Chapter 8

Rage washed over Sherlock. He knew he couldn't let it control him, there wasn't time. No more than a heartbeat had passed since John hit the water with Sherlock hot on his heels. One huge leap and Sherlock was in the water.

He could hear Lestrade call out behind him and prayed the DI had enough sense to stay in the boat.

Dark, too dark! Sherlock thought frantically. Black water surrounded him and tried to claw into his lungs, but he blocked out the pain. The desire to breathe was only an illusion. He knew from his at-home experiments that he could go hours without drawing breath. Vision was paramount.

Four heartbeats and light like a blessing began to spread out from him in a widening circle. He couldn't see a source and knew it must have been from him. Tiny bioluminescence potential within the microbes floating in the river. Maybe triggered somehow by his desperation. Didn't matter. All that mattered was John. He had been wearing the lifejacket and that would create drag, make it harder for the monster to pull him down.

Sherlock's mind screamed in need and the river burst into light as though the water had burst into flames.

There! Not far, thank God.

His personal supernova lit up the reflective tape on John's lifejacket flickering in the silty murk. Sherlock shot towards him, arms and legs clawing at the cold, murky water.

Jenny Greenteeth's talons were dug into John's leg, blood trailed out from the wounds in pink ribbons. Her twisted, hideous face looked back over John's body. The sight of Sherlock, glowing with power and furious beyond reason must have made her prey not worth the fight. With a silent snarl, she ripped her hand from his leg, viciously tearing the muscles before disappearing into the deep.

Sherlock slammed into John harder than he had intended. Their limbs tangled together and Sherlock worried that he'd caused more damage than help. His friend was limp, knocked out by the sudden impact when he hit the water so there was no way to know. He grasped John under the arms and kicked his legs. The lifejacket helped Sherlock drag him to the surface, but they were deep, dangerously deep. He had to control their ascent or risk collapsing John's lungs. They'd been under the water for no more than a minute, but John's leg was wounded. There was no telling where the boat was, but he knew they were far from where they'd started.

His power fading with his adrenaline, Sherlock breached the river and gasped the cool summer air. John bobbed to the surface beside him, floating limply. The stink of fish and mud clung to both of them. He dreaded to think of John's leg and the fetid water getting into this blood, infecting him, killing him. The light was drawing back in an ever shrinking ring centered on Sherlock. It was still bright enough to see John's face; slack and cold. Sherlock's heart lurched in his chest.

"J-John," Sherlock said, sputtering. He held John tight with one arm and patted his cheek with his free hand. "Come on, come on. Lestrade!"

Twisting his head, he searched for the boat. Behind him, the Gunslinger sat low in the water, flooded and slow. They were at least a hundred fifty feet away. He'd have a hell of a time explaining what had happened, but he had to worry about that later. John needed on that boat, his life depended on it.

"Start the motor!" he bellowed to Lestrade. "Hurry!"

Thankfully, the water remained calm when Lestrade started puttering towards them as fast as his pitiful boat could go. Sherlock grasped the straps on the front of the jacket and started pulling John towards their rescue.

"It's ok, John," he muttered as he kicked through the water, "it's ok. I've got you."

"What the fuck," Lestrade shouted as he drew up to them.

With a heave, Sherlock tossed John up and into the boat and dragged himself after. It had been dangerous to throw John in his state, but he had to take the risk. John still wasn't breathing. Panic lanced through Sherlock as he leaned over to start CPR, his wet, black hair getting in his eyes. He had to save John, nothing else mattered. And he had to be careful. He had enough sense to remember that normal people had a tendency of breaking ribs during chest compressions. He could easily push his fist through John's chest cavity if he wasn't completely focused.

John's skin was clammy under Sherlock's hand as he tilted his head back. He ripped open the lifejacket and pressed his ear to his chest, knowing he'd hear even the smallest of vibrations. Nothing. Shit.

He filled John's lungs, careful not to blow too forcefully. God, he thought, there are a million ways for John to die. I can't be the one to kill him trying to save him.

Chest compressions followed. One, two, three, four. And repeat. John's lips were cold under his. Water sloshed in John's lungs, and Sherlock eased him onto his stomach to push gently on his back, forcing a mouthful of the Thames to rush out onto the deck.

