-ooo-

Sherlock woke up with a low humming noise that he couldn't quite make sense of in his almost vigil state. As he raised himself slightly from the blanket over the cold hard floor, he located the origin at once. Hurled up in the corner, the smaller statured figure was breathing shallowly, and the humming was actually more of a low pitched long moan that erupted from the sleeping man. John was in pain. Still sleeping, probably almost half awake, he was enduring through the circumstances of their make shift beds. The cold damp of the river and stone piercing through his shattered and rebuilt bones in the shoulder (who knew, probably a couple of others he kept silenced about as well) and the hard unforgiving mattress they had improvised of a folded blanket, Sherlock would have guessed to be the main problems.

Slowly, regretfully, Sherlock pulled himself down again, trying to force the sound off his mind. He couldn't. He tried hating on his friend, if he didn't really care for him, he'd fall right back asleep. John had said Sherlock was always alone, that no one was ever with Sherlock... What was he? Four years old on a tantrum? John had slipped with the truth because he worried about Sherlock, and it had hardly hurt Sherlock to hear it out loud from someone he knew cared for him.

Sherlock pulled himself up again, this time completely up. In a few silent steps he walked over to John. As his fingertips touched the cold outline of his friend, was touch was gentle, trying not to disturb him. He grabbed his shoulders carefully and rolled him over gently to the other side. The humming diminished, the breathing pattern fell deeper. It seemed to have done the trick. With a gentle smile that the darkness would never uncover, Sherlock returned to his make believe bed and lay back down. The blankets were now cold again, but they felt indefinitely more comfortable. Sherlock would fall asleep easily now.

-ooo-

Morning light had been flooding the Machine Room from the window over the river course for hours. In a mutual decision, Sherlock had left their safe house to get some food for the both of them, taking his time in order to assure himself he wasn't being followed. John had stayed behind, growing impatient and restless, until he had forced himself to sit down by the lonely table. There he'd find the rest of the paper bag treasures that Molly had provided them, and finally he had noticed among the things a newspaper from the day before. He devoted his energy to the old stale news.

'I hate, hate busses', Sherlock proclaimed as he entered the Machine Room under the Bridge, startling John as he was reading. 'Why do people need to be so ordinary?' he'd even complain.

John faked a smile. 'You need to find someone else to ask that to.'

'Why?' Sherlock asked in confusion.

'I fear I may be one of those specimens you hate.' He folded the newspaper to change the page. Then he added: 'Or maybe not so ordinary anymore, Sherlock. I made it to the London news section.'

Sherlock faced John more carefully. 'You knew it was bound to happen.' But he could see in the other's face that the thought hadn't occurred. The result being that comprehension of his public image at this point was downing on the man who struggled so hard to be ordinary, to lead a boring existence, contradicting his true nature. For all the madness that seemed to have made its home in Sherlock, he had never really fought to be average, boring, predictable, invisible, socially fitted to the norm. John, on the other hand, cared about all those things, and all again they were crashing around him. If only he'd accept himself more freely, and surpass that Right & Wrong view of the world, maybe he wouldn't be so shocked now, thought Sherlock.

'I hope they have the decency of mentioning me in there', Sherlock proclaimed to divert John's attention.

'Hope not, you don't need to be dragged into this mess... Yes, they do. Look, Sherlock', he faced his friend with honest deep blue eyes, 'I'm sorry.'

'What for?' Sherlock acted like he didn't understand. John had to fight back a bout of bad mood that came on as a reflex.

'This doesn't look good on you. The papers are partnering you with a... deranged hit man for hire.'

'Cool', Sherlock actually smiled.

'It's not good for your business.'

'I have some money set aside.'

'Yeah, but could you live with less head puzzles? They are never enough for you. What am I doing to you?'

'It would actually bring in more clients if you didn't push that morality clause all the time, John...'

'I insist on it.'

'I don't need more clients, I need good cases and right now you're the best client I've got.'

'As a client I might have broken that morality clause, don't you see?'

'It's alright, I don't insist on it.'

'Sherlock...'

'John, must I be repeating myself?'

They both silenced themselves, stubbornly.

The small door to the Machine Room was burst open all of a sudden, and they were confronted by a couple of armed man carrying their guns drawn. Sherlock froze in reaction, John got up to face them.

The first bullet shattered the window immediately arresting all the attention in the room. They stood immobile, facing the two men.

