AN: I've gotten a few people saying that it's difficult to tell which part is in which time, and some people have been confused. I'm not going to change it because this is intentional. Sherlock is panicking and he is trampling about on things in his mind palace. It is understandable, and if you don't like it, I'm sorry.

It really wasn't his fault that no one had ever taught him how to swim. Mycroft really didn't care to spend all that much time around him, so Sherlock couldn't learn from him. Father really wasn't the teaching type, and Mummy didn't know how to swim herself. And honestly, it really wasn't something Sherlock cared too much about, so he couldn't be bothered to learn it, much like the names of people at school, or things about the solar system, or the right thing to say when someone was sad. Dull. Boring. Tedious. Irrelevant.

Sherlock still maintained it was Mycroft's fault.


At least 100 per minute.

One hundred. More than one per second. How many per second? Roughly 1.666667 compressions per second. Irrelevant. False! Relevant. Useless. Perhaps...

Thirty compressions, then two breaths. 30 compressions, 2 breaths. 30 comp, 2 breaths, 30 c, 2 b. 30, 2. 30/2. 30/2. 302. 302302302302302... His head was screaming numbers at him, facts, statistics, things he thought he's deleted but managed to all find their way back when they really were just not needed.

Breathe. Breathe. I take it all back. It's not boring. Please John? Please.

Please god, let me live.

That's what John told Sherlock he'd said last time he almost died. Did he have time to say it now? What was the last thing John had said? What did he have time to say?


Likely. A bit dull, but it made Sherlock feel special.

(Still be better if John didn't die and just focused on BLOODY BREATHING. Yes, that would be nice of him. )

Then there were other hands pushing him away, voices saying words that had no meaning, there was only John, John, John.

He was vaguely aware that he may have been shouting, screaming even, but all he really knew was that he was being pulled away from John and hands were grabbing him and holding him down.

Lestrade appeared in front of him oh hey Lestrade, when did you get here? A few minutes earlier would have been great, but really, what's a few minutes between drowning friends? Nice of you to come though... and called to him but the words still weren't making any sense whatsoever but Sherlock was pretty sure he stopped yelling around this time. Instead he was chanting JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn over and over and over and over...

He watched Mycroft pull the boy out of the pool. He was limp and small and his hair covered his face more than usual. Mycroft put his ear to the boy's chest and paused for a second that seemed far too long. He watched Mycroft's face crinkle in worry. There must have been nothing, because Mycroft tipped the boy's head back and pinched his nose and breathed into him.

Like kissing, six year old Sherlock noted, and almost giggled about, and would have if this wasn't serious and Mycroft didn't look so afraid.

Mycroft clasped his hands together and began pushing pushing pushing on the boy's chest. Sherlock was actually a little worried that Mycroft might hurt him, that the force of his shoving and squishing and compressing might cause the little boy to snap a bit.

Sherlock inched closer, both intrigued and terrified at the same time, wanting to get a better look and terrified that Mycroft would yell at him to go away.

But Mycroft did nothing, so focused on the pounding of the little boy and the occasional kiss to notice Sherlock perched next to him.

In fact, Sherlock was so interested in the pushing and kissing and the cycle of it all that it took him a while to look at the face of the little boy. The little boy that was him.

An interesting development.

Sherlock was wrapped in one of the orange shock blankets he so despised. He watched, rather detached, as John's body was examined, compressed just as he had done a moment before, thoroughly tubed, and then shocked, repeatedly. Every time he jumped, muscles all contracting at once, until finally, finally, the right muscles started functioning again.

He heard the first words that had made sense since he had jumped in the water.

He's got a pulse!

And Sherlock collapsed backwards onto the awaiting stretcher, exhausted, shivering, cold, and wet, and couldn't be bothered to wave away the hands that tucked in his hideous blanket and bundled him up for the trip to the hospital.

Sherlock would have liked a little more time to examine the situation he found himself in, but didn't seem to have much choice in the matter, and he was shoved, rather forcefully, back into his body. Dull. Because then he was coughing and coughing, water coming out of his lungs that most definitely that did not belong there, and he coughed so much that he threw up more water until he couldn't tell which was which.

And his chest ached because stupid fat Mycroft had been crushing it and it hurt, hurt, hurt, and breathing hurt, hurt, hurt and he was a mess, and Mycroft was a mess, and what would Mummy think about all this mess?

But Mycroft looked terrified, and Sherlock had never seen his brother look like that. He'd seen Mycroft look angry and sad and indifferent and even occasionally happy, but he had never even seen Mycroft scared, let alone terrified. So Sherlock focused on breathing for a minute, because it seemed like the easiest thing to do, and he noticed that the fear in Mycroft's eyes lessened with each breath he took unassisted, until Mycroft looked like himself again.

"I'm teaching you to swim tomorrow," Mycroft informed him stiffly.

Sherlock made no motion or sound of protest.

The next bit at the hospital and the getting there was rather blurry. Sherlock did recall allowing them to warm him up, but not cut his clothes off, because there was no damn way he was going to let them cut his good shirt off and everyone knew that all hell would break loose if that coat was damaged.

So instead, Lestrade helped him out of his soaking clothes, even as he shivered almost too hard to stand, then forced him into one of those idiotic hospital gowns and then under yet more of those hideous shock blankets. All, of course, under the promise that he could go see John as soon as he stopped shivering so violently that it appeared he was having a seizure.

It took far too long, in Sherlock's opinion.

Mycroft was a terrible teacher, all impatience and no encouraging words. It was extremely difficult for both of them and there were many arguments, usually devolving into name calling, which both of them were mildly embarrassed about later.

But Sherlock could swim. And that was that.

Sherlock finally got to see John. Mycroft must have pulled some strings but frankly, Sherlock didn't quite care at the moment. Lestrade made him go in a bloody wheelchair, which he argued about, but realized it would probably be for the best, because he realized just how exhausted he was. He put up a good show though.

John was still intubated, just to be safe, they said, but his heart was beating. It reassured Sherlock to watch it. Hear it. Feel it.

He wrapped his fingers around John's wrist and felt the comforting pulse whose absence had terrified Sherlock to no end. His hand was cold what kind of doctors are they that they let a patient freeze like this?

He knew what needed to be done. He was a detective after all. A consulting detective, the only one in the word; he invented the job. So when Lestrade left the room to go speak to the doctor or another police officer, or perhaps even just a random stranger, Sherlock extracted himself from the rather annoying wheelchair and exhausted all his energy slipping into bed next to John, extremely carefully as to not bump anything important. John curled almost imperceptibly towards his warmth and Sherlock inched closer to his flatmate. Lestrade and whatever anyone else think, be damned, Sherlock noted, closing his eyes. Now they can say we've slept together. Sherlock smiled a little bit, and drifted off, only vaguely noticing when Lestrade returned, but not bothering with him.

Lestrade snapped a photo for posterity and settled in an uncomfortable chair for the night, mildly jealous of how comfortable the two of them looked.

It was an odd scene, the army doctor and Sherlock's personal blogger unconscious and intubated with his self proclaimed sociopathic (bullocks, Lestrade thought) consulting detective flatmate curled up next to him.

But it was rather endearing, as Sherlock fell asleep with the hints of happiness on his face.