Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

A cold wind bit at Sherlock’s cheeks. He pulled up the collar of his Belstaff, lowering his head and clutching the greasy paper bag a bit tighter in his right hand. He hoped the wintry November gusts didn’t completely seep all the warmth from his chips before he arrived at Baker Street.

Only four more blocks.

Sherlock was tempted to dig into his quarry a bit early – hunger was eating away at his gut – but he knew that if he opened the bag right then the steam would rise and abandon its blanket seal over his dinner.  

Eating during a case. Look at me, John. Utterly bereft. Weak. A mere husk of the man I used to be.

Christ, Sherlock, you need to eat. You’re only human. One of us lowly mortals.

John.

He kept hallucinating John. Kept hearing him.

Odd. He’d expected this to happen during his captivity, of course; his mind palace had served nicely as a coping mechanism in Dhaka. In Shanghai. In a multitude of more forgettable places. If not forgettable, then deleted. But finally, in Novi Sad… Serbia. He hadn’t succeeded in deleting Serbia. The wall between his imaginings and reality had thinned a bit during the worst of his torture, allowing his brain to conjure images and sounds and to superimpose them onto the terrible scenes to which he was subjected daily.

Understandable. Clinically predictable. For someone with his exceptional abilities, at least. Perhaps even for someone without them.

But now? Now?

I’m fine, perfectly myself again.

Sherlock shuddered away a chill, clearing his throat and taking a deep breath.

Well, perhaps that’s slightly less than true. I only hope I didn’t embarrass myself in front of the Yard. In front of Molly.

And pain. There’s still a bit of pain. Physical and… of another sort.

The earlier case had been a farce. Philip Anderson, of course, desperate to lure in Sherlock’s ghost – the mystery detective he’d clearly been tracking (despite his annoyance, Sherlock was grudgingly impressed by such persistence) in pursuit of a mystery he knew the Hat Detective couldn’t resist. He’d been woefully misguided, however. Sherlock had solved the Jack the Ripper case as a child. The perpetrator was obvious. Upsettingly, the Yard hadn’t quite seen it that way when he'd called in. Shame. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he’d been fourteen years old at the time. As if his age made his deductions any less accurate.

Idiots.

Speaking of idiots… Sherlock would deal with Anderson later.

He had another case to focus on now. Perhaps two of them; perhaps only one.

Sherlock groaned. The chips are truly inexcusable. What’s the matter with me? Falling victim to my base instincts?

You were routinely denied food, Sherlock. You may be incapable of willingly subjecting yourself to hunger ever again. It would initiate a trauma response.

He’d never met John’s erstwhile (current once more, according to Mycroft’s file) therapist… Ella something or other. But he knew that’s what she’d tell him.

It didn’t matter.

It was what it was.

There was an utterly nonspecific terrorist plot, for one. But no less serious for its lack of elucidation. An agent had died for what amounted to nothing. The terror alert had been raised to critical. Mycroft’s nerves were pulled taut, as much as he’d tried to hide it. It was all confounding, yes, but boring thus far even considering that fact. What could be done with no leads?

Well, no leads until just minutes ago. Moran, it had been Moran who had entered the last train car at Westminster and never re-emerged. Lord Moran, Peer of the Realm, Minister for Overseas Development. Unrelated to Mycroft’s intelligence of a covert extremist operation? Extremely unlikely.

A rat has finally misbehaved. A target moved contrary to expectation.

It was lucky that Shilcott had left his atrocious hat behind. That or suspiciously coincidental. Had Mycroft arranged it all? Falsified the plot to justify the exorbitant Crown expenditures needed to extract Sherlock from his torture cell?

No, no… Moran had been on the train car. Obviously. And someone had apparently died already. Not false. Then… arranged? With one rather large clue left behind to ensure there would never be any real threat? He’d assumed Moran had bought off the conductor. Been responsible for the man’s sudden financial windfall and subsequent holiday. But perhaps Moran had been lured into it all himself, been nothing more than a pawn in the chess game Mycroft had set on the board. It would be treason, of course, but Sherlock (grudgingly, and despite his very recent accusations to the contrary) knew that his brother would risk criminal prosecution for his safety. Would do anything to ensure it. Moran was hardly an innocent victim, doubly not if he’d successfully been tempted by the notion of terrorism; the plan would kill two birds with one proverbial stone.

