A/N: Hello there all. This was originally written as a one shot but it seems to have continued on. Please do let me know what you think, there is quite a back story to this and the story I have almost written in full explains even more of the back story though this should be able to be read stand alone without trouble. No slash I may add.

NOW BETA READ BY THE LOVE IO...thank you so very much!

Please do review. It always makes a writers day. : )

Enjoy the ride. Lol.

Terror. That was what it felt like, complete and utter blinding terror. It was all John Watson could feel right now. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he barely registered the inspector shouting over the intolerable din. Intolerable. Would he ever hear that word uttered again from the genius's mouth?

John set out at a full blown sprint, taking off across Westminster Bridge at the speed of light. Sherlock had gone into the water in the middle of the river after a struggle with the latest of London's low life's. Lestrade, coming to the rescue, had wrestled the offending individual to the concrete before John even had a chance to punch the bastard in the face. The inspector must have been following them in a squad car. The events were lost in John's head as he raced down the steps several at a time. Jumping the final flight and landing onto the pathway below he headed for the south bank. With any luck he could head off the detective at Waterloo Bridge, cutting off the corner of the river, the only chance to catch up with his flatmate before it was too late. Sherlock's head had only bobbed up a few times before being swept along with the violent autumn currents.

The doctor raced though the crowds at the London Eye, knocking several people off their feet, curse words thrown in his direction but he did not look back, eyes still fixed on the Thames for any signs of Sherlock resurfacing. How long had it been since his darn coat had dragged him under? A minute? Two? Three?

Before long the steps of Waterloo Bridge came into his sights. John bounced up two at a time, eyes half fixed on the water when he finally spotted him, across towards the other side as he expected. His black curls broke the surface, but the rest of him did not. In blind panic he pushed on, muscles burning, air sucking in and out of his screaming lungs. Buses and taxis blared horns at him as he bolted across the busy road. He crossed second bridge quicker, but perhaps because this time he had a target to reach. He lost sight of his friend upon reaching the last arch of the bridge. It was then the military part of John's brain kicked in. He planted his hands into the railings and catapulted himself up and over the top. Passers by rushed to the side and watched in trepidation as John hit the water and went under.

The freezing cold Thames hit the soldier harder than he imagined it would. As the water rushed up to meet him he felt a sharp pain rip into his right ankle. That would be fractured then, just a minor annoyance. He kicked desperately for the surface. It was only when the panic began to set in that daylight flooded his vision once again. After a frantic search he finally caught sight of his best friend, just ahead of him. He struck out, kicking wildly with the current to catch up with the detective, ankle screaming out in agony at the rough treatment, but John had only one thing in mind.

It was only a matter of seconds, (which had felt like minutes to the doctor) before John caught hold of Sherlock's heavy water laden coat, clearly weighing the lanky man down. He pulled hard, desperately fighting against the raging torrents and already freezing limbs. Hypothermia was going to set in soon. The bank was only metres away, a small jetty just out of reach, typically that owned by the RNLI lifeboats.

"Picked the right spot, Sherlock," John spluttered, reaching forward again, energy draining quickly now. His hand met the wood and he held on with an iron grip, hauling Sherlock with the opposite arm, grunting at the effort. He pushed the soaked detective up and onto the jetty, watching in complete horror as his body simply rolled limply onto his chest, his feet, remarkably still shod, dragging back in the Thames. John pulled himself up behind, ignoring the now complete uselessness of his right leg and the freezing cold now setting into his bones from the chilled November wind.

"Sherlock!" The doctor tried to even out his heaving breaths. He rolled the great man over, his hand coming to find his carotid pulse. Weak, barely palpable, but most definitely there. John's eyes fell on his friend's face, grey-white, black curls clinging to the pallid skin and lips a sickening shade of blue. Not breathing then. The doctor mode kicked in then. Pushing Sherlock's head back he pinched the man's nose and taking in a gulp of air he tried to reinflate the detective's lungs. No response. He tried again; a shot of panic began to take hold. Sherlock's lips were frozen like ice against the doctor's, surely not a good sign. Still no response; carotid pulse, still there, weaker, slower.

"Come on you dick," John's heart pounded against his aching chest, "You're not going like this." Sealing his lips over his friend's again, he refilled the congested lungs with as much air as he could. A pause. John pulled back suddenly and his friend's body convulsed. The splutter of water practically made it onto the doctor's face and John pushed the detective over into the recovery position. River spilled out onto the wooden jetty from Sherlock's lungs. An alarmingly large pool of water puddled before finally Sherlock tried to draw in fresh air. He coughed violently, trying desperately to suck in a breath only to convulse against the effort, more of the Thames bubbling up from deep in his chest. Finally after several strained gasps he retched pitifully, more water and what meagre contents of his stomach there were adding to the now disturbing amount of liquid expelled from the man.

"Easy." John tried to console Sherlock's straining form, still struggling for a full breath. Shivering started to rack the detective's body, his eyes drooping dramatically, clearly not registering a thing from the glassy stare he wore.

