John stared at Sherlock as they rode in the taxi after finishing a blackmailing case. The victim had been a devoutly religious woman and for once Sherlock had not derided her religion or beliefs. Sherlock had actually treated her with much more respect than he normally bothered to with victims. John had immediately noticed the difference and had been trying to figure it out ever since.

"Just say whatever is on your mind, John. The racket in your head is giving me a headache," Sherlock muttered while watching the city flow by outside the window.

"You dismiss religion and everything it entails. Why were you nice to her?"

Sherlock turned to look at John and raised an eyebrow. "Nice to whom?"

"You know whom. The woman, just now, back at Lestrade's office. She was devout in her religious practices. Normally you deride people like that. What made her special?"

John really wanted to hear this answer. He twisted just enough to put his back in the corner of the cab to give Sherlock his full attention. Sherlock stared at him with an expression different from his normal 'I'm smarter than everyone in this room' look. John was starting to get the feeling that he wasn't going to get an answer and was about to say something when Sherlock turned back to looking out the window.

"It was her honest belief."

John blinked at the simple sentence. "Just last week you started arguing with a preacher on the street corner. Called him a mindless chihuahua, if I remember correctly."

In the window's reflection, John saw Sherlock's lips twitch in a smile at the recollection.

"He was a religious fanatic, not worth anyone's time."

"And she wasn't?"

Sherlock turned and looked John straight in the eye as he spoke.

"He believed in his religion and wanted everyone to know he believed. It became more a case of proving to everyone that he was religious instead of taking it to heart. She believes in her religion but doesn't feel the need to announce it to the world at large. She doesn't feel the need to convince everyone of her religious standing. Don't misunderstand me, overall I don't believe in the general concept of religion and everything they tout.

"But people need something to believe in. Something to rely on when everything else falls away or is destroyed. For some it's a family member. For others it's their job or a friend. Something at your core that you know will always be there for comfort or help. For her, it was her religion; her belief in that religion. To some degree it protects her and guards her; it's something she knows will always be there no matter the day, time, season or location. If a person has found their something to believe in to that degree, I will never deride or insult them for it. Some people never find it and I feel sorry for them," Sherlock said firmly just as the cab came to a stop outside of 221B Baker Street.

John stared after Sherlock as the taller man stood from the cab and walked up to the door. John was slow to pay the cab as he followed, thinking over what Sherlock had said. It was rare that he saw Sherlock actually get passionate about a philosophical topic. The strength behind his words revealed a whole new facet of Sherlock that John was surprised to find. In some part, it was a relief to John. It was like finding a small diamond in the rough that is the caustic Sherlock Holmes.

He stepped into the sitting room and slowly took off his jacket as he watched Sherlock at his chemistry set in the kitchen. He had already rid himself of his jacket and scarf and now had his sleeves rolled up as he prepared a slide for his microscope. The room was quiet except for the noise from the street and the quiet clink of glass slides and beakers. John wondered if Sherlock had something like that he believed in. Mycroft? No. His intelligence? Probably. Mrs. Hudson? Maybe. John? Maybe.

"What do you believe in, Sherlock?"

The younger man's movements slowed as he fitted the slide under the small clamps to hold it in place. Once it was secured, his finger tapped delicately on the stage as he stared at the eyepiece.

"Science, John. I believe in science."

(!)(!)(!)

John skidded around the corner and focused on the panda cars with their strobe lights flaring in the rain. An ambulance stood nearby but no one was moving. There was an air of panic but no one was doing anything about it.

The case had been long and tedious but eventually Sherlock had started making progress. That was before they snatched him from NSY two days ago. John and Lestrade had been pouring over the evidence and had finally tracked down one of the accomplices. He had revealed they had Sherlock restrained until they were done with their crime and John had managed to narrow down a few blocks where they were keeping Sherlock. Every officer that had shown up to help search was soaked through from the pouring rain within thirty minutes and John started to doubt his decision when the radio had crackled to life. A team had found him and had rattled off the intersection. It was only two blocks away from where John was and he had ran the entire way, breathing steadily as his mind ran through the possible injuries Sherlock might have acquired.

Lestrade was waving frantically at John from where he knelt on the pavement while yelling into his mobile. John's confusion cleared as he neared and saw that Lestrade was next to a storm grate. And the grate was secured with a new padlock. John skidded to his knees and grabbed at the grate with his hands, hoping to feel fingers grab at his.

