Chapter Twenty Three

John didn't say a word.

"Your friends have not been very careful, have they?" He looked at John's ears, trying to see whether he wore a radio or any other communication device. John prayed that he wouldn't touch him. He had lost quite a bit of weight over the past days so it didn't show, but if Moriarty touched him, he would feel the bullet proof vest and know that he had back up. "I really would have thought they would give you the chance to say good bye this time around, knowing they were sending you to certain death."

John forced himself to remain calm, even though both of his hands were shaking. He was not afraid, no, he was mad, so very mad at the man in front of him. He once had learned how to break someone's neck with his bare hands, but he had never actually done it. He felt the urgent need to find out if he could.

"John, John, John," Moriarty kept talking. "I really like a dramatic execution. Why don't you climb up here so that I can blow your brains out while the wind spreads you out like bread crumbs for the birds."

"I am not doing anything you tell me," John answered, a growl more than anything. "I am so sick of you and your games."

Moriarty laughed a short barking laugh and then pressed his gun against the pulse point on John's throat. He closed his eyes, praying that he would not just shoot him now. It would be a bloody mess. Some part of his brain just snapped and he started giggling at the thought.

Moriarty moved very close to him, his face only two inches away. "Please, share your thoughts."

Hysterical laughter bubbled up again, and some part of John watched in horror as his hand came to rest on the gun and he pressed it harder against his throat. "I just thought that this would be a bloody mess, literally." John felt tears in his eyes and he wasn't quite sure whether it was the laughter, the wind or plain fear.

"No," Moriarty started, actually pulling the gun away, "can you swim, Johnny boy?"

John remained silent. "It must be a strange feeling to drown, don't you think? How was it, back at the pool? You already got a taste of that, didn't you? Call me sentimental, but I really would love to see you drown."

John closed his eyes, trying to suppress a shudder. At least he was not pointing the gun at him anymore. Moriarty walked around him, standing behind his back. "Ohh, did you burn your fingers while you played with fire?" he yelled the last word. Then he yanked Johns arms behind his back and the cold metal against his wrists told him that he had just been handcuffed. He refused to think of the transmitter.

"How good of you to lose some weight lately," Moriarty continued, a smile in his voice. "Those amateurs did not know how to properly starve you, but this will do. Why do I always have to do everything myself?" He wrapped his arms around John's middle. "Legs up, John."

John, of course, stood still, but the kick into the back of his knee gave him no choice. His legs gave in and Moriarty held him tightly, somehow managing to swing him up so that he suddenly found himself perched on the railing of the bridge. A part of him was amazed at the strength the lithe man possessed, but then he thought of the fact that adrenaline could do amazing things, and Moriarty was obviously high on adrenaline – or maybe madness – right now.

When he found himself sitting on the banister of the bridge, John knew that he had just missed his one chance of fighting the man behind him. Then he felt the weapon press against his back. He sat up straight, praying that he would not shoot. In the next second he could hear the Big Ben announce the full hour. After the sixth gong he felt the transmitter on his wrist issue a shock and he slumped. In the same moment he felt the air pressed from his lungs at the impact of the shot to his back. Moriarty had shot him, making sure that he would not survive this. Just the fact that he could still feel his legs as he fell calmed him down and he inhaled deeply, but the impact when he hit the water, thankfully not face first, pressed the air out of his lungs again.

It took him a few seconds of struggle to realise that he wouldn't be able to use his arms, so he started kicking his legs. He had no idea which way he was going, and he remembered that he could not swim to the surface. If his head appeared, Moriarty would have an easy target. So he tried to figure out in which direction the current was taking him, but it was hard to tell as his limbs started to stiffen in the cold and his lungs started burning with the need to inhale. God, it would be so easy to give into the urge.

For endless seconds he tried to not panic. He understood why pretending to drown people was such an effective torture method. He felt completely helpless under water and death seemed certain. The darkness around him was replaced with white sparks behind his eyes. Not enough oxygen to make them work properly. Only seconds before he would become unconscious and his breathing reflex would kick in.

He felt pressure on his arms and a stop to his movement as the water was now not carrying him with it but pushing into him. Something was holding him back. He opened his mouth and took a gasping breath in shock.

The air that filled his lungs tasted of life. John knew it was impossible, but he could breathe freely now while the water was still rushing all around him, filling his ears with a deafening roar. Then he reached the surface and he felt himself dragged against something hard, which gave away when his legs scrambled against it. The river bed, his feet must have been hitting the river bed.

