Chapter Text
Breathe.
Don’t move.
Concentrate on the gun.
The three commands played on repeat in his mind as he trained his eyes on the criminal in front of him. Sherlock held his breath as he carefully raised his hands. It took all his remaining energy to remain perfectly still.
“Mr. Holmes,” the criminal breathed. He let out a round of raspy coughs. Smoker. Two- no, three- packs a day. “Where are all your police friends? Or have they all forgotten about you?”
Ignoring the taunts, Sherlock focused on the barrel that was just inches from his face. The dock beneath him creaked as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. An icy breeze from the depth of the Thames swept around him. His eyes darted around, grasping for a sign- any sign- that Lestrade listened to his warnings.
There wasn’t a peep, save for the gentle crashing of the waves and the heaving breaths of his criminal.
“Do you enjoy swimming, Mr. Holmes?”
He closed his eyes as a flashback of the night at the pool hit him. Moriarty’s laugh echoed across the waters around him. Sherlock could still hear the click of the consulting criminal’s shoes.
His eyes shot open.
No, what he was hearing came from a much closer distance. Slowly, his eyes trailed to the shadows of the dock, where a few private boats were tethered. A shadow darted in and out of the boats until it began approaching, growing wider and wider until…
John.
His heart swelled with relief when John held his finger to his lips, warning him to keep quiet. The old revolver was steady in his hands as he stepped forward, one foot in front of the next, in silence. But Sherlock’s wondering eyes must have caught the criminal’s attention, because in a moment the gun was suddenly trained on John instead.
And Sherlock was given his chance.
He reached out, grasping the man’s arm and spinning him around. What he didn’t take into account was the man’s weight, three times that of his own. He was sent spiraling backwards, as easily as a rubber band being flicked across the room. Sherlock bit down on his lip, hard, as he landed against the deck.
Suddenly something beneath him ripped, and he continued to bite down on his lip to muffle his cry as fiery shots of pain rippled through him. His arm lay beneath him, limp and numb. He shifted his weight and tested his fingers.
Hurt, badly.
But not broken.
“Sherlock!”
John’s sudden cry drew his attention forward, and he darted into action when he saw the struggle his friend was pitted against. The criminal’s hands were wrapped around John’s neck; his pupils were wide with desperation. The revolver lay forgotten on the ground, kicked away close enough to Sherlock so that he could just reach for it. He winched at the weight that was put on his arm; his stomach churned at the black-blue wrist that now made up his skin.
Nevertheless the fingers of his good hand found the revolver, and the barrel of the gun soon found the criminal’s back. The man froze, and John’s eyes fell to his. Sherlock nodded, and John shoved the man away. Desperate gasps for air met his ears, along with the deep, careful, breaths of their criminal.
“What?” Sherlock smirked. “You’re not afraid of the deep end, are you?”
But before he could blink he was shoved backward once more; the gun flew out of his hand as the criminal pushed both him and John away at the same time.
“Sherlock!”
John’s horrific screams, mixed with his own frantic breaths, sent a new wave of adrenaline rushing through him. The sound of splashing water made his heart stop.
His eyes darted around the river.
Please.
No sign of John anywhere.
He was only vaguely aware that he was clutching his injured wrist and only vaguely aware that the criminal’s footsteps echoed in the distance as he got away.
All he focused on was the ripples trailing to and fro beneath the dock.
Without thinking, without considering any consequences, he dove into the depths of the Thames.
The water was much deeper than he realized. And colder. So cold. When he came up for air his lips were already blue. His clothes clung to him as he shivered, taking in as much air as he could before holding his breath and going back under.
He couldn’t see anything. Darkness was everywhere. His hands desperately grasped at the water, searching for any sign. He tried to remain mindful of the distance between him and the dock.
How could John have already drifted so far away?
His legs kicked wildly as he began to lose all control of his senses. Too cold. His eyes burned so badly that he was fighting to keep them open just as much as he was fighting to not drift away himself. The current tugged at him, inching him further and further away from the dock.
