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“So. I don’t wanna see you,” Sherlock finished, shaking from anger and only mildly aware of the tears forming in his eyes.
John stared at him.
He hadn’t had a chance to say a word while Sherlock was speaking, pouring all his anger and frustration out at the man who could have prevented their suspect disappearing with poor Miss Connor, but didn’t.
He expected John to say something in his defence, scream back, call him names.
But he didn’t.
“Fine,” he said instead, quiet and defeated. “Go.”
John turned around and headed back to the spot where the Uber was supposed to arrive. And for a tiny moment, Sherlock regretted everything. The moment passed quickly, though. This was John’s fault, why wouldn’t he say it? Why wouldn’t he blame him for not paying attention, not caring enough, not seeing what was right in front of his eyes?
Abigail Connor was likely dead by now, and if only John had used his stupid brain-
“I will!” he shouted after John, and turned around to head for the hotel on foot.
***
He started crying, out of anger.
The tears felt incredibly cold on his face, and even colder in his eyes.
He walked for around two minutes before the anger was replaced by guilt.
John was… John disappointed him. He didn’t pay enough attention. And just now, he didn’t leave him alone when he said he wanted to be alone.
But… He shouldn’t have lashed out at him. He shouldn’t have screamed, he shouldn’t have called him… God, he’d practically said he was worse than an idiot.
He started crying again, this time out of guilt and regret.
Maybe... Maybe Abby was still alive. Or, if she was dead (much more likely, unfortunately), maybe she had died before John bumped into the suspect at the convenience store. A man with short brown hair and pierced ears. Likely wearing the same boots that had left the one footprint they found in Abby’s house. John didn’t notice that. Sherlock would have recognised him in an instant as the man who left the footprint, hair, and earring behind at the crime scene. In an instant.
But John didn’t notice.
He did notice that he was buying snacks and booze, and that his hands were scratched. By a cat, the man had explained, and John had believed him.
When he finally found this out, a full day after John’s encounter with the man (now identified as Ronnie Finch), Sherlock assumed that the snacks were for the kidnapped woman. He was angry that John didn’t recognise him from the clues he left behind at the house, that they lost another 24 hours, that Sherlock had to find Ronnie himself by sifting through the people who had bought that specific type of boot in that area, but he kept silent. There was nothing to indicate the woman was dead. Ronnie even bought her snacks. He could keep his cool. He would express his frustration to John in a calm manner, after Abby was safe.
But when they arrived at Ronnie’s house, police and all, it was empty. There was a room with a lock on the door. Where he had obviously been keeping her. And a sweater, left in the bathroom, full of blood. Too much blood.
The house was empty, and Ronnie’s car was gone.
It seemed obvious to Sherlock: Ronnie bought snacks. He brought them to her. She took advantage of the door being open, tried to run away… There were no people around to help, only trees and snow and a deserted road. He caught her, with too much force. If she died, he put her in his car to hide the body. If she didn’t, he put her in his car to take her to a more secure location. Either way. They disappeared.
And it was John’s fault.
But…
It could have gone the other way around, couldn’t it?
Abby escapes, he catches up, she scratches his hands, he kills or injures her, puts her in his car… Then stops to buy snacks?
It seemed unlikely.
Who would stop to buy snacks with a body in their trunk?
But John had said the scratches - as much as he could see of them - seemed fresh.
It was possible.
This way, at least, if she was dead, John recognising Ronnie couldn’t have prevented it.
Yes. It did make sense.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks.
He’d been walking for around three minutes.
The Uber John had ordered was still seven minutes away.
He could turn around.
He couldn’t. No. Not yet.
He needed to compose himself, stop crying (his eyes welled up again as he thought that), he needed to empty his mind, at least a little bit.
He needed to be alone.
And even if he didn’t…
He couldn’t just go back to John, tail between his legs, and expect him to accept Sherlock by his side again, without another confrontation.
He couldn’t handle another confrontation. Not yet.
This had drained him.
He kept walking.
A few minutes later, a lone car appeared on the horizon and quickly whooshed past him.
John’s Uber.
It would pick up John and return the same way it came from. It would pass him again.
He wondered if John would ask the driver to slow down, when he saw him. Roll down the window and yell, ‘C’mon mate, get in the car!’
He would. He’d get in the car then. He wouldn’t be ready to speak, much less about their.. fight. But. It would be something. A step in the right direction.