He was dragged out of the water and someone started to frantically check for his vital signs. He blinked and coughed, trying to help them along with their diagnosis, proving that he was alive and unhurt. Then he started shivering violently. Someone knelt down beside him, pushing him onto his right side and started to yank at the handcuffs. He heard a click and pulled at his arms, rolling onto his back again. The first warmth he felt since hitting the water were two large hands on his face and soft lips that were pressed against his. He gasped into the kiss, a tingle spreading from his lips and cheeks over the rest of his face as slowly the feeling returned into his body.

He opened his eyes and found Sherlock hovering over him, his hands having moved from his face to his throat, trying to share some warmth and checking his pulse at the same time. His face was stern, but John knew he was just holding back his emotions.

"Sherlock, let off!" Lestrade came running towards them, John could see him in the corner of his eyes, but he kept looking at Sherlock. He realised that he was shivering violently, his teeth clattering as he opened his mouth. As his blood started flowing freely again, he felt it burn his skin. It was utterly uncomfortable, but it reminded him of the burning of his face whenever Sherlock did something that made him blush.

"Sherlock, move away, now." Two paramedics started yanking at John's clothes, cutting open his jumper and ripping away at his shirt. When he was turned rather roughly onto his side and the bullet proof west was pulled off him, he saw Lestrade huff out a relieved breath. "Jesus, John, you lucky son of a bitch!" He actually laughed with relief, and Sherlock knelt down behind him, his hand on John's waist, soothing the icy skin. "Just a bruise, John, it's just a bruise."

"Get him out of here," Lestrade ordered and John was lifted onto a stretcher and carried over to a police boat. He was heaved on deck and told to stay put. Just when the paramedics had climbed on board with him and moved him into a small cabin and started to undress him, Sherlock appeared in the door. "Out," he ordered, making the two men look at him startled. "I'll do it."

"We have orders," the older of the two men started, but Sherlock's gaze hardened.

"And I am giving you the order to leave, now."

The man looked at his colleague and then pulled out his walkie talkie, asking for advice. A familiar voice on the other end advised them to do what the strange impatient man told them. John had to chuckle, watching relief wash over Sherlock's face, but only so long as the two men were staring at each other uncomprehending. When they looked back at Sherlock, his mask had reappeared.

"It's f..f..fine," John said, his teeth clattering. "He knows ...w...w...what he's doing."

"Fine, whatever." The two men were clearly not happy with the proceedings, but John was certainly glad when Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"John, are you okay?" It had taken merely a second for him to become the man John had gotten to know over the past days.

"Jus..t..c..c...cold," he shuddered and Sherlock removed his own coat and started to undress John. He was very efficient, and soon John was completely naked. John started to feel warm again when Sherlock looked down on his naked form, obviously considering the body heat sharing option, but then he grabbed a towel and started rubbing at John's clammy skin. Eventually Sherlock sat down next to him and pulled him towards him until he sat on Sherlock's lap, facing him. Sherlock wrapped the towel around his shoulders and started rubbing again. John opened Sherlock's jacket and started to clumsily unbutton his shirt. It had been hard with the bandages, and now that his fingers were frozen stiff it was even harder, but John decided that he would not give up on that. And he finally succeeded, opening the shirt wide and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's upper body, feeling him shiver when his icy skin met Sherlock's heated body.

They stayed like this for a while, but even Sherlock's body heat and his rubbing couldn't quite return the heat to his own body. Sherlock smiled and kissed his blue lips until he was satisfied that they were not cold anymore. Then he grabbed a blanket from the bench next to them and wrapped it around John. "Better?" he asked, kissing John's cheek. John nodded and buried his face in the nape of Sherlock's neck. He hoped that nobody would interrupt them any time soon.

But of course he was being silly. They would take him to the hospital soon, and he needed to get into proper warm clothes and drink some very badly needed tea. The knock was definitely Lestrade's knock, and John thought for a second that he wouldn't mind for him to see them like this. But then he thought that Donavan might be with him. He hadn't seen her, but he was sure that she must have been around.

Sherlock sighed and moved back, giving John the chance to untangle himself from Sherlock. He stood up, helping John to rise, but just as he wanted to move to open the door, Sherlock went down on his knees again and pushed John's legs apart. With a sigh he drew his thumb over the love bite and then leaned in to plant a soft kiss on the reddened skin. John cleared his throat, for the first time glad to feel so miserably cold. At least he would not get an erection.

Pulling the blanket tighter around himself, he walked to the door, leaving Sherlock kneeling where he was. It was indeed Lestrade, and the two paramedics.

"John, we're going to take you over the river and get you to St. Bart's. I know that you probably hate the place by now, but we'll have someone check on your injuries and make sure you are not going to fall ill."

