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“JOHN,” Sherlock shouted as he sprinted across the uneven ground. In the darkness, his feet caught on the hidden tussocks and more than once he stumbled, his hand barely touching the ground as he righted himself and rushed onward.
“JOHN!” His shouts remained unanswered. Don’t let me be too late. Don’t let me –
“Sherlock?” The call finally came from ahead in the darkness. Hollow and distant, echoing, and Sherlock reached deep for another burst of speed, his breath burning in his lungs.
“SHERLOCK, I’m here,” more desperate, more hopeful this time.
“I’m coming, John. I’m nearly there, keep calling out,” the rushing in his ears resolved itself as water rather than, as he’d thought, his thundering heart-beat.
“Sherlock.” John’s voice came again, and Sherlock corrected slightly to the left, finally glimpsing the raised edge of the well.
‘I’m here, John, I’m here,” he slid to a stop, his shins impacting hard against the stone edge, “I’ll get you out.”
“I’m chained down here, I can’t –,” John sounded exhausted, head tipped back to keep his chin above the rising water and Sherlock shrugged the heavy coil of rope off his shoulder, ignoring the harsh bite as it cut into his neck as he pulled.
“Hang on, John.” He secured the end with shaking hands, tying it off and putting his body weight behind it to check it would hold, “I’m here.”
“Hurry –,” The word was cut-off as John’s mouth filled with water and Sherlock tore at his coat, flinging it to the ground as he grabbed the end of the rope and threw himself over the edge, skidding down the walls of the well, trying to slow himself with the soles of his shoes
Sherlock landed roughly, regretting it immediately as John was swamped with water and his head briefly disappeared beneath the surface.
“John!” Sherlock reached out, his arms circling under John’s and drawing him up out of the water and against his chest, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
Shivering badly, John took a moment to clutch at Sherlock, desperate for the warmth against his sodden skin, “F-Fanc-Fancy meeting you h-here,” he managed through chattering teeth.
“You’ll do anything for a bit of attention,” Sherlock chuckled thinly at the weak joke, covering the alarm he felt at the icy chill of John’s skin. Hypothermia was a real risk, and the water was still rising, leaving him no way to get John out of the water.
John shifted again as he lost what little traction he had on the slippery floor of the well, and clutched harder at the back of Sherlock’s shirt, throwing his arm ver Sherlock’s shoulder to try and get slightly more height above the surface of the water.
“The police are on their way, John,” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear reassuringly, “we’ll have you out of here and warm soon.”
“So… c-cold,” John mumbled, pushing his face into Sherlock’s neck, trying to leach some of the heat from him, “Probably going to lose… consciousness… soon.”
“Hang on, John,” Sherlock’s extra height gave him a slight advantage as the water rose. John’s feet were now floating free of the floor, and he hung in the detective’s arms. Sherlock could feel the weight of the chains at John’s ankles threatening to pull him under.
“Rosie,” John mumbled desperately, “take care of Rosie.”
“Yes,” Sherlock responded firmly, “that’s right, John, you need to take care of Rosie. Listen to me, John, they’re almost here. Stay with me, John.”
“No,” the shake of John’s head was almost imperceptible against Sherlock’s shoulder, “I want you to look after R-Rosie.” With great effort, he pulled his face away to look up into Sherlock’s worried eyes, “I need you to p-p-promise me, Sherlock.”
Hurry, Sherlock thought desperately, where the hell are the police? “Don’t be ridiculous, John. You don’t want me taking care of your daughter,” he shook John gently, urging him to remain conscious, “no sane person would trust me with a child.”
“M-Must be… insane then,” John’s head fell heavily back against Sherlock’s shirt, “Because I t-t-trust you.”
“John?” Sherlock jostled him again, but the lax weight in his arms told him that John wasn’t going to respond.
“I’ve got you, John,” Sherlock tugged John’s prone form up a little higher, and tried to reassure them both, “The police are coming soon. Everything will be OK.”
