Sherlock and co alternate designs based on how a friend (new listener with barely any Sherlock Holmes background) described jpw and sph; John is: average British man, pale (despite the canon tan kind of) blond hair, slouch; Sherlock is: darker skintone than John, hair like inspector gadget, a foot taller, but with a face he couldn’t describe (which is why I put a ? on Sherlock’s face)
been watching a friend play tgaa and at the same time we've been seated on the final season of gk and GUYS. PLEASE. i drew this so peak can meet peak can meet peak. PLEASE GO WATCH GOLDEN KAMUY PLEASE
The noise was worse than silence. It was all consuming, filling the air as mist swirled and droplets sprayed across the cliff faces. John hadn’t heard a sound other than the roaring water. Sometimes that was all he could hear through the entire town, a small pinprick in a valley, surrounded by waterfalls on all sides. Water spilled from the mountains all around them, but this one was the biggest. The most dangerous.
The one that had swallowed up his friend.
He hadn’t heard anything over that roaring sound. As he had approached the bend that took him to the bellows of Reichenbach, Mariana’s voice had faded into the background, the sound of rushing water taking its place. It was bigger than it was yesterday. They’d all seen it at a distance, seemingly nothing impressive from their place on the other side of the waterfall. Sherlock dragged them up a hiking path on the other side, wanting to scope out the scene. As beautiful as the views were, looking out across the valley and mountains on the other side, traditional Swiss houses on their respective plots of land sitting politely amongst wandering sheep, John couldn’t help but complain. All in good fun, of course, but it was true that the steep hills and uneven stones had made the climb difficult.
That didn’t matter to him now. The moment he’d reached town, realized no one was in danger, realized he’d been tricked, he turned and sprinted from the hotel without a word. Mariana was hot on his tail, all the more concerned by his terrified face and quick entry followed by his immediate exit. He’d barely managed to get any words out as they both ran across town.
Sherlock. Professor Moriarty. Waterfall. Danger.
John had just been up there, he knew the way. And despite being sore from having climbed it earlier that day, and having hiked the other side the day previous, he barely noticed the ache in his legs and chest. Adrenaline surged through his body, tunnel vision taking over. Only one car passed while he and Mariana sprinted towards the bottom of the mountain that would take them to Reichenbach—they didn’t even slow down.
From road, to mud, to rock, to road, to rock, to road, to mud, more mud—
John slipped more than once, but he never felt any pain when he hit the ground. All he could think of was getting to Sherlock before the professor did. He didn’t think he would beat Mariana to the top. John had spent plenty of time putting himself down (in jest, he always told himself, but deep down he knew that wasn’t entirely true) for the muscle he’d lost since being injured in Ukraine. For the weight he’d gained since settling into Baker Street. Mariana was thinner, taller, but ultimately not the one who had spent the last two and a half years on the ground doing the work to chase down criminals across London with Sherlock Holmes.
He rounded the corner, putting all of his strength into his legs. The waterfall had loomed over him when he stood at the bottom, but around the bend, all was quiet. He needed to keep going, he was close, he just had to make it up to the top. Between the rain from earlier and the cast-off from the waterfall, the stone path was more of a hinderance than a help. Halfway up the final hill, John’s foot caught a puddle and he went crashing down. He barely felt a thing, scrambling right back up onto his feet.
It had rained all night and all morning. Not the kind of rain that settled over London, a brief pour before returning to a consistent drizzle. No, this had been a proper spring storm. All through the night, rain had pounded the roof of their hotel, the old building rattling through thunder, and lightning shining through the thin curtains. It kept waking everyone up, but John suspected Sherlock didn’t sleep at all. The whole morning he figured it was because they were in an unfamiliar environment—Sherlock was uncomfortable with the creaking bed, the loud storm, their brand-new surroundings. But John knew better now. It was because he knew. He knew.
Sherlock knew this would happen.
Of course he fucking knew.
And he kept John out of the loop.
John blinked, only just beginning to realize how badly he was trembling. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, just past the fork in the path that led to the precipice beside Reichenbach. How long he stared at the scene. A smashed microphone scattered along the muddy, stoney path. The mangled fence. No Sherlock to be seen. Not even Professor Moriarty. He didn’t realize he was standing directly under a runoff until his hair began to droop down in front of his eyes, soaking wet.