John just nodded. He didn't care as long as he got to go home at some point soon and could cuddle up naked with Sherlock.

Sherlock moved to sit on the bench, watching them with interest. "Could you bring the clothes?" he asked, his request apparently directed towards Lestrade.

"Right, yes. I'll be right back and then we're off." He turned away, leaving the two medical men standing outside, a little unsure of what to do now. John nodded at them and closed the door in their faces, finding Sherlock grinning when he turned back around.

He sat down next to Sherlock and took his hand, lifting the blanket and placing it on his inner thigh. Sherlock's eyes were locked with his and he could swear that he saw them change colour when he let him touch him.

The boat rocked when it started to move and Sherlock carefully withdrew his hand just before the door opened without a warning knock, Lestrade covering his eyes with one hand, holding a bag in his other, and dropping it unceremoniously on the ground just to close the door again.

John was sure everyone on the boat heard their roaring laughter.

John did not stay the night at St. Bart's. He simply refused to stay. Sherlock had not said a single word, but John was sure that if anyone had disagreed with him, he would have made them a head shorter.

He was, however, completely exhausted when they finally came home. John had not asked what had happened to Moriarty, or anybody else for that matter, and Sherlock had not started to tell him, so he figured that the problem was solved. He let himself fall on the couch and lifted an arm in the direction of the kitchen. "Sherlock?" It was all he had to say, and Sherlock understood. He made him tea and then sat down, taking John's hands into his. The doctor had removed the bandages, and the only plaster that was left was the one covering the cut on John's right hand. Only for that it had been worth going to the hospital, that, and the hot shower. He smiled, but a yawn interrupted him. Sherlock carefully examined the wounds on John's fingers, carefully drawing his own over them. It tickled, and more than once John winced, but he let it happen.

"Why do you want to get drunk with Lestrade tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, turning his hand over, examining his knuckles.

John wasn't even surprised by the sudden question. "Because I need to do this. He's been so worried, and such a great help." Sherlock looked at him sceptically, but didn't say a word. "And we've been driving him mad, so I want to give him a chance to complain about it properly without you giving him a piece of your mind."

"I'm not invited then?" he asked, and John wasn't quite sure whether the disappointment in his voice was an act or mockery.

"You can come if you promise to not try and embarrass me, or him. If you can promise that I'll make it through the day without blushing once, then yes, you're invited."

Sherlock bit his lip, considering the offer. Then he grinned slyly and leaned in for a kiss. "I haven't decided yet," he announced.

John smiled and leaned against Sherlock, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry, but I think I have to sleep."

"Of course you do. Come on, I'll take you to bed."

Sherlock stood up and pulled John with him, up the stairs and into the bathroom. He prepared John's toothbrush and handed it to him. When John opened his mouth to say something, Sherlock lifted his chin and said, "this also falls into the category of tell anyone and you die."

John giggled and started to brush his teeth. When he was done, he carefully washed his face and then started to undress. He was so happy that he could use his hands properly again that he took the time to carefully open each button as if he might break it otherwise. Sherlock watched him, and John could see how he grew more impatient by the second.

"Are you going to sleep as well?" John asked, stopping at the lowest button, watching as Sherlock inhaled deeply and dragged his eyes up to his face. "No, but I'll go to bed with you. I have some work to do."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, you should take a break. Lestrade promised to ..." he stopped, realising that he had not actually planned on telling him about their agreement.

"I know, but John, do you remember what I told you about what touching you does to me? I've come up with a great number of theories concerning old cases and I need to work on them now before I delete the memories again."

"Is that so?" John smiled and yawned. "I hope they are not dangerous, though."

Sherlock grinned and stepped closer to open that last button for John. "No, they are not dangerous. Just complex, and some of them too obvious, so obvious in fact that I missed the important points."

He smiled as Sherlock continued with his trousers. "When I wake up tomorrow," John announced as he stepped out of the pile of his clothes on the ground, "I will be the one who gets to explore."

Sherlock smirked and started to undress. "I'll make sure to wake you up early."

"Good," he smiled and walked past his half dressed lover, dragging himself into Sherlock's room, dropping on the bed like a rock. Instead of moving up the bed to properly lie on it, he grabbed Sherlock's pillow and pushed it under his face, inhaling deeply.

The last thing he felt before falling asleep was a kiss being pressed to the small of his back and then slightly lower, and he wished that morning would come soon.

Fin

A.N. Alright, that's is for part three. There will eventually be more, but not for a while. Thank you everyone who commented and encouraged me. I'm very glad to know that my little story - which turned out to be anything but little - was entertaining :) Thank you very much for reading and commenting!

xxx

Daysofstorm