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"Lestrade," Sherlock barks into the phone, potholes jostling the cab. "John and I are on our way to the Moor de Bas. Ella's murderer, Eric Frederickson, is there."
"The piano tutor?"
"Yes."
"Sherlock," comes Lestrade's irritated sigh. "Do not go out onto the moor. It's supposed to storm soon."
"Too late," Sherlock answers. "We're ten minutes away. Are you coming or not?"
Lestrade wonders why he even bothers telling Sherlock what to do in the first place. "Yeah, but you'd better be right, Sherlock."
"I usually am."
Sherlock turns to John. "You ready?"
John looks back, shaky with anxiety and excitement. "Let's catch ourselves a killer."
"anyway-Sherlock!"
Sherlock, animated and distracted in his excitement of apprehending a murderer and exploring his house, trips over a rock and face-plants onto the muddy ground, conveniently landing the rest of his body in a puddle of melted sleet.
"Ow," Sherlock mumbles, somewhat belatedly.
"Christ, Sherlock, are you okay?"
Sherlock gets to hands and knees, wincing. "Yeah, just - got the wind knocked out of me."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
John holds up his hands in a placating gesture of surrender. "We're close, right?"
"Yes." Sherlock's face reanimates just as quickly, and a few minutes later, they are outside of a shack that John is surprised is still standing.
"How are we doing this?" John whispers.
"Considering he poses no active threat-" Sherlock's would-be monologue is cut off by a girl's scream, which has unmistakably come from the shack.
"I stand corrected," Sherlock curses, getting ready to barge in, but John is one step ahead of him. He kicks down the door, Walther held in front of him. "Scotland Yard, hands in the air!"
Sherlock rushes in after John to see a girl, no older than twenty-five, tied to a chair and Mr. Frederickson holding a knife and grinning evilly above her. Sherlock notes with detached horror that blood is running down his left thigh - though thankfully, he sees no life-threatening injuries.
John surveys the scene with the trained eye of a soldier and immediately crosses to Eric and slams the butt of his gun into his head, effectively knocking him out.
"Tie him up," John calls over his shoulder, already running to tend to the girl. He takes the gag out of her mouth and starts untying her restraints. "Hey, it's gonna be okay. I'm a doctor, my name is John Watson. What's your name?"
"Julia. Julia Davies," she gasps out in between wrecked sobs.
"Julia. Okay. The police are on their way, and we can take you to a hospital to get that leg wound sorted out. Sherlock, how far away is Lestrade?"
Sherlock checks the GPS tracker. "Half-mile," he answers. He texts Lestrade, injured victim. Not life-threatening.
"Julia, did he hurt you anywhere?"
Satisfied that John has everything under control, Sherlock drags an unconscious Eric outside and binds him tightly to a stake. Light snow is falling, grey clouds blanketing the sky. Checking Eric's vital signs, Sherlock reasonably guesses that Eric will be unconscious for at least another ten minutes.
"John, I'm going to look around the perimeter. Eric's tied up in front. Call me if you need anything," Sherlock says, walking back in.
"'kay," John says, already applying pressure to Julia's leg wound.
Sherlock walks back out, the wind kicking up and spitting heavy flakes of snow into his face, and crouches down to examine the ground in the back of the house. Recently disturbed. He moves carefully, tapping the ground until he hits something hard. Frowning, his fingers sift around in the dirt before pulling a thin wood sheet covered in dirt away, revealing an empty grave - no doubt meant for Julia.
The realization makes Sherlock suddenly nauseous, and he tries to steady his breathing to subside the feeling. He feels arms around his shoulders and looks up to see-
"Gavin?"
Lestrade creases his eyebrows. "Greg. You good, Sherlock?"
"Where's Frederickson?" Sherlock asks, wanting to make sure everything is safe. He squints his eyes against the now rapidly falling heavy snow.
"Carried him off about ten minutes ago. Should be in the squad car right about now."
"Julia?"
"She'll be okay. Need a few stitches, but the wound looked worse than it was. Can't say the same for you, though, Sherlock. How are you feeling?" Lestrade asks, trepidation in his face.
"Fine-" Sherlock starts to give the automatic answer, only to suddenly realize he's shivering. Had he always been doing this? "I'm shivering," he observes.
"Yes, you are. And you're wet."
"Fell into a puddle," Sherlock mumbles irritably.
Lestrade laughs, then cuts himself off. "Okay, let's get you back to the station to get your statement, okay?"
Sherlock nods, then stands up.
Or rather, tries to, since as soon as he starts to move, the world starts to tilt and he stumbles back to the ground.
"Woah, Sherlock, you good?" Lestrade rushes to support his friend, then pulls back in alarm. "Sherlock, your lips are blue."
Sherlock numbly reaches his fingers to his face. "Are they?" he asks curiously. "Interesting. Where's John?"
"He was helping Julia to the main road to the ambulance, Christ, Sherlock-" He scrambles for his walkie-talkie. "I need another ambulance and paramedics to Eric's address. Hypothermia patient."
