Sherlock barely flinched at the sound of another gunshot and was only surprised not to feel more pain.

He was even more surprised to hear running feet, then Lestrade's voice, angry. "Sherlock! What were you thinking? What are you doing up there like a sitting duck?"

Not even questioning what had happened to Moran, Sherlock only had one thing on his mind. "Lestrade! Quick! Turn off the water!"

"What? Oh, Christ." Lestrade had come around the corner and caught sight of the monitor. He gaped for only a second before shouting into his radio, "Someone get that water turned off!"

He started for the ladder, but stopped when Sherlock snapped, frantic. "There's no door. How can we get him out of there? How much time do we have?"

Lestrade looked desperately around the room, and sprinted toward a crowbar discarded by the wall as a team of officers swarmed in the door. He looked at the monitor screen as he came back, and shouted "Not much!" as he climbed the ladder.

Sherlock snatched the crowbar from his hands and started attacking the only thing in sight—the water pipe leading into the corner of the room. He swung at it, beat it with the iron, knowing it wouldn't be enough, but unable to think of anything else to do.

His last swing broke the pipe, freeing the water to cascade out, onto the roof, down the wall, but still, too much of it poured straight down into the prison cell beneath him. There was nothing to divert the flow. Except for one thing.

Bracing himself for the pain, he flung himself across the broken pipe, taking the brunt of the water on his back, in his stomach, blocking the pipe to keep any more water from getting into the room. Water pounded him into the broken edge of the pipe, filling his ears, his mouth with water. He struggled to breathe, but refused to move—couldn't move—under the force as water streamed and poured in torrents around him. It was an eternity of pain, one that he welcomed. He would happily absorb any amount of punishment if it would save John.

Then the water stopped abruptly and he gasped for air as he felt Lestrade pulling him up, away from the pipe. Sherlock took a moment to shake the water from his ears and then realized Lestrade was leaning toward the pipe, calling John's name.

Sherlock lunged for the corner, crowbar in hand, and started digging at the masonry, trying to force an opening, working from the point where the pipe entered. He tried not to think about how much water was already in the room. He tried not to think how long John could tread water. In short, he tried not to think. All he could do was beat at his best friend's prison and shout his name.

He was dimly aware of other raised voices and the sound of machinery, but his mind was awash with fear and water. He longed to look at the monitor, to see if John was still alive, but he couldn't tear himself away from the rescue operation. He needed to be here, right here, fighting for John.

He forced a hole—a terrifyingly small, wretched, useless hole—and leaned down, trying to look, trying to hear movement inside. (Please, let there be movement.) "John! Please, John!"

Thankfully, he heard a weak splash from inside and he reached his arm as far as he could into the hole. "John! Take my hand!" He could have cried with relief when he felt a weak hand grab his. His fingers tightened. "Hold on, John! We're here. I've got you."

Sherlock barely registered the swarm of people around him, bearing better tools, as they started to drill into the roof. He clung to his friend's hand as he heard orders from another team working on the ground, battering through the walls, making holes for the water to drain.

A rush of water roared from below as the wall finally gave way. The water level started to drop and suddenly, John's hand was pulled from his and he tried not to panic. Then he heard a voice shouting that they could see him and, like a flash, he was down the ladder, not even noticing the pain in his arm.

#

John treaded water, forcing his limbs to move, but he knew he wouldn't be able to do this for long. The floating wrappers kept washing into his face, covering his mouth as he tried to breathe, and he just didn't have the strength to keep this up for long.

He reached an arm up and touched the ceiling. His only hope would be to find the trap door he was sure was up there. If he could force it open, he could still have a chance.

But, no. There was none. What he could reach of the ceiling was as featureless as the walls and floor.

There was no way out.

There was a brief surge of panic but, he consoled himself, in a matter of minutes that wouldn't matter. There was only about a foot of air left and at the rate the water was rising, he would be completely surrounded by water in a matter of moments.

And then the water stopped rising. He felt a surge of relief, but it didn't last long. He was too tired. The adrenalin that had helped him stay afloat (that old, familiar rush) was dissipating, washing away in the water. Why bother fighting? He could count his lifespan at this point by the minute. What difference did it make whether it was one or ten more?

Then the banging started, jerking him awake so that he hit his head on the too-close ceiling. Was that his name he heard? It was but it made no sense to his assaulted senses, because it sounded like Sherlock, and wasn't he dead? John distinctly remembered that Sherlock was dead and almost smiled, because he was obviously closer to his friend now than he had been for this long, dark eternity.

There was an odd glimmer to his side and he blinked, water splashing in his face as he realized—it was light. Day of riches, his world suddenly not only had a surfeit of water and a multitude of noises, but now light as well. If he hadn't been so tired, he would have gone into sensory overload.

