Chapter 7: Thaw
Drowning is not fun. John never had to worry about drowning in Afghanistan. He especially didn't need to worry about drowning in the Thames in February. "I don't think you could find a more miserable death for me if you'd been looking for one," he tells Sherlock ascerbically as he delivers his tea.
Sherlock's hands snake out from under the blanket he's cocooned himself in, then withdraw back under cover with their steaming prize. John settles down next to him on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket of his own. A hot shower, a fire in the hearth, and a beautifully scalding cuppa, and he still feels like he was just excavated from the inside of an iceberg. It must be a psychological thing.
"How long are you insisting we torture ourselves?" Sherlock grumbles.
"Oh, I'm sorry," John says with deliberately obnoxious cheer. "Did you want to sleep? Are you tired, Sherlock, why it's only been 48 hours non-stop up one side of London and down the other, that's positively light duty for you-"
A truly menacing snarl cuts him off. "That was for a case. Now the case is over and I want to sleep, and you are keeping me up with medical fear mongering!"
"It's not fear mongering," John tells him with what he thinks Sherlock should appreciate as nigh-saintly patience after the weekend the man's just put him through. "It's secondary drowning. Twelve hours, Sherlock, and even after that you should make certain there's someone nearby in case of emergency for a couple of days."
"I have someone for emergencies," Sherlock growls. "He's currently tormenting me with sleep deprivation."
He's tormenting both of them, in point of fact. John hasn't slept any more than Sherlock. He just whinges less about it. But he finds himself obscurely touched by Sherlock's complaint, which takes the edge off his irritation over rehashing this argument. "Between us we got about half the Thames down our lungs. I know you only care about things that kill people after the fact, but I've gotten rather attached to us." John pauses for a bracing sip of tea. "By all rights we ought to be in hospital, you know."
Sherlock emits a noise that isn't so much a sound of disgust as the distilled essence of it, balls himself up and flops sideways to form a giant purple and white clot in John's personal space.
John serenely rests his tea on Sherlock's shoulder, and bends down near the curly head. "It really was pretty marvelous," he mutters like he's sharing a confidence, "the way you sussed out who ended up with the necklace. And if you hadn't predicted that trap and pushed us into the river, we'd be crispy critters." It's crass flattery and they both know it, but it works. He sternly forces down a smile at the way Sherlock uncoils from his resentment almost despite himself. "I owe you my life, you know," he purrs, just this side of caricaturing himself. "Again."
"Elementary," Sherlock mutters into his thigh, but he's smiling. John can't tell whether he's preening under the ego-stroking or if Sherlock's laughing at him.
For that matter, he could hardly care less. He John slumps sideways and curls around the warm ball of Sherlock so the two of them form an afghan-covered lump. "You keep promising to tell me about some of your early cases," he cajoles against Sherlock's hip, his voice a blatant promise of further praise.
Sherlock laughs and allows himself to be manipulated. "You're a gallant, John. Fine, then, have I ever mentioned Reggie Musgrave…?"