“John?” Not Sherlock’s voice. Mariana’s.
John couldn’t move. Her voice barely pierced through the sound of the waterfall. Was it even Mariana’s? For a moment it sounded like Sherlock’s. Then it sounded like Mary’s.
Oh god…
No, that wasn’t him, that was…He slowly found the power to turn. Mariana was a bit damp, the waterfall’s spray not sparing her, her deep red curls stuck to her face through a combined effort of sweat and water. Her glasses fogged up with every pant. Then John heard her again. “Oh god…no. No, no, no, oh my god. Oh god, oh god—”
The local police pulled Moriarty’s body out of the river downstream late that night.
There was no sign of Sherlock.
John and Mariana kept holding out hope for something. Anything at all. Footsteps leading away from that fateful ledge near the waterfall? There was a set of two footprints, but they were most certainly from an earlier couple hiking up past Reichenbach. Backpackers headed on to Rosenlaui. Not Sherlock.
Undeterred by everyone’s warnings (including the large, obvious sign), John had made his way down towards the bellows, desperate to find something. Anything. Perhaps if there was nothing there, it was evidence Sherlock hadn’t fallen at all. Maybe he’d really gotten away, covered his tracks like he would know how to do. The steep drop-off to his left didn’t even occur to him as a danger. One wrong move, one more slip, and he’d be dealing with a hell of a landing.
He made it down in one piece.
The water was dark and murky, impossible to see through with the water falling at a rate unlike anyone had seen in months. The storm had done a number on filling the river above. Despite his desperation, John knew better than to dive right into the water himself. But he still waded up to his calves, leaning over to drag his hands along the mud beneath, searching for—
Searching for what, exactly?
Can’t prove a negative. Even if he didn’t find anything, it didn’t mean Sherlock didn’t go over the ledge. Didn’t fall through that tiny, useless chain-link fence.
Regardless of how hard anyone hoped—prayed, even—John still found a shoe.
Mariana had scolded the both of them for not packing proper hiking boots, only boarding the plane with the trainers they had on. John had paid for it by slipping on his way back up to Reichenbach. Back to Sherlock.
Falling cost him time. Precious time he evidently couldn’t spare. But all John ended up with on his falls was scrapes on his hands and mud down his front. Sherlock’s fall had resulted in something far, far worse.
John and Mariana didn’t get back to the hotel until long after it had gone dark. They barely spoke a word between them as they trekked back to their small, dinky hotel in the center of town. No officers had offered to give them a ride. They all spoke quite good English, used to all sorts of international backpackers getting lost and stuck in various places. But it wasn’t a language barrier that had caused difficulties, it was their unwillingness to let John and Mariana help in any meaningful way. It didn’t matter if they were a private detective agency, British civilians had no jurisdiction in a missing person’s investigation in small-town Switzerland. Even if said missing person was the detective part of their detective agency.
The officers chatted amongst themselves as John and Mariana finally decided to slip away. John didn’t bother asking Mariana to translate. He knew “Brienz” was a nearby town at the end of the river, having thoroughly studied the maps of the region Sherlock shoved in his direction. He knew “Interlaken” was the next biggest city after that, at the other end of the lake the river fed into.
They weren’t searching for a missing person. They were searching for a body.
Neither of them had any complaints about damp clothes, or bloodied hands, or muddied trousers as they sat next to each other on John’s hotel bed. Mariana pressed herself tightly into his side, shivering as a chill set in. The silence was only broken up by an occasional sniffle from her. John just stared down at his shoes, still tied and caked in mud. Time moved oddly. He wasn’t sure when his vision had gone blurry.
John cleared his throat. “I’m…going to shower.” He barely managed to get the words past his cracked lips. Mariana looked over at him as he moved to stand.
She kept a steady hand on his arm, standing up with him. “John—”
“I need a shower,” he said, voice clipped, still not meeting her eyes. Mariana moved to stand in front of him. It took several moments, but he eventually raised his head.
She squeezed his arm as soon as his eyes met hers. “I’ll be right here.” He nodded. Of course she would. Switzerland was too expensive for them to afford anything nice. They’d opted for one of the cheapest rooms they could find that didn’t have a bathroom shared with the whole floor, meaning all three of them had been crammed together in a twin-sized bed each, all in the same room.