Sherlock looked at the guns pointed at them with a cold reasoning disdain. Behind him John had a dangerous controlled expression and a hint of an evil smile.

'What do you want?' Sherlock broke the silence. John kept absolutely quiet, giving Sherlock the lead.

The man gestured angrily with his gun. They wanted Sherlock and John to be tied down. The second man pocketed his gun and got a rope to tie Sherlock's hands together as the first kept up the vigilance. Sherlock was not a quiet hostage.

'Military background, probably dishonourable discharge, this is interesting...' he started all at once, like he couldn't help himself (and he knew he couldn't, yet he hadn't chosen to do it silently). 'And your friend here... Mercenary for hire, at least two other allegiances before. "Just one"? No, I shouldn't think so, definitely two...'

The first man glanced at the second. That was what the hostages were expecting, an instant of distraction. John tried to reach out for the gun on the second man's pocket but got hit with a punch and the gun he had grasped got tossed through the air, sliding further away in the room. John launched forward to get it and so did the man who had lost it.

Sherlock drew a left hook on the armed man in front of him as he tried to lock the aim on John.

Meanwhile John had reached the gun first. He took it up in his hands to the man closely following behind. With the gun in his hand, John hesitated in firing it for a split second, just enough to let the opportunity slide off his grasp.

'Sherlock, behind you!' he shouted the warning. Immediately he had to duck from a bullet that crashed on the wall just behind him.

'John!' Sherlock yelled to get his attention. 'That boat!' he pointed.

John followed the direction of his friend's gesture. There was a small private boat floating on the centre of the muddy river. What with that boat? Was it a rescue boat? Were they supposed to swim towards it?

The first bullet from the boat almost hit the side of his head. The boat was enemy territory and held more danger. John knew he only had a few seconds before the rifle's aim was again locked on him after the kick recoil of the first shot. He looked over at Sherlock and they crossed gazes.

With his best right hand hook John shoved the man in front of him aside and ran towards Sherlock's enemy, grabbing his gun by the barrel to diverge its aim long enough for Sherlock to release his hands from the ropes. The gun's barrel was hot and smelled of burnt gunpowder, and slowly was making its way to John. Sherlock stopped its movement with a powerful punch at the man holding it. Unfortunately with the wrong hand. He immediately held on to his hurt arm, in pain. John glanced over his shoulder, there was no more time. The other man was reaching for his lost gun on the floor. He pushed Sherlock with him on one of the craziest decisions he'd ever make. In a couple of seconds he's pushing Sherlock over the edge of the shattered window onto the river and following him in a similar jump.

The impact with the freezing water was painful and made them loose their breaths at once, filing their lungs instead with a bit of cold icy water. The taste of it was dreadful, the visibility null, its weight on their clothes was dragging them down and the currants pulling them mid stream.

'Come here, you clot...'

It took less than two seconds for John to notice that Sherlock was less proficient at swimming than himself. Probably the arm wound had something to do with it, but John was way too practical to ponder the motives. In two powerful strokes he reached his friend, grabbed him securely, and then pushed back to shore against the currant.

The river currants created whirlwinds and missteps that were making it difficult for the pair to reach the shore despite their combined efforts. Lucky in a way, because it allowed them to be drifted downstream faster than their enemies could follow them. But now the cold was slumbering Sherlock's moves and John could feel him shaking uncontrollably under the grasp of his arm. With a deep committed breath, John hugged tighter and pushed through on stronger strokes that seemed to be making him dizzy every time. This went on for dragging seconds until eventually his hand hit land. He got himself up in the sandy shore of some dump beach and pushed Sherlock, dragging him under the arms to firm land. He gently let him down on the ground and checked him. He was breathing, and his eyes were open, just somewhat dazed. John smiled, relieved. He got up, looking around. As the adrenaline was fading all came back to him at once. The powerful pain in his shoulder almost broke him in half, and as the exhaustion caught up in his throat he had to cough in bursts. That contributed to the light-headedness and before he knew it his knees had collapsed. He first hit the ground with his knees, the rest of him went down as a plank next. He lost consciousness before he could appreciate the solid ground on which he landed.