John was sure, now, that he heard his name, entreating for his hand. Dead or no, he could never resist Sherlock's commands and so he summoned the last dregs of his energy before they dissolved away and stretched out his hand, knowing it was futile. Knowing he was probably dead—that they were both dead—but somehow relieved that, either way, his time in limbo was over and Sherlock was there.

The hand that grasped his was real. Warm, strong fingers clutched at his as he heard his name called over and over, with reassurances in that familiar baritone voice he'd never expected to hear again. It was worth dying just to hear it, and he smiled, just as everything started to drop away and everything went black once again.

#

"Christ, look at him. I'll never forgive myself."

"At least you tried, Lestrade, but this was a trap set for me. If it's anybody's fault, it's Mycroft's for not telling me sooner."

"That doesn't matter. I should never have given up. He was here all that time, waiting for us."

John frowned. The voice was familiar, even welcome, but it wasn't the one he'd expected to hear. He tried to open his eyes, but the light was so brilliant, so unfamiliar. Painful. He clenched them closed again and tried to make sense of the chaos around him.

Voices, for one. Lots of them, along with the bustle of footsteps as people hurried back and forth, calling orders and questions. Cool air from an oxygen mask blew into his nose, filling his lungs, and he felt the familiar pinch of an IV in his right hand, along with the unfamiliar weight of a blanket pulled up to his chin. He shifted slightly and tried to open his eyes again.

"John? Are you awake?" It was Greg's voice, full of concern.

He was blind, blinded as the light pierced eyes that had long-since forgotten how to see. He gave up for now, and clenched them closed, mind swimming in the chaos. "Greg?"

"Yeah, it's me, mate. Sorry it took so long."

"Bloody traffic," John said, trying to smile.

Someone clutched at his left hand and he turned his head, trying again to force his long-unused eyes to see. He squinted at the blinding light, haloing around a head of dark curls that he hadn't expected to see again. But then, he'd always known Sherlock was on the side of angels. Why should it surprise him to see him look like one?

"Guess I didn't make it," he mumbled, but then stopped, confused. If he was dead, how was he talking to Greg? Would he hurt this much if he was dead?

"You did, John. Don't worry."

John felt his forehead crease in his confusion. That was definitely Sherlock's voice, and that on top of all the stresses of a very full day was too much. Secure in the knowledge that he was being cared for—on whichever side of life and death he was on—he let himself fall back into the familiar darkness.

#

Things were clearer the next time he woke up. He lay with his eyes closed, relishing the feel of crisp sheets beneath him and the simple feeling of being clean himself. He remembered that he'd been kidnapped. He remembered being kept for an indefinite eternity of time in his dark, familiar cell. And he remembered that he'd been rescued—fairly dramatically, too. He smiled to himself at the thought. Sherlock would have relished it, with his taste for the melodramatic.

He heard voices and carefully opened his eyes, grateful that it wasn't painful, then realized there was a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose, dimming the unfamiliar light. His eyes were out of practice, though. Everything was blurry, but he could see the shapes of the two men quarreling at the foot of his bed.

"All in all, the doctors are quite pleased with his condition. It could have been much worse." That was Mycroft, voice smooth and oily as if he were trying to exude calm.

"Worse!" It was a familiar verbal explosion and John almost smiled, reminded again of Sherlock. "He's lost at least three stone, has been locked in that dark little cell for months being tortured by sensory deprivation, and then almost drowned. He is anything but fine, Mycroft."

"Yes, but he is alive, he is whole, and he will be well, Sherlock."

"No thanks to you," the familiar voice snapped with a bite he had only ever used with his brother.

John blinked and squinted, trying to force his eyes to focus. It couldn't really be Sherlock, could it? Maybe he had finally snapped and was imagining all this? "Sherlock?"

Both figures turned abruptly toward him. "John? You're awake." Such relief in the familiar voice.

"Am I?" he asked, confused. "But you're dead."

The blurry figure shook its head and said gently, "No, I'm not. Neither are you, though it was close."

"Never was much of a swimmer," John said softly. "Sorry."

Sherlock took his hand, his fingers reassuringly warm and familiar. John held tight. "That's hardly your fault. I'm sorry it took so long to find you, John."

John winced at the pain in his voice. "Coming back from the dead is quite the journey, I hear."

A soft, muffled noise, half-sob, half-laugh. "So is being reborn. But if I'd known you needed me, I would have hurried. Believe me, John," he turned his head toward the other man, and said, voice sharp, "I would have come instantly. I would have moved heaven and earth to find you."

John shook his head. "I thought that's what you did."

Even with his blurry vision, he could see the smile that spread across his friend's face.

To his dazzled eyes, it shone like the sun.

##
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