Slowly, he managed to peel himself away and retrieve the pajamas he’d thrown haphazardly onto his hotel bed that morning. It felt like ages ago now. Years. Like his entire memory was being replaced by his time spent wading through riverbeds looking for any proof his best friend had survived tumbling down a waterfall.
John wanted to make it quick, get back to Mariana before she felt the truth of the matter set in—before she started to really feel alone. But the warmth of the water beckoned him to stay. He got to work, scrubbing himself down as best he could. He had to get rid of the dirt beneath his fingernails. He had to wipe away the dried blood from his palms. The memories had to go. John didn’t dare let a single drop from that accursed waterfall remain on his skin. He was burning red all over as he scraped the cloth violently over his skin and steam filled the room, threatening to suffocate him.
But just as he rid himself of any evidence, a new thought entered his mind. He’d just erased all the last bits of Sherlock off of him. The mud from the path he’d walked on, the water from the river he’d drowned in.
John felt sick. Properly sick, he felt like—
He leapt out of the shower, barely kneeling in front of the toilet before throwing up what little he’d actually eaten that day.
There came a pounding on the door. “John?” Mariana’s muffled voice sounded from behind it.
John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, heart pounding and chest heaving. “F-Fine! I’m fine, Mariana.”
“John, let me—” The doorknob jiggled.
“Unless you wanna see me naked, you don’t want to do that, Mariana.” The jiggling stopped. “I-I’m fine…” His voice trailed off, probably barely audible behind the door and over the sound of the shower. “Just give me a minute, okay?”
After a moment, she answered in a soft tone John barely caught. “Okay…”
He took a second to reign in his breathing. When had he started crying again? With shaking legs, he rose upright and stumbled back into the shower, rubbing a hand over his face. The hot water pounded against him. Better than being pelted by freezing water.
John successfully held back his next bout of nausea.
When he finally stepped out from the shower, properly dressed, but still not quite dry, Mariana was standing right outside waiting for him. She was so close to the door, he nearly bumped into her. “Oh! Sorry,” she mumbled, stumbling back right before they could whack heads.
John’s brow furrowed. “Were…were you waiting there the whole time?” Mariana didn’t answer but rather avoided his eyes instead. He cleared his throat. “It’s a bit…sorry, I made a bit of a mess in there. Water’s all over the floor.”
“I don’t…um, I actually don’t really…want to shower.” John frowned, and Mariana grimaced. “I know, I know it’s…I-I feel gross. Ugh, John, I feel so gross, but I-I don’t know if…” Her voice cracked and her shoulders began to jerk up and down. “I-I don’t really want to be alone right now—” Her own sobs cut her off, but John was right behind, pulling her into his arms. It didn’t take more than a second for him to join her in grief.
The two of them sank to the floor right there, pressed up against the wall. Their bodies shook in unison, both of them clinging to the other. Neither of them could get out a word. They didn’t have to.
John woke up with a yell stuck in his throat. His whole body jerked from some since-forgotten night terror, waking Mariana with a start. The two of them had miraculously managed to find sleep, but only holding each other in a single bed. Twin-sized be damned, neither of them were willing to brave the coldness of being alone. There was something, some lingering feeling from his dreams. John couldn’t put his finger on it. Mary’s face melting into Sherlock’s. Warm blood seeping onto his hands, quickly plunged into freezing, alpine water.
“John.” Mariana’s voice wasn’t soothing, or reassuring. It wasn’t what he would expect to hear to be comforted from a nightmare. No, it was laced with terror, a hushed gasp barely breezing past her lips as she smacked his arm. He turned over to look at her.
Instead, he was greeted with the back of her head. Over her shoulder, the shadow of a figure lingered in the doorway. He shot straight up, scrambling for the bedside lamp.
Click.
A soft, yellow glow illuminated the room. Illuminated the man standing under the doorframe. His sharp features were more gaunt than ever before. His usually golden-toned skin had gone pale, as if his body had been completely drained of blood. His hair, always a bit of a mess, was wilder than either John or Mariana had ever seen it. It had barely dried, sticking in every-which-way, some curls still damp against his skin. All of his clothes clung to his body. Noticeably, he was missing a shoe.
