way of a response.
"Where were you born?"
"Mmm…Doncaster… You?"
"Winthorpe."
"Hmm."
"Did you like it?"
Sherlock could practically hear the gears turning in John's mind as he processed Sherlock's question.
"Why?" John said at last. Sherlock would've rolled his eyes if he had the energy to. "Why what?" He asked instead.
"Why… would you ask… if I liked it? You don't care."
Sherlock didn't like the pauses in between John's words. It was such a simple sentence yet it seemed to take an almost Herculean effort for the sentence to pass John's lips. "I don't care," Sherlock confessed. "I'm trying to keep you awake."
"Oh…s'not working."
Sherlock leaned away from John a little bit so he could peer down at the doctor's motionless form. He shrugged the arm that John was leaning against, jostling them man. John's nose scrunched with dissatisfaction.
"Oi," he grumbled as Sherlock continued to disrupt his comfort.
"You're a doctor, John. You should know better than anyone what happens if you fall asleep." Sherlock said with as much vigor as he could muster. "You need to open your eyes. Stay awake."
John pulled himself off Sherlock's shoulder with a groan, dragging his knees closer to his chest as peeled open leaded eyelids. "Sherlock?" He asked after a few minutes. Sherlock merely inclined his head to show that he was listening.
"I don't think Lestrade's coming."
Sherlock blinked slowly. "You should give him some credit, John. He's smarter than he looks. Sometimes."
4 Hours
There was no feeling left in Sherlock's toes and his armpits weren't doing much in the way of saving his fingers. Sherlock dropped his head forward to rest on top of his knees and allowed his eyes to fall shut for a moment.
He didn't like the way the cold was slowing down his thought processes. He'd been attempting to go through mathematical equations in his mind a last ditch effort to keep himself awake. But as he said the numbers and symbols out loud, he often found that he couldn't quite make it to the end. He kept getting lost, unable to complete the algorithm.
If there was one thing Sherlock hated most in the world, it was not being able to trust his own mind. It wasn't just that it irritated him or made him upset. It scared him. His immense intelligence was what made him so characteristically Sherlock. Who was he without it?
Sherlock tugged the upturned collar of his coat closers around his neck, ducking his chin so that his ears were partially covered.
He'd removed his scarf and wound it around John's head and ears, doing everything he could to protect his friend. John's breathing had turned shallow and a quick check of his pulse showed it had diminished alarmingly.
But John was past the point of rousing. Sherlock had tried slapping him, pinching his earlobe, and, as a last resort, had delivered a sternal rub. That one had resulted in a whine of sorts, at least, but it didn't restore him to consciousness.
Therefore, Sherlock was decidedly surprised when John suddenly stirred beside him and pushed away from the wall with a gasp.
"John?" He said, eyebrows slowly coming together at the man's sudden actions.
"S'too hot," John mumbled as he crawled forward on his hands and knees. He stopped about four feet away from Sherlock and stumbled to his feet. Sherlock followed suit, wincing as his knees protested after being bent for so long.
Though it took longer than it should have, Sherlock's brain finally caught on to what was happening. He took a staggering step forward as John shucked his coat with a speed he should not have possessed.
"John, stop," Sherlock muttered as John began to struggle with his jumper, uncoordinated limbs flailing.
By the time Sherlock reached him, John had already managed to get rid of his shoes, Sherlock's scarf, and almost his whole jumper. One arm was refusing to come loose.
"Stop that!" Sherlock commanded, words coming out weaker than he liked. He grasped the frantic doctor's arms and pinned them to his sides. John struggled for a second before deciding that it wasn't worth the fight. His unfocused eyes darted across Sherlock's face, never quite meeting the other man's eyes.
"You've heard of paradoxical undressing?" Sherlock asked, ducking his head slightly to peer into John's face. "This is your body's final attempt at saving you," he continued without waiting for an answer. "It's not hot in here. It just feels like it. Your body is trying to trick your mind into thinking it's warmer than it actually is. Now more than ever is not the time to take your clothes off. Besides," he said, slowly crouching down to retrieve John's coat off the floor, "people might talk."
5 Hours
Sherlock was convinced he was losing it. He was irrationally amused by the little clouds his breath was making every time he exhaled. He blew out a long stream of air through pursed lips, pretending it was a cloud of cigarette smoke like he did when he was child.
A small giggle escaped his lips as he watched the vapor dissipate as quickly as it had come.
Sherlock dragged his hands down his face.
This was not good. Very not good.
Limbs responding sluggishly, Sherlock stuck one hand in front of Johns's nose and mouth. He held it there for a moment only satisfied when he felt a warm puff of breath hit his palm. Sherlock adjusted the Belstaff coat around John, having wrapped the smaller man in it after his sudden venture to undress.
Sherlock didn't think he'd be able to hold off the inevitable slumber much longer.
The last thing he remembered thinking before mind went blank and darkness enveloped him was that Lestrade needed hurry.
6 Hours
"…ear me? Sher…up! You….ics in here! Now! It's going… fine…"
Sherlock's eyes fluttered in the sudden light flooding the room. He was vaguely aware of a figure crouching in front of him, saying… something Sherlock couldn't quite make out. Once his brain finally caught up with his ears, Sherlock was able to recognize the voice as that of DI Lestrade.
" 'strade?" He forced through unwilling lips. Something warm settled on his cheek. A hand, perhaps? Sherlock couldn't force his eyes to open to find out. He was tired. So very tired.
Lestrade's voice was back, saying something about opening his eyes, about staying awake.
Awake.
Wasn't he already awake?
He'd stayed awake even when John had surrendered to the soporific pull of hypothermic unconsciousness.
Oh! John!
With a new found energy, Sherlock heaved his eyelids open, staring around wildly. "John?" He gasped, frantically searching for the good doctor. Lestrade said something, but the pounding in Sherlock's ears drowned it out.
A gentle hand grasped his chin turning his head down and to the right. John was still burrowed against him, Sherlock's coat covering his front and his blue scarf once again wrapped around John's head and ears.
Once his eyes found John, saw the little puffs of air emitting from his nostrils, Sherlock found that it was immensely easier to breathe.
Just as Sherlock's eyes were about to slid shut, he noticed four new figures enter the room, moving Lestrade aside as they dropped in front of Sherlock and John.
Medics, Sherlock's brain supplied.
He kept his eyes open long enough to see John placed on a stretcher and whisked out of the room before he gave back into the torpor that had sunk its claws deep within him.
Sherlock was vaguely aware of hands lifting him, a sense of weightlessness, before he was placed on to something soft and giving. A blanket was being tucked around him, as fingers pulled as his eyelids and assaulted his pupils with a bright light.
"Mr. Holmes?" A voice was saying very close to his ear. "Mr. Holmes, if you can hear me, we're taking you to the hospital. You're going to be fine."
Fine…
Maybe Lestrade really did deserve more credit.
––––––––––
Thanks for reading!