He’d been working for North Korea since 1996, after all. He needed to be eliminated at some point.

The dead agent may have been a traitor Mycroft wanted gone. Possibly he didn’t exist at all. Sherlock rather hoped Mycroft wouldn’t risk innocent lives as collateral damage. It bothered him that he didn’t fully know his brother’s mind; he preferred not to think on it.

Though maybe he was wrong.

Sorry, big brother, I suppose I am the stupid one. You were always right about that. Because I cannot even solve a case I’m rather convinced you intended me to solve.

Sherlock would never know for certain if Mycroft were involved. He wasn’t meant to. Nor was anyone else.

But Molly. Ah. Had he used her yet again for his own gain? He’d apologized before he’d left earlier. Kissed her on the cheek, even. The guilt he’d felt upon seeing her doleful face, fumbling as she defended her recent engagement – seemingly prepared for him to attack her choice of fiancé – had surprised him. Shamed him. He’d always felt it to some extent, of course. The guilt, the empathy. He wasn’t actually a sociopath. It had just become impossible to repress now. All of his feelings had become impossible to repress. He was no longer capable of taking advantage of those around him with such… impunity.

Not when he’d missed them so desperately.

Even Anderson. Turning him in would be a mistake – an injustice, even, despite the severity of his crime. The disgraced investigator’s mental decline was Sherlock’s doing, after all. Perhaps he’d give him the scoop about the Fall after this was all resolved. An exclusive interview. One that stretched the facts in a way that suited his conspiracy-laden blog.

What wasn’t Sherlock’s doing, really? Molly’s tortured unrequited love and resulting unhappiness, John’s evident and lingering despair? His… mustache. For God’s sake. That may be the worst of it. He’d clearly needed to create a new identity for himself. A new image. Because had he remained in his old life, stayed the old clean-shaven John Watson – residence 221B Baker Street – he would have… what would he have done?

It didn’t bear thinking about.

I should have seen. Anticipated. But what could I have done differently? No amount of risk to his life would have been acceptable.

But his life had been at risk anyway.

No excuse. Obvious.

I should have known.

(How would his mustache feel against my upper lip? Would it chafe uncomfortably or create a pleasant tingle?)

He felt a kinship with Molly now he hadn’t before. Or simply one he hadn’t realized before. They shared one very important trait in common now. And it wasn’t one that he was yet fully ready to face.

(“You can’t do this again, can you?”)

It would hit him soon, of that he was certain. Mary Morstan. What her presence signified for his relationship… friendship, if that were still the case… with John. For now, though, he was having a hard time seeing past his gratitude for her. The nurse who’d saved John Watson. He owed her a great debt.

What had he done? What had he been doing these past years?

Was he solving heinous crimes – doing good – or creating more of them? Simply attracting almost comically evil villains into the Great Game? Moriarty would not have done nearly as much damage had there not been an equally brilliant adversary in his little war of the minds. That had been half the fun for him.

Whatever the case, Sherlock supposed it was much too late to stop now. The crime was there regardless. His presence had long since been established (though, admittedly, not his return to the Land of the Living; not yet). As soon as the press got wind of his survival, the maddest of criminals would be chomping at the bit once more. The challenge was permanently set. He was in the Game for life.

Though terrorism was a bit of a new one.

He wished he could muster up more excitement. The old thrill of the chase.

But all he could think about was John.

Sherlock felt another stab of hunger. He pulled off his right glove and opened the paper bag, suddenly ravenous – eager to fill the void inside of him in the only way he could at the moment. The first chip he grabbed was still warm. A bit limp, but salty and savory all the same. Sherlock licked his fingers of their residual oil, shivering as he shifted the bag to his left hand and shoved his ungloved right hand into his coat pocket. It wasn’t worth putting the glove back on; 221B was a mere minute’s walk away.