John flung himself out of bed, but not in the direction of the man who looked all too much like Sherlock Holmes. He stood on the opposite side of the bed, staring as quick breaths ripped through his body. “Oh my god.” Mariana slowly sat up the rest of the way. “Sherlock—”
John took off like a bullet, lunging at his friend and wrapping his arms around him. He expected the man to anticipate it, which was his mistake. Instead, he all but tackled Sherlock, sending the two of them tumbling out of the hotel room. They hit the floor with an echoing bang, practically shaking the whole floor of the old, budget hotel.
“Sherlock!” Mariana jumped up, not caring one bit about her volume. She greeted them out in the hallway, falling to her knees and pulling both of them up and into her arms. “You idiot,” she sobbed, “you asshole!” Despite it all, John found himself laughing. And crying. Glad. And furious. He squeezed Sherlock tighter, his own shirt taking on some of the water left in Sherlock’s clothes.
“Sherlock. Sherlock, you…you…” He couldn’t even formulate anything coherent.
Neither John nor Mariana were sure exactly how long they sat like that, half in their room, half in the hallway, a mess of limbs on the floor. Miraculously, no travelers poked their head out to tell them off or yell at them in another language. So, uninterrupted, the three of them stayed there.
Eventually, John found the strength to pull himself back from Sherlock. He didn’t dare let go, lest this all be a figment of his imagination. His eyes found Sherlock’s, and the sight made his heart sink. It was like Sherlock was just staring straight through him. They were looking at each other, but there was nothing there. The spark that John usually saw in the depths of Sherlock’s deep, dark eyes was nowhere to be found. “Sherlock. Sherlock, mate, what the fuck happened?” No answer. “Come on, talk to me.”
Sherlock just blinked lethargically and the pit in John’s stomach grew. He slowly climbed to his feet. “Let’s get you inside, okay? Christ, you’re freezing, where’s your jacket?” A ridiculous question, John knew that. It was somewhere caught on a branch or a rock, still being battered by the river. Or maybe already sunken to the bottom of the lake at the end. "Mariana.” She nodded, standing up as well, offering Sherlock a hand. He just stared at it. John’s hands shook. “Sherlock, come on.” He simply slipped his hand under Sherlock’s arm, pulling the lanky man to his feet.
He wasn’t exactly dead weight, but he certainly wasn’t aiming to be helpful. Together, they all stumbled back into their hotel room. Mariana locked the door behind them, turning on the overhead light. Sherlock grimaced and pulled in a sharp breath. She immediately whispered an apology and turned it back off again, leaving the bedside lamp as their only source of light. For now. The sun was just barely beginning to rise, still hidden behind the mountains, but a glow was beginning to spread across their peaks.
John helped Sherlock down onto the nearest bed, standing right in front of him and keeping his hands firmly on his friend’s shoulders. “Sherlock, talk to us. What the hell happened up there?”
There was very little doubt in John’s mind that Sherlock had really gone over that cliff at Reichenbach. The man was shivering, still damp, and had mud in all sorts of unusual places. Like he’d crawled out a river somewhere. It was a miracle. Nothing short of a miracle that Sherlock hadn’t hit his head on a rock on his way down. That he hadn’t lost consciousness and drowned. That Moriarty hadn’t bested him and managed to kill him in some other cruel way.
John reached up and touched Sherlock’s face. The man flinched, but didn’t pull away. He was already sporting an impressive black eye. John knew well enough he’d been punched—not like he’d fall perfectly on a rock to hurt him exactly like that. As John’s eyes flicked along Sherlock’s body, he started seeing more bruises than he would have liked. But it was okay. If a few bruises were the price of survival, it would just have to be fine.
The bed creaked under Mariana’s weight as she slowly lowered herself down onto the bed right next to Sherlock. She watched him closely. Nobody said a word. Sherlock wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. John’s throat felt tight. “Sherlock,” he said slowly, crouching down to be eye level with his seated flatmate. “Are you hurt?” Sherlock met his eyes again, but with that same look. That blankness.
What the hell was he doing? John was just standing here in shock, thanking whatever power that be that Sherlock was here and alive. He shouldn’t just be standing there; he should be figuring out what was wrong. Something was wrong. Definitely very wrong.
