A/N: I thought it was time for some John abuse – lol! I haven't seriously Whumped him in awhile. I need to give huge, enormous thanks my lovely and brilliant Ennui Enigma for being a Beta/Muse (a new type of fanfic help she came up with – to go along with my new favourite word betamusing:). I couldn't have done this chapter the justice it deserved without her. Don't listen to her; she deserves a writing credit and many accolades!
Technical and medical information is accurate and I had amazing help with. Water rescue information is from a website. Any other mistakes blame me not EE.
Warnings – near death by drowning, some swearing
Oh yeah – guess what? It's a New Year & I still don't own! How sad!
Some of this was inspired by what I like to think of as my favourite Johnlock song, Possession, although I'm sure Sarah McLachlan never intended it this way –lol- & I have used this song in another story, but I keep going back to it! Sorry! There are words in here about needing someone to sustaining you through words & well frankly lust;) - listen to the song - it's sexy - had to take lyrics out so see if you can find the ones I mean.
Breath
breath – noun – 1a. the air taken into or expelled from the lungs. b. one respiration of air. c. an exhalation of air that can be seen, smelled, or heard. 2a. a slight movement of air, a breeze. b. a whiff of perfume, etc. 3. a whisper, a murmur (esp. of a scandalous nature). 4. the power of breathing: life
Cold was the first sensation.
Wet the next.
The shock of the cold choked out what scant reserve of oxygen he had remaining in his lungs.
He couldn't struggle. His hands and feet were bound securely with rope. Any attempt to escape was futile. The depths of the river overwhelmed him, suffocating him as water saturated his airways.
This is it. It came to him as consciousness slipped silently away.
No thought of futility. No loss of hope. Simply a strange, peaceful sensation that cloaked and comforted him.
Surprisingly, in the last moments of consciousness, as his larynx spasmed and forced his trachea shut, protecting his lungs as long as possible, his memory travelled further than he supposed possible. This hostile, aqueous environment sent him sailing on a mind-journey to the sea he had come from, the sea of the womb - warm, life giving, and safe. From those distant shores John entered the world. Now he would die in harsher, unforgiving waters. Balance was in all things. Yin and Yang.
As blackness crept to the edges of his perception, he could distinguish familiar sounds. The dub, dub, dub of a boat engine, waves hitting the dock supports, and the swoosh of blood in his ears rushing to keep his body alive.
The last sound he heard before darkness bore him away in her arms was a distinct splash.
Perception faded into nothing.
oOo
Two days.
John had been missing two days and Sherlock was at the end of his tether.
John had been kidnapped off the streets in broad daylight with the crime lord's henchmen flaunting the fact in front of the CCTV cameras. Revenge. There would be no ransom demand. They had simply vanished, taking a far greater prize with them than they realized.
John's jacket had appeared, left on the front stoop for Sherlock to find, a mocking taunt. The black one, the one Sherlock loved, the one that accented John's trim figure and complimented his colouring.
It was neatly folded as if nothing was amiss. Solitary and alone.
No note. No clues. Nothing.
Then Mycroft came. An anomaly was discovered down at the docks. Lestrade and the Yard were contacted.
A car ride later, arriving as twilight began closing the daylight curtains, Sherlock was in time to see two men standing at the end of the dock. He tore toward them, closely followed by Lestrade and other officers from NSY. He grabbed the first man roughly by the coat and shook him hard, while the others swarmed the second.
"Where is he?" he practically spit in the man's face.
The other man just smirked, but his eyes travelled to the water. It was all Sherlock needed in order to deduce what had happened to John. He calculated from the position the two men had been standing on the dock the exact location that John would have been dumped into the water. Violently, he threw off his coat and shoes, disregarded all else as he dove into the Thames. Lestrade, who had spent summers as a lifeguard and knew the ins and outs of water rescue, followed him into the river.
Sherlock knew that a body thrown into water is likely to sink straight to the bottom, particularly one weighted by ropes and wrapped tightly. The mistake most rescuers make is searching too far away. He was thankful he'd made a study of watery body disposal. He tried hard not to think of dead bodies. This was John. John could not be dead.
