Every Time, I'll Run to You

This wasn't good. Sherlock knew it from the moment that he lost John. Their suspects had officially done what they had meant to, and that was split them up. Every since he had lost John, the inkling of doubt had began in Sherlock's mind.

He had noticed the moment that John left him. Partially because John yelled "I'll get this one!", partially because his footsteps took off in the opposite direction. He hadn't said anything- talking when he was chasing would only make him lose his breath. He wouldn't have said anything, anyway. John knew better. John knew better.

Now, Sherlock was edging along Blackfriars Bridge, slowly, quietly. It was just past midnight. It was colder than ice- he hated chases in the snow-covered streets. It was just towards the end of January, though, so he had steeled himself before he came out. John hadn't, and had been complaining, before they had been disturbed and had to give chase. Sherlock doubted that John was really cold anymore, wherever he was.

Sherlock had lost his man. Hadn't lost him, but... lost track of him. He was here, somewhere. Sherlock was just being still, being silent, being careful to listen and watch...

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's head snapped up at the voice (John's voice, he internally rationalized), eyes seeking out the profile of his friend. No more than had he caught sight of John, caught sight of panic in the man's eyes, illuminated by a flash torch, a crushing pain exploded within his head. He attempted to turn, but his body was disconnected from his mind- stupid, stupid! He was aware of John yelling and- for the love of- wouldn't he ever shut up?

He was aware of movement, movement against him, and he was off-balance for a half second before he realized, too late, that he was tilting, tipping, falling. John's voice, over something (footsteps?), met his ears, but it was nothing of importance past the wind rushing in his ears and the recognition of where he had been- Blackfriars Bridge- and where that bridge was- over the Thames. He just had time to register that fact before he was suddenly overtaken by a never-ending darkness.

"Sherlock!"

John stared in utmost horror as the man came up behind Sherlock, cracked him over the head with, of all things, a baseball bat. The crack, well, John was sure that he would remember the crack for a long time. All too quickly, the man grabbed Sherlock's coat and shoved, and, holy shit, they were standing on Blackfriars Bridge and Sherlock just went over the protective railing.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John took off running, mind totally having forgotten the criminal running off now. His mind was on Sherlock, Sherlock falling, and it was late January and Sherlock had been clubbed over the head, likely unconscious, and unconscious people didn't swim.

He scrambled down the embankment, nearly falling forward onto his own face, nearly launching himself into the freezing water. "Sherlock?! Sherlock, answer me! Now would be good!" He was talking to an unconscious person, he knew, but panic was welling in his veins and it took all the courage he could muster not to freak out right then and there. "Sherlock!"

By the chance of his torch light, he caught sight of Sherlock- black coat, black hair, pale skin, closed eyes. "Sherlock!" John dropped his torch light and, without another thought, dove into the freezing water.

The initial shock to John's system drew not only a yelp and a shudder from his body, but also disoriented him long enough to make him momentarily forget why the hell he had just jumped into the Thames. But then- Sherlock! Right, his partner, his flatmate, his best friend...

Apparently, some sort of twisted luck was on his side because in his disorientation, Sherlock hadn't been whipped away by the water.

"Sher- S-Sherlock," he chanted, gripping the detective's coat and pulling the heavy mass of consulting detective close to him. "S-S-Sherlock, wa-wake u-up," he stammered, blinking quickly as he tried to find the light of his torch from the water. He couldn't even spot it. Had they been washed too far or had the damn thing had faulty batteries? Knowing Sherlock...

His breath left him when they suddenly hit something- rock? Tree? Couldn't tell...

"Shit," John swore through chattering teeth. He was losing track of his own surroundings. He had to get out of the water.

"John!"

Voice, voice, voice... He recognized that voice. Who...?

"John, give me your hand!"

"Greg...!" That's who it was. He fumbled blindly for his hand, because he told him to, and fingers caught his.

"Come on... come on, keep ahold of Sherlock, don't let go... Stay with me, John."

