A/N John's the one in danger, for a change. The result is snogging, not for a change.

Thanks to Guest, starrysummernights, 666BloodyHell666, ThisDayWillPass, Natalie Nallareet, shielafernandez357, johnsarmylady, Song of Grey Lemons, Hummingbird1759, Motaku1235, and total-animal-lover

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XCI. Drowning

John knows that he shouldn't inhale. It's dangerous, at this point—he's too far underwater, and the only thing that it will do is fill his blazing lungs with dark, murky liquid, speed up the drowning process. But it's practically impossible to resist. His surrounding are completely dark, even with his eyes wide open, water stinging them angrily. He flails his limbs wildly, but he can't identify up from down now, and all of his body systems are beginning to race as an encompassing feeling of desperation seals over him. There's nowhere to go, no direction that leads towards confirmed safety, and his head is beginning to pulse with lack of air, white shadows dancing swiftly around the corners of his vision.

It's ridiculous, he reflects vaguely, noting from a distance that his hands are still struggling futilely to paddle, that his feet haven't relaxed enough to go limp. Ridiculous that he should die this way, drowning. There were so many times when he thought he might be killed, during and before his time with Sherlock. But he always envisioned that he'd go down in a blaze of glory, struck by a gunshot, caught by the enemy—never shoved by a furious criminal into the Thames, tossed about by the chill autumn waves until he could no longer find the surface.

And not just ridiculous, but mundane. Thousands of people, thousands, have sunken to their deaths in this river. Perhaps they'll never even find his body. A warm heat starts to prickle at the base of his skull, his head feeling as though an iron clamp is slowly sealing shut over it. He wonders if Sherlock will mourn him, if Sherlock will even miss him.

He also wonders what it's like, being dead, but decides not to dwell on it—he'll find out soon enough. Surely he only has a few more seconds of consciousness left in him, and then his instincts will take over, his stupid instincts, his mouth will open and the water will flow in, it'll all end itself in minutes at the most, almost certainly less.

Not much longer.

Then he feels it, from far, far away, feels a numb pressure on his arm, something else gathering around the back of his neck and supporting his drooping head, and then there's suddenly coldness all down his face, his mouth is flying open and gasping in icy air, his whole body tingling as the previous aching warmth is suddenly ripped away from him. He keeps breathing, for several seconds, just coughing and sucking in mouthful after mouthful of frosty, beautiful, pure oxygen, until his head begins to grow light in an entirely different way from before. Shudders are consuming his whole skeleton, but he's clinging to something—something's keeping him afloat, stopping him from going under again.

Sherlock is soaked, still fully dressed, his dark hair plastered to his face with water and what looks like blood all along his jawline. His pale eyes are wide, and he's staring at John as though he's the most precious thing in the world.

Words can express nothing at this point, and maybe John's just a little crazy from his near-death experience. Whatever the cause, he finds himself leaning forward, reaching up with a blue-tinged hand and cupping the side of Sherlock's face, clinging to him and kissing the hell out of him even as they tread water in the middle of the frozen Thames.