Work Text:
Sherlock bounds up the stairs, his coat flying out behind him as excitement overtakes him. He bangs on John’s door loudly, drawing a yelp from the man within.
“It’s a nine, John, a nine!” he shouts. He gives John thirty seconds to get dressed, and then they’re both dashing down the stairs together and out into the street.
The case is exhilarating; the suspect is brilliant, and it turns into a mad dash about the city, Lestrade’s team always seconds behind. John turns to Sherlock and grins as they run, and it’s the first genuine grin Sherlock’s seen since he returned to him mere months ago. Sherlock finds himself grinning back as they approach the bridge, the suspect’s pace slowing as he begins to tire. Sherlock pushes his long legs even harder, leaving John slightly behind him, and engages with the suspect.
He gets a few good punches in, but the man is for some reason not quite hitting back; Sherlock only realizes he’s being herded towards the guardrail when it strikes him in the back. Surprised, he looks behind him, and that proves to be his fatal mistake. His eyes widen in fear when the suspect punches him in the stomach, so hard it winds him completely. He knows what comes next, and with no oxygen left, he can’t fight the man throwing him over the guardrail.
Distantly, he hears John shout, “SHERLOCK!” somewhere above him, and then he strikes the icy cold water with a resounding crash, his Belstaff immediately dragging him down. He tries in vain to tear it off, but he’s still winded, and isn’t able to get enough oxygen before being pulled under. He’s rapidly weakening.
Somewhere not too far from him, he hears another body land in the water.
John?
Before he can find out, the lack of oxygen finally takes its toll, and everything goes blacker than the dirty water around him.
***
He drifts.
***
He awakens later when someone pounds harshly on his chest. The water he vomits is dark and freezing cold.
In fact, he is freezing cold. He has never been this cold in his life.
Why isn’t he shivering?
He looks up and finds himself staring into John’s concerned face. He looks more worried than Sherlock has seen him in a very long time.
John’s lips move, but Sherlock doesn’t hear anything. He pushes his concentration to its limits.
“—hospital. His hypothermia is too severe for me to treat at home.”
Hospital?
Hospitals have sedatives and angry doctors and no one ever trusts a former addict—
“No, John, please, just—home. Treat me at home.”
John looks at him sadly, but shakes his head. “You need equipment that we haven’t got at the flat, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
Sherlock tries to reply, but finds that his mouth is frozen shut, so he lets himself be loaded into the ambulance. Two paramedics get in with him, but his blood runs even colder when he realizes that John isn’t with him, and one of the paramedics is about to shut the door.
He musters all of his strength.
“John!” he manages to shout. His throat burns horribly from the effort.
There’s a scuffle outside, and then John gets in with him. Something burning hot is put into his hand, and he almost yanks it away before realizing that it’s simply John’s hand.
He lets himself drift again.
***
He awakens in what he assumes is A&E. Someone above him is shouting something.
“—warm humidified oxygen and IV fluids—.”
He feels something sharp enter his arm, and for a moment he thinks he’s been injecting himself again.
He hears John’s voice in the background, discussing something with one of the doctors, and he realizes it isn’t the case.
He drifts again.
***
The next time he awakens is even more chaotic. Two doctors are shouting at each other in the corner, and John is holding his hand so tightly Sherlock is worried he’ll break it.
“—fever’s been like this for two days! He hasn’t remained conscious for more than two minutes at a time so far!” shouts one of the doctors.
“I don’t care! We can’t do what you’re suggesting, it’ll just make it worse. Besides, according to his file, he’s already taken every drug under the sun, who knows what that man is resistant to—.”
Sherlock flinches, feeling like all of his progress is being thrown in his face again. John’s head jerks up.
“If you two idiots weren’t so preoccupied with insulting your patient, you’d probably realize he was awake!” John berates them.
John is defending him.
Sherlock smiles as the last tendrils of consciousness leave him.
***
“Oh God, he’s opening his eyes, thank God—,” John is saying, still holding his hand.
Sherlock blinks around at all of the people suddenly around him; there is a lot more medical staff in the room than Sherlock would have expected.
“What—,” Sherlock tries to say, but his tongue hurts. He frowns.
“You had a seizure, Sherlock, the fever has been out of control since you fell into the bloody Thames and we haven’t been able to control it,” John explains, worry shining in his eyes.
Despite the fact that Sherlock is awake, John makes no move to let go of his hand.