-ooo-

John woke up with a jolt, as if in his memory all that remained latent was the danger and finally instinct had kicked in. Easily he'd recognise that his surroundings had changed so inevitably some time had elapsed. He tried to make sense of what he saw all around him. It was a freakish old circus tent, traditional (old or vintage inspired?) and out of our times. The two coloured fabric hanging overhead in large stripes hugging an iron frame was tightened in place by ropes. He was lying on the dirt floor of a circular arena with moist sand, encased by a small rail to separate a few chairs and benches. Workmen were coming in and out bringing chairs. Mismatched old chairs, aligned with attention to detail by careful respectful hands.

Then he noticed that sitting down on the ground beside him (sharing the same thick velvet with mould stains as it were) was Sherlock, watching him recover attentively. John smiled without even realizing he was doing it.

'How the hell did I get here, Sherlock?'

Sherlock smiled too, at the sound of his course voice.

'The Strong Man brought you in... You did leave him a bit out of breath so I wouldn't put much trust on that inscription of two hundred pounds on his dumbbells...'

John was crumpling himself in two, slowly, still lying in the ground.

'What in the world...?'

'Your stitches reopened. Well, not all of them, some. By now you're going to end up with a very ugly scar.'

'It's okay...' he took his hand to his shoulder trying to feel it over the fabric.

'Who...? Did you...?'

'Not my area, really. One of the Tattooed Head to Toes Twins thought it was her area though. She did a good job, too.'

John was starting to have the idea that nothing of that was real, he was in some drugs induced farfetched dream on some hospital bed.

'Why does it smell so much of alcohol in here? And why can't I think properly? Am I drunk?'

'Not really. We did use a liquor bottle as a disinfectant on your wound. Your observing skills are as usual, John. You are, however, a little feverish, that might account for the reasoning part you mentioned.'

'How did I get here?'

'I told you. The Strong...'

'No, I mean... Is this another one of your hideouts?'

Sherlock pondered his answer for a second. 'Not really, but they owed me a favour and they'll let us stay in one of the tents for the night. It's not like we can go back to the bridge after what happened.'

'You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock.'

'I would hate to see that happen.' He replied honestly.

John looked all around again as he took his fingers up to his shoulder wound. The pain flash almost knocked tears off his eyes. No bandage, just the rough edges of skin and stitches exposed. Who had gone all Frankenstein on him? Certainly not a qualified professional. 'I'd like a mirror to check this out. Don't want to hurt anyone's feelings but...'

Sherlock considered: 'Probably best. One of those Tattooed Twins is very nearsighted and I could have mistaken them... Stay here, I'll get you something...'

'Sherlock', he stopped him from leaving.

'What else do you need?'

But it wasn't that. 'Are you okay? You were frozen by the time you got to shore.'

Their clothes had for the most part dried already on their own, a long time had passed even if not at John's grasp. '"Frozen" is not a scientifically accurate description of temperature, John.'

'Shut up.'

'I suspect that you're voicing the opposite of what you really intended at this point, based on the years I know you. Again, if you were to make an effort to be more accurate, John, you'd find that...'

John rolled his eyes. Scientifically Blunt Sherlock was a reflex of what had happened in the Machine Room and the river. The best he could do for his friend was to let him crusade for scientific speech for a while, as a way to vent out.

'Just get me a hand mirror when you get a minute to spare.'

'I'm not sure I'd take a minute, and I suppose you're using a generic notion of a minute as a vague timing and not really a chronological sixty seconds time frame.'

'Brilliant', John was sarcastic.

'Really?' Sherlock wanted to know, with a sort of innocence. John smiled, his eyelids were drooping against his will.

'What the hell, yes, you're brilliant', he responded kindly and frankly honest.

'Because I was talking about a minute's worth of time?'

John's head collapsed to the side as he fell unconscious. He would never be able to see the sudden flash of worry and guilt on the other's face, nor the gentle gestures he had as he leaned over him to check him out. In the end he opted to sit back down by his side in some sort of useless vigil.

'I was very frozen, John. And you were as unresponsive as now. My phone wasn't working, waterlogged. I assaulted your pockets. Found your keys, your coins, and finally your phone. I should have realized where it was from the start but I let emotion get the best of me. Your phone worked so I used it to place some calls and get us here. I can't take you home yet. Here will have to do. It's not a bad place. Just have to watch out for the Old Psychic Cannibal, she's got it in for us. But I'll tell you about her when you wake up, John. You need to rest now.' (You saved my life on that river, John, instead of focusing on saving your own.) 'You're as annoying as it gets, John.'