To howlynn: Moriarty didn't detonate the bomb because it would probably have killed him (and everyone else on the bridge): the bomb is a nuclear warhead which causes a much larger blast than a conventional one, plus radiation. Originally I titled the story Firestorm because nukes can actually cause one, though it's less likely to happen with modern buildings. Or … maybe I just didn't want to blow up the Shard! :-)
To all of you: I'm blushing to the tips of my ears with your reviews - you're spoiling me! Thank you so much!
Abyss
John was over the rail before anyone could stop him. He heard Donovan and Lestrade shout his name, but he did not care. He knew that jumping into the river was mad and probably futile, but he had no choice: he had to try, even if he never found a trace of Sherlock.
The boat with Moriarty on it was speeding away, cutting through the waves recklessly and turning the water into a maelstrom. A helicopter was hovering overhead, searching the surface with a huge spotlight, but John doubted they even knew what had just happened.
He hit almost the exact spot where Sherlock had entered the water. The impact was brutal, sending jolts of pain through him; and then the waves closed around him, swallowing him up in their cold darkness. Suddenly, he became aware of his heavy clothes dragging him down and the current tugging at him - he stifled the panic ruthlessly and struggled out of his jacket, forcing himself to concentrate.
But it was too dark to see, and the waves kept crushing over his face, making him choke. He struck out blindly and dived down, finding nothing but water; he opened his eyes as wide as possible, ignoring the burning sensation, but everything was just a blur of black and blue and noise.
With a few powerful strokes he reached the surface again, gasping for air, frantically trying to orientate himself.
"John! Bloody hell!" Lestrade was leaning over the railing of the bridge, almost toppling down; a surprisingly large number of people had gathered next to him, all pointing and shouting excitedly.
"John! Hang on!" Lestrade had fetched one of the red life belts installed on the bridge, throwing it down to him. John ignored it; he was about to dive again when he suddenly saw the huge white circle of light dancing on the water, drawing nearer. "God, yes!" he wheezed and started to wave. "Here! Get over here!"
The helicopter moved the searchlight towards him, hovering straight above. As soon as John appeared in the glaring light, a lifeline came down, but John ignored it and instantly dived again.
Illuminated, the water was now a dull green – and there, only a few feet away, barely under water but carried away quickly by the current, was a dark shape, floating sluggishly like a big black ray.
John had never excelled at water sports, but this time he would have left any champion swimmer behind: he darted through the water and reached the drifting shape within seconds.
A coat.
And a body.
His arms closed around the limp figure and he struggled against the current and the heavy weight of the sodden wool, but he made it, breaking through the river's surface with his precious burden in his arms.
Spitting and coughing, he briefly wondered why Sherlock had not sunk to the ground – he must have been conscious for a while, fighting the undertow, John thought, pushing upwards with mighty strokes to stay afloat. He held Sherlock's head above the water and managed to adjust his grip, getting one hand free, frantically searching for a pulse.
"Please, God, please," he whispered as his stiff fingers scrambled along the throat. He tried to support the lolling head, leaning it against his shoulder, and finally, finally he found the pulse point; he cried out when he found the heart still beating. Barely, but still beating. Pressing the cold face against his own, he whispered, "Hang on, Sherlock, please hang on. I've got you, it's alright, I've got you … Jesus … I've got you …"
Later, John hardly remembered the rescue team picking them up – there were vague images of a man coming down from the helicopter, of being pulled up – the water underneath, the ground coming into view, being lowered on the riverside, a rescue team coming down … buildings in the background, harsh streetlights, ground glistening with rain, the limp body under his hands; sodden wool, damp curls, cold skin and blue lips; eyelids almost translucent with a grid of purple veins, his hands scrambling over every limb, tearing at the clothes, revealing the wound in the chest – just a small hole, reddish, skin slightly burnt, not much blood on the outside, so much more on the inside. All the damage hidden. Bleeding out. Lungs collapsing. Not breathing. The heart falling silent.
He had no memory of himself, of being soaking wet and cold – there was only fear and desperation and his voice at military pitch, yelling for an ambulance, shouting at the rescue team not to interfere, the horrible memory of St. Bart's cropping up, when his voice had been weak and he had been dragged away from Sherlock. Not this time. "I'm a doctor," he snapped angrily, and when the hands tugging at his shoulders became more insistent, he shoved them away, yelling, "I'm an army doctor, I bloody know what I'm doing! Get the fucking ambulance!" And finally they relented and knelt next to him and followed his commands as he worked on the limp body. Four people fighting for Sherlock's life, he thought, but what they really needed was an ambulance. He never noticed the shock blanket around his shoulders; when it got in the way, he shook it off without even realizing, doggedly continuing CPR.
