He had spotted the murderer.

A serial Killer to make it more accurate. Victims: 22. Sherlock was 23.

Sherlock bolted after the man. John had been long left behind. Lost in the night lights of London.

He had been chasing him for almost twenty minutes now and his lungs burned as he gasped for frigid air, his legs stretched with fire as he continued to sprint.
He loved it.
Every muscle of his body told him to stop. To give up. To at least slow down.
He didn't. After losing sight of the Killer for a moment which seemed like an eternity he finally found him and gave in one last kick. Like a race horse he sped up. Closing the distance between them in an inhuman amount of time.

Sirens were whirring in the distance, closing in fast. Five minutes away. At most.

The Killer was running towards the pier. How was this guy so damn fast?!

Sherlock followed and blocked the only escape. The Bastard was surrounded by Water and a pissed off Socio-path.

"I suggest you surrender." Sherlock managed to choke out between gasps, but he was pleased to see the Killer breathing heavily too, perhaps more than himself.

"Not likely, Mate." In a flash of Silver, a knife was pointed at Sherlock's neck.

"How Dull." Sherlock rolled his eyes with a loud sigh. How typical. Rushing forward, The Killer made to swipe the dagger across Sherlock's midsection. With practiced precision, Sherlock ducked out of the way and tackled the much larger thug to the wooden planks with enough force to shake the pier.

They scrambled at each other desperately; Sherlock's main focus the knife, the Killer's the sirens. Sherlock grateful for the practice he had growing up with his sometimes brute of a Brother, layered blow after blow on the muscular rock beneath him. He aimed mostly for the face and throat, the most vulnerable points he could reach at the moment as he still clutched the wrist clenched around the knife aiming for his heart.

The sirens were getting closer, three minutes now.
Sherlock continued to berate the young man beneath him, hoping to finally knock him unconscious. And all of a sudden it seemed he had succeeded. One last blow for good measure.

He did it. Sherlock won.

That was until the Killer shot up and head-butted Sherlock so hard his ears rang. He flopped on to his back, dangerously close to the edge of the pier. Without missing a beat, the Killer surged forward and grabbed Sher-lock raining blows on his thin form until he heard bones break. He wouldn't stop.

Sherlock fought viciously, keeping the hand with the knife at bay with both of his, forcing himself to accept the blows. Over and Over again. His face, his throat, his stomach, his chest. A particularly hard hit to the ribs dou-bled his body over itself as he heard a sickening crack. The Killer stood up and kicked Sherlock down onto the planks, slamming his boot against his face, thrusting it into his groin and driving it into his ribs and back. The berating continued for what seemed like hours, the huge foot planting itself wherever it pleased. With an air of finality, The Killer lifted his momentous leg and crushed the thin thigh beneath him with many audible cracks, like wrapping paper. The pain was engulfing. Burning on the surface and plunging into twisted agony the deeper into his bones the blows fell. Breathing was becoming a chore. But then again:

Breathing is Boring.

The three minute beating felt like hours and Sherlock felt like giving up. His throbbing leg badly broken, He hadn't caught his breath and now with his lungs whining against shattered bone began to cause him severe dis-tress. And just when he was about to succumb he heard the voice of an angel.

John. A minute early.

"Sherlock!" His voice sounded so worried and Sherlock wanted desperately to call back but couldn't even form words with his lips.

Suddenly he was bathed in bright lights and the sound of many police officers rushing to him.

The Killer rose to his full height, a towering seven feet five inches, bringing Sherlock with him. He gripped him by the alabaster throat and held him high over his head, squeezing sickeningly tight as Sherlock's good leg flailed wildly, desperately to escape.

"One step closer and he's dead!" The Killer shouted and held out the knife for all to see.

They Froze. Rooted. Lestrade's voice rang out.

"Drop your weapon! Drop it now!" All guns pointed up and aimed for the Killer.

John was ahead of the entire group, still as a statue. He noticed Sherlock's limp leg and tried to determine the damage from his distance.

The Knife still in hand of a madman.

Lestrade's voice screamed so loud Sherlock could hear him clear as day even in his half-conscious haze.

The Killer feigned confusion.

"First you want me to drop the knife. Now you want me to drop him? Confusing lot you are." He smiled grossly and tightened his grip on both hands.

Sherlock gasped desperately, loudly. The noise was terrifying like a dying jaguar. John shined his torch to his slowly stilling friend, his lips were blue and quaking as his eyes began to roll.

"Drop everything in your hands now!" John shouted in frustration, Sherlock wouldn't last much longer and judg-ing by the amount of blood smeared across his face he has been fighting pretty hard. Or taking a pretty hard beating. His energy was depleting with his oxygen.

"Oh, I will," He sneered. Sherlock fell limp. "Just let me dispose of my evidence."

Many things happened at once.

As Lestrade screamed a final warning, the knife arched in a flash of silver in the night before plunging into Sher-lock who howled despite the lack of breath in his strangled lungs. John shot forward , enraged, to bring down the Killer with a quick bullet to the brain just as the Killer flung Sherlock, knife still inside him, over ten feet out into the Thames where he sunk like a boulder.

The rest of the team rushed forward in panic, guns at the ready as the Killer surrendered to Lestrade who beat him to the floor.

John ran for the pier, gun forgotten on the planks, he kicked off his shoes as he sprinted before diving head first into the freezing black water.

Instantly all sound was drowned out, all sight, all sensations. The water enveloped him in a painful, numb, throb-bing vortex, dragging him under as it promised the kiss of relief if he were to just let go.

His eyes shot wide in the liquid dark as he clawed his way through the mind-numbing water searching frantically for Sherlock. He swam further and then deeper for many long moments before his lungs began to burn for Oxygen's sweet relief. He surged up, knowing he was leaving his best friend somewhere in the bottom of the Thames and he immediately was torn in two at the overwhelming pain of selfishness. He burst through the sur-face with a scream on his lips, "I can't find him!"

"KEEP LOOKING THEN." Lestrade yelled across the water as he was still attempting to restrain the Killer. Only then did John realize how far he had swam. John was at last 15 feet from the pier. He had probably passed Sherlock.

John cursed and quickly paddled his way through the icy water that was becoming more and more difficult to fight. He drew in a breath before diving back under and forcing himself deeper and deeper until his ears popped and his lungs begged for breath but he would not leave again. If John left for air he would never find Sherlock again.

So he fought through the water, opened his eyes uselessly in the murk and cried endlessly, adding warm tears to the frozen silence surrounding him.

And as his heart grew cold with the realization that Sherlock was gone forever, lost in the cold, scared and alone, John began to swim up for his lungs were threatening to burst.
He opened his eyes to look up at the moon reflecting over the water, the blue light glistening and flashing across the surface of the black water and he thought to himself, at least Sherlock would have a beautiful last sight. It didn't make the hurt any less. With his last shred of hope gone and the tears of losing his only friend flowing faster than ever he swam even quicker to the surface, the idea of being in the same water as his dead friend sending shivers down his spine.

Only six more feet or so and then-

His fingers brushed wool.

He reached down in shock and snatched up the woolen collar, finding his way to wrap his arms around the limp figure and surge upwards. His tears turning to joy.

They broke the surface together, Only one took a breath.

A/N: Should I continue? ~Lizzie