"I'm fine, Greg-"
Greg stares. "Yeah, you just called me by my actual name. No, you're not." He hooks his arms underneath Sherlock's armpits and drags him underneath what passes for a porch in Eric's flat in an attempt to shield them from the now almost-blizzard that's swirling around them, wet flakes buffeting against them. He hugs his body against Sherlock's, trying to share his body heat. "Christ, Sherlock."
"Doesn't exist."
Greg's head snaps up. "What?"
"Christ, or God, or whatever you call him, doesn't exist. The idea of-"
"You're slurring your speech. Oh, shit."
"Am I now? Fascinating."
"No, not bloody fascinating. Concerning, more like." He digs out his phone, but curses when he sees there's no signal.
"Hey, Greg." John is jogging lightly towards them, but picks up the pace when he sees Sherlock slumped in the inspector's arms. "What's wrong with Sherlock?"
"Mmm fine," Sherlock slurs, eyelids drooping.
"Hey, hey. Stay with me." Greg lightly slaps his cheek. Sherlock slowly turns away, but the delayed reaction time of the movement only furthers Lestrade's alarm.
"Christ." John checks Sherlock's nailbeds and lips for the blue Greg already knows is there. "How long has he been like this?"
"Found him crouched in the backyard."
"Fuck, it's been at least twenty minutes since then. And half an hour since he- shit, since he slipped into the puddle."
John slips two fingers under Sherlock's neck, feeling for his pulse. "Weak heartbeat," he mutters, concern growing. "We need to get him to hospital."
Greg huffs out a breath. "Gonna be hard to get him to the main road, considering I dragged him from the backyard to the porch."
"Right." John barely takes a moment to look over the two, then scoops a confused Sherlock into his arms in a bridal carry.
"Wha- Ja-"
John starts striding away. "Keep up, Greg."
Lestrade curses and runs after John.
Sherlock blinks, unsuccessfully trying to clear the fog from his mind. He is in John's arms - how did he get there? He lets out a small moan - perhaps on purpose, perhaps involuntarily.
"We're close, Sherlock." John's voice seems to float above him.
Close where?
As if reading Sherlock's mind, John answers, "Ambulance is waiting on the main road for you."
"Dome need-"
"Yes, you most certainly do. You have a distressing case of hypothermia that is only increasing in severity. Quite a lame end for the great Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, so you're going to stay with me."
Despite the attempt at humor, Sherlock notes the tremor in his John's voice.
Sherlock feels strong arms around him, lowering him onto a stretcher. He squints against the flood of red and blue attacking his vision, dimly registers shears cutting his wet clothing off his body in the relative warmth of the ambulance.
"John?" he murmurs hazily, hands clumsily reaching out.
His left hand is clasped. "I'm here, Sherlock," John's voice promises.
A mask of what feels like steam is placed over Sherlock's face, who immediately recoils at the sudden sensory assault.
"It's humidified oxygen, Sherlock, it's okay," John reassures him.
Doors slam closed and an engine roars the vehicle forward. Then despite John's pleas, Sherlock slips from the hazy lights of the ambulance to the darker, colder depths of unconsciousness.
John and Mycroft sit in uncomfortable hardbacked chairs at Sherlock's bedside, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the chest of the man they both love.
"He'll be okay," Mycroft says suddenly. John looks at him curiously.
Mycroft blinks, as though he wasn't a hundred percent sure he meant to say that out loud. "Sherlock will pull through the hypothermia. He's always been…" he trails off.
"Too stubborn to accept any death not on his own terms?" John supplies.
Mycroft gives the faintest hint of a smile. "I suppose that works. Even as kids, he's always seemed a bit more invincible than he had any right to be."
"Since when has Sherlock given a flying fuck about what rights others imposed on him?" John replies, agreeing.
Mycroft's smile increases just slightly and the two men sit together in silence for several minutes. Mycroft's heart aches to see his brother looking so pitiful in the hospital bed, the connections to tubes and wires and machines the only thing keeping him alive. Images of Sherlock's past overdoses and him on life support and ventilators breathing for him when his body was too weak to complete even that simple function flash through Mycroft's mind; he closes his eyes briefly, attempting to clear the unwanted thoughts away.
He looks over at John Watson, who is no doubt thinking along the same lines; though Mycroft knows John's mind doesn't have nearly as many instances for nightmares to pick from as his own does.
Mycroft once again abruptly breaks the silence. "You should tell him, you know."
John visibly flinches. "Sorry?"
Mycroft carefully parses out his words. "That you care for him."
"Of course I bloody do." John looks offended at the mere idea that he doesn't.
"There is no doubt of that, Dr. Watson. However, I was trying to convey your other feelings for my brother." He pauses. "Perhaps I will utilize the way that schoolchildren put it — that you like-like him." Mycroft exercises a great deal of self-control at not cringing at the unwieldy word choice.
John just stares at Mycroft, unbelieving.
Mycroft sighs again . "Neither one of us are good at relationships, or at social interactions in general, I suppose. The curse of being a Holmes, one might say. But John-"
John startles at the use of his first name by the official Mycroft Holmes.