Besides. It was rather cold. -2 degrees, John had said.
Headlights behind him. The car was coming back.
He adopted a neutral expression.
Not angry. Not sad.
He looked straight ahead.
The car passed him. Didn’t slow down for one moment.
Of course.
He’d made it quite clear that he wanted to be left alone.
John was simply.. respecting his wishes.
Besides…
Oh god. He’d really screamed at him. He’d insulted him.
Because John let the kidnapper get away, yes. Because he suspected the victim was dead, yes.
But…
Oh god. What had he done?
Even if he apologised…
Would John even want to keep being his friend?
Would it not be understandable for him to leave?
Leave him. Leave their agency.
He could hear him quite clearly…
‘Yea. Well. It’s like you said, two years - going on three - of playing detective and I still couldn’t see what was right in front of me. Can’t rely on me. You said. So. Yep. Why stick around?’
Sherlock took out his phone. He stared at John’s contact.
No, he... He shouldn’t do this over the phone. John needed to see him. The remorse on his face. He needed to see he meant it.
He picked up the pace.
He needed to talk to John. As soon as possible.
But even if he hurried, there was quite a while left to walk. He might not get there before John fell asleep, and then-
He stopped again.
He didn’t have to walk. John didn’t, after all, and the town certainly had more than one Uber driver.
He ordered a car and waited.
He got too cold - and restless - after around thirty seconds, so he decided to pace around, head bent and mind trying to find a way of even starting to apologise to his friend.
One minute passed before he noticed something in one of the patches of snow next to the road.
He turned his phone flashlight on.
An acrylic nail. Not unlike the ones Abby was wearing in the photos her boyfriend had shown them.
He looked around.
A patch of ice, rather near.
It wouldn’t be a leap to think that someone running from the direction of the trees would slip on that patch of ice while trying to get to the road, and lose a nail in the process.
Sherlock thought about it. Arrived at a conclusion. Cancelled his order and went to inspect the woods.
He found a small cave, not far from the road. He illuminated the entrance with the phone flashlight and - truly, only because he was looking for some kind of clue - saw a few drops of blood on the left side.
He stepped in.
A blue slipper, face down, as if thrown.
More blood, near the wall, closer to the entrance. A sharp edge. Blood on that, too.
This is where it had happened, then. She ran, tried to hide here, he found her, tried to drag her away, she struggled, lost her slipper (or slippers? Where was the second one?), he hit her head on the wall, and…
If she died, he either carried her back to his car, or…
He looked towards the back of the cave. The ground disappeared, around three meters before the cave ended.
He approached the hole in the ground, carefully.
He saw it was a little over 4 meters deep.
He saw the other slipper.
Then…
“Oh… No,” he whispered, even though his hopes of finding Abby alive had been slim.
Inside the pit, very close to the wall nearest to him, lay the body of Abigail Connor. She was in her pyjamas and a dressing gown, barefoot, lying on her stomach.
There was no way she was still alive.
Even if the injury hadn’t killed her, the cold would have. But the position of the body was relaxed. Surely, if she’d been killed by the cold, she would have died curled up, trying to prevent heat loss.
“Abigail,” he called, knowing she wouldn’t reply.
There was no way she was alive. Right?
He inspected the wall, trying to assess whether or not he could climb down.
He could try, for the first quarter or so of the distance. After that, it seemed too smooth. He might be able to get down, but there was no way he could climb back up.
Unless…
There was a little bit of rock jutting out and up, just before the wall seemed to turn too smooth. He supposed… Could he somehow hang his coat on that and use it as a makeshift rope?
He left his phone on the ground, flashlight up.
He took his coat off. He looked at it. It was rather solid.
But still…
He looked back down, towards the now darkened pit.
It wasn’t exactly a good id-
Something pushed him, hard.
He lost his balance. He fell.
He tried to hold on to the coat at least, but whatever pushed him must have held it better. It slipped through his fingers.
He fell in the dark, knowing he will likely have no way out of that hole. He held out his hands, expecting the hard impact of rock, not knowing when it will come.
He hit the ground.
He didn’t scream. Just groaned a little.
He was in one piece. He didn’t hit his head. His neck felt fine. His hands hurt.
His hands hurt. Especially the right one.
He tried to sit up and his hand felt weak, and wrong, and it hurt.