He noted the heavy footfalls behind him. They’d been there for the past block or so. The footsteps belonged to a couple, though it was not a romantic pairing. They were walking out of step with one another. Holding hands would lead to increased synchronicity.

The deduction came automatically. Boring.

Unimportant.

They suddenly started to accelerate. One set of footsteps veered left and the other remained firmly behind him.

Maybe not so unimportant after all.

The sensation of choking, of restriction, descended upon him with alarming abruptness – Sherlock didn’t even have time to spin around before he felt his fingers digging helplessly into thick black fabric. Taut arm muscles – hard as he felt them beneath the sleeves of his assailant’s jumper – resisted his instinctual struggle, refusing to yield their hold around his neck.

Sherlock looked up at the night sky as his vision started to fade at the edges.

Stars.

There they were. He hadn’t noticed them in quite a while.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

I thought you didn’t care about things like that.

Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.

He barely flinched as a second set of hands grabbed his head and plunged a sharp needle into his external jugular vein. Practiced; medically competent. It was no easy feat to administer an intravenous injection.

The stars began to swirl in the sky. Smeared trails of yellow-white light through inky blue-black paint.

Distorted. Out of reach.

Still beautiful.

The mystery drug would take upwards of a minute to take full effect. Assailant number one, Mister Black Jumper – Smoker, mid-50s… something else… what else… My mind is a stalling engine – stood as if he were casually supporting a drunk friend, arm appearing to be slung around Sherlock’s neck (rather than tightly and immovably squeezed, as was the reality) to support his slumped weight.

“Easy there,” a gruff voice sounded in his ear. “Had too much to drink, mate. Dropped your chips on the ground. Right shame. Waste of five quid.”

“Ermf.”

Less than eloquent, brother mine.

Sherlock tried to shout, but his mouth wouldn’t cooperate. His tongue felt weighted; a bar of lead uncomfortably filling his mouth. The heaviness was spreading gradually from the very tips of his fingers and toes and toward his chest. Like a creeping fog. Or a rising tide.

“He don’ look too well, eh? Eyes all glazed. This your friend, innit? How about I give y’both a ride to hospital?”

Assailant number two. They were acting out a play. Reciting dialogue. Passersby rushed past with furtive glances and stifled whispers. Just another sloshed bastard, stumbling home from the pub. An embarrassment, but not a concern.

“Cheers mate, yeah. Alcohol poisoning ain’t no joke.”

Sherlock felt hysterical. Bizarre. The fear was an expected companion – he’d reluctantly admitted his PTSD soon after returning with a groan and a wave of his hand (“A simple and predictable diagnosis, Mycroft, I am fully capable of dealing with it alone.”) – but there was also a strange, drug-induced mania at the absurdity of it all.

Kidnapped.

Again.

But I’m back home. Safe.

I was supposed to be safe.

His wounds burned. His attackers had knocked against them, shifting his recently changed bandages. Unwittingly, of course, but the outcome was the same. He could feel warm blood seeping into the cotton of his shirt. Left deltoid down to the right longissimus thoracis; one of the worst of the many diagonal gashes across his back.

He swung a fist. Wildly, madly. It made weak contact with warm flesh. No damage done.

“Pathetic as a foal, this one. Heard he was mean’ to be a fighter. Reckon it was beat outta him?” The grip around his throat tightened. A laugh came from somewhere to his left.

No air. Nettles filled his lungs. A match was struck against his tonsils. A fist closed tightly around his voice box.

Cold.

Garbled voices.

Rough hands.

Stumbling feet.

Vomit.

Fading vision.

One final glimpse of stars.

Shining hope, promise, beauty. More out of reach to him than they ever had been.

A slamming car door.

Nothing.

…

…

…

…

“Sherlock! Jesus Christ… Sherlock!”

Odd. There was John’s voice again, yet another auditory hallucination. He supposed it made sense, being back in a state of peril. As undefined as that state may yet be.