He knew searching by sight, within the dark, murky waters, was pointless, so he engaged his other senses. There, barely audible, he heard the faint sound of water disturbed by feeble body gyrations. He kicked in that direction with arms outstretched and brushed against something solid. He reflexively grabbed and was rewarded by a handful of soggy jumper. With Lestrade's help, the two pulled John's body upward to the surface.
With the assistance of waiting officers on shore, the two men managed to haul John's motionless form up onto the dock. The ropes binding John were quickly cut and removed.
Lestrade bent over, his face hovered over John's, and looked for chest movement, assessing for any hint of breath sounds or air movement on his cheek. "He's not breathing," he shouted in alarm. "Call for an ambulance. Get me an AED. Go!" he urged the officers standing next to him.
At this announcement, Sherlock shoved Lestrade aside and collapsed on his knees next to his beloved. He tilted John's head back, brought his chin upward in an effort to open up his airway. A swift finger swipe of the mouth revealed no blocking foreign objects. "Lestrade, compressions," he shouted. The two men exchanged anxious glances. Lestrade nodded and interlaced his fingers over John's sternum. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pinched John's nostrils, placed his lips over John's, then blew, watching for the rise of John's chest, all the while he was swearing in his head. He took another breath, he blew again. His arms locked, Lestrade pressed down hard on John's sternum, compress - release - compress - release. Fast, firm, hard. He winced as he felt ribs crack underneath his hands, and apologized wordlessly to the still form. Then it was Sherlock's turn. Tilt head, breath. Breath again. Back to Lestrade. Compress, release. A rhythm. A dance of life and death between the two over John's dusky grey form. Fuck you, breathe! Sherlock swore silently. If you fucking die on me John Watson… He would not let himself go beyond the horror of that final thought.
oOo
So this is what it's like being dead, John thought. Interesting.He watched Sherlock and Greg work on his body. He didn't feel any physical pain.
Emotional feelings were a different matter. He really didn't want to leave this limbo he found himself within, yet he certainly didn't want to abandon Sherlock. He knew the younger man wouldn't survive without him. Not long anyway. He felt a strange sadness creep over him. He knew that if his body on the dock didn't start breathing soon, it was going to be too late.
He could almost feel the snap as invisible strings, strings that interlaced the two men together, tore apart. He knew once all the strands snapped asunder there would be no going back.
He leaned over Sherlock and whispered in his ear, "Come on, 'Lock. Don't give up! Breathe. Be my breath. I'm not ready to leave you yet."
He thought he heard Sherlock mutter in reply, "Then bloody well shut up and let me work!" John almost smiled at the familiar tone.
Just as Greg was about to put out a hand to stop Sherlock, to tell him it was too late, John felt a tug. He was slammed back into his body by an invisible, irresistible force. He woke coughing out water and gasped desperately for air. The return to agony and life.
Sherlock collapsed in relief; he wiped a shaky hand over his face and stifled a sob. Lestrade meanwhile turned John onto his side and stroked his head.
"It's alright, mate, ambulance is here. We'll get you to the hospital."
Donovan stood to the side, surprise and worry on her face. She had no idea that Freak actually felt anything akin to sentiment, but his obvious distress and now relief over John's rescue, began to shift her ideas. She knew John cared about Freak. She had seen the signs of grief when they all thought Sherlock was dead. But she had no idea that such emotions were reciprocated. She'd always believed Freak was using John, the way he used everyone else. Her thinking began to change.
John was bundled into an ambulance, but before it could speed toward the hospital, Sherlock forced his way inside. Someone grabbed a blanket for Lestrade who gratefully accepted it and wrapped his shivering form within its comforting confines. Arriving late to the scene, Mycroft offered to take the DI to his apartment so he could change. Sherlock's older brother had already sent for dry apparel for Sherlock, well aware he wouldn't leave the hospital as long as John was there.
oOo
Several hours and multiple tests later, Dr. Roth stood in John's room and explained things to Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg.
