A/N: I decided to try again. I called it the trilogy (see "Just drop it, John" and "Just drop it, John – sequel") because it was the word that kept coming to mind, along with "how did I get here?"

General disclaimer: I don't own these characters, and make no profit nor fame out of these stories.

Personal disclaimer: Still not British (English is not my first language), a writer (no training), or anything but myself.

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No, no, no, no...

My heart is beating loudly in my chest. Or it could be the blood rushing inside my veins, or my hurried steps harshly thumping on the pavement. I'm here one instant and three meters ahead in the next; still not enough. Never enough. Sherlock.

The criminal caught in flagrante delicto has knocked my mate off the tourist sightseeing boat into the river, but not before Sherlock disarmed him, assuring every passenger's safety. The hero's recompense was to be swiftly shoved overboard. No life jacket. Onto the chilled muddy waters of the Thames.

I'm running. As hard as I can make my legs go and faster still. To the centre of the bridge. Sherlock is powerless, drifting in the current below, but luckily he seems conscient, coherent, with some fight left in him.

Finally I arrive, nesting those yards of thick rope on the corroded metal rail, that damned rope I nicked from somewhere on the margin. I don't care who I stole it from. I'll make amends later.

'Sherlock!' I yell. I need him to understand my sidekick plan, to read my mind, to fight the icy tendrils of fate grasping and tearing his beautiful mind to leave nothing but empty death in their wake. 'Sherlock!' I yell again. And again. I'm not sure I ever stop. In those dark swirping waters, eventually he glances up. Slow. Numbed. Probably hypothermic by now.

His lips form the familiar words much before their sound reaches me in strained rags.

'Just drop it, John!'

I do. I drop the damned rope, trying to aim it close that he can grasp it as he floats past under the bridge, but not to hit him (for the impact of a thick rope thrown from that height can not be downplayed, it'd sink my friend, possibly permanently).

Sherlock grabs the literal lifeline. Unfortunately, with subpar thinking born out of cold and panic he doesn't go for the end, he greedily goes for whichever part of fibrous material comes near him. He holds on dearly and that strains the rope at once.

Up on the bridge – ignoring the cars stopping and the people coming over to gape, to ask what's going on, to take ruddy videos with their phones – the pull is so strong, I won't let go, and I get slammed against the metal guard. I allow only a strangled grunt, as I steady myself.

Immediately I think of Sherlock's beloved long wool coat, soaking up half the Thames, and cold that is paralysing the genius' vital organs.

I look about desperately, searching for a solution.

'You, in the pink sweater, grab the end of the rope and tie it around the railing! You, with the job in the city, I don't care what's your name, just come grab the rope! The same goes for you coming out of the rental car, and the cab driver. There's a man on the other end, and we're saving him right – ruddy – now! You too, lady! One, two, hoist! Great job, again!...'

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'John, you commandeered an army of ordinary citizens to raise me from the river and bring me to you.'

I shush him patiently. 'Take your tea, Sherlock. It will sooth your scratchy throat. I'm not liking the hoarse sound of your voice. I think you overstayed in the Thames.'

He smirks; that one rare smirk that tells me he knows I'm deflecting but, for once, he'll allow.

He snuggles tighter in the afghan blanket, in his chair by the lit fireplace. Wet curls plastering his forehead, now dripping lukewarm water from an earlier hot shower. All vitals are normal, all signs pointing to recovery.

For a split second I muse on how close I was to having lost him. At once I try to shrug the haunting thought away and I bend down to smarten the bright burning wood.

'Nothing happened, John', he insists in reading my mind as soon as I turn my attention to a simple attainable task. As if he too didn't want me to see him at this vulnerable, personal moment. 'Nothing happened because I've got you.'

I chuckle at that. The hot coals spark flames that dance at the sound of my chuckles.

'And you've got me', he adds in a childlike logic of justice and equality. But I like that. The simple truths, the quiet company tonight.

We've got each other, that's what makes us do great things. It's who we are.

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