Impressive regardless that the imagined voice had managed to cut through the fog; the blackness.

Oh.

Sherlock was conscious.

But he couldn’t quite open his eyes. His eyelashes were, it seemed, glued to his cheeks. If he could still trust his drugged brain’s interpretation of the nerve signals it was receiving, that was. Doubtful. Whatever the specifics, he couldn’t see.

No light.

No stars.

An intense wave of nausea struck. Sherlock turned his head to the side, heaving up bile and a disgusting bit of spittle into the unknown darkness that still surrounded him. There was no expected splat as it hit the ground.

Loud. Good Lord, it was so loud. A roaring fire? Rushing water? An approaching stampede?

He couldn’t quite figure it out.

A cheese grater was pressed against his back. Nothing else would explain the stinging pain. He tasted salt; the air was misty. And far, far colder than it had been earlier. His trousers were wet, too. Not with blood; not unless he’d been there long enough for that warm blood to chill. To freeze.

“Sherlock!”

Quite grating, imaginary John. You’re meant to be soothing me. Not yelling at me.

“Not… real. You’re just… no. G-get out.”

Sherlock felt his chin touch his chest as his head bobbed down, too heavy for him to hold upright. There was a slight metallic tang in his mouth. Acid continued to burn his stomach lining.

Shackles pulled at his wrists, cutting cruelly into his flesh.

No. No. I’m not there. I’m… somewhere else. Not there.

Not shackles. Not metal.

Rope. My glenohumeral joints are not strained. Do my hands have blood flow? Are they strung above my head?

(Like before? Don’t let it be like before…)

Unclear. There’s just a cold sort of numbness beyond my wrists.

“I’m real, you cock! Wake up!”

“Rude,” Sherlock muttered. He hoped that the illusory voice would dissipate soon. It was getting bothersome now. Mind Palace John often tried that tactic… Riling him up. For motivation, he assumed. It’s what his subconscious had (rightly) decided would be the most effective tactic when it came to keeping him alive.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t irritating.

Focus. Focus! My wrists. Behind me, they’re behind me. Wrapped around… Something.

He could feel that he was barely seated on a narrow ledge, the thinnest side of some sort of hard and unforgiving surface. It was both slick and rough. Paradoxical. An icy wetness seeped into his trousers through his coat.

I’m still wearing my Belstaff.

Astute of you, baby brother. Why do you suppose that is?

Do shut up, Mycroft. One thing at a time.

A cold splash of liquid hit his shins. Water. Freezing water. It sent a shock through his system.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. It was still dark; there was barely a difference in his sight, but…

“John.” Sherlock coughed, painful and deep. His saliva tasted of salt and copper. “I suppose you’re here after all. P-pity.”

“Well done, you,” John was almost shouting, but Sherlock could only just hear him over the white noise. “In the habit of imagining me? S’pose you’ve never really needed the real version, hm? Especially not since you went off to play hide-and-seek with Moriarty’s men?”

Sherlock threw his head back, wincing as he felt it crack against hard wood. He clenched his teeth. Another splash of brackish water smacked his knees. His feet were almost fully submerged.

Soggy socks. Expensive ones, too.

And waterlogged YSL oxfords.

“D-don’t be ridiculous. I meant it was a p-pity that we’ve both found ourselves h-here.”

Sherlock lowered his head and narrowed his eyes so they could better adjust to the light. John’s figure slowly came into form, hands and feet tied around wooden staves. He was partially seated on a narrow ledge, one Sherlock supposed mirrored his own. A sliver of moonlight revealed pale, wet skin; almost blue. A thin, stark trail of red blood trickled down the side of John’s face, still mostly shrouded in shadows. His chest was heaving.

“You’re shivering, Sherlock. You’re cold.”

Is that true?

Cold. Cold? Am I cold?

Sherlock took a second to fully feel his body; to take stock of his surroundings. His back felt as though all of its skin had been peeled away. Hyperbole. It didn’t matter – that was what he felt above all else. The coldness was secondary, but certainly still present.