"We have taken x-rays of his lungs and done a CT scan of his brain. Other than a few fractures of the ribs that will heal on their own, everything looks okay. He's on oxygen to keep his sats up and we've started intravenous fluids as a precaution. He was fortunate you reached him as quickly as you did. The cold of the water helped too. It slowed his metabolism and decreased his oxygen needs. Your excellent resuscitation upon his retrieval from the water has reduced his chances of permanent hypoxic brain damage. We'll continue to monitor him for any signs of respiratory failure, cardiac arrhythmias, or infection in the hospital for the next 48 hours. His current condition though is stable and I'm optimistic about his prognosis. He's a very lucky man."
The doctor walked away and Greg clapped Sherlock on the back.
Sherlock ignored both his brother and the Inspector and walked to stand, hesitantly, next to John's bed, not sure what to do next, as he waded through other, different, unfamiliar waters.
The other two men looked at each other and left, giving Sherlock some much needed privacy.
John was asleep.
He quietly moved a chair over next to his bed. John looked ridiculously small in the hospital bed.
He leaned over and brushed his lips on John's forehead, enfolded John's hand in his, recognized his scent, connected it to home and love. He sat and stared for what seemed like hours. He didn't even remember when he at last crawled into the bed and fell asleep, exhausted, curled around John.
Sometime later, John woke up. He couldn't remember where he was and why. As he drew in each breath, he felt sharp, stabs of pain. The doctor in him diagnosed that there must be broken ribs.
After that it took a moment to recognize the lump on the bed beside him. The lump slept soundly. John tentatively lifted a hand and ran it through the riot of curls, smiling softly. He didn't want to disturb his partner. But Sherlock, ever a light sleeper, awoke at the first hesitant touch.
He sat up abruptly.
"John?" he croaked. He reached out a hand and it hovered over John's face and then he stroked one finger down his cheek. John smiled, pressed into the cherished hand. He felt rather than heard Sherlock's breath hitch as he stifled another sob. He felt his own breath hitch as well, in pain from the ribs and in compassion for how difficult this must be for Sherlock.
"Shh, it's alright love," and the younger man lowered his head and buried his face in the pillow John was lying on. His cries were silent. Sherlock never cried like this. It was wondrous and heartbreaking.
John continued to stroke Sherlock's head and murmured nonsense until Sherlock regained some semblance of control.
Finally, hiccuping slightly, Sherlock raised his head and smiled a watery smile.
"I thought I'd lost you."
"I know."
"If you hadn't, if I couldn't…" he hiccuped some more.
"It's okay. It will be okay," John raised a tired hand and gently removed the tears from the face before him.
"If you hadn't kept whispering in my ear…" Sherlock's voice was faint, barely audible.
John frowned, "What do you mean?"
"When you were lying there, after we pulled you out, you kept whispering in my ear to breathe for you," Sherlock blushed, knowing how insane that sounded and how he would have scoffed and sneered at the notion of John or anyone else saying such things to him. But he knew in his heart that he had heard John whispering to not give him up. And he knew, as sure as he knew the chemical formula of hydrochloric acid, that he had seen a vague shadow hovering at the corner of his vision. He could blame it on adrenalin, on lack of oxygen while performing mouth-to-mouth, but he knew John had been right beside him the entire time.
"You called me 'Lock. You only ever call me that, when, you know…" and he blushed deeper.
John chuckled softly. How on earth could a man capable of such incredible and undreamt of erotic acts between the two of them be embarrassed by a name given in the throes of passion? It was beyond John's understanding.
He continued to stroke Sherlock's face, a reflexive, comforting act for both of them and then slowly, carefully, as he ignored the pain, because they both needed it, pulled him down for an exhausted kiss.
Sherlock laid his head down next to John's and fell back asleep, listened to the inhalation and exhalation of air through a fragile set of lungs, lungs that had almost ceased their life's work today.
Meanwhile, John rested, stroked Sherlock's hair and unsuccessfully tried to remember what had happened to him on the dock.