"S-Sher-l-lock," he stammered, swiveling his gaze to the unconscious detective.

"Yeah, we saw the whole thing. You're insane, John! You could have killed yourself."

John didn't bother to respond to that. If he hadn't gone in, Sherlock would have drowned. He was sure of that fact.

Moments later, they were on dry land. It was still freezing, but there were blankets being shoved around his shoulders. John groaned through chattering teeth, something about stupidity and Sherlock on his mind. He leaned forward, shrugging off his own blanket, gripping Sherlock's coat again.

"He's fine, John, he's breathing."

John ignored him, trying to get the detective's coat off. At some point, the officers around him began to cotton on, stripping Sherlock of that ridiculously heavy and cold Belstaff coat. John, when he saw that they were fine with Sherlock, fumbled with his own clothes. They had to get into dry clothes. Well, dry blankets were the best thing that he had right now, so he'd at least get his jacket and jumper off.

Sherlock suddenly started coughing, expelling water out of his lungs and sitting up with a gasp. "J-J-J-John?"

"I-I'm f-fine, Sherlock," he replied quietly, taking a deep breath and willing his teeth to stop chattering.

"Amazing, the Freak has some priorities."

John frowned at the voice, sending a glare through the darkness towards Donovan. He removed the blanket from his own shoulders, hooking it around Sherlock's shoulders instead.

"I-It's c-c-cold," stammered the detective, in a tone of annoyance. "W-Where's m-my s-shirt?" His tone of voice made John laugh numbly.

"O-Over there. S-soaking w-wet and freez-zing."

"O-Oh..."

"We've got ambulances on the way, just hang on," Greg stated. He shrugged off his coat and tried to give it to John. John only shook his head stubbornly, shoving the coat to Sherlock. The detective looked liable to argue, but John moved to help, and it ended with Sherlock accepting the coat.

John hugged his (new) blanket closer to him, trying to control his shivering, his breathing, and the nearly uncontrollable urge to lock his arms around Sherlock and hold him close for warmth. Instead, he settled with pressing close to his flatmate without actually hugging him and rubbed his arms, instructing Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock didn't listen to him at that part, only pressed closer to John's body. John gripped another blanket and draped it around both of their shoulders.

He was content like this, to sit with Sherlock, and share the warmth that they were both desperately seeking.

"Uhm. Thanks, John. Just... for that," Sherlock muttered as they walked out of the hospital. Sherlock, who didn't seem to possess either another coat, or any sort of sweater, was wearing one of John's jumpers that Mrs. Hudson had brought, along with a jacket that Mrs. Hudson pulled from who-knows-where. The jumper was too big on his shoulder, too short on his arms, and made him look rather uncomfortable, but warm, so that was all that mattered. John had traded his sopping clothes for another jumper, another jacket, and gloves. Mrs. Hudson was a saint. She had brought the warmest things that she could find.

"Yeah... Well, you're my partner," John replied, sinking his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. "You'd do the same for me."

"Would I?" There was a touch of amusement in Sherlock's voice, something that was light and airy and obviously trying not to dwell on John saving him.

John smiled, looking up at Sherlock. "You would." He paused. "You might let me drown first, though. To see how long I could breathe on my own or something."

"True," Sherlock replied, a smirk on his face. "That would be good data, wouldn't it?"

"Ha. Yeah. Funny, aren't we?"

They fell into a comfortable silence as they slid into a blissfully warm taxi cab, and the silence continued halfway back to Baker Street.

"You're welcome, though," John said, after some time. "No matter how stupid that was... I'm used to coming after you. Someone has to save your arse, after all."

"You'll always be there?" Sherlock replied, his tone not exactly interested, but John could hear the genuine question behind those four words.

"Forever and for always, Sherlock."

There's a bit of vulnerable!Sherlock. I've been wanting to do a swim in the Thames fic for a very long time, and I wanted to do something where Sherlock ended up wearing a jumper of John's (thanks to a certain someone) and... this interestingly touching piece happened.

Hopefully you all enjoy it!