Then, finally, he saw a mop of sandy-brown hair, followed by the face of who he once considered to be his best, and only, friend. John looked so stiff, his skin deathly pale. His lips were stained blue from the cold. Blood trickled around them, and Sherlock followed the trail to a wound engraved into John’s forehead. The criminal must have hit him before he fell.
John’s eyes were sealed tight. Unconscious.
Sherlock looked behind him, and his heart began to beat again, frantically, as he realized how far he drifted from the dock. He pushed himself towards John and scooped him up his arms, awkwardly throwing his arms around his neck as he kicked his way back to the surface.
A string of violent coughs escaped him as he broke surface. Dizziness overwhelmed him as looked around, trying to regain his bearings. John clung to him limply. Sherlock brushed the hair from his friend’s face to reveal the bleeding wound. His skin was frozen, like ice.
He took a few deep breaths before kicking his way toward the dock, careful not to drift beneath the current again. He lifted John onto dry land first. Sherlock gasped painfully as he put too much weight on his bad hand- he had almost forgotten about his own injury. As he pushed himself up to the dock it felt like his bones were ripping apart. If his hand wasn’t shredded to pieces before, it was now.
Collapsing beside the still figure of his friend, Sherlock spat out the water that tried to escape into his lungs. He immediately fell to John’s side to take his pulse.
Silent. Still. No trace of life.
“No,” he whispered.
Forcing himself to his knees, he lowered himself down and began performing CPR. His eyes burned from too much exposure to water and the tears threatening to release.
“John!” He gasped through a hoarse cough. Shaky fingers embraced John’s wrist, only to find his pulse as still as ever. He tried CPR again. And again. And again. “John! Please.”
At last a series of violent coughs escaped John. Sherlock couldn’t help it. He lost all strength and collapsed onto his chest, holding his friend’s shoulders to let him know all was well. John’s eyes fluttered open, the whites of his eyes red-rimmed from the sting of the water. John looked around, confused, as though wondering how he could be alive.
“It’s okay,” Sherlock assured, sitting up. He placed a hand on John’s wrist to monitor his pulse, which was slowly turning to normal. “You’re alright.”
“Christ,” John mumbled.
He tried to lift his head, but the effort appeared to not be worth it. He collapsed back to the ground as another series of coughs escaped him. Water trickled from his mouth to his jumper. His lips slowly regained color, though his face remained pale and frozen with shock.
Sherlock reached out, carefully touching the bleeding cut on John’s forehead. John flinched, grabbing his injured wrist on instinct. He jerked his arm away without realizing what he was doing.
“You’re hurt,” John announced, his voice raw.
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “I’m fine.”
They both sat back and fell silent for a moment, focusing on catching their breath. Sherlock held his injured hand in his lap and tried to ignore the burning pain still shooting through him.
“Now they’ll really talk,” John said; he broke into a fit of coughs before he could continue. “You, giving me mouth to mouth.”
Sherlock snorted.
“Yeah, we’ll I’d rather risk a bad press photo than your life.”
A small laugh escaped John, but when he looked over to him Sherlock could tell he was still shaken.
“Are you alright?” He asked, softly.
John nodded but closed his eyes, still obviously overwhelmed with pain and shock.
“Just a bit cold,” John admitted.
He glanced away, and Sherlock had the feeling John was uncomfortable with how close they were. Sherlock could still feel John’s lips on his; he’d never forget that moment, fighting to bring life back to his only friend. His eyes were glued to John was he breathed in deeply, trying to keep himself from shaking. Only friend.
“John,” he trembled.
All at once everything began to affect him: the cold, his drenched clothes, injured arm, the shock of it all.
“Don’t, Sherlock,” John warned. He closed his eyes, wincing slightly as he shifted. “Just please, give me a minute.”
But he couldn’t. The horror of I almost lost you pounded in his head on repeat, over and over and over until he leaned forward and pressed his lips against John’s. John stiffened immediately, his eyes opened wide in shock as Sherlock’s fluttered closed.
“Sherlock-“ John whispered when they broke apart.
He wouldn’t let him protest. The clock was ticking, and he knew any moment from now this would be over and John would be angry at him. Possibly angry enough to change everything, end everything. He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into John’s mouth when he tried to come up for breath. A trembling hand found John’s shoulder, and soon John was clinging to him, his own fists shaking against his wet clothes.
