Twenty seven.
Twenty eight.

Twenty nine.

fuck, how could this be happening, how could he have failed to see it coming, how could he have let down his guard

Thirty.

but it had only been a few moments, hadn't it, so John's skin couldn't be this cold, it didn't make any sense, and the sand was warm beneath him, so why wasn't John?

Tilt head back, lift chin, pinch nose.

he could make it right, though—he was Sherlock Holmes and he was brilliant, the cleverest, and he was going to figure out how to do what needed to be done to fix this because it was entirely his fault

One breath. Feel the chest rise.

because there had been the powder and all he'd meant to do was check but John had been furious with him—in their cramped cabin, had yelled, "I'm angry with you, Sherlock, so fucking angry with you," banging his palms on the little bolted-down desk—and no, it really hadn't been good, and when Sherlock had started to understand what was happening, started to recognise the familiar silvery white lightness creeping around the edge of his psyche, he'd been so frightened because he couldn't do this again, he'd promised, and trying to stop always left everything so sharp and bleak and terrible

Another breath: one second. Another rise. No response.

but then John had been there and John had been able to lead Sherlock, think for him while his mind was gone all limp and useless, put his hands on him and hold him down so he couldn't go careening off the edge of the earth, and that had been good—what else could it be when it was John because John was so good?—and it had meant that Sherlock had got to be held by John, and got to kiss him again and taste him and learn the shape of him under his fingers, and that couldn't have been bad either because Sherlock wouldn't have traded it for anything

Hands in the centre of the chest, form a V. Press down two inches and one, two, three...

except he would, now, he'd take it all back from the beginning from the kiss to the drugs to even taking the case in the first place—he'd crush his mobile to dust so Dimmock's text never would have been opened—and his stomach was churning because he would trade that kiss, he'd trade a thousand more of them for never having had to put his lips to John's like this, so wet and slack and cold

...eight, nine, ten, eleven...

and his own face was wet, too, and salty, and some of it was from the water but he couldn't fool himself into thinking that that was all, not with a great big brain like his, because his chest was tight and heaving and hiding something sharp that was threatening to uncoil in the most spectacular way and leave him sprawled on the sand, and how was he meant to make John breathe again when his own lungs were vacuumed clean and flat, refusing to inflate no matter how many great burning gasps he gave, how could he, how could anyone...

...sixteen, seventeen (oh God please), eighteen, nineteen...

still no sign of a response; John's face was just grey, some awful shade that wasn't quite mortuary but closer to that than to living, breathing creature, and John was supposed to be tan in his face and on his hands but not above the wrists because he had been a soldier and that was why he was too strong to go out like this, to be flipped unconscious over the railing by some man with a ridiculous little moustache and a club, too strong to drown right next to a dock because Sherlock couldn't get into the water quick enough because the crew had tried to hold him back, saying the ship was docking and it was dangerous, but John had been under the water and sinking, sinking

...twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven...

cracking under Sherlock's hands that mirrored the pain in his own chest, and one hundred pumps a minute—wasn't that so impossibly, cruelly slow?—andante when he should be calling John back with Erlkönig or Rite of Spring or the Tchaikovsky that he liked, Symphony No. 4, any of those and not some nauseating mournful dirge that sounded like Sherlock wasn't doing everything he could, like he wouldn't pump his own arms off if he had to, or crack through John's ribs and squeeze the muscle of John's heart between his hands until it remembered how to beat again

Tilt, lift, pinch. One breath...

but John, at least, had been on guard, Browning in hand and back flush to his, and it had felt so much like the old days—John stepping instinctively between Sherlock and the perceived source of danger, and as they'd waited there, spine aligned against spine, Sherlock had felt it, somehow—something in the set of John's bones and the contentment in the way his broad shoulders and odontoid process rested against Sherlock's scapula, he didn't know what but he'd felt John trusting him again, felt the wave of easy affection, and Sherlock had been overwhelmed with something like gratitude—and a bit lost, maybe, because this wasn't his area, never had been, but there was something warm inside him creeping outward like a sunburst and so he had reached back and rested a hand on John's hip, felt bone and muscle beneath his palm, and squeezed

...and two. And hands, one, two, three, four...

and John had turned toward him, face screwed up in puzzlement, but then whatever he had seen in Sherlock's eyes had made his features go soft for a moment, made his mouth twist in a wicked smile, and he had leant in close to Sherlock and moved his lips and said, "Now people are definitely going to—" and then there had come the man with his club and John hadn't seen him and the railing simply hadn't been high enough because John had gone toppling over it like a rag doll and Sherlock's world had spiralled down to one sharp, tight point of keening terror

God, John is cold, John is never this cold.

voices drawing closer, closing in—"Shouldn't somebody stop him?"—nasal and irate, and could that be Anderson? The Yard was supposed to be here, had been told to show up for the bust, but they couldn't have managed to be here when it counted, idiots, all of them, couldn't get here to stop this, and Sherlock heard Donovan starting to cry, soft and feminine, even though John hated Donovan, had never forgiven her because John had made it his mission to protect Sherlock, he'd said it, even, knuckles red from the cabin wall and matching his eyes, voice hoarse and breaking—"All I want is to keep you safe," and Sherlock's skin had itched but he'd fought the old habits, the urge to twitch, to scratch because he couldn't risk acknowledging what he might have done to himself, the road he was facing down, not while he could maybe still stop it from being real

...thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen...

but he'd take it back, all of it, he'd be good, he'd give it up—the drugs, the kisses, John's hands gentle on his face, he'd live with his brother and give up the cases and the stolen ashtray and he'd somehow step backwards until the soles of his feet hit the rooftop ledge, he'd forsake the work and let go of 221B and curries and tea and his blogger and all of it, he would if that meant that the only friend he'd ever had would stop lying there like a piece of driftwood on the sand

...nineteen, twenty, twenty one...

and sit up and smile with crinkling eyes and forget about Sherlock and find himself a lovely safe life with a kind woman, and children one day and a cosy house and maybe a bit of a psychosomatic limp when the weather was bad or the news too familiar, but two functioning lungs and that great heart and warm blood in his veins and nothing at all like this, he'd give anything if it would make John stop this, stop pretending and—

John's chest heaved violently under his hands and Sherlock started, overbalancing and falling sideways on the sand. Then John was half-curled on his side, vomiting up absurd quantities of seawater, and Sherlock rolled to his hands and knees, vision blurry and useless, trembling as he emptied his lungs in great, shaking gasps, carrying on even though John was now breathing for himself.

He could hear it now, too: John gasping in between bouts of retching and spitting, sucking air in desperately as if he could never get enough. And could it be healthy, he wondered (and his eyes were clear now and there were small wet depressions in the sand when he looked), could it hurt someone to take in so much oxygen at once after having been deprived for so long? His brain was failing him—he knew his chemistry and more than his fair share of basic medicine, but it all seemed to have shrunk down to twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty and tilt pinch breath breath, but it certainly seemed to hurt from the strained, wheezing quality of John's breathing. And, oh, that was Sherlock's fault (all of this was Sherlock's fault) and so he crawled closer to John, cheeks wet and something inside his chest wobbling dangerously, and he put his hands gently on John's shoulders and tried to stop him moving.

"I've broken your ribs," he said, and he had never before heard his voice sound like that. "Three, at least. I can't be sure." A crowd was starting to form around them, Sherlock could hear them, but he ignored it because none of them mattered; there was only one person who mattered, especially now.

John's face was contorted and ghostly white with pain, but more important than anything, it was not that slack, close-eyed stare, not that horrible grey colour, and he managed to nod his head a little. "Means you did it right," he choked out, grimacing. "Good on you."

There were people swarming around them, then, trying to get John onto a stretcher because somebody must have called an ambulance (but where had it been before, where had it been when John was sprawled out dead or dying and Sherlock poised to follow if that was what it took to drag him back?), and there were people leading Sherlock away by the hand and that was fine because John was alive and John needed to forget him and Sherlock didn't have the energy left to fight anyway. Somebody wrapped a blanket around him, a ridiculous orange blanket which was entirely inappropriate considering he was not in shock, but there had once been another time with another ambulance and a different body on the ground but this same hideous blanket around his shoulders, and then Sherlock was crying into his knees because he had lost all of that, he had promised and he was going to give up John, cut him loose again to keep him safe, and someone's hands were rubbing his back

(grandmotherly, arthritic, younger years working as a typist or secretary)

but he couldn't be bothered to look up and see who because it couldn't be the one person who mattered and so he gave in and folded in on himself and let everything go dark for a while.

xxx xxx xxx xxx

When the sounds began to trickle back in once more, he could hear John's voice arguing as they worked to load him into the ambulance.

"I'm a good swimmer," he was protesting, voice still hoarse and strained but closer to normal than it had been. "I can do the butterfly."

And then Sherlock had needed to take in a deep breath and let it out slowly because he had saved John and it seemed that John was at least well enough to be talking absolute nonsense, apparently, so he'd soon be well enough to find that kind woman and the dog they would get and probably a flat above a bakery somewhere, to start.

They were about to close the ambulance doors, but John was still talking, and his voice was getting louder, more insistent. "Sherlock," he said. "Where is Sherlock?"

And so Sherlock stood, still somewhat unsteady on his feet, and he saw Donovan come running, looking for him because she was too stupid to know that if John was calling for him, Sherlock would come, had no choice but to come. He managed to avoid her as he crossed the short distance and without really thinking, he popped into the ambulance and knelt down beside his friend. The EMT began to close the doors behind him, and Sherlock wanted to call out to stop her because he didn't belong there, wasn't family, was well on his way to not being anything, but she didn't look at him and he couldn't seem to find his voice anyway, and so they clanged shut.

"Sherlock," said John, at once relieved and exasperated. The younger EMT was beside him, coiling up the tail of a nasal mask, packing it away with a flowmeter—Entonox, most likely, for the pain. "Sherlock, you were right there. Where did you go?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, looking down into John's face, and John stared up at him. The ambulance began to move

"You saved my life," John told him, and his eyes were soft.

