Chapter Text
Sherlock woke when he rolled over and inhaled a mouthful of water. He opened his eyes and sat up, coughing and sputtering until he could breathe again. He blinked, trying to remember what events had brought him there, sitting in close to a foot of water, but there was an uncomfortable blank spot in his memory. His head throbbed and his upper arm itched. He removed his coat, already waterlogged and uncomfortable, and looked at his arm. A tiny bead of dried blood confirmed that he had been drugged. Not again, he thought with a sigh.
He stood, his back stiff from lying on the cold concrete, and looked around. He appeared to be in some sort of glass tank. It was dark outside the tank, preventing him from seeing more than a barely-there concave reflection of himself looking back. The only source of light was directly overhead. The sides of the tank stretched upwards for at least 30 feet, while its width was a little more than half that.
John lay close by, on his back, almost completely submerged. The water was only about an inch away from his face, ready to give him a rude awakening. Not wanting to wait, Sherlock kicked a wave of water towards him. John awoke with a splash.
Sherlock turned his back on John’s indignant coughing, already wading toward the other side of the tank. He crouched to examine a spout where fresh water flowed in from a fist-sized pipe. Not very original. He retrieved his coat and tried stuffing a sleeve in the pipe. The pressure of the water just pushed it out again. Even if he could block the water, it would be counter-productive to their escape. He looked up, double checking that there was no sort of lid across the tank.
“Sherlock.”
…It might take a while, given the rate at which the water was flowing, but no matter.
“Sherlock.”
...An hour. Two at most. He was hardly a strong swimmer, but he could manage. He stood still for a moment, staring down at his trousers, watching the water line move slowly up his leg…
…until a splash from John created a small tidal wave that broke his concentration. “Sherlock!”
Sherlock turned to find John still sitting in the water, eyes wide, looking panicked. “If you can’t swim, you’ll have plenty of time to learn, I’m afraid.”
John raised his arm, which had previously been submerged. A chain rattled, preventing the limb from surfacing very far above the water.
Time froze and Sherlock could only stare as water fell from the shiny metal of the chain--drip, drip, drip--creating ripples in the water that distorted their reflections. With a blink of his eyes, Sherlock snapped back to real time. “Check your pockets. Remove everything.”
***
As Sherlock waded over towards the far wall, John checked his pockets. He still had his wallet, but all of his usual cards and identification were missing. Instead, he had two plastic ID cards which he had never seen before. The pictures on them bore a slight resemblance to John, if he squinted.
John watched Sherlock pause at every step to examine the cement floor, the glass wall, to look up at the ceiling. John kept waiting for the ‘Eureka’ moment, but it never came. Sherlock spent a long minute kneeling by the pipe, testing the water pressure. John looked away. The water now covered his lap. “The water’s warm,” he commented to Sherlock, needing to break the silence.
“And what does that mean?”
John rolled his eyes. Now wasn’t the time for Sherlock to be giving him a lesson on his observational skills. “We’re in some place that has running hot water?”
“I meant about our captor.”
John shook his head. He really didn’t want to do anything unless it involved freeing his hand.
“It means he doesn’t want the cold to numb me.” Sherlock turned, but didn’t look at John. “He thinks I’ll suffer more if I can feel.”
“And what about me?” John asked, indignant.
“Just collateral damage, I’m afraid. If you weren’t here, there’d probably be a lid on this fishbowl.” Sherlock didn’t meet his eyes, his back rigid as he stared at the far wall above John’s head for a moment before letting his eyes drift downward.
It was John’s turn to look away.
John didn’t have much experience with drowning victims, but he did know that cold water could slow the process, make it easier for a person to be revived even after half an half hour, if the temperature were cold enough. But he didn’t feel he should mention that to Sherlock. Sherlock probably already knew, and saying it out loud would just twist the knife deeper into both of them.
Sherlock sloshed over to kneel next to John and he examined the cuff and chain for the first time, fingers dancing underwater to feel where the chain bolted to the cement floor. Then he looked at John’s wallet, the identification cards, and finally John’s watch, which sadly didn’t appear to be waterproof.