“O-obviously, John. As are you. Though that’s n-not what will kill us first. Are you a-all right?”

John pursued his lips, nodding resolutely. He ignored Sherlock’s inquiry about his wellbeing. “Drowning. Wonderful.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock scanned the decking, looking directly above them and then back to shore. “C-Canvey Island. Holehaven P-Pier. The j-jetty is just b-beyond you. We’re b-below the old Harbor Master’s s-station. Disused. Abandoned.”

“How the bloody- never mind how. What’s going on? Is this related to that terrorist plot? Why not just shoot us? We’re not even in London anymore, Canvey is over an hour away, Jesus…”

John may have continued talking after that. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure.

He’d already closed his eyes. Think. THINK.

Pain. Pain.

COLD.

Restrained. Helpless. Scared.

“I… I don’t… I c-can’t…”

“Are you all right? You’re… something’s not…”

“Mm. Mm. Yes, J-John. All right. I’m all… all right.”

Even minimal blood loss from your back will cause body heat to escape. You’re still livelier than my corpses!

Little comfort, Molly.

Sherlock ground his teeth, willing away the pain. The cold should have helped with that, really, but the salt in the water and the roughness of the wood were exacerbating things. He looked back up at John, whose eyes were wide; lips pressed into a thin line. His face sent a jolt of unexpected warmth through Sherlock’s chest.

It was familiar once more.

“You shaved.”

“What?”

“Y-your mustache. You sh-shaved.”

“We’re about to die and you comment on…” John took a deep breath, tilting his head down toward his chest. He must have seen something when he looked back up at Sherlock’s face, however, because his expression immediately softened. “Yeah. It… it wasn’t working for me.”

“I’m g-glad. I prefer m-my doctors cl-clean shaven.”

A sudden flood of water, less a wave and more of a wall, crashed against the both of them at waist level. John sputtered; his mouth had been open (in surprise, undoubtedly) at Sherlock’s comment.

Sherlock coughed – the spray had found its way into his esophagus.

“Is the tide coming in?”

“I d-don’t i-imagine our captors would ch-choose the on-onset of low tide for this p-plan of theirs, J-John.”

“So when is high tide? How much time do we have left, hm?”

Sherlock looked up. The planks beneath the pier’s walkway had less of a sheen to them where they were bolted to the perimeter. Until just inches above their heads, the wood appeared just a bit lighter to Sherlock’s eye, though it was difficult to tell for sure in the dark of night. Still, he was fairly certain it was dry. The wood directly parallel to their scalps and below, however, was not.

Darkened with persistent moisture. Marking the height the water would soon rise once again. Not welcome news, that.

“Ah… erm.”

Sherlock pictured striking a damp match. Though it could possibly produce a feeble wisp of smoke, it would ultimately fail to light… regardless of how many times the potassium chlorate was stimulated by the powdered glass of the activation strip. My senses have been doused with river water. Extinguished.

“Mind palace! Use your mind palace!”

John is spouting nonsense now. Perhaps he was hit roundly about the head.

“P-perhaps you were h-hit roundly about the head.”

Oh. Hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“What? The tides, Sherlock! Use your mind palace!”

“H-how would that h-help? You th-think I know the tide t-tables of the Thames and its c-connected water-w-ways?”

“You’ve sorted away every fact under the Sun! You know we’re in Canvey, for starters!”

“Oil refinery,” muttered Sherlock. “A j-jetty almost as l-long as Southend. El-elementary d-deduction.”

“See, you know things!”

Sherlock inhaled, holding his breath and closing his eyes. He sifted through a few recollections of tide tables – all in the past, and in differing months – wishing his hands were free to flick between the largely unhelpful images. Still more than I’d expected to find; there’s a torn folder in the back cabinet of Study #3. Perhaps John does truly understand my capabilities. Or I am simply not thinking clearly.

No tables existed in his mind palace for Holehaven Creek where it met the Thames, which was where they currently found themselves situated. Nothing ever happened on Canvey Island. He believed the pier and jetty were set for demolition, in fact; vandals and delinquents had taken to injuring themselves as they jumped into the water below. After defacing private property, of course. The entrance had been blocked off for months.