He moved his hand along Sherlock’s jaw down to rest on his neck. He applied pressure, checking the time on the clock on the nightstand and counting the heartbeats. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Mate, you’re freezing.” Sluggish pulse. Cold to the touch. Still damp. Who knows how long Sherlock had been fighting back against the current of that river; how far it had taken him and how long the trek back to the hotel would have been. And with only one shoe to top it all off. John looked over at Mariana, still clinging tightly to Sherlock’s side, almost afraid that letting go would make him cease to exist. “Grab some blankets. And some of his clothes.”
She burst into action, grabbing Sherlock’s suitcase from underneath his bed. John sighed, keeping a tight hold on the man in front of him, once again avoiding his gaze. “Sherlock, we’ve gotta get you out of these clothes and into something dry, okay? Can’t have you catching pneumonia after you managed to survive all of that.” Sherlock barely moved a muscle, only letting his eyes flick back and forth, taking in his surroundings and avoiding John. John’s heart clenched, but he pushed past it. “Come on, mate, work with me here.”
Without asking permission, John began to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. The man began to squirm. “Sherlock,” John said sternly, not stopping for a moment. Mariana appeared by his side, folded clothes under one arm and a stack of blankets stolen from the other two beds under the other. John looked up at her and nodded. “Great. Thanks, Mari.”
She set everything down on the bed and kneeled beside John, looking at Sherlock. “Are you alright?” she asked softly. Sherlock met her eyes for only a brief second, quickly looking down at his lap.
Once John got the last of his buttons undone, Sherlock began to pull away. John kept a steadying hand on his arm. “Hey. Hey, Sherlock, come on.”
“’m sorry…”
His voice was so quiet, so hoarse, that both John and Mariana nearly missed it. Mariana shook her head. “No,” she said quickly, “don’t apologize, Sherlock, you don’t need to.”
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” John said slowly. There was something deep in his chest that felt like anger. Anger that he’d managed to be tricked, angry at Sherlock for not letting him on his plan. Anger at the universe for daring to put them in a position like this. “We’re just glad you’re…that y-you’re okay.” The word “alive” felt bitter on his tongue. “Come on, we’ve gotta get you into something warmer.”
With no audible protest from Sherlock, John began pulling the man’s shirt off, ready to ball it up and toss it aside. But as he took it in his hands, he brushed across the collar and paused, staring down at it. The light-blue shirt, darkened from water, had a deep stain along the collar, dripping down the back. John’s mouth went dry. “Mate, are you bleeding?” Without waiting for an answer, John reached over and began to prod the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock pulled away with a grimace.
John’s fingers didn’t come away bloody, but he most certainly felt some blood-caked curls only just beginning to dry. “Shit. Come on, let me take a look—”
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated, a bit clearer this time.
John shook his head. “It’s alright, Sherlock, you’re alright, just let me take a look.” He took a seat next to the detective, leaning over to comb through the man’s hair to look for the wound. Sherlock was a little more cooperative, flanked by John and Mariana. He still flinched away, but John remained steady. “Mariana,” he said, not losing focus on the task at hand, “could you grab some clean cloths?”
Without a word, she shot to her feet, striding quickly towards the sink.
“I…I understand it’s late…” Sherlock muttered.
“Yeah,” John said with a huff of a laugh, “barely sunrise. But it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about that, Sherls, it doesn’t matter.”
Mariana was by John’s side again, handing over two cloths, one dry and one damp. “Thanks,” John said quickly, prodding the back of Sherlock’s head again.
Sherlock’s eyes drifted over to Mariana, now holding one of Sherlock’s clean shirts tightly in her hands. His frown deepened. “Where’d you get tha’?” Sherlock’s words were a bit slurred. John paused.
Mariana looked down at the shirt in her hands. “Just out of your suitcase. Should be clean, don’t worry.”
“I…” Sherlock shook his head. “Sorry, I just didn’ know what to do.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” John reassured. “You did what you had to. Professor Moriarty won’t be bothering us anymore, I can promise you that.”
At that, Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What?”
Everyone paused, sitting stock-still. John slowly moved to face Sherlock more fully. “He’s dead, Sherlock. He didn’t survive falling down Reichenbach. But you did. Thank god, somehow, you did.”