"I have every reason to believe that my brother reciprocates your feelings. I would strongly encourage you - perhaps not when he is half-conscious from sedatives and hypothermia, mind you - to broach that conversation."
John stares out into space, turning over Mycroft's words with the utmost consideration. "Are you sure?" he asks finally, more than a hint of trepidation evident in his voice.
Mycroft gives a tiny smirk. "When am I not?" he asks coolly.
"John?" Sherlock forces his cracked, chapped lips to form the name. The world seems wrapped in a haze of cotton, something to be blinked through to find the light of day.
A calloused hand immediately finds its way to his. "I'm here, Sherlock." I'm always here.
"Whuzz happ'nin?" Sherlock's gaze finds John's worried brown eyes.
The eyes deepen with care and concern. "What do you remember, Sherlock?" John asks gently.
"Tied Eric up - empty grave - gavin - carried and the red and blue-"
John frowns at the apparent nonsense, but a familiar voice overrides the concern, deciphering Sherlock's words. "He remembers everything up until getting into the ambulance, where you saw him fully pass out."
Sherlock squints his eyes in annoyance at the posh face that finds its way near John's. "F-f-f- fuck off, Mycroft," he manages.
"Good to see you too, Sherlock," Mycroft responds dryly, evidently glad that Sherlock is at least somewhat capable of forming coherent thoughts.
Sherlock half-rolls his eyes, but finds he doesn't have enough energy to fully muster all the acidity he usually can.
"Frederickson is in custody, and Julia has had her injuries tended to and is giving her statement now," John interrupts, not wanting to witness a fight between a government official and his drugged, previously hypothermic brother, and knowing that Sherlock will be worrying about the case.
"Good. That's good," Sherlock manages, still unexplainably fatigued. "What time- how long have I been out?"
Mycroft checks his watch. "It's almost eight."
"AM?" Sherlock asks disbelievingly.
"Last I checked, the sun doesn't typically shine at eight in the evening," Mycroft remarks dryly. He pauses, then continues with an uncharacteristic gentleness, "You were unconscious for almost twelve hours."
Sherlock furrows his brow and, despite the unwavering tiredness he had just noted, tries to push himself up to a sitting position, against the rising dizziness.
John immediately pushes him back down. "Nope," he says. "Stay down and rest." Sherlock looks petulantly at John, but he doesn't falter. "That's an order, Sherlock."
Sherlock gives the two men one final glare before resignedly falling back into the pillow. "I'm going to sleep," he mumbles, already closing his eyes.
"You do that, Sherlock."
The next day, Sherlock is released from hospital with strict orders to take it easy and conserve his energy; Sherlock has every intention of ignoring that advice and John has even stronger intentions of making sure Sherlock doesn't pass out from overexertion.
"Don't make me tie you to the bed," John warns as they climb up the seventeen steps to 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock cocks an eyebrow invitingly. "Oh?"
"I'm not bluffing."
"I believe you."
"Good."
John opens the door for Sherlock. "Sofa," he orders.
Sherlock turns, perplexed. "But my experiments-" he starts, but John is having none of it.
"Sit down, Sherlock. I'll watch whatever you want."
Sherlock tilts his head. "Anything?"
"Anything," John confirms. "As long as you are resting." He puts extra emphasis on that last word.
After a beat of consideration, Sherlock decides to oblige as he sinks down onto the sofa, John settling next to him.
"Sherlock," John begins, somewhat hesitantly.
"Mm."
"Before we watch TV, can we talk?"
Sherlock turns to look at John now, worry written over his face.
"Nothing bad," John hurries to add. "It's just - in the hospital. While you were unconscious. I was talking with Mycroft - a lot, actually, about a lot of things-"
"I'm so sorry you had to talk with him," Sherlock says seriously.
John lightly punches his arm. "Shut up," he says playfully, rolling his eyes.
Sherlock obliges but continues to stare at John with obvious worry.
"He said-" John takes a deep breath. "He said that I should tell you how I feel about you."
Sherlock's eyes are locked on his, filled with a hundred unspoken emotions, the stormy pupils latching on to the words he's saying.
"I like you, Sherlock," John finally says. "Like… like-like you."
Sherlock just looks at him, his brain processing the depth of the words just spoken to him. Just when John is about to see if Sherlock is still present, Sherlock whispers, so faintly John has to lean in to hear him, "Can I kiss you?"
John's eyes widen at the enormity of the situation, himself now having to process the weight of Sherlock's words. "Yes," he responds at last. "God yes-"
Then Sherlock's lips are on his, and his are on Sherlock's, and rays of sunlight are bursting forth, kaleidoscoping green carnations in a swath of brilliant supernovas flood their senses. The kiss is popsicles on a hot summer day, triumphant orchestral fanfare bringing forth joyous news, the cool side of your pillow lulling you to sweet dreams.
John finally breaks off for air and gazes into impossibly soulful grey-blue eyes. "Sherlock?" John asks tentatively, wondering what's going on in that beautiful big brain of his and trying to gauge his reaction.
Sherlock blinks once. "Can I kiss you again?" he asks, a bit breathlessly this time.
John smiles then. "Absolutely."