With a strangled gasp, John started breathing on his own. It was labored and he was still unconscious, but it was something. Sherlock fell back on the deck, shaking like a newborn lamb.

"S-Sherlock," Lestrade stuttered.

"His leg," Sherlock said. "Tourniquet. And call an ambulance and rescue boat. I'm going to…"

Black swarmed Sherlock. His hand reached out to John as the lights went out.

Red, hot fire engulfed John's leg. He'd been shot in the war, he knew the feeling of torn muscle and broken bone. There had been shock to soften the blow then. Now there was nothing but pain as he was pulled overboard, hooks digging into his calf, ripping meat from the bone. There wasn't time to scream. The beast pulled him down. His head slammed into the water with enough force to knock him out, but he could feel the cold, dark water fill his lungs as he was pulled down, down, down into the Thames. He was dying. It hurt. His ears popped as they dove and ringing filled his entire world. Darkness and noise. The ringing. The—

John jerked awake. There was an oxygen mask strapped to his head and more wires and tubes coming from his chest and lower body. His heart monitor was wailing and he wasn't surprised. Blood thundered in his ears as the last trace of his nightmare faded from his mind.

The fluorescent lights were too bright and his head felt fuzzy. He could only just make out a tall, dark form scramble up from a chair to his right to fiddle with the monitors, quieting the worst of the racket. A large, cold hand pressed to his forehead and probed under his jaw, checking his lymph nodes.

"Gah," he muttered, "still inflamed. And your fever isn't getting better."

"Sh-" John started, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask. His throat burned and he gasped for air.

"No, don't talk," Sherlock said. "We're at Bart's. You're okay now. Relatively speaking."

Sherlock sighed and adjusted the pillow behind John's head. He tucked the thin hospital blanket around John, even though he was sweating through the sheets.

"You were a bit drowned," Sherlock continued as he fussed, "so they're keeping you under observation. They're watching out for non pulmonary infection. Mental impairment. You're a doctor, you know the drill. Thankfully, you're oxygenation levels are up. They took you off intubation a few hours ago."

John tried to nod, but he could do little more than twitch.

"Don't, just…" Sherlock sighed. John could feel him pull away and tried to turn his head to watch, but moving was hard. His vision was still rubbish, but he could make out Sherlock, his shoulders slumped as he stared at the floor between his feet.

"John," Sherlock said, "that's the good news. The bad news is that your leg has been seriously injured. If it had just been lacerated that'd be one thing, but you were in the Thames. It's infected and they're having trouble reducing the swelling. They're also afraid to give you too many anti-inflammatories with your lungs being as weak as they are and I, uh. God. So there's that. I've got your morphine cranked. If I didn't, you'd start screaming."

John wanted to talk. He needed too. He had to tell Sherlock that it wasn't his fault. Whatever had happened. Whatever had done this to him. He'd known the risks. Hell, he'd been willing to swim into danger without hesitation to keep his friend safe. To help. Only he hadn't. He'd just gotten himself damn near killed. And possibly screwed up what information they could've gotten had he just stayed on the bank and done as Sherlock had asked.

The monitors started blaring again and John saw spots swim before his eyes. He felt sick from the morphine and now that he knew his leg was injured, he could feel the pain like a phantom bear trap digging into his skin.

Sherlock was up, fretting again and pushing the button to summon a nurse. Sherlock who had to have been the one that saved him. Sherlock who declared to anyone who cared to listen that he was a heartless sociopath. A former junkie. Sherlock who only cared about people if they had been killed in an interesting manner. Sherlock who despised bullies but was willing to reduce the innocent to tears to expedite his needs. Sherlock whose hands were shaking as he took John's pulse and had to be physically removed from the room so the nurses could work.

John knew then that he had done Sherlock a grave injustice. From the beginning, from the first moment they had met years ago in the hospital John now lay, he had thought Sherlock more machine than man. Since Sherlock's transformation, his opinion hadn't changed much. But he had felt Sherlock's hands shaking. He'd heard the tremor in Sherlock's voice as he told him his prognosis.

A smile ghosted along John's lips as he slipped into unconsciousness. Sherlock wasn't a monster. He was human. He was human.