"J-J-J... John!" Sherlock's wavery cry brings John from upstairs. He's standing in the kitchen, shivering and soaking, teeth chattering. His face is pale, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy.
John bolts across the landing.
"Sherlock. What happened?"
"I f-ff- fell. In the... Tha..."
"Oh god, Sherlock, you fell in the Thames?"
Trembling, he manages a nod. In one swift move, John leans across the kitchen and sets the kettle to boiling as he starts divesting Sherlock of his cold, filthy, water logged clothing.
Peeling his leather gloves off proves difficult, but the coat and scarf fall away in a sodden heap. Unfortunately, Sherlock's soaked straight through, his suit and button-down clinging to his body. His fingers are blue, and John can see the erratic muscle contractions running through his body. Without a second thought, he begins unbuttoning Sherlock's clothes. He manages to pull his jacket and shirt off, but when his fingers start working the flies of Sherlock's trousers, Sherlock makes a strangled noise.
"Wh- at- are you..."
"I'm undressing you, you great idiot. You're shaking too much to do it yourself."
Sherlock turns around, still trembling. "I can- d-d-do it." John just turns with him, brushing his hands out of the way.
"For god's sake, Sherlock. I'm a doctor. I'm not going to risk you getting bronchitis."