He made a sound that could very well have been a whimper, and wrapped his left hand around his right wrist.
It was broken. He knew the feeling, it had happened once before.
There was no way he would be able to climb out with a broken hand. Just moving would be too painful. He knew that.
He gasped, terrified, and felt tears on his cheeks again.
He heard something move, up, where he fell from.
Whoever pushed him was still there.
“Please,” he said, not bothering to hide the fear in his voice. “Please call 999. Or- Or just toss me my phone…”
He didn’t have any kind of case on it. He hoped it would survive a four-meter fall.
Whoever pushed him - the kidnapper, somehow, he assumed - shuffled around a bit. Sherlock saw the light from his phone move.
“Yes…” he whispered.
Then the light - and phone - returned to its initial position. The person who pushed him started walking away.
“No!” he called. “No, don’t- Don’t leave me here!”
The steps continued walking away.
“Please- I didn’t see you! I didn’t see your face. Just- throw me my phone!” he begged.
The steps were quieter and quieter.
“You didn’t mean to kill her, did you?” he shouted, as a last resort. It was probably true, too. “Don’t- Don’t let me die here. Please!”
He couldn’t hear anything anymore.
“Please!”
He was alone.
He was alone in some dark hole in a cave, and his hand hurt, and he had no way out, no way to call for help, not even a coat on.
And his best friend had no reason to come looking for him when he didn’t turn up.
Sherlock closed his eyes and cried.
His sobs echoed back to him.
He opened his eyes again after a minute or so.
His hand would start hurting a lot more soon, after the adrenaline wore off. He had to try something, now.
Try to immobilise the injured hand, first. He had to be able to let go of his wrist.
He had a scarf on. He could use that.
But if he exposed his neck, he would lose heat faster. He was already in trouble, without a coat on.
His hand, he decided. His hand was more important. He couldn't move if he didn't do something about it.
He gently placed the injured hand on his leg, and let go of it.
It instantly hurt more.
He took his scarf off, and as he did, realised he'd really need something long and rigid to serve as a makeshift splint.
He patted his pockets.
Nothing to use as a splint, but…
He slowly pulled Mini Mike out of his left trouser pocket.
He stared at it, or rather, at the vaguely familiar shape in his hand.
He'd forgotten he had it. They had split up earlier that day, only for a couple hours, and John had made him take the second mic with him.
He turned it on. The little light that indicated it was recording turned on, too.
He let out a surprised breath.
“Hello,” he said, barely audible.
He swallowed.
This could become either a record of his unbelievable escape, or of his death.
That is, if the battery lasted long enough.
Let's make it his escape.
He tried using the small light to illuminate his surroundings a bit more, but it - obviously - didn't help.
At least his eyes were starting to adjust to the dark.
He spotted something he could use: Abby’s second slipper. It seemed rather solid. And it was only a meter away.
He looked at it, paralysed, not knowing how to move to avoid more pain.
He ended up using his scarf as a sort of lasso. He grabbed the slipper, wondered if he should use his scarf to try to lasso the little rock jutting out three meters above, decided it probably wouldn't work and even if it did he couldn't move without immobilising his hand, then started on the improvised splint.
He tied the scarf tightly around his wrist, then tied the slipper to that, then tied his hand to his chest.
It felt… Slightly better. John would have done a better job, of course.
John…
No, he wouldn’t think about John. He had to keep his mind clear.
He staggered to his feet, and slowly, wincing at every step, approached the front wall.
He’d been right. It was simply too smooth.
He looked down at the body of Abigail Connor. He bent, carefully, groaning in pain, and pressed his fingers to the woman’s neck.
Dead. Very dead. Very cold. Too late.
She was wearing a dressing gown.
It didn’t look as sturdy as his coat, but…
“Sorry,” he said as he took it off. “I need to… Borrow this.”
He didn’t have to struggle too much, but did note that her body was still stiff. Rigor mortis had not passed, which in normal conditions would have meant she’d likely been killed somewhere in the last 24 hours. But cold temperatures slowed things down. So she’d probably been dead more than a day.
She could’ve been dead when John bumped into Ronnie.
“Right,” he said after pulling the dressing gown off of her. He didn’t mention the state of the body. “I will now attempt to… Use this as a climbing rope. Wish me luck!” he told the listeners, and put the mic in his pocket.
He wondered, for a moment, if John would still upload this if he died.