In the distances sirens wailed and they jumped apart, breathing hard. John brought a hand to his mouth, stunned.
“John,” he pleaded.
John looked up to him, his eyes completely dilated. Both of their hearts were pounding. Sherlock was shaking all over. They could only stare at each other, unsure of what the next step was, until they were suddenly surrounded by ambulances and police cars. A car door slammed, and he could see Lestrade running toward them. John looked away, his eyes glued to the ground. Shame, Sherlock worried, regret, fear, disgust. He wanted nothing more than for John to say something- anything- but he knew the conversation would be on hold until they were safely away from the wondering eyes of the police.
“Are you two alright?” Lestrade said.
The DI hovered over them as they tried to get to their feet. Sherlock reached for John when he stumbled forward, but John jerked away, glaring at him. He swallowed nervously as a sickening feeling filled his stomach.
“John almost drowned,” Sherlock announced.
“Sherlock hurt his hand.”
It almost sounded like they were teasing each other. Lestrade drew in a deep breath as he glanced between the two, summing up exactly how serious the situation was.
“What I just heard is that you two are both taking a trip to the A&E,” Lestrade said. They both glared at him. “And no protests! The other option is taking you two into interrogation so I can find out just why you would do something so bloody stupid!”
Lestrade’s hands clenched into fists as he turned away, but he only got a few feet before he turned back, his face suddenly sunken with empathy.
“I’m glad you two are alright,” he admitted.
They both nodded, remaining silent.
It wasn’t until nearly three hours later that they were able to get back to Baker Street. They were hardly able to keep themselves upright as they stumbled into the flat. It was far too late for even Mrs. Hudson to be up worrying about them; he knew they would answer to her shouting in the morning.
His wrist supported a new splint. John was given some medication for the shock and treatment for potential hypothermia. His arms were wrapped around his chest; he was still shivering.
“John-“ he attempted again.
John didn’t even look at him this time as he replied:
“Sherlock, please…I just want to go to bed.”
He tried to get away, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him. Instead he grabbed John by the shoulders, swirling him around so that his back hit the wall. A little harder than he meant.
“What the fuck, Sherlock?!” John exclaimed.
They were both breathing hard again, and Sherlock had to take a minute to figure out what to say. His eyes found John’s, then his lips, and he realized all he wanted to do was kiss him again. Pinning him against the wall, their lips smashed together once more.
“Sherlock!” John protested, trying to break away. Sherlock’s lips managed to brush across the corner of his mouth before John pushed him away. “Would you stop snogging me for a minute and talk?”
Sherlock’s eyes were wide as they glared at each other. His heart pounded in shock, not sure what to make of this new emotion. His limbs were trembling with anxiety. He could feel everything running through him, from the blood pounding in his ears to his cock, stirring against the strain of his trousers.
“I almost lost you,” Sherlock whispered.
“I thought you weren’t gay!”
“I thought you weren’t!”
For a moment the only sounds were their heavy breaths. Sherlock swallowed, desperate to find his voice again. He didn’t want this to end. To prove his point he stepped closer to John so that their hips grinded against each other; their erections were pinned together.
“Sherlock, that’s just biology,” John said, his voice quiet and cheeks flushed, “a monkey could kiss me and I would feel-“
Sherlock grabbed his arms and kissed him again. He immediately deepened the kiss this time, his tongue exploring every corner of John’s mouth he could reach. John still vaguely tasted of the curry they ate for dinner hours ago. He was shaking in Sherlock’s hands so he gripped John tighter, deepening the kiss even more. John let out a soft moan, and Sherlock took the opportunity to change up the pace. His lips found John’s neck, sending a trail of kisses from his neck back up to his chin.
Then he suddenly broke apart, leaving John panting, flushed, wide-eyed. His lips were swollen from kissing.
“Was that biology?” Sherlock whispered. “Come on, John. I’m the one who sits at the counter and examines pig ears. Don’t talk to me about biology.”
