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A heavy downpour of rain fell from London’s sky as Sherlock pulled himself onto the riverbank. His left hand was still gripped tight onto an unconscious, but breathing, John. Settling them both on the rocky shore, Sherlock took a moment to rest his tired muscles as dirty river water lapped against them.
It was early, barely enough daylight coming through the clouds to be called dawn. An oppressive fog lay over the river, thickened by the rain. Some of the more prominent London landmarks loomed as ghostly outlines, rising through the mist.
It had been a long night. What started out as a relatively simple domestic murder investigation had quickly devolved into a frantic chase across darkened rooftops and through dank alleys. Several accomplices to the murderer were discovered. Lestrade and his team of half-wits had been quickly left behind, although Sherlock was quite sure there was a full inbox of increasingly frustrated text messages from the DI on his phone.
John had kept up admirably, never complaining. He knew when to stay quiet, when to wave his gun about in an intimidating manner, and when a threat was serious enough to slip into what Sherlock termed ‘soldier-mode’. They had laughed together on more than one occasion, most often at what might be deemed socially-unacceptable moments.
That had all changed on the bridge, when Cryer and his men cornered them. John had rapidly dislocated Cryer’s shoulder, leaving him howling in a fetal position on the ground. Sherlock made quick work of breaking another man’s arm at the elbow. He distinctly remembered turning and watching John’s head make sickening contact with the railing, then slump to the ground. Sherlock froze and waited as Cryer’s last two cronies leered at the detective. They were obviously keen to do whatever was necessary to throw Sherlock off their trail, allowing them to escape. Seeing his hesitation at John’s motionless body, they quickly picked John up and tossed him over the edge and into the Thames.
Sherlock didn’t remember jumping, only the debilitating, all-encompassing cold upon hitting the river water. Thrashing to the surface, he tried to ignore the muted laughter from above as he rapidly scanned for John.
It was still mostly dark at that point, so it took a minute or so for Sherlock’s eyes to adjust and pick out any foreign objects in the water. The first object he ran across turned out to be a bit of dirty, crumpled tarp. Finally, he spotted John, who was fortunately floating face-up.
“John? John!” he had called, but received no response.
Upon reaching John’s body, Sherlock quickly noted that he was still unconscious, breathing, and that he had somehow lost his jacket. Due to the force of the fall, no doubt. John’s head wasn’t bleeding, but it was safe to assume that he would have a concussion. Sherlock gripped John under his arms and across his chest, attempting to keep his head above water.
The water was absolutely freezing, as would be expected in early November. The rain was also not helping. Sherlock made several attempts to swim, but his muscles were cramping and going numb from the chill. The ungodly hour and terrible weather equated few boats on the river, and unfortunately none close enough to spot two people in the low morning light.
Sherlock resigned himself to floating with the current. They were only a couple dozen yards off shore, so he began searching for an adequate landing spot.
His first two tries at landing had failed. Sherlock was unable to get them close enough to shore, forcing them to continue floating. Prolonged time in the river was beginning to have adverse effects on them both. Even with the jostling water and vibration of rain, Sherlock could feel John lightly quaking with cold.
Now, Sherlock opened his eyes on the riverbank, rainwater falling down his cheeks. John’s unconscious body was starting to shiver uncontrollably. Sherlock was only slightly better off, as he still had his long coat. Stupid, stupid, Sherlock thought, mind sluggish from the cold. Too long in the Thames compounded with lying half-submerged in the river wasn’t going to help John, no matter how much Sherlock felt like resting.
He sat up, adjusting numbed limbs to get a solid grip under John’s arms. He was shaking violently now, his skin gone uncomfortably pale. Dark striations of muddy rainwater marked the rocky bank, flowing to meet the river like blood vessels. Sherlock attempted to stand, but quickly lost his footing and fell back into the muck. John didn’t react to the sudden jolt.
Focusing more clearly on his feet and where he was standing, Sherlock tried to rise again. Successful, he slowly began pulling John up the stony beach. He wasn’t completely sure where they were – somewhere on the southern shore. They had floated quite a ways in the dark before finding a suitable bank to land on.
There was an old, crumbling stone berm several dozen yards up the shore with a few sheltered arches. Slippery, muddy footing soon gave way to more solid earth, and Sherlock was able to drag John relatively easily into one of the vaulted holes, out of the rain.
They were completely soaked, both from the rain and the river. Sherlock settled John, pale and still shivering, gently onto the stone.
Pulling his mobile from his pocket, Sherlock immediately could see it had been irreparably damaged by the Thames. John’s phone was gone too, lost with his jacket.
Nothing to do but find a phone elsewhere, then. There was no other way for Lestrade to know where they had ended up, and John needed an ambulance rather badly.