He won’t. He won’t die. It would be too stupid a death.
He threw the dressing gown in the direction of the jutting rock, and after only six attempts, managed to make it stay.
“Ha!” he laughed, imagining himself out of the cave, in a hospital, in his friends’ arms.
He pulled on the dressing gown. It seemed stable enough.
He wasn’t exactly sure how he could climb using only one arm… But he was good at climbing. He could do this. Right?
He reached up for the bottom of his makeshift rope. He tried to pull himself up, and succeeded, and even had time to wonder what the hell his next move was gonna be since the so-called rope didn't reach his legs, before the dressing gown couldn’t support his weight anymore and tore. He fell, this time only half a metre, but on his back.
He did scream, then, and closed his eyes against the flash of pain in his injured arm. They stayed closed for a few seconds, until he could think clearly again.
Alright. He got it. Can’t really climb up. Alright. Something else, then.
Help. He needed help.
He couldn’t call for help without his phone. He could try screaming, of course, but he had seen how deserted that part of the road was. No one would hear.
He still tried. He shouted, as loud as he could, a few times.
Nothing happened.
What then? What could he do?
He glared towards the light illuminating the top of the cave.
Why couldn’t he have held on to his phone?
He got an idea.
He felt embarrassed even thinking about it, so he took Mini Mike out of his pocket to explain himself to whoever would eventually listen to the recording.
“I.. am aware that smartphones usually have some kind of… Voice assistant. I… I have my Android with me. Out of reach. Very out of reach. I’m.. rather certain that I deactivated any kind of voice assistants, as I find them - and the idea of telling your phone what to do - deeply annoying, but… Well. Maybe I didn’t. I… I am quite desperate. So. I hope I didn’t.”
He took a deep breath.
“Alright. Um. Hey Google,” he called.
He cringed, and hoped that by some miracle the phone would reply and he wouldn’t have to try again.
The phone stayed silent.
He tried again. And again.
“Alright,” he said after the third time, trying to remain calm. He’d started to really feel the cold. And it would only get worse. “Um… There is... Another. Isn’t there? Something called ‘Bixby’?” He made a disgusted face after he said the word aloud. “Ugh… Fine. Let’s try then. Hey Bixby?”
He waited a few seconds.
Nothing.
“Hey Bixby?”
Nothing. Again.
This felt demeaning.
“Hey Bixb-” He groaned, frustrated. This wasn’t even working. He’d deactivated the stupid things, of course. He was making a fool of himself for no reason. Whoever would listen to this would probably be very entertained.
“John, if you’re hearing this, you are not allowed to make fun of me. Especially if I die.”
He shivered, and he wasn’t sure if it was the cold finally catching up to him or the fact that he’d just admitted, out loud, that he might die.
He stood in place, looking up at the light and feeling the cold seep deeper into his bones.
“Um… I suppose… I should explain how I got here, at least.”
And he should try to move, too. Check the other, lateral, walls, to see if they were also too smooth. Yes. He would do that.
He told the listeners - and his friends, especially his friends - what had happened after he parted with John. His decision to take an Uber, the acrylic nail, the cave, the body in the pit, the attack of the unknown person he assumed to be Ronnie Finch…
He walked along the edges of his dark prison as he recounted all that. He felt the walls with his left hand, and grew more and more desperate as it became apparent that every part of every wall was entirely too smooth to even attempt climbing.
He finished checking the walls a while after he was done talking. He’d had to do it slowly, each step sending fresh pain to his injured wrist. The breaks he had to take had become longer and longer. And now that he knew for sure there was no way out… He couldn’t bring himself to move anymore. He knew he should, he should try to keep the cold at bay, staying still was not a good idea, but… It hurt too much. And even if he kept trying to brave the pain, how long could he do it for? Not long enough. Definitely not until someone found him.
He had no choice but to sit down and wait.
He picked up Abby’s dressing gown and pulled it over his shoulders. It didn’t do much, it was too thin to truly help, but it was something, at least. He slowly lowered himself to the ground and sat down, leaning on one of the walls.
He waited.
He was quiet. He listened. Maybe he would hear the steps of a late-night traveller, or some car, anything, any sign of life that he could call for help to.
He listened, and waited, and the tips of his fingers and toes grew painfully cold, and he clenched his teeth in an attempt to keep them from chattering.