There was very little he could do: get the water out of the lungs, force air into them instead, keep the heart beating. He worked on autopilot, not thinking, just reacting, doing what was necessary until the heart started beating again.
It did.
And finally the eyelids fluttered.
"Oh God, please, come on …" John muttered and kept working, stubbornly manhandling Sherlock back to life. Suddenly, the body jerked and the hands flew up as if trying to bat him away, but they fell down again, too weak to carry their own weight.
"Come on, come on," John huffed, his own heart leaping with fear and hope. "Sherlock! Don't give up! Come on, you can do this!" He slapped his face, none too gently, and finally, Sherlock moved, eyes opening briefly but rolling back in his head instantly. He winced, trying to draw breath, water bubbling in his chest; they rolled him on his side, and while John held his head, he coughed violently, liquid frothing at his lips.
"Spit it out, Sherlock, come on," John murmured, supporting him as best he could. "Good, here you go, that's it, spit it all out, come on, one more try, don't give up. Good."
Sherlock writhed, his body shaken by spasms of coughing, trying to get rid of the water in his lungs. He brought most of it up, but there was still an ugly gurgling sound when he drew the first unsteady breath. It led to another coughing fit and more desperate retching, but he finally managed a few wheezing breaths.
John held his head, gently rubbing his thumb along the jawline. "There you go. Well done." He couldn't help but smile when Sherlock made a feeble attempt to fend off the hands holding him – stubborn even in unconsciousness. "Sherlock," he tried to reassure him. "Calm down, you're doing fine. It's alright, we've got you. You're safe, it's alright."
It seemed to work – his hands eventually stilled. John felt for the pulse in the neck and it was there, but thready, quickly becoming erratic. There was still no ambulance in sight. He raised his brows questioningly at the rescue team leader: the man silently indicated three minutes. John nodded and realised that he didn't even know the name of the young man who had pulled him out of the water. Not an easy thing to do in the dark. "Thanks for rescuing us," he said. "My name's John Watson, by the way."
The man smiled. "I'm Todd Barnes, pleased to meet you, Dr Watson. I know who you are … well, now, at least. I read your blog."
John thought what a crazy world it was.
"Hope you'll write a lot more entries," Barnes added.
"I hope so too," John replied wryly, bending over Sherlock again.
His breaths were suddenly faltering. John gently nudged his shoulder, urging him quietly, "Sherlock, keep breathing, please. I know it hurts, and I know it's boring, but come on, you can do this."
He did, John noticed, but it took all his strength and was obviously painful, for he flinched with every rasping breath, and it wrenched John's heart to see him suffering. 'Three minutes,' John told himself, 'just three minutes.'
"Hang on, Sherlock," he coaxed. "The ambulance is on the way. They'll be here in a moment. It'll be a lot easier for you then, I promise. They'll help you breathe and they'll give you something against the pain, and then you can rest. Just hang in there. Do it for me," he pleaded, swallowing hard, his voice suddenly catching in his throat. He knew Sherlock was not really awake, but he wanted him to understand that help was on the way.
"John!" Lestrade's voice was suddenly behind him. "Oh my God! Is he-?"
John looked up and saw the DI standing right behind him, panting with exertion from running, but his face was pale and sweaty, the veins throbbing at his temple – an unhealthy mixture.
"Greg, he's alive." John desperately tried to keep his voice calm, the last thing they needed was a DI with a heart attack.
Lestrade fell to his knees, one hand reaching out for the prone figure on the ground.
"Greg, any news of the ambulance?" John asked quietly.
Lestrade looked up. "They may have problems with the traffic. Another accident. Maybe can't come down to the bloody embankment."
"Can you go and make sure they get here as soon as possible? Not that they're stuck just a few meters away. If they can't be here in a few minutes, call Mycroft – tell him we need a helicopter."
"Sure," Lestrade jumped up. "Donovan and some officers are already out there diverting the traffic. I'll call Mycroft."
"Yeah. Thank you," John nodded and watched the DI jogging up to the street.
The three minutes were over. Still no ambulance.
"Dr Watson," Barnes said, his voice strained, and John noticed it at the same time: Sherlock's pulse was fading and his breaths were barely detectable now. "Okay, we'll move him on his back," John commanded. "CPR again. You know the drill."
By all rights, Sherlock should have stayed still.
But he didn't.