A Watery Grave

Chapter 1

The waves crashed and rolled against the side of the lifeboat. The four of them clung to the edges, desperate to stay inside as the waves threw them into the air, and then caught them, a wet child playing with a yellow rubber toy. John, Sherlock, Dimmock, Lestrade. They clung with grim determination, in the desperate struggle to preserve life. The boat had gone down - had someone sabotaged it? Perhaps, perhaps not. All they knew was that they weren't on it any more. That, at the moment, was all they could think about.

There was no sign of anything. No landmarks, no sun no moon, no way to turn. If they were going around in circles, the view would not seem any different. They didn't know if they were heading towards land, or further out to sea, although they could conceivably be going toward both alternately.

The rain beat down upon them - how unfair life was, that they should be drenched from below and above. No helicopter could fly in this weather, no plane would see them through the storm. They could only hope they would survive until the waves died down.

Greg groaned in pain. His leg was bleeding, and he couldn't move it properly (from the cold, or injury he couldn't tell). John was next to him, trying to bandage it up as best he could. Sherlock had his arm hooked over the doctor's chest as an anchor, so that John could use both hands. Dimmock kept a tight hold on Greg, but he was shivering so hard it was difficult to keep a hold on Greg's arm. Dimmock was the only thing that prevented Lestrade from tipping over the edge and into the sea. He couldn't swim in this state - it was unlikely he'd be able to keep his head above water for more than five minutes. He supposed he might be able to dog paddle a little. But not for long.

Lestrade had been on the boat as it had gone down, unable to jump. His leg had been momentarily trapped beneath a thick plank of wood, which John and Dimmock had removed while Sherlock released the lifeboat. Now he was crying in pain as the salt water asailed the laceration. Not that anyone would notice his tears. The water poured over them all in a drenching downpour, which made it impossible to tell what was rain, waves or just salt water in general. He felt as if they were in a washing machine.

John was fishing around in his pockets, desperation on his face. He turned to Sherlock and yelled into the wind, although they were less than two feet from each other.

"Have you got a pocket knife?" John screamed. Sherlock widened his eyes to indicate his lack of hearing, and John cupped his hands to his mouth, "HAVE YOU GOT A POCKET KNIFE?"

Sherlock nodded, hesitant to let go of the boat while he anchored John. The doctor took the cue, and let go of Greg, to hold onto Sherlock as he rummage to find a knife.

"What do you need it for?" Sherlock hollered at him, and John gestured to the ripped pant leg.

"Cut it into strips!" He screamed. Sherlock tried to keep his balance on the heaving surface of the rubber boat, but it was practically impossible. His hands were unreliable, and shook as he tried to cut the wet fabric. He coughed and choked momentarily as the wind blew another mouthful of ocean down his throat. His gullet was raw and the salt water made him gag. He rubbed his eyes to remove the water.

Faintly, he heard a scream. It was funny how faint the scream was, since John was right next to him. Sherlock turned at the sound, and then looked to the source of the fear.

His blood drained from his face, and his hand reached out to clamp over Lestrade's. Oh god…

Then the wave hit. The largest wave Sherlock had ever seen (perhaps not, but he was being swept away with it, it was hard not to blow the size out of proportion). It crashed upon them, a deluge of hard water that pounded them and forced them all to grab on a tight as they could - it seemed impossible, the amount of force the wave exerted on them. Mere water could do that. It foamed and billowed over them and pulled at their clothes, their hair, their faces. It was difficult to breath, and they felt the boat arch and dip beneath them.

It took every ounce of strength for Dimmock to hold himself to the boat. It felt like the entire ocean was pressed on his back, and he coughed. This only enabled him to suck in more water, and so he held his breath as long as he could. He couldn't hold himself down. And John was holding not only himself, but Sherlock and Greg as well.

Something had to give.

Something did give.

There was a rush of water, the wave having finally dispensed itself. Dimmock fell to the floor of the boat, scrabbling for a hold. John flung out an arm and grabbed him before he could slip over the side, and the Detective Inspector clutched onto his coat for dear life.

They stared at each other. The waves still roared, the boat still rocked, but the doctor and the detective were frozen, John clamping a hand on both the boat and Dimmock. They were both painfully, terrifyingly aware of the same fact.

They were the only two on the boat.

Sherlock and Lestrade were gone.