No one would be around to hear them.

To see them.

“T-tides d-differ by day. T-two cycles of low and th-then high. Rough… ahem…r-roughly six hours separating high and l-low. The w-wood around us is m-moist but not recently d-dampened. High t-tide is imminent. Half… half an hour at m-most.”

There was a beat of silence. The sound of water crashing against the pier was more than loud enough to fill the air.

“So you come back to London after two bloody years and we both get kidnapped. Almost immediately.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply; a jolt of pain radiated from beneath his left ribcage.

He’s right. I have done nothing but lead him to harm since the very moment we met.

If we survive this, I must leave once more. I have miscalculated everything.

Everything.

A burst of sudden laughter made Sherlock physically flinch in surprise. John was practically wheezing with it. Sherlock squinted his eyes to see him better in the dark. Mouth open, head thrown back, a flush in his cheeks despite the pallor caused by the cold.

“I… I f-find I am quite–”

“–Christ, I’ve missed you.”

Definitely hit roundly about the head.

“Y-you’ve missed getting kidnapped? Your life b-being in danger?”

“God, yes. Desperately.”

“I-idiot. I had for-forgotten how much of an i-idiot y-you were, John.”

“I think I had, too. Yeah. I just… yeah.”

He wants to say more. I’m not sure what. He believes it isn’t the time. It’s not, obviously.

Though there might never be another. I should say something, too.

“I missed y–”

WAIT.

A shine. A flash.

A clue.

Sherlock’s breath hitched. Hope. Fear. “There ap-appears to be a message sec-secured to your left leg. Read it.”

John angled his head downwards, twisting a bit to see the sheen of white plastic amongst the darkness. “Damn, you’re right. Erm. I think it… it’s upside-down. Just gimme one… okay. Hm. So. I think…”

“Get on with it, John. The water is getting uncomfortably h-high.”

“Sodding... Just give me a sec, Sherlock! It’s all smeared. But I think… yeah. Right. ‘The enemy only… tricks? No. Sorry. Takes. The enemy only takes what one believes they can… love? Erm. Lose. What one believes they can lose. To survive the fight- oops, hm… plight, kill the doubt. Your… institution? Wait. Intuition. Your intuition, your friend.’ What the fuck is that supposed to mean, hm?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, despite knowing the effect would be lost in the darkness. “It’s a simple skip code. Read it once more, will you? No p-pauses this time.”

“Your voice. It’s not as shaky.”

“Irrelevant. Read the m-message.”

“You’re shivering less, Sherlock. That’s not good.”

“Is it not? I’m r-rather enjoying it.”

I know it’s not good. I’m… compromised. Slow. An increase in confusion is a hallmark of progressive hypothermia. Moderate, no longer mild.

“And you asked me to read the message again, yeah? That’s… you don’t usually need–”

John could, on rare occasions, be annoyingly observant.

“–P-perhaps if you hadn’t bungled it the first t-time, I would have–”

“–Hm, no. Stop that. Stop that now. No games. No pretending. No lying. We don’t have time for that. I’m a bloody brass monkey over here. Freezing my balls off. But I think they kept me somewhere for a few hours before they took you. I was blindfolded and half-drugged, but warm. Then some bastard knocked me out and I woke up here. I can still… but you’re–”

“–Oh what does it m-matter? We’re both g-going to drown in t-ten minutes anyway. R-read the message.”

“You said 30 minutes!”

“I said at most. But hypothermia has ad-addled my brain.”

“Only when it’s convenient for you,” John mumbled. Sherlock only just caught the words. “You have no idea, hm? How much time we have left. Do you?”

“No,” Sherlock spat. “A-apologies for not knowing everything un-under the bloody Sun, as you believe of me. I am n-not a machine.”

That may have been a poor choice of words, considering the last time they were uttered.

