If he hadn't been completely invested in getting himself free he would have spared a breath to shout at him, to tell him to get the hell away from the water. As it was, every last ounce of energy was going into cutting at the tangle of weeds despite the pain- intensifying, now, difficult to tell exactly where it was coming from anymore.

He floundered desperately, finally thrashing free of the weeds and doing his best to make it back towards Sherlock. Their eyes met just for a moment before the pain made him squeeze his shut- and all he could think was how much he hoped this wasn't going to be it. Dying here, with Sherlock just out of reach. Sherlock wouldn't forgive himself.

He kicked under the water violently, hoping he was propelling himself towards the edge and safety. He wasn't going to die here. He refused.