There had been times where Sherlock had, yes, but not today—that was so far from the truth that he felt sick inside. He shook his head and looked away.

John's hand was on his wrist, squeezing, and the EMT was bustling, fingers busy, talking in whispers with her colleague. Sherlock couldn't say anything; the words were all dried up and gone. John's hand squeezed again.

"Hey," John said softly, and Sherlock's eyes snapped back to his. But John didn't seem to have anything in particular to say, just his eyes grey and blinking, fingers a soft pressure on Sherlock's wrist, cold but thawing with the heat from Sherlock's skin.

All Sherlock could do was watch the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and constricted but steady and, miraculously, over and over and not two hollow movements induced by his own desperate exhalations.

"You did," John repeated, and Sherlock felt a strong urge to look away but couldn't tear his eyes away from the steel suddenly present in John's. But there wasn't anything he could say to that—he'd used up all his words already and besides, it would hardly do to spend his last moments with John arguing (though wouldn't it be so very like him?), and what purpose could it possibly serve when this was all his fault anyway? If Sherlock had stopped to think for a second, John might have walked off the boat with a smile and his ribs intact and no chance of brain damage from oxygen deprivation, might right now be walking straight into that happy and safe life he should have had from the beginning.

"Hey," John's voice was commanding this time, and something in his eyes showed that while maybe he couldn't see into Sherlock's head, he had enough of a window to know what was going on and see that it was not good.

"Don't go disappearing again," he said, sounding very much the soldier in spite of his obvious weakness. "I need you here."

Sherlock wanted to tell John that he didn't, he couldn't, that the last thing he needed right now was someone like him.

"Don't," John warned him again. "Sherlock, I'm not having it."

And then John was reaching up, and—but he was a doctor—didn't he know that he shouldn't be moving, let alone grabbing at Sherlock's collar and clutching and pulling him down and, oh—

Oh, but Sherlock needed this, chaste as it was, he needed these few brief seconds of John's lips against his, chapped but warm and responsive and real, John's breath on his chin, and deep lungfuls of the smell of him (and that of seawater too, but Sherlock must have reeked of salt and brine as well because he barely noticed it anymore), and Sherlock's hands fisted in his own lap, gripped at the fabric of his trousers, trying not to reach out for John because he was injured and needed to rest, and—

"Sir?" came an authoritative voice, a woman's. The EMT was standing behind Sherlock, looking down at him self-assuredly. "You're going to have to give him some space."

Sherlock wanted to argue, wanted to tell her, "It's him kissing me," and that besides, he'd be gone soon enough, but she didn't seem disposed to listen, particularly not with all the stress her mother's health issues (no, could also be the father's, could also be the drink) were causing at home. Instead, he rocked back on his heels and watched John, who was still holding his hand, whose eyes were drifting closed.

"Don't," John reminded him in a low whisper. The ambulance rolled through the streets of London and Sherlock ran his thumb over the back of John's hand, studying the topography of his knuckles until his eyes stung. He could have tracked their progress through each road, mapped it out in his mind, but it was so much more pertinent, so immediate and worthwhile to watch his fingers trace lines over John's skin.

Moments passed in silence before John stirred, leg twitching, head tilting to the side. "Sherlock," he breathed, and his eyes fluttered. "Sherlock?" His voice was soft and untethered, so far away and hopeful.

Sherlock felt himself nodding even before his voice cooperated. "John?" John's fingers wiggled, clutching, and he gave a sigh (and God, Sherlock would never get tired of that, the sound of John breathing), lips parting, and he regarded Sherlock through half-lidded eyes and smiled.

"I can do the butterfly," he said.

Sherlock's head dropped limply forward and he heard himself make a hysterical noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Then he felt a hand on his, and he opened his eyes again to see John staring up at him, indignant and puzzled and somewhat hazy.

"I'm a very good swimmer," John insisted, sounding exasperated, as if it was a basic fact that Sherlock kept on forgetting.

Sherlock swallowed and did his best to plaster a smile on. "You are," he reassured John, and his voice was hoarse and low. John's pale face broke into a smile—he had won the argument, apparently—and satisfied, he closed his eyes again. Sherlock leaned down to rest his forehead against John's shoulder, breathing in his smell and his warmth, and letting his eyes drift closed, too.

NOTES:
・Title ganked from my favorite timeswamp, TV Tropes. Also, CRP is not romantic, which is why there's an actual kiss at the end. But I think I know how to do it now, which is fantastic.

・Did you know you're supposed to keep rhythm by singing "Staying Alive" to yourself? I picture one of these two doing that to the other whenever I want to feel like I've been kicked in the heart.

・Thousands of thanks to (alphabetical order) to Morgana le Fai and ohtigermytiger for their invaluable insight and feedback. Any mistakes that remain are my own.

・Like many of you, I've signed up for the AO3 Fundraising Auction. You can find more information on it here. If you'd like to bid on me, I'd be very surprised you can click here, and since it's for a great cause, I'd encourage you to check out the author list and bid on someone amazing because this is fandom is filled with incredibly talented people and I don't know what I'd do without AO3. And I even re-learned how to do html links for this so you know it's important. The end.