[BioLock]

The bridge sways, wobbles, is generally unsteady, and before I know it I am the only thing holding Sherlock above a very far fall. We’re both breathing heavily, and if he weren’t so damn tall, so damn heavy, if I weren’t so damn weak, I’d just yank him up.

But he is that tall and heavy, and I am that weak, so I just hang on as best as I can. Somehow, all I can think of is how wrong this all is: I should be on the ground and Sherlock should be a million miles up, falling, falling, and I’m trying to find a pulse and this whole I’m just wishing– “John?” My name has somehow replaced the word for “help” in Sherlock’s brain. “John, would you kindly pull me up?” On instinct, my body summons every last ounce of strength it has, and I yank Sherlock over the edge of the wavering platform. Apparently, not all of the mental conditioning is gone.

There’s a chilled look in ice eyes, “You saw it too?” I whisper hoarsely– had I been screaming?

“I saw something.” A distracting pause. “They’re getting more vivid. We need a cure.”

Gunshots sound in the nearby distance, we are on instant alert. There’s the clank of heavy, unrefined machinery and the dull deafening of a primeval shotgun. Two figures can be made out, sprinting toward us, and I’m instantly on my feet, fever dreams forgotten, holding my wrench as a weapon while electricity crackles through my veins.

“John, put the wrench down,” Sherlock starts, and when I don’t waver, he rips it from my hand and shoves it in his waistband. His face is determined and panicky. He recognizes them, somehow. “Nevermind, John, take the wrench back, get one of those hooks from a policeman’s arm.” My brain screams at me to ignore him, to stick right next to him and not leave, to hold his hand and run from the police, but I do as he says with a grumpy feeling. It’s only marginally harder to take out a policeman with a gun than a splicer with a gun, and soon I am in possession of my very own–… spinny hook thing. Sherlock gets one too, and he calls for me over the sound of gunshots that are fading in and out of sandy backdrops. My brain has quickly proven itself untrustworthy and easily confused: I could be in a dense cityscape or a seamless desert or a skyline suburbia, I can’t tell.

I remember very quickly where I am when Sherlock drags me off of the edge of the wavering bridge and we fall at least ten feet before catching on a railing. These spinny hook things are transportation. We are flying down this railing at at least sixty miles an hour, following the two figures that Sherlock seems to know. At least, we are until a giant bird made out of metal and cloth swoops in and wrecks the railing. After that, we are just flying down past the railing at who knows how fast, preceded narrowly by the two figures in front of us.

We hit water, warmer than the Atlantic, and with an artificial sway to it. The impact knocks the air from my lungs and, impulsively, I inhale too much water to spit back out. A current drags me one way, and I let it take me because I can’t even open my eyes to find up. When a set of thick, wool arms drag me another way, I am reminded of a well of bones, and the only difference is that there’s no chain here, just the dead weight of my body: this time, I am the dead one.

Soon enough I’m laid out on cool sand, barely grasping at the last vestiges of consciousness, there’s footsteps running and fading away, Sherlock’s voice grumbles from somewhere, disembodied. I am sat up, head supported, and a hand slams into my back jarringly. Once (gunshot in a college), twice (ricochet in a tunnel), thrice (explosion on a moor), four times (bullet wound through the chest call an ambulance keep pressure stay alive), and then a mouthful of water came up my trachea.

“John? John, look at me.”

“Hmm?” My eyes are bleary, and it’s dark enough that I can’t see much of anything past those glowing blue eyes.

“Good,” I am laid back down, but now I feel cold and miss the contact, even with the intermediary gloves, “I’m going to stop them. They have answers we need.”

“Comin’” I slur, starting to sit up on my own.

Sherlock literally pushes me back to the ground with a bundle of fabric, “Stay here, keep this, the both of you would just slow me down.” And he whirls around and sprints off into the night.

“Oh, come on Mike!” The old woman whines when I wake up, “Look at them, they’re so confused. We should just tell them.”

I try to sit up, only to find I already am sitting up, leaning heavily into sherlock’s side, his coat wrapped tightly around me. I find I can’t remember more than snatches of feelings: heavy water, cold sand, evanescent warmth. I’m shivering, and Sherlock is snarling something that goes unheard. The pair he was chasing are nowhere to be found.

“Well, I suppose it was going to happen whether we facilitated it or not,” the man concedes, crossing his arms and frowning good-naturedly.

“There’s the spirit.”

“But let’s keep it a surprise.” The man’s face morphs into a smirk.

The woman mimics him, clapping her frail-looking hands together. “You devil, I like the way you think.”

“You should, we’re our own inverses.”

“Can I tell them?” The woman begs with a tittering laugh.

“But–”

“It’s my turn, you got the hospital, remember?”

A heavy sigh, “Oh, fine.”

“Okay boys.” The old woman claps her hands and grins cheekily. “I want you to hold hands.”

Almost in unison, but a beat off, Sherlock and I stuttered “What?” When he realizes I’m awake, Sherlock is immediately distracted, and demands to know if I’m okay, I tell him I’m fine, don’t worry about it.

The woman breaks up the conversation, “Well I can’t very well do it for you. Just, um, well, Sherlock take off those gloves and John grab his hand.” When Sherlock began to begrudgingly remove one glove, she coaxes “There you go.”

Feeling more than a little watched, I tentatively reach for the long, thin fingers that had previously been encased in worn leather. The moment our bare skin touched, sparks flew all over my vision.

A cozy living room, a hospital, Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

There’s a million flashes of light, a million memories, and suddenly I’m shivering from something other than the cold. I can remember every time he smiled at me, every time he was angry, every time he pulled me close or pushed me away, every time he made me tea and every time he drank mine. I can remember chasing criminals down alleyways I have never seen and I can remember sitting at home with our daughter. I can remember how much I love him, and many things make much more sense.

Silence prevailed for about half a minute as both Sherlock and I really thought about what just happened.

Finally, he said “Yes, well, that does clear things up a bit.”

But Martha Hudson and Mike Stamford were gone.