"Sherlock!"

"John...you made it."

The bottom of John's stomach fell away as he took in the scene below the street. Sherlock was bound to a pipe against the wall and the rushing water was already up to his lower chest. A shudder raced through Sherlock's body but it was weak and John's medical mind was already listing the symptoms of hypothermia. How long had he been in the water? Were there any other injuries?

"Sherlock, are you okay? Sherlock!" John yelled and turned on Lestrade. "Where's the key? Who locked it?"

"We're working on it. I have an acetylene torch on the way to cut through the grate but it'll be another twenty minutes before they get here."

"Twenty minutes? The water is rising and he's entering the final stages of hypothermia! We don't have twenty minutes!" John snapped and turned back to the grate.

"Sherlock! Hold on, we're going to get you out!"

The water had risen another 25 millimeters since he had spoken with Lestrade. Sherlock wouldn't survive another twenty minutes. The detective was leaning weakly against the pipe behind him and his head lifted slowly to look up at John. Lestrade moved away to try and arrange something faster.

"Talk to me, Sherlock! Stay conscious!" John yelled and felt a painful surge of helplessness.

"Stay conscious...to drown? No...thanks."

"You're not going to drown! We'll figure something out!"

John's blood pressure was soaring and blood rushed through his ears. His mind was frantically jumping through different scenarios of how to rescue Sherlock. Rip the grate out with his bare hands? John looked over his shoulder at Lestrade and could see how frustrated the man was on the phone. Rain slung off his hair as he spun tightly in his pacing path. Fear was lurking underneath the frustration and it was only time until one won out. Turning back to the grate, he flinched upon finding Sherlock staring at him. The water was to his throat now. Sherlock's gaze was unguarded for once and John felt his throat tighten.

"John...don't...don't lose your...belief."

It took John a moment to realize what Sherlock was talking about but it came back to him with a gasp. The belief in something you rely on. Your core.

"Sherlock, wha-"

"Medicine, John. Some...times it can...save everyone...someti-...mes it can't. Medi-..cine didn't fail...you. Situation...fail-...ed you," Sherlock gasped as the water lapped at his jaw.

"Sherlock...please."

"I lied." John blinked and stared at his friend. His mouth opened to question but nothing came out.

"You...John Watson...are my belief...you're al-..ways there for...me. I know...I can always...rely on you."

Something at your core that you know will always be there for comfort or help.

"Sherlock…"

The water surged up and in a heartbeat his head was under the water line. Panic and fear paralyzed John for two heartbeats before he surged to his feet. Sprinting to the closest panda car, he threw aside various paraphernalia before spotting a prisebar. Sprinting back, he forced it under the shackle and didn't hesitate as he twisted the prisebar. The padlock twisted under the pressure and John wasted no time in ripping the padlock free and tossing it aside. Shucking his jacket, he slung the grate open and swung into the hole.

The freezing water stole his breath when he submerged but he was focused on his goal. Kicking to the surface and taking a breath, he aimed towards the pipe where Sherlock was bound. His hands found hair and flesh amid the swirling water. Taking a deep breath, he went under and followed Sherlock's body line. Feeling down to his wrists, John realized he was handcuffed and the solution came to John quickly. Not hesitating, he slammed Sherlock's hand against the stone wall behind the pipe twice and felt the thumb break. Jerking off the one bracelet, he grabbed Sherlock's jacket and forced them both to the surface. He broke clear and gasped for breath while hoisting Sherlock's head above water. He vaguely heard Lestrade yelling at him as he paddled one armed towards the opening. Hands grabbed at John and Sherlock to lift both men out of the water. John was shivering violently but he shrugged off the hands as he knelt next to Sherlock.

Tipping the head back, he breathed a few breaths into the slack mouth and started firm chest compressions. Medical statistics swirled through his mind as he forced air into the lungs. There was no chance he was going to let his friend go out like this. The blue lips were stark against the pale skin as was the wet, limp hair. The body jolted with each firm compression and at one point John felt a rib give way to the pressure. Hands tried to pull him back but he snarled in their general direction without breaking his pattern. His calm broke suddenly and spectacularly; he swung his arm up high and slammed his fist down onto Sherlock's chest. The body at his knees jolted and water suddenly exploded from the slack mouth. Rolling Sherlock onto his side, John nudged his knees against Sherlock's back to help brace him, and propped one hand on the pavement while his other hand cradled Sherlock's head. Weak coughing still racked Sherlock's body as he struggled to pull in oxygen.