John watched Sherlock take in all the details like a sponge, cataloguing them. But this problem seemed to go far beyond the help of a brilliant mind. No matter what information Sherlock could gather about their soon-to-be killer, their location, the temperature of the fucking water…none of it would help. As John watched Sherlock’s expressionless face, he knew he was right.
No words were needed as Sherlock sat down next to him with a grimace, the water reaching their navels. “You don’t happen to wear grips in your hair, do you?” Sherlock asked after a few minutes. Another inch.
John didn’t bother to dignify his question with an answer.
“There has to be something I’m missing.” Sherlock cast his eyes about the bare tank.
“It’s okay,” John said, grabbing at Sherlock’s sleeve as Sherlock started to stand.
Sherlock shook John’s grip free. “It is not okay!” he hissed.
John swallowed. “Well, what do we have so far?”
“We’re in an old aquarium building. Hasn’t been used in a while. Probably a former holding tank for sick sea lions. The person who put us here is already long gone. Maybe he’s left a camera or two so he can watch all this over a bucket of popcorn. He doesn’t want your b--…you…to be ID’ed, so he planted fake cards, probably stolen from the post, plastic so they survive the water. And there has to be a way to save you.”
John closed his open mouth, then latched on to the first thing he could gather from the deductions. “Sea lions?”
“There’s a faint smell of fish and a peculiar medicine used to treat them. Probably years since this place was in use, but it is still quite discernible.”
“How do you know there’s a way to save me?”
Sherlock turned away, but John could still read the thought that flashed over his face: Because the best way to make me suffer would be to know I could have saved you. But out loud Sherlock said, “One of the easiest locks to pick. Everything I need is probably right here.”
“What about my watch? Can it be taken apart?” Even though the water was warm, he still shivered as it slowly rose up his chest.
Sherlock shook his head. “I took your watch apart a month ago. There’s nothing useful there.”
Normally John would have chastised Sherlock about taking apart his things without permission, but the water felt heavy against his chest, fear giving it weight, and the watch seemed so unimportant in comparison.
John had never really had a fear of water, but he had had a bad dream or three about drowning, especially after the war. The water had always held him back in his dreams, kept him from reaching his friends who bled out on the shore just out of reach. Their looks still haunted him. “S-Sherlock.” The tickling of the water as it reached his neck brought him back to the present and John tried to keep from panicking.
Sherlock walked carefully, keeping his movements slow to keep the water from splashing against John’s face, and crouched down in front of him. The look on his face made John hate himself, no matter that it wasn’t John’s fault. Sherlock’s calm façade was starting to crumble.
John started to speak, but Sherlock ducked under the water to examine the cuff once more. He felt pain at his wrist as Sherlock tugged the chain and he wondered if Sherlock planned to rip his arm free. John could just catch the water-distorted look of determination on Sherlock’s face as he examined everything. Then John had to stop looking down in order to keep his face above water. He closed his eyes, trying to will his thoughts someplace serene, but water brushing his lips shattered those thoughts. “Sherlock!” He swung at Sherlock to get his attention, hitting him on the shoulder.
Sherlock broke the surface of the water, the movement causing water to splash over John’s face.
“It’s okay.” John could do no more than mouth the words, his voice catching in his throat like it was checking out early, knowing it would never be needed again. But John knew Sherlock had caught the meaning by the way he violently shook his head and found John’s free hand in the water. He wanted to tell Sherlock to turn away, to not watch him die. But it was too late for words any more as the water covered his lips. He felt crushing pressure in his hand and wondered what Sherlock would have to hold onto when he was gone.
John tilted his head back, creating what little distance he could between nose and water. Water plugged his ears, muting the sound of Sherlock’s heavy breaths, but amplifying the sound of his own heart. It soothed him, much like a young babe fresh out of the womb. He frowned up at the grey ceiling. If he squinted, the light fixtures almost looked like clouds. He would never see the sky again.
Water in his eyes. Tears. Not drowning. Not yet.
John tried to school himself for what he was going to do when the water finally covered his face. No need to prolong his suffering. A breath in of water and be done with it.
Coward. The voice in his head sounded more like Sherlock’s than his own.
It’s better this way, John answered.
For who?
Both of us.
John took a deep breath…
…And held it as the water covered him completely.