Not Afraid

Chapter Fifteen - The Stationmasters Revenge

Several days had passed since the Christmas dinner and it saw John, Sherlock and Rosie taking a walk down by the river, John pushing Rosie along in a stroller that he'd found in an op-shop. Harry was back at the flat doing something foody with Mrs Hudson and Sherlock had said that he'd wanted some fresh air. Not one to argue when Sherlock wanted some quality time outdoors that didn't involve chasing killers, John agreed. Now, they strolled down the riverbank, the wheels of Rosie's stroller sliding a little in the snow and John gripping the handle tightly, knuckles white. Sherlock was pointing out various locations across the river, mostly to Rosie but also for John's entertainment.

"And that's the pub in which daddy got rather inebriated," he chuckled, glancing up at John as he pointed. John knew he was referencing the stag night...jeeze, they hadn't just been 'rather inebriated'. They'd been pissed as chooks! "And then, across from there is where we found a pair of legs. Nothing else attached, mind you. Just the legs."

"Sherlock," John said. "Is that really appropriate?"

"Sure," said Sherlock without even considering it and continued his mapping out of the riverside. Rosie was listening intently, following Sherlock's finger with her eyes and smiling from underneath her bundle of scarves and blankets John had piled on her to keep her warm. They passed another couple with two kids capering alongside them who nodded politely, wishing them a merry Christmas and a happy new year. As they walked, snow began to fall again, swirling from the sky and making Rosie giggle as she got some on her nose. Sherlock was walking just ahead, turning around in circles as if marveling at the snowy wonderland. It was so perfect, John thought. The happy little family picture of daddy and daddy and Rosie taking a walk along a snow coated river bank just after Christmas. Of course, nothing that perfect could last.

And that's when it happened. When John tried to recall the events later, they only appeared in his mind as a blur of horror and fear. It began with a screaming of tires, making John whip his head around, searching for the source. A second later, the truck and trailer haulage unit hurtled around the corner, skidding on the snow and fishtailing, the trailer swinging wide across the busy street. Cars swerved out of the way, creating a wave of slushy snow rolling over the road and John shouted at Sherlock who, in the heat of the moment, had turned to check if Rosie and John were okay. The moment seemed to freeze and John just saw Sherlock, coat flying out behind him, concern written all over his pale face and the way the wind whipped his hair. And then the car, the shiny red sports car spun, a full 360 degree twirl off the road, out of control after trying to avoid the truck, its back swinging out over the riverbank, engine shrieking. Sherlock, eyes still on John and Rosie, never saw it coming. The boot of the car neatly clipped him, buckling his legs and sending him flying through the air and into the river with a splash. The world around John stopped. Or, at least, it felt like it did. He stared into the river in horror, an odd sound emenating from his throat, a sound of terrible distress. Already, people were swarming around, shouting and screaming in the chaos of the accident. The truck had stopped, blocking the road, cars had piled up and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John's heart plummeted and then it began to race, the implications of the event sinking in. He let go of the stroller, shouted at someone to hold it and he was running to the rivers edge, hauling off his coat and tossing it aside, not caring as the bitter wind bit into him.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, scanning the water. Without a second thought, he dived in, the biting chill of the water sinking into his bones instantly, numbing him. But he hardly felt it, too busy searching for Sherlock. He flailed about in the water, panic consuming him and blinding him. It wasn't until he was pretty much touching Sherlock that he realized they were next to each other. Sherlock looked eerie, passed out and coat billowing around him, dark curls suspended in the water. His pale skin was even paler in the icy water and he was sinking fast, arms spread and legs pointing to the bottom of the river, his back arched so his face pointed to the surface. John kicked, reaching out to grab him. His lungs were screaming but he refused to give in, grabbing Sherlock's arm and hauling him close before kicking upwards. But Sherlock was too heavy, weighted down by the coat, and they began to sink together. Gritting his teeth, John fumbled for the opening in the coat, intent on getting it off. But his lungs felt as if they were about to collapse in on themselves and John had to go up for air. He let go of Sherlock. Suddenly he was kicking to the surface and when his head broke the water and he felt fresh air on his face, he gasped in air, burning his lungs. He gulped deeply and then dived into the water again. He faced downwards and swam hard, searching. Where was Sherlock? He ought to have been there! He was just below John! John kicked harder, the pressure of the water bearing down on him. And there he was, still sinking, nearly at the bottom of the river now. John reached down and grabbed Sherlock's arm. He began struggling with the coat, trying to get it off. But the water had saturated it, stuck it to him. Cursing in his head, John frantically tore at it. His fingers were completely numb now and refused to work, instead slipping and clunking together. Lungs burning again, John moved to Sherlock's face and tapped it, the water slowing his movements. Sherlock didn't wake and John, fear fueling him, made another attempt at getting the heavy coat off. Finally, his arms were free from the sleeves and John managed to rip the coat away. Suddenly lighter, Sherlock rose a little and John wound his arms around Sherlock's slim waist, kicking up. His lungs were empty, no oxygen left and even as they rose, his vision blurred, darkness swirling in front of him. But he was nearly there. So close now. He gripped Sherlock tighter and kicked. His movements were slow, sluggish and he felt as though they were sinking rather than rising. He ground his teeth and with limbs on fire, he kept trying to swim. And suddenly his head broke the surface and he gasped for air, half passed out, head lolling to the side. He yanked Sherlock out of the water and began hauling them both to the side of the river. People swarmed the bank, reaching out to help John. A hand closed around his and pulled. Another grabbed Sherlock and then they were laying on the snow by the river, John heaving in deep breaths, shuddering and shaking. Sherlock. Where was he? John rolled over and coughed, suddenly vomiting up river water, burning his throat. He wiped his mouth and crawled over the snow, ignoring the people telling him to lie down and found Sherlock, crumpled in the snow with people trying to wake him up. John, body tingling, reached over and touched Sherlock's face. It was icy cold. Pulse. Where was his pulse? John tried to feel for it but it was no good. His fingers refused to work and his vision was spiraling again. He just wanted to lay down and...sleep...forever. He opened his mouth a little, wanting to say something about how to treat hypothermia but instead just mumbling, "Sherlock."