"Sherlock? Are you with me?" John asked softly, his body creating a small shelter for Sherlock.

A grunt was his answer as eyelids slitted open just enough to try and focus on the upside down face. The eyelids closed again as faint shivers started to race through Sherlock's frame. John looked up to search for a blanket or something to warm his friend and that seemed to be the sign people were waiting for. The paramedics surged forward and respectfully pushed John toward Lestrade's open arms holding a thermal blanket out for him. Wrapping John up, he deftly caught the other man as he sagged limply into the welcoming embrace.

"It's all right, John. You brought him back," Lestrade murmured and watched over John's shoulder as the two paramedics worked on Sherlock.

"I'm his belief. I couldn't let him down."

(!)(!)(!)

John flicked off the kitchen lights with his elbow and carried the two mugs of tea into the sitting room. The fire cast a warm glow over the room and the lump of blankets in John's chair.

Once the paramedics had tried to load Sherlock onto the ambulance, he had lashed out and flat refused to go to hospital. It got to the point that Sherlock staggered and weaved from the back of ambulance towards John, threatening anyone that got near him. He had been stripped to his pants and wrapped in a thermal blanket but that didn't stop the genius from declaring that he was going home and his doctor could look after him there. John was about to insist that he went to hospital when he really looked at Sherlock. The younger man was still disoriented from his dance with death and desperately wanted something stable; something reliable to cling to until the world righted itself. John's chest seized in realization and he stepped forward, opening his arms to catch the man who practically fell into his embrace. Wrapping his thermal blanket around Sherlock's shoulders, John felt Sherlock grab at the waistband of his jeans. It was to help keep him grounded and the heavy puff of breath against John's upper chest made him realize how unnerved Sherlock was. So, he promised he wouldn't force Sherlock to hospital and sat with him in the ambulance as the paramedics treated his injuries. John held Sherlock's head pressed to his chest when they set his broken thumb and felt the sharp jerk against the pain. Once it was splinted properly, Sherlock signed a waiver releasing the paramedics from further responsibility and went home with John.

Now they were both dressed in dry and warm clothing and Sherlock was ensconced in John's chair with three blankets and an electric heating pad cradled against his abdomen. John hand intended to put him on the couch but Sherlock wanted to be near the fire. So, John helped him towards his chair but Sherlock had angled them towards John's. Not questioning, John had deposited him there and grabbed blankets to tuck around the balled up shivering man. The heating pad was thrust under the blankets and John built up the fire. He knew Sherlock was close to slipping into sleep. It was inevitable given how hard his body had worked that day to stay alive. Cold had the amazing ability to drain all energy from those it affected. Peering into the makeshift hood the blankets had made, John glanced over the curly bangs, pale face and closed eyelids. Looked like he had fallen asleep. Setting the mug onto the small table next to the chair, he started to turn away but saw the blankets start to move. Blue-green eyes peered out at the mug John had just set down. Seeing a pale hand reach out from the mound of blankets, John picked up the mug again and carefully placed it in the expectant hand. He continued to support the mug until it was retracted into the nest of blankets and the weight rested securely against the legs.

"How are you doing?" he asked softly and knelt in front of the chair.

He sipped from his own mug, watching as Sherlock drank from his. His eyelids fluttered shut in pleasure at the warm liquid and he paused before taking another sip.

"Finally starting to feel human again," Sherlock murmured hoarsely and cracked a weak smile which John returned.

"I'm glad. You scared me back there."

"Never intended to."

John chuckled dryly. "You never do."

It was silent for a moment with only the crackle and pop from the fireplace.

"Thank you, John. For...being there," Sherlock said softly as he gently rubbed his bottom lip against the edge of the mug.

John swallowed tightly and reached out to gently squeeze Sherlock's foot. "Always, Sherlock. No matter what. I'll always be there for you."

Sherlock nodded and smiled as John slowly rose back to his feet. He went to Sherlock's chair and lowered himself into it to stretch his legs out in front of him. It was rare for them to have quiet time like this. Sadly, it usually did come after one of them had a close brush with death. They enjoyed sitting and just being.

Being best friends.