Author's note – Quick thing about chapter length: I'm sorry that they've been somewhat inconsistent, some 2k+ and some only 1k, but I feel like it's necessary, and for me as a writer each chapter has a place where it begins, and a place where I think it naturally ends. If you're a writer you'll understand how natural and instinctive writing really is, how the characters and plot of a really good story just write themselves. So, I hope that doesn't bother anyone.

Lots of angst and drama in this one. Hold onto your hats. And, as always, please leave reviews/follow/favorite if you want more! :)

Saturday, February 15, 2014

Sherlock

The suspect has him against the edge of the boat. Hands at his throat. Feet bound.

He fumbles for his mobile, desperately typing out a text to John – who he knows returned a fortnight ago despite everyone's attempts to deny it (Molly is awful at subtlety) – behind his back. Perhaps it's the lack of oxygen flow to his head that removes any preconceptions regarding the appropriateness of his chosen recipient. Regardless, John is the only person he wants to rescue him, wants to see at all, really. Impending death exposes priorities.

John. Need you. Please hurry. SH

He forgets to put the location, assuming that John will know where he is. John always finds him, doesn't he. That's what he does.

"You're not so brave without your little sidekick, are you?" the criminal sneers, all crooked teeth and foul breath. Sherlock is having too much trouble breathing to analyze the source of his captor's stench.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock chokes. Hurry, John.

"Oh, but I think I do. You're a two-man act, aren't you? One can't live without the other. Seen it before. Like a couple, you two."

Sherlock snarls, rage unlike any other subsuming his being. Being asphyxiated may contribute to sudden loss of inhibition. "John and I," he wheezes, kicking at his attacker, who only dodges him, "are not a couple."

"Yeah? Well, none of that matters, does it, if he's not here to save your arse this time around?"

"You don't know –" Sherlock's phone beeps. He struggles to look at the screen. [Message not delivered]. Fuck. Before he can hit "resend," he sails over the edge of the boat. Water rushes all around him, ropes twining slick about his ankles, double helices of his own blood twisting and twirling, ethereal, as the cut on his forehead bleeds into the inky depths.

He sinks below the surface, and thinks of John.

–––––

Sunday, February 16, 2014

John

John stands in the corridor, barely controlling his anger. Lestrade's got an infuriating half-pitying, half-irritated expression plastered to his face.

Struggling to find words, John peeks into the hospital room again, but the nurse inside swiftly pulls the curtain around Sherlock's bed with a disapproving look.

John crosses his arms and turns to Lestrade. Voice shaking with suppressed fury, he spits, "Why didn't you call me?"

"You were on holiday with your new wife," Lestrade explains patiently, as if John is quite daft. What, does he think Lord Voldemort's been possessing him the past two months? That he suddenly doesn't remember things as crucial and wracking as what happened with Sherlock?

"We got back ages ago." Fourteen days. Does that count as "ages"? God. Mary, the wedding, the honeymoon in sodding Bora Bora, the two extra weeks drifting around Scotland to "clear" his head – he is bitterly, regretfully aware of these facts.

"We don't see you around much, John," says Lestrade gently. "Mycroft is the only one who's still in contact with you."

"I know." John forces these words through gritted teeth. Then, "You should have called."

"I understand that you're upset, but you must understand, John, that you do not live with this man anymore. He has no one in particular – which, of course, is not your fault." He glances at John, at his stormy brow, and sighs. "Look. I would have rung you, but you are not on the list of people to notify. You're not listed as an emergency contact –"

"You know he's my effing best friend!" John hollers. People turn and stare. He's beet red. "If he's hurt, don't you think I would want to be first to know?"

"No," Lestrade replies simply. "You've moved on with your life. You two barely talk anymore, you told me yourself."

"I – we have. I haven't... I haven't."

"John." Lestrade looks stressed out of his mind. Welcome to the club. "You're married now! You've opened up an entirely new chapter in your life – forgive the cliche – and I don't see how it's my fault that you were not the first priority when they dragged his body out of that lake."

"I know," mutters John. "But you're wrong."

"Pardon?"

John is already walking away. He turns around, stares Lestrade full in the face. "I haven't moved on."

"What are you –"

But John is nothing but pounding feet down tiled halls. Mary reaches for him as he sprints past the waiting room; he brushes her off, trainers striking the ground with the force of his remorse, to the rhythm of his breath – Sherlock's breath, steady in sleep, raggedy among the cords and monitors – and the words that fly out of his mouth on each impact. "I" – he's flying out the double doors now – "never" – he doesn't know where the car is, doesn't know a thing, doesn't give a fuck – "moved" – he ends up on the front stoop of 221b – "on."

–––––

Mary

They look for John and find her.

"He just left," she says when the nurse asks.

"Do you mind stepping in here for a moment?"

"Sure."

Sherlock's lying limply on the stark white sheets, milky skin nearly blending in. He has a couple of tubes up his nose and an IV poking out of his wrist, against which scars – old ones, thank god – press patterns.

"What happened?" she asks hollowly.

"We aren't sure, but it is believed that Mr. Holmes intentionally searched out a suspect, hiding on his boat, and attempted to confront him. He was no match – this," she gestured to the needle, "isn't thanks to their altercation; he was dehydrated, and slightly malnourished, to begin with. Anyway, he nearly drowned, fluid filled his lungs, the whole nine... hypothermia started to set in, too, given that it's just February. His landlady, concerned because he'd been gone awhile, called his brother, who immediately 'deduced.'" She glances at Mary. "Are you familiar with... does he do that often?"

"Both of them, yes. Go on."

"Mr. Holmes's brother successfully beat the rescue helicopters and singlehandedly dove in, dragged Sherlock out, and performed CPR on him. At that point, the EMTs took over, and he was transported to the hospital."

"It's a bloody miracle," Mary whispers.

The nurse looks at her with pitying eyes. "He's going to be okay."

"He better be." She clasps his hand, loose and floppy against her palm, and squeezes it. "You better fucking be okay," she says. He gives no indication that he hears her.

"He's still quite out of it, I'm afraid. Doesn't respond to anybody, not even his brother."

"It's okay," she says, and is suddenly seized by the conviction that she is in the wrong place. Her husband should be here. Sherlock is John's best friend, not hers. "Can you excuse me for a moment?"

The nurse nods and draws the curtain again, fussing over buttons and digital lines.

Mary gets told off for making a call in the waiting room, so she resorts to text.

come back.

It is delivered and read, but no reply.

darling, please. sherlock needs you.

Nothing. She waits fifteen minutes, then,

where are you?

The flat.

Well, of course he responds to a straightforward question. Bastard.

come back to the hospital.

No. Did they tell you what happened?

yes, and i won't until you come back.

Is he okay?

he'll survive. we have mycroft to thank for that.

Tosser.

i know he enforced the whole 'space' thing, but he cares about his brother.

So do I.

me too. you have to come back. what happens when he wakes up?

He'll move on with his life again.

please, love. come back.

She watches the screen as he types, stops, types, stops. Then, finally, a little white bubble.

On my way.