He listened, and after a long, long time, he heard the distinct whooshing of a solitary car in the night.
He started screaming, calling for help, as loud as he could. He didn’t stop until his throat started to hurt. He listened for any response, after that, any sounds of approaching rescue, but there was nothing. The lone driver had not heard him.
He attempted to move a little, to warm himself up, but the pain and the cold didn’t let him get up.
He pulled the dressing gown closer.
No choice but to wait.
Wait for someone else to pass by, he tried telling himself.
Wait to die, a voice in his head said.
No one was coming. No one would hear his cries for help, and no one would come looking for him. He would die. Wouldn’t he?
Maybe it was better this way.
Maybe his friends would be happier without him.
His eyes welled up at the thought.
No, they wouldn’t. Of course they wouldn’t. What was he thinking?
He hugged the microphone and cried quietly.
He wanted his friends.
He wanted to be somewhere warm, and safe, and he wanted his friends. Especially John.
Oh god. John…
“I’m sorry…” he whined. He took a few breaths, tried to get his voice to sound somewhat closer to normal. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have screamed at you, and insulted you, and…” He sobbed, remembering the tone of his voice, the way he’d looked at his best friend, frowning so hard his forehead hurt. “I’m so sorry, John… I was.. so angry. And disappointed. But I… I shouldn’t have lashed out at you. I was… I was cruel. Please forgive me. Please…”
Would he ever hear an answer to that?
He desperately hoped he would.
He kept talking. He needed to. If he died here, if him being cruel to John was the last time John would see him… He needed to.
“You are... Please don’t dwell on what I said in anger. You are an intelligent man, more than even you would give yourself credit for. You are a good person, and a good friend. You’re the best friend I have ever had. I- I don’t care that you didn’t recognise that man. It was an honest mistake, you were- you were not expecting it, you- It- I know… You just missed it. It happens. I shouldn’t have-” He let out a long sigh. “I’m so sorry, John. Please believe me.”
He was quiet for a while.
He pictured the last hug he’d gotten from his friend. Strong arms around his shoulders, holding him close.
Then he remembered the way he’d stared back at him, the last time he saw him. Shocked. Heartbroken. Defeated.
“I don’t want it to end like this,” he whispered.
Maybe it would end even if he lived. Maybe John had finally realised that being around Sherlock was not worth it.
Still… He really, really wanted to see his friend again.
He wondered how long it would take until John realised something was wrong.
“Will you look for me, John?” he asked, as if the other could hear him in real time. “You have no reason to. After the way.. we.. parted. You would think I’m avoiding you. No reason to worry. But… Please, would you look for me?”
Was he being unfair, to ask that? If he died, and John heard that. Would it make John feel worse?
“I… Won’t blame you if you don’t. Or if you.. start looking.. too late. But-” He was selfish. He wanted John to notice he was missing. He wanted to see his friends again. He wanted to live. “Please. Please look for me.”
He sniffed, and wondered if whoever would be listening to the recording would be able to guess his face was slick with tears. They were really not helping with the cold, so he wiped them away.
He was quiet again. He listened for cars, or footsteps.
Minutes passed. He could see them pass on the tiny screen of the microphone. Tens of minutes turned into an hour. Then more.
The mic’s light started flashing. It would be out of battery, soon.
He would be truly alone.
“So-orry, John,” he said, now unable to repress the shivering. “B-batte-ry’s going… I’d.. rather.. t-turn it o-off m- myself. I. I wanna. Know. I could st-till. Talk. To you. If I w-wanted.”
He knew he wouldn’t turn it on again. Not unless he had a very good reason. He didn’t wanna risk not having the option to choose anymore.
These might very well be the last words John ever hears from him. What could he possibly say?
“I...”
He couldn’t. He couldn’t. And John.. knew. Didn’t he? He must know.
The light on the mic kept blinking. How long did he have?
He wasn’t sure.
He had to say something. Quickly.
“Um..”
Another way of saying it. Something more specific. Something he wanted to make sure John heard from him.
“Thank you. F-for be-ing my. Friend. John. I. I hope I. S-see you. A-gain.”
He pressed the mic to his forehead, for a few seconds, as if the small device contained his friend. Then he turned it off.
He kept trying to listen for signs of life outside, but none came.
His eyes grew heavier and heavier.