He became aware that he was breathing hard, chest heaving and pulse rising. The pain from his seeping lacerations was approaching unbearable levels. His ears were full of cotton wool. And John was going to die. Because of him. He wasn’t yet sure how it was because of him, but he knew it was.

It always was.

My fault.

“Sherlock–”

“Read the message. Please, John.”

John nodded once, hollowing his cheeks. “Sorry. Right. ‘The enemy only takes what one believes they can lose. To survive the plight, kill the doubt. Your intuition, your friend.’ That’s the whole of it.”

Letters floated in front of Sherlock’s eyes, red and blue and yellow and green and blurred around the edges. They gradually arranged themselves into words. He narrowed his eyes, asking the words to glow against the skip code template. Every third one, to begin. It was the likeliest arrangement considering the length of the message. There were certain wordless commands he could execute in his mind palace. Like computer code.

Like a machine.

Not a machine. Machines don’t bleed.

The deciphering took longer than usual. Almost six seconds. Dull. Stupid. Doused with river water.

The enemy only takes what one believes they can lose. To survive the plight, kill the doubt. Your intuition, your friend.

“Ev-every third word. “On-only one can survive. Kill your friend.”

“Well, at least it’s a cheery message.”

“Baffling. Clichéd. Unrelated to a terrorist plot, I am almost c-certain. We ph-physically cannot kill one an-another. Our hands are quite literally tied. They’re testing to s-see who we choose to save. Ourselves, or the other p-person.”

“We’d never kill one another. Everyone in Greater London knows that.” John’s voice was fierce. Adamant.

I haven’t lost him yet.

Sherlock swallowed back a lump in his throat. His eyes were watering. Pain.

Sentiment.

“Of course not. But they are t-testing our limits regardless. Leaving the other to die could be argued as merely s-self-preservation, not murder. And a-attempting to help the other after an escape c-could be tantamount to suicide. Why is the qu-question now.”

“And how,” John emphasized. “Like you just said. Neither of us can move. How the bloody hell are we meant to do anything?”

Sherlock ignored him. “Are you h-hurt?”

John grunted, indifferent. “Knot on my head, I think. Of course you were bloody right about that. Someone got in a good punch, too. But I’m fine, Sherlock. You’re the one I’m worried about. Just wish this rope weren’t so tight around my wrists. Christ, it’s tearing at my skin.”

Sherlock’s heartbeat slowed a bit. Relief. “All right. All right, John.”

Tendrils of flame continued to lick at his back. Hot against the cold. He closed his eyes.

Think. Think.

THINK.

“I was coming to see you, you know. When they took me. I was right outside 221B. Right there, yeah? I was right at the damned door. I wanted to say… hm. Well. Sorry, I guess. Yeah. I wanted to apologize for how things went at the restaurant. Start again. Talk to you.”

The frigid water had risen to their mid thighs. Both chose not to mention it. Sherlock could feel the vasoconstriction as his feet and calves went numb.

He wanted to say more. To tell John… to tell him. Words, however, were difficult at the moment. As was thinking.

Better keep things light for now.

“You wanted in o-on the case. Just ad-admit it.”

“Fine, I’ll admit it!” If John could have thrown his arms in the air in frustration, he would have. “Maybe I just didn’t want to see you get hurt again. Not after everything. I hate the idea of you working alone. I’m still angry as hell, though, Sherlock. I don’t know when that will go away.”

“How fortunate you decided to come, then. Now I am out of harm’s way. Safe as h-houses.”

Sarcasm will not serve you well here, Sherlock. Goldfish like your John can be sensitive to that sort of thing, particularly in situations such as these. The tedium is mind-numbing; I don’t know how you stand it.

Sherlock had never quite understood Mycroft’s ubiquity in his mind palace. He’d never been invited. He was just… there.

“You w-weren’t invited. Go away.”

“What? Sherlock, who are you talking to? You’re not well. I knew it. Symptoms. Now.”

“Oh f-for God’s sake, John, it’s only Mycroft. M-mind palace. Sometimes I talk to myself. Y-you know that. And I’m hardly going to waste pre-precious time rattling off symptoms to you, Doctor. L-later. We must first… ensure there is a later.”