“I don’t know how much of the other conversation you remember from last time you woke up, but both of those doctors have been taken off your case. It’s just me now,” John tells him. Sherlock feels a rush of relief.
“Only the best,” he slurs, his tongue not cooperating. John smiles a watery smile.
“You git,” he says fondly, and there’s something there, something in the way he says that, that Sherlock can’t quite pinpoint.
It doesn’t matter, anyway; he’s drifting again, no matter how much John is pleading him not to.
***
Through the fog surrounding him; Sherlock is aware of only two things:
1. John is still holding his hand. Sherlock never knew how comforting that could be. He doesn’t want John to ever let go.
2. John is speaking.
“Please, Sherlock, it’s been three days, just wake up, please,” he’s murmuring, his head pressed to Sherlock’s hand. He doesn’t know he’s awake. Sherlock tries to open his mouth, but the fog presses down on him, and he stops trying.
“Sherlock. I love you. Please don’t do this. I’ve never loved anyone like this, I can’t lose you to something as ridiculous as some bastard chucking you in the Thames, it wouldn’t be fair, it would be awful to lose the one person I love the most in this world to something that mundane—”
Sherlock feels a warmth rush through him, his heart pounding in his chest.
John loves him.
John. Loves. Him.
John—
The fog presses down more insistently, and Sherlock doesn’t finish the rest of his thought.
***
The next day, his fever finally breaks, and Sherlock manages to stay conscious for all of six hours.
John has stopped holding his hand, so Sherlock verbally eviscerates two nurses, three doctors, and the janitor.
He is discharged much more quickly than one would have thought, and goes home with John.
They don’t speak of what John said. Sherlock doesn’t tell him he overheard.
Everything goes back to normal.
***
It’s weeks before the chance to talk about it arises.
Sherlock goes to bed, wondering, for the twenty-third night in a row, if he should bring it up with John.
In the end, though, the decision is taken out of his hands.
He awakens at half two in the morning, jolting upright in bed at the sound of his name being violently shouted from upstairs.
He takes the stairs two at a time, sprinting for all he’s worth, and crashes through John’s door, hands up in a defensive position, ready to destroy any assailant that thinks he can take John away from him. He struggles to adjust to the darkness in the room.
John is sitting up in bed, blinking blearily at the door. There is no one else in the room.
“John?” Sherlock asks, confused. “You—You called me. Loudly.”
John puts his face in his hands and doesn’t answer. Sherlock finally understands.
“Nightmare?” he asks quietly. John nods, still not looking up.
Sherlock takes a deep breath.
“Could I—Would it make you feel better if—That is—,” he tries, then runs out of breath. He stares into the darkness.
John shuffles down the bed and lifts the blanket off the side he’s just vacated. Sherlock slides gratefully between the sheets and lies down, facing the ceiling, hands crossed over his chest.
John remains sitting up, arms around his knees, looking straight ahead.
Neither of them speaks.
Until—
“I want you to always hold my hand. Not just when I’m dying,” Sherlock says.
John doesn’t move. “People would talk.”
“Let them. I don’t care. I just. I just want you to hold my hand,” Sherlock responds.
“Holding hands would insinuate that we—.”
“I heard what you said in the hospital. When you thought I was going to die.”
John finally turns towards him. “There were many times when I thought you were going to die. You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”
There’s an uncharacteristic bite to his words.
“When you said you loved me.”
John turns away again. “And what answer have you got for me, then?”
Sherlock puts his hand out across the bed, searching out John’s own. He clasps his long fingers around it. “That people would be right to insinuate things, if we were always holding hands. I love you, too, John.”
John’s fingers close around his in the dark. “Really?”
Rather than answer, Sherlock tugs at John’s hand until John lies down on his back. Sherlock rolls over and curls into him, sighing softly.
“Yes,” he whispers. “I had to nearly die of suspect-induced hypothermia for you to tell me you loved me back, but John? It was worth it. I would do it a thousand more times—.”
“Only a thousand?” John teases. Sherlock can feel John smiling into his curls.
“As many times as you want,” he whispers back. John pulls him close.
“For the record, so would I,” John tells him. Sherlock’s eyes widen.
“Really?”
“As many times as you want,” John responds. Sherlock smiles.
They go to sleep.
And when they awaken, John holds Sherlock’s hand every day for the rest of their lives.