Sherlock just continued to stare at John, still blank, still like he was looking right through him. After several long moments, Sherlock opened his mouth again. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…I think I need help.”
John’s stomach dropped. “That’s what we’re here for, mate, that’s what we’re doing. Mariana?”
“On it.”
Together they managed to get a fresh shirt on him—a flannel pajama top. He was clammy to the touch, shivering beneath each layer they stacked on top of him. John located the wound (Sherlock would be left with an impressive bump for a while) and was pleased to find it wasn’t actively bleeding. Mariana left John to handle getting Sherlock out of his wet trousers and into something a bit more comfortable. Happy with their work, the two of them both sat on either edge of the bed. Mariana watched closely as John cleaned away the blood and dirt on the back of Sherlock’s head.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, still frowning. “I-I don’t understand.”
Mariana cocked her head. “What don’t you understand, Sherlock?” She moved closer.
“Why you’re helping me.”
That wasn’t at all what John expected to hear. His frown deepened. “What the hell do you mean? Why wouldn’t we help you?”
“You didn’ call for an ambulance,” he mumbled, “isn’t that what you’re s’posed to do?”
John actually fought a smile. “Mate, you don’t need an ambulance. You aren’t in any immediate danger; I know how to treat some bumps and early stages of hypothermia. Now, if you’d been any further along that’d be a different story. Can’t give you warm intravenous fluids in a shitty hotel room, I’m afraid,” he chuckled.
Sherlock didn’t look any less confused. “Wouldn’ mos’ people call an ambulance if an injured stranger showed up ‘n their room?”
John’s blood went cold. For a moment it felt like he’d been the once who’d fallen into an icy, Swiss river. He bit his tongue. Mariana managed to speak before he could. “Sherlock…what the hell are you talking about?”
He turned to her, a curious expression on his face, but didn’t say a word. “Hey,” John said sharply. He moved out from behind Sherlock. The man looked over at him, eyes still glazed over, still in a haze. “Sherlock, do you know where you are right now?”
He had that same look in his eyes. Dull, muddied. Sherlock shook his head. “Um…I don’t know if…” His hands twitched and he frowned again.
“If what,” John urged, looking for something—anything.
Sherlock began to fumble, teeth chattering. “I don’…I dunno…” His body began to tremble. “Why d-did…why ‘m I wet?”
John’s body went tense. “Sherlock,” he said slowly. But there was that same nothingness staring right back at him. “No. Come on, mate, you managed to get back to our hotel room, you know where you are.”
“John.”
Mariana’s warning tone gave him pause. He hadn’t realized he’d been raising his voice. John’s heart pounded against his ribcage, his whole chest aching far worse than when he ran to that cliff up Reichenbach. He waited for Sherlock to snap out of it; tell him it was all a joke in poor taste. But that wouldn’t be like Sherlock. A joke of this magnitude without resulting in some sort of research? No.
“Don’t look at me like that,” John murmured. Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched. “You know where you are, Sherlock, and you know you’re not a stranger.”
“John,” Mariana warned again.
“I’m…I was looking for my friends.” He moved to get up. “Apologies, I’ve…I-I’ve got the wrong room.”
Mariana put a hand on his shoulder, easing him back down. “No, Sherlock. You don’t. You had the key, you got in. These are your clothes; you’re in the right place.”
He began to shake, and this time John couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or something entirely out of his wheelhouse. “I was in a river…” He looked down at myself. “M-My clothes…”
Oh. John didn’t know why he hadn’t considered it before. Sherlock nearly died. Really, he should have died. Professor James Moriarty hadn’t survived the fall down onto the rocks below, why would Sherlock be so lucky? He’d been beaten up, tossed over the edge of a cliff, and nearly drowned in a river in a foreign country. That would fuck anyone’s sense of reality up—that would give anyone a shock.
John reached out, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, look at me.” The man looked up, trembling under John’s touch. “You’re alright, yeah? You’re safe. We’re all here in our hotel room in Meiringen, remember? Switzerland? You helped Mariana pick it out. Had a bit of a spat over it, actually.” He glanced to Mariana, who caught on quickly.
“You wanted something nicer,” she said, “and I can’t blame you. Frankly, this hotel sucks. But it’s all we could afford to put on the company card. Switzerland prices, sheesh,” she said, almost laughing.
