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"Don't you see her?"
"See who Sherlock?" James asked his friend, half exasperated, half deeply concerned.
"The girl," Sherlock replied urgently, pointing. "Out on the ice."
James peered out over the empty lake, the moon reflecting off the frozen surface. There was no one there.
Sherlock had been acting strangely ever since they'd returned to his childhood home--staring at nothing, jumping at shadows. James had thought he'd just been haunted by ghosts of the past, being back in this big old manor house, surrounded by memories. Figurative ghosts. He hadn't thought Sherlock had actually been seeing things. Until now.
"There's no one there Sherlock," James said carefully, laying a hand tentatively on his friend's shoulder.
"No!" Sherlock snapped back. "She's right there. She's going to fall in."
Before James could do or say anything else Sherlock broke away and sprinted out onto the ice.
"Sherlock. Sherlock!" James ran down to the edge, hesitant to follow as Sherlock raced across the slick surface, feet skidding as he made for the center of the lake. "Sherlock, stop!"
He watched in horror as fine lines appeared beneath his friend's feet, running out in a fractured pattern. The loud crack of the ice breaking was sharp as a gunshot in the cold night. Then James watched in horror as the surface gave way and Sherlock disappeared from view in an instant, plunging into the frigid water, his shout of surprise and fear swallowed up by the dark.
James cried out as well as he bolted onto the lake after his friend, skirting the cracks and circling around, then lowering himself to his belly and inching along the ice until he reached the gaping hole that Sherlock had vanished into. He peered down into the water, but even with the bright moonlight, it was pitch black and he could see nothing. He reached his arm down, gasping in shock, the water so cold it burned. He felt around frantically for Sherlock but his hand came back empty.
With a grumble and a curse, James took a deep breath then slid headfirst into the black water. His body instantly seized up, his brain momentarily short-circuiting with the shock of the temperature. He was sinking, sinking, blind to anything beneath the ice. Then he came to his senses and panicked, lashing out frantically as he tried to kick his way back to the surface. His flailing hands connected with something solid and James recoiled in surprise before his muddled brain remembered why he was down there in the first place. Sherlock.
James kicked his legs again, sideways this time, and reached out, fumbling until he got hold of a fistful of what he assumed was Sherlock's jacket. He pulled him closer and wrapped his arms around the young man's chest, uneasy with how limp and unresponsive he felt, then propelled them both upwards, upwards, towards the hole of moonlight wavering above them.
At last James' head broke the surface of the lake, and he gasped in a frigid breath that clawed its way down his throat. He hauled Sherlock up beside him, limp and heavy, head lolling on his chest. He wasn't sure if he was breathing. It didn't feel like it.
James muttered a curse and grabbed for the edge of the jagged hole, hand scrabbling on the ice. He wadded a corner of Sherlock's jacket in one fist, then used his other arm to pull himself onto the edge, terrified with every second that the ice would further crack, collapse under his weight, trap them both in this wretched lake for good. Thankfully it held and with a strength he didn't know he possessed, he was able to haul himself up out of the water. Once out, he flattened himself on the ice and with arms trembling from exertion, pulled Sherlock's soaked, frozen, dead weight up and out and alongside him.
James rolled over and lay on his back, catching his breath for just a moment as he stared up at the inky black sky and the millions of stars high above. Then he scrambled up and grabbed Sherlock under the arms and began to drag him back to shore. He shouted for help, his voice hoarse and carried away by the wind, but they were too far from the house for anyone to hear. James was shivering violently, the icy wind cutting through him like a knife, his feet slipping on the slick surface, but he didn't slow down.
At last they reached the shore and James collapsed backwards into the snow, Sherlock limp on top of him. He rolled him off with a grunt and pressed his ear to his friend's chest but felt nothing. He held a trembling hand beneath his nose but felt no breath. He leaned back on his heels and studied Sherlock’s face for a moment. The young man was pale and still, so still, water dripping off his eyelashes, ice already forming in his eyebrows.
James screamed futilely for help in the direction of the house once again, then placed both hands on Sherlock’s chest and pressed down hard. Nothing happened. He leaned all his weight forward and again pushed hard against Sherlock’s chest, hoping to somehow force water out of his lungs. He then leaned over and placed his mouth over his friends’—his lips were ice cold against his own. James blew a great puff of air into Sherlock’s mouth, hoping it would somehow make it down his throat. Then he straightened and placed his hands on the young man’s chest yet again and pressed down hard, once, twice, three times. His lips back over Sherlock’s. Another breath of air. Repeat. Repeat.
Until suddenly—
Sherlock jerked off the ground, expelling a large gush of water from his mouth, then coughing raggedly.
James sagged backwards in relief. “Sweet Jesus.”
He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and eased him onto his side as the young man coughed and gagged and spewed up half the lake, eyelids fluttering, fingers grasping weakly at the ground. At last he quieted as he slipped into unconsciousness.
He was shivering now too, violently, fingertips turning blue as he lay in the snow. James hurriedly peeled his water-logged jacket, already growing stiff with frost, from his body and tossed it aside. Next he stripped off the white shirt underneath and then began rubbing his hands vigorously up and down Sherlock's arms and across his chest. He screamed again for help, praying that someone from the house could hear him—but still no one came.
If you want something done right…” James muttered as he got stiffly to his feet, legs shaking. He placed his hands beneath Sherlock’s knees and shoulders and lifted him off the ground with a grunt. He took a deep breath as he looked down at his friend, pale and shivering and dangling limply in his arms.
Thank God he was alive. Thank God.
He’d heard that Sherlock didn’t have any friends. But maybe that was why they worked so well together. Because he may have been Sherlock’s only friend, but Sherlock was the only friend he had too. And he needed him to be okay.
James pulled Sherlock tighter to his chest and determinedly began trudging through the snow back up to the house to get help.