**--**
It seemed like an age before Sherlock heard the whir of helicopter blades, and even longer before Greg Lestrade’s worried face appeared, framed in floodlight, at the edge of the well.
It was a relief when the emergency crew descended to the water, dealing with the chains and efficiently winching them both to safety. Even more of a relief was when John began to stir under the ministrations of the paramedics, slowly gaining awareness and quickly progressing to intelligent conversation with the medics about his core temp, damage to extremities, and planning the fastest route to recovery.
Throughout, Sherlock paced restlessly around the emergency vehicles, the flickering red and blue lights washing the scene of colour. The moment John eased himself from the rear of the ambulance, blanket around his shoulders, Sherlock was at his side urging him toward a nearby log.
“Your sister’s a lunatic,” John laughed before it broke into a wet cough.
“So I’ve been told,” Sherlock stared at his hands, picking idly at where dirt from the well had caught beneath his fingernails, “Sorry you got caught up in my problems… again.”
John shrugged, and then tugged the blanket more firmly around his shoulders again, “It does seem to be becoming a habit.”
The conversation was interrupted by a frazzled looking Lestrade, who was attempting to manage the entire scene single-handed. He checked on them and once he’d assured himself they were alright, began to move away when Sherlock quietly asked him to check on Mycroft.
“Yeah,” Lestrade looked thoughtful for a moment, seemingly in two minds about saying something before he decided on a simple nod and turned to leave.
John and Sherlock fell into an uneasy silence, the emotional upheaval of the day catching up with them both. Finally, John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his own and murmured, “I meant it, you know… about Rosie.”
There was a quiet intake of air, and Sherlock sat up a little straighter, “Just as well we’ll never need to find out, then.”
John turned on the log to face him, “No, Sherlock, this is serious. There’s some things I need to say, and it’s taken me a while to be ready to say them. But let’s start with this, I do trust you with Rosie, and Mary did too, while we’re on the topic. You’re great with her, and you know it.”
Sherlock shook his head sceptically.
“No, you are, you know you are.” John let that hang for a while, allowing Sherlock to digest his words before continuing, “Just as well that you are… if I’m moving back in.”
A shudder ran through Sherlock before he whispered “John,” still staring at his knees.
“If that’s OK with you, that is?” John looked to Sherlock’s bowed head, wishing he could see his eyes, “I mean, if you don’t think there’s space, or you don’t want us there –.”
“Of course I want you home.” Sherlock’s gaze flicked up, eyes shining in the dim light from the vehicles, “Of course.”
“Good,” John grinned, nodding, “that’s… good then. I’ll, umm, make some arrangements then.”
Sherlock held John’s eyes, gaze bright and searching before his mouth tightened marginally as he seemed to come to a decision. With agonising slowness, he raised his arm and placed it gently around John’s shivering shoulders, tugging him closer to his side. That done, he appeared at a loss as to what to do next, so settled on closing his eyes and leaning his head until it rested against John’s forehead.
The sound around them faded into the distance as they sat together, breathing quietly and John’s shivering settled further, tucked against Sherlock’s shoulder, cheek pressed against the thick fabric of his Belstaff..
“Sherlock?”
“Hmm?”
“There’s something else I need to say,” John began hesitantly. “Well, need to ask, really.”
“Go ahead,” Sherlock’s murmured response rumbled against his skin.
“When I move back… with Rosie.”
“Mmm?”
“I’d like to give her my old room.”
Sherlock’s breathing hitched, and his arm tensed, “What are you saying, John?”
John inched closer, settling more firmly against Sherlock, “I’m saying it’s time. I think it’s time… for us, I mean. If you want, I mean. I…” he tensed, “I’m making a mess of this, sorry.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I’m making a mess of this?”
“Yes,” Sherlock’s chuckle rumbled through him, “Yes, I think it’s time.”
And there, in the grounds of Sherlock’s ancestral home, and lit only by the flickering lights of emergency vehicles, Sherlock lifted a finger to John’s jaw, tilting his head up and finally, finally brought their lips together.