At some point, he felt too tired to keep sitting up. His back hurt, too. He needed to lie down, so he did, on his left side as to not jostle the injured arm too much. Some far away voice in his head screamed at him, warned him that he was making a mistake, he couldn’t lie down, he couldn’t fall asleep, he would not wake up if he fell asleep now.
But he was too tired, and too cold to listen.
He lay down and closed his eyes, and pulled the dressing gown over his head, and swore to himself that he would just rest, he would be awake enough to hear if someone he could call for help to would pass by.
He woke up, and wondered when he had fallen asleep. He cracked an eye open. He could still see the light from his phone, up there, out of reach. He couldn’t have fallen asleep for too long.
No worries. He would not fall asleep again.
He woke up again. The light was still there.
He was.. hungry? Yes, that was it.
He tried to move, but couldn’t.
That was it then? He’d just drift in and out of consciousness until he died?
He supposed there could be worse deaths. It was stupid, though.
Why did he have to let go of his phone? Why didn’t he call... Call.. for.. help… As soon as he saw the corpse? Why couldn’t he just stay with John? Why?
He drifted off again.
There was a sound. A song, some sort of song.
It kept going. Annoying. Familiar, though.
It didn’t wake him up.
He dreamed of being in his room, looking for the annoying source of sound.
It stopped after a while.
He kept sleeping.
There were voices... Somewhere.
Sherlock dreamed he was at home.
Someone was shouting… Shouting his name.
How inconsiderate.
Why didn’t they let him sleep?
Something warm on his face.
Something - a blanket? - pulled over him. ‘Yes,’ he wanted to say, ‘that’s better. Thank you.’
Something on his face again.
Something stroking his hair.
It was nice.
Crying.
Crying? Someone was crying, yes.
Why?
There were words. He couldn’t quite.. make them out.
But the voices were familiar.
The warm thing on his head disappeared.
Had it been a hand?
It wasn’t gone for too long. He was grateful to feel it on his head again.
One of the voices, calling his name. Insistently.
‘What do you want?’ he thought.
He couldn’t open his mouth to say it.
He couldn’t see who was there.
Were his eyes closed?
He tried to open them, and he thought he did, but it was dark and he didn’t know what he was seeing, so he closed them again.
The ever-present pain in his arm spiked, and he yelped.
Was he in danger? Should he run? Could he run?
The familiar voice was still there.
He trusted it. It didn’t mean to hurt him.
But someone - the owner of the voice - was still trying to move him.
“...need you to sit up,” the voice was saying.
He didn’t really want to, but it seemed important to the voice, so when something tried to move him again he cooperated, ignored the pain in his arm, and sat up.
He was colder now. He didn’t like it.
But something was fussing over him, covering him up, huddling close, making sure the cold air didn’t touch him.
“There we go,” the voice said. “Nice and cozy.”
It was. He could drift off to sleep again…
He opened his eyes, suddenly aware of where he was and what had happened. The cave. The fight with John. The case.
He was still sitting up, cocooned under what he assumed were coats, one of them covering the majority of his body, the other pulled over their heads.
Their heads.
Someone else was there. Hugging him from behind. Arms resting around him, careful not to touch his injured wrist. A chin, pressed to his shoulder. Warm breaths next to his face.
The familiar voice. It was him, wasn’t it? It was him. He could swear he recognised his breathing.
“John?” he dared ask, barely above a whisper.
A second passed. Two.
“I’m here,” his friend answered, and it was the warmest, most beautiful sound Sherlock had ever heard.
He couldn’t help himself. He burst into tears, from sheer relief. He wasn't going to die. He wasn't alone. John was here, he would see his face again, and Mariana’s too, and the horrible fight with John wouldn't be the last interaction they ever had.
His friend pushed his face closer to him, like a cat offering comfort, and it was warm, so, so warm…
“You’re ok,” John said. “You’re gonna be ok. I’ve got you.”
Sherlock wanted to ask if he looked for him, to apologise, to thank him, to ask how long it's been, so many things, but it seemed like that one word had been all he'd had left.
All he could do was angle his head towards John's, trying to take in more of the wonderful warmth. His friend understood, and moved an arm higher, and placed his palm on Sherlock's frozen cheek, and said,
"I'm here, sweetheart.”
And, finally surrounded by warmth, reassured that John still loved him, and hopeful that he could mend what he’d broken once he was recovered enough to talk, Sherlock smiled.
He would be ok.