"Oh no, you stay awake you git!" John felt the shakes starting to pull on his own muscles. If he was already feeling the effects of hypothermia, God knows what his friend was feeling. Suitably numb.

"Christ, are you two trying to kill me?" A breathless voice cut though John's thoughts, and one exhausted looking inspector stumbled onto the jetty making the wood rock slightly. Greg's face turned from the slight annoyed red to a grim shade of grey when his eyes came to rest on the detective's form. "An ambulance is on its way, how is he?"

"Hypothermia." John felt his own teeth chatter saying it, knowing all too well he was succumbing to it too. "He was..."

John couldn't bring himself to say it. He clenched his jaw as he felt Lestrade's hand come to rest on his shoulder. He could feel his emotional wall beginning to crumble.

Sherlock moaned and coughed weakly from beneath him and the detective managed to push himself back over onto his back, away from the mess on the decking. Bracing his arms at his side he tried to push up, only to hiss in pain.

"Don't move you cock, you just bloody drowned!" His voice was wavering.

"J...John," the detective managed through a violent shudder of cold, his eyes slitting open only slightly.

That was it, the walls came crashing down. The doctor's eyes filled quickly with saltwater and began streaming down his already soaking cheeks. "Don't you ever do that again." His voice rose up angrily. "Do you hear me, Sherlock!"

"John." Lestrade pulled gently at the older man's shoulder but it fell on deaf ears.

"Are you listening?" John was practically shouting now. He jerked Greg's hand off him and taking his flatmate by the shoulders he shook him. "Are you listening, Sherlock?!"

Sherlock's eyes rolled and he tried desperately to open them fully to no avail. "John... p...please. I..." His voice slurred dramatically and eyes fell shut and it was followed by a long gasping bout of coughing.

"Don't you ever die again!" John bellowed. Slapping his best friend across the cheek hard, the sound brought the doctor out his angered daze and he froze. Looking down to the detective, he saw Sherlock's brows furrowed in pain, and uncontrollable tremors starting to overtake his frozen pale body. The blogger let out a cry of anguish then and buried his head into Sherlock's soaking coat. Letting the saltwater mix with the river water, he sobbed.

Lestrade, taken aback for a moment by the outburst of emotion, stood slightly perplexed on the spot, watching the scene before him. The bond between these two was stronger than he had ever seen. He had seen the wreck of the doctor after Sherlock's famous 'fall' from Bart's, and it came as no surprise how angry the detective made his flatmate.

"Ambulance service." A young lady appeared suddenly before him. That was quick.

"Eh." Still somehow shell shocked he lost his words for a moment. The second medic had passed the young lady and was trying to separate the doctor from his friend.

"Near drowning." Greg finally managed to speak. "I think John revived him. Both suffering hypothermia." He watched for a moment to see that the older medic was struggling to remove John's sobbing form from Sherlock's now quite obviously unconscious one.

"John." He placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder for the second time and this time John's red rimmed puffy eyes met his for a moment. "You need to let them help."

The doctor pulled back, but refused to let go of the Belstaff coat. This however seemed to pose little problems as the one medic pulled Sherlock's arm from the garment, removing his second jacket to find vascular access and place an IV line. Within moments, an oxygen mask was applied, half of the detective's clothes were stripped from him, and two IV catheters had been placed.

"Come on John, we need to get you to hospital too." Lestrade pulled gently but the doctor refused to move, an agonising shot of pain reminding him then that his ankle was broken. There would be no walking for a while.

"Ankle." The doctor managed to say finally, his voice barely audible to the inspector. He began to shiver again. "It's fractured."

"Oh." Greg faltered. "Hang on."

John didn't really notice where the inspector disappeared to, his eyes did not move from the medics working on his friend. He knew the procedure, and it wasn't long before Sherlock's form was already on a small trolley ready for moving to the ambulance. John felt sick. His friend's unconscious form back on a gurney, just like he had been outside the front of Bart's, just like at Magnussen's after the shooting. How many times was he going to almost lose this idiot before he wasn't able to save him and he lost him for good? John's stomach betrayed him, and he emptied it into the river just as Lestrade returned. The doctor felt a large heavy blanket wrapped around his shoulders and Greg helped lift him gently into a wheelchair.

"I need to go with him." He choked out, watching as Sherlock's limp form was whisked off towards the waiting ambulance by the banks of the Thames.

"I know. I told them." Greg answered softly. He pushed John quickly after the paramedics and was before the waiting ambulance in moments.

The doctor took little note to the goings on. The cold was becoming overwhelming. His body started to shake with vigour. Somehow he was now inside the vehicle, Greg was to one side of him, and what seemed like a third medic had appeared before him trying to talk to him. John didn't answer the questions, he was tired and cold. A sharp pain in his hand brought his senses back to the forefront and he looked down to find an IV being taped into place, and a large warm bag of fluid beginning to flow into his veins. The ambulance doors closed. The blogger felt his eyes drift closed. They were safe finally, he could relax for once. In seconds he felt himself drift into darkness, the pain from his ankle and the agonising cold disappearing from his mind, now also suitably numb.