They were both silent for another few seconds. Sherlock could barely hear his own breaths amidst the noise of the rising, sloshing river.

“Mary won’t even be worried yet. Told her I wasn’t sure when I’d be back.”

Mary. Mary Morstan.

The nurse who’d saved John Watson.

The woman who took him from me.

The… liar?

“I’m sorry.”

“Hm? Sorry? Why? For something aside from your faked suicide, then?”

“I in-intruded. Your proposal. And somehow this… this must be my fault. S-sorry. I truly am sorry, John. F-for all the hurt I have caused you.”

John locked his jaw and bit his lower lip, eyes blinking more quickly than was entirely normal. The air was moist; salty. Perhaps that was why.

More than likely. John was generally not one for tears.

Just at my graveside.

“No, no. No, Sherlock. Don’t do this now, all right? Just- Later. You just said we’d make sure there’s a later. Don’t forget that.”

Yes, but how? The orchestrators obviously intended the possibility of a later as well. What was the point otherwise?

Oh.

What did I think right at the start? ‘I’m still wearing my Belstaff.’

Inexcusably slow.

Astute of you, baby brother. This time with all due sincerity.

“Your wrists. They’re chafing. B-bleeding. That’s it! B-brilliant!”

“Excuse me? I’m gonna need you to–”

“–Mine aren’t. B-bleeding, that is.”

“Bully for you.”

“No, no, d-don’t you see? My coat. Our captors have t-tied the rope over my coat.” Sherlock directed his gaze once more to the dark planking above them; the slowly rotting wood of the Harbor Master’s station floor created black shadows perpendicular to the decking and within its furthest corners, but he was sure there’d be a–

–Yes.

A tiny glint. Only an 18% chance (or thereabouts) I am hallucinating or misconstruing its presence due to my weakened state. Gambling odds.

“W-wave hello to the camera, John.”

“I… Is that a joke, Sherlock? My hands are bloody tied behind my–”

“–The corner farthest right from me. Your ad-adjacent left. Intentional. No error. Human error is attributed to the in-interaction between heightened e-emotions, cog-cognitive impairments under pressure. And… ah. Y-yes. Conflicting motivations. This is d-deliberate. Calculated. Emotionless. Why not shoot us indeed, John. Oh, you’re b-brilliant.”

“Right. Yeah. Explain.”

“Pressure p-points. They’re observing our reactions to the situation. It’s possible they’ll intercede should w-we be in any real danger of dying – it’s an ex-experiment. It may or may not be attempted m-murder.”

“May or may not be?”

“We must operate un-under the assumption that it is, of course.”

“Already there, Sherlock. The water’s up to our fucking ribcages.”

“Mm. So it is.”

Brackish river water is not sterile, but its sodium and iodine provide antiseptic qualities. Magnesium, potassium, and zinc are also beneficial nutrients, but open wounds can easily be infected by floating bacteria, viruses, protozoa, and even parasites.

I wouldn’t like a parasite.

“Not terrorists, then.”

“No,” said Sherlock, working at his wrists. “Not terrorists.”

“Why do they care about what we do? If we’ll try to save each other? Our pressure points?”

“I d-don’t know. I hate not knowing.” Sherlock pulled harder at his restraints, grunting with the effort. There was less than a centimeter of give between the rope and his sodden wool sleeves. If he could just manage to shift his shoulders – to shrug out of the Belstaff… or to pull until just a few more centimeters were free, then… then…

A scream suddenly sounded, carried by the coastal November wind. Loud. Tortured. Deep. Sherlock was only dimly aware of it; his consciousness was somewhere with the stars. Floating. Just momentarily.

He drifted back down.

Lava was flowing down his back. Electricity shot through his veins. Claws tore at his skin; at his muscles.

“Christ, Sherlock! Sherlock! What’s happened, what’s wrong?!”

The screaming continued, tapering off into whimpers after a few agonizing moments.

Sherlock was fully back into his body, breaths fast and labored. Every inch of him burned.

The river rose.