Moving to leave, Sherlock couldn’t help but pause. As practical as needing to find a phone seemed, something nagged him uncomfortably about leaving John unconscious under a decrepit stonework jetty. What if he woke up, or someone ran across him? It was still extremely early, and although the daylight was noticeably increasing, it was unlikely John would be bothered. Sherlock frowned in thought. There seemed to be only one solution.
Quickly, Sherlock removed his long coat and placed it on top of John. If he woke, he would know that Sherlock was in the area and would be returning. If someone spotted him, they might simply mistake him for some rubbish, or perhaps a sleeping homeless person. Though soaked, the coat might also help insulate him until the ambulance arrived.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Sherlock told John’s body. “Don’t go anywhere. And don’t lose my coat.” No response.
With a last look, Sherlock departed.
---
John jolted, suddenly awake, eyes open. He closed them almost immediately, due to the uncomfortable natural light and the pounding pain in his head. He was extremely cold, his thoughts swirling in a disoriented mess. John was laying on his back on a hard surface, and something heavy was smothering him.
God, his whole body seemed to numbly hurt, and he couldn’t stop himself from trembling with cold. John could hear pattering of rain and the distant, constant rushing of a river. Outdoors, then. Memories of the previous evening bled into his mind. Plenty of running, the cold metal of his gun in his hand, the bridge – oh. Must’ve led to a dip in the Thames. Where was Sherlock?
Over the next few minutes, John managed to open his eyes. His head hurt horribly – possibly a concussion? He didn’t remember hitting his head. The light was low, and he could make out misty rain and fog. Morning, probably. Above, a stone arch protected him from the elements.
It took him about five minutes to focus his mind enough to realize what was covering him. Sherlock’s coat. John would recognize that fabric anywhere. It was wet and cold, as well, but it sufficiently kept in the remainder of his body heat. Why would Sherlock’s coat be on me? Maybe John had it with him when he went in the river? No, if he were unconscious in the Thames, he would have drowned. Sherlock must have gone for a swim, as well. And left him his coat. But where was Sherlock now?
John absentmindedly rubbed the heavy fabric with the fingers of his left hand. It was almost inconceivable that the detective would voluntarily leave it behind. John had once witnessed him run into a burning building to retrieve it. Criminals who caused it harm were often taken into police custody with excessive injuries. For a claimed sociopath, Sherlock was remarkably attached to his coat.
Undoubtedly he had left to call Lestrade. So why would he leave it now?
As he realized, John almost started laughing out loud. Sentiment. Sherlock had obviously been worried. About John. And that worry had trumped his attachment to the coat.
Ten minutes later, as John was listing the Beatles’ #1 hits to keep himself awake, he finally heard footsteps approaching.
Sherlock appeared in his view, standing over him and looking miserably wet. His suit was ruined, most likely. The detective was paler than normal – although, in this light, comparing against his usual pallor was difficult – but otherwise seemed uninjured.
“Good, you’re awake,” Sherlock said, peering down to inspect John. “Lestrade and his band of fools should be here soon. You look terrible, by the way.”
John huffed a laugh. Sherlock seemed to be floating in his vision. “You’re the one who bought this monstrosity. I can’t be held accountable for fashion choices made for me while unconscious.”
Sherlock smirked. “If you’re going to insult my coat, I’ll have it back, thank you.” He sat down next to John, but made no motion to remove it.
John started to pull himself up into a sitting position. Still disoriented, he almost collapsed back onto the hard stone. Sherlock grabbed his arm for support, stopping the fall. Not the best idea with a suspected concussion, but John wanted to be upright.
The coat settled on the floor. Sherlock lifted it, and after a moment of consideration draped it around John’s shoulders. He helped John move to lean against a nearby pillar, then wrapped the two loosely hanging sides around him. John shuddered uncontrollably, feeling faint.
Sirens wailed in the distance. John shut his eyes to keep the area from spinning. He felt a familiar hand on his shoulder, through the coat’s fabric. “Just a few minutes more, John.”
---
Lestrade was, understandably, quite upset. John watched from the back of the ambulance as he railed at Sherlock about ignoring Scotland Yard and excessive risk-taking. He pointed at John more than once, and did a double take when he realized that John was wearing Sherlock’s coat. Lestrade paused after that, muttered something about continuing their discussion later, and trudged back to his vehicle with a small smile.
Sherlock appeared at John’s side as he was being ushered into the ambulance. John sheepishly grinned and moved to take off the coat, but Sherlock held up a hand. “Look after it for me a bit longer.” Flashing a look of unexpected satisfaction, Sherlock was abruptly gone.
If John gripped Sherlock’s coat a little tighter than necessary en route to hospital, he never mentioned it to anyone.