Their lips pressed together again. This time John guided the kiss. He hesitated at first, his tongue hovering just at Sherlock’s mouth before crashing inside. He was practically down his throat before he suddenly broke apart.
“Wait, pigs ears?” He shot.
Sherlock only grinned. He reached for John’s jumper, and he was pleasantly surprised when he allowed him to continue. He peeled off John’s t-shirt next; all of his clothes were still damp from the Thames. John seemed to have no reservations about allowing the wet clothes to fall to the ground. He even reached up, getting to work on Sherlock’s buttons. A soft moan escaped his own lips when John’s knuckles brushed against his chest. He repaid him by placing a finger against one of John’s nipples, slightly applying pressure at a spot that made John grunt.
John’s trousers were next. He even helped Sherlock with the belt and buttons until they were both shoving his trousers to the floor. Sherlock’s shirt was left open, momentarily forgotten, as he began palming John’s erection through his pants.
“Sherlock,” John whispered.
He could only reply in a series of soft pants and moans as he continued working on John’s hardening erection. John’s lips were on his neck, suckling lightly at the skin.
He was no longer thinking clearly. Thoughts jumbled together in his mind, from oh god what are we doing to oh god, John! Later he would blame that lack of clarity to explain why he dropped to his knees. He would blame it on why John let him slip a hand inside his pants, feeling the skin of his cock for the first time.
“Yeah,” John moaned softly.
John didn’t protest when he pulled his pants down around his ankles. He was aware they were still awkwardly wearing socks and trainers, but he didn’t care. His mouth was around John’s cock before either of them could find an excuse to stop him. John cried out in surprise but didn’t tell him to stop as he took him in deeper. A hand found his hair, roaming around the dark curls and guiding him in closer.
“Yeah,” John moaned again.
He broke apart to stroke his shaft play with his balls long enough to send John tensing up and crying out in ecstasy. John held his cock toward him, in a silent plea for him to continue. Sherlock’s tongue dashed out, gratefully taking the second chance to take him in deep. He groaned around the cock when it hit the back of his throat. John grunted, grasping his hair even harder.
“Sherlock!” John gasped. “Sherlock, I-“
He came before he could finish his warning. Sherlock broke away just in time. He seemed to come back to his senses as cum trickled down his own neck. He was grateful he stopped; he wasn’t confidence enough in his skills to swallow him down.
Hands reached down for him, pulling him back to his feet. John went to work again on his neck, biting and suckling at every inch of skin he could find.
“You’re wearing far too many clothes,” John whispered into his ear.
John’s tongue suddenly dashed inside his earlobe, then around the rim, and Sherlock shuddered so violently John grinned. His trousers were suddenly yanked from his waist. He groaned loudly as John cupped his erection, palming it lightly at first, then pumping it roughly enough to send his hips thrusting forward.
“John!” He gasped. “John.”
He wanted to find a way to tell John that he didn’t want their first time together to be entirely against the wall of their foyer. He wanted to take him to bed, to wake up next to him and relish in the simple fact that John was alive.
John seemed to have other ideas.
“Oh god!” His hips thrust erratically against John, sending John bouncing lightly against the wall. He held onto John’s shoulders as though it were a matter of life and death.
“Sherlock,” John whispered. “Come on, Sherlock.”
His hands joined John’s on his cock, and it was only a few more strokes before he was grunting and crying out. His hips continued to thrust out through his climax.
“John!” He nearly screamed as his body convulsed into shakes. “John, John…”
At last he stilled, limp in John’s hands.
“Fuck,” he whispered, and John laughed.
Their eyes carefully lifted up to meet each other, coming into contact for the first time since kissing.
“Biology?” Sherlock rasped, laughing a little. “Really?”
A sloppy grin danced across John’s face. His face was completely flushed now, his lips swollen and eyes blown wide. Cum covered their hands and legs, but they were still shaking with anticipation. John leaned in, offering him a final kiss. When they broke apart, John whispered in his ear:
“Can I take you to bed?”
Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide with surprise and want. He nodded. John held out his hand, and their fingers locked together. Neither said a word as they disappeared into John’s bedroom, hearts beating with the knowledge of what was to come.