“…Sauvage…”
She chuckled. “Yeah, you wanted to book there. But, Sherlock, really? That was waaayy out of budget. In your dreams. There was no way I could have pulled that off.”
“I-I was kidding.”
“You still need to work on your sarcasm, mate,” John said. “We really thought you were considering putting us in massive debt with that one.”
There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke up again. “…I’m cold.”
“Alright,” said Mariana, “scoot over.” Before either man clued in on what she was doing, she moved right in next to Sherlock, pulling the covers up over her. Sherlock looked a bit affronted, but didn’t stop her. She settled in right next to Sherlock, and she could feel just how cold he was. “Jesus, you’d think you’d drowned in a river or something.” Her laugh was only half-hearted, realizing maybe her joke wasn’t in the best taste.
“I…I did.”
“Nearly,” John corrected, holding up a pointed finger. “You didn’t actually drown.”
“No…No, I did.” John and Mariana watched him curiously. “I-I think I…” His eyes went wide as he searched for an explanation. “I died.” The others furiously shook their heads. “No, I did. I did, I fell, it was loud, and cold, and I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t hear, and it—” Sherlock choked on his own words. Tears sprang up in his eyes. “It was cold. I couldn’t breathe. I can’t…I-I can’t breathe.”
In the same instant, Mariana wrapped her arms around him and John lifted the covers, jumping under to join them. The bed barely fit two, and it was far too small for three, so he half dangled off, but John couldn’t find it in him to care. They both clung to Sherlock, feeling his chest jerk up and down as he failed to control his breathing.
“Easy,” John said softly, “easy. Listen to me, Sherlock. You can breathe. You can, I promise, just copy me.” He grabbed his hand, placing it firmly against his own chest. “Like this, mate, yeah? Like this. Slowly now, slow breaths. In…and out. Okay?” Sherlock still trembled, but color started to return to his cheeks. “Exactly. Perfect, you’re doing perfectly. Keep breathing just like that. In…out…”
It didn’t look like Sherlock even realized he was crying. “John…I was looking for Watson, John Watson.”
John nodded, his tongue feeling heavy, his lungs like they were starving for air. “I’m here, Sherlock, I’m right here. You made it back to the hotel.”
“An’ Mariana—”
“Right here.” She laced her fingers with Sherlock’s, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’m right here.”
“No,” he mumbled, refusing to make eye contact with either of them. “Moriarty. H-He said he’d kill them. I had to stop him. I had to, I had—” He cut himself off with a long, shaky breath.
“Professor Moriarty is dead,” John said plainly, “but you are not. We’re right here, me and Mariana. You made it back to our hotel room. It’s over, Sherlock, Moriarty is gone. You’re alright. We’re all here.”
It was several full minutes before anyone spoke again. John thought maybe Sherlock had finally dozed off, the stresses of the events finally wearing him down. But then the detective spoke. “Watson?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, mate?” John answered in a similar tone.
Sherlock took an unsteady breath. “You’re here?”
He nodded, pulling himself further under the covers, partially squeezing himself under Sherlock in order to fit. “Yeah. Right here.”
“Mariana?”
“Mm-hm.”
They all laid there together, tangled bodies on a twin-sized bed. After a few moments, Sherlock spoke up again. “Sorry…I-I don’t know what I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I was…disoriented.”
“That’s okay,” said John, pulling in closer. Sherlock was almost a regular temperature again. Living. Breathing. Not dead. Not washed up on a riverbank or sunken to the bottom of a lake downstream.
The sun was actually visible now, spilling proper light into their hotel room. The pristine white walls reflected it right back. It was getting quite bright, rather quickly. No one bothered to turn the lamp off.
Oh my god!!! This is!! The best thing ever!!! Thank you thank you thank you!!! Trucy’s theme is so good! Of course it’s her theme, she orchestrated the whole thing, hahaha! This is amazing and everything is wonderful!
go my low quality fawx and stallion comic fly free (will update the text n all for those who can’t read it properly once I’ve finished the whole scene)
Also also try listening to the scene while reading I would say it’s pretty cool idk
gummygunk
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
blakekathryn
izzy806
stormborns
theartofmadeline
