"Are you alright?"
It was a sentence after his own heart, Sherlock decided. He used it so much he felt like he could claim ownership to it.
It was an ambiguous sentence really, he realised.
You could ask someone if they were alright, but logically the chances are that they would lie and say "Yes" they were, when they really were not. Nobody was really 'alright' at any time anyway. There was always something to worry about, some stupid little human problem that people played over and over in the minds and fretted about and turned into an even bigger problem that it was.
Having said that, it was a comfort to say it and hear a "yes" or even a response at all.
He'd heard it from so many people over the years. Mother, Father, Mycroft, but so far, his favourite yes has been from John.
John Watson.
His doctor, his colleague, his friend.
He'd been nervous, even a little scared before John, dear God John, had walked into the pool room decked out in enough explosives to take down a house, but oh God was he terrified when it happened. It had been unexpected and most certainly unwelcome, and for a minute, Sherlock's brilliant mind, always so resilient and closed off to human emotions, had gone blank save for one thought.
John.
John, John, John, John, John.
Please God, let him live, anyone but him.
He wasn't a religious man, yet there he was, praying to a God that he was 99.9% sure didn't even exist.
He could tell John was shaking and he wanted to reach out and grab his hand and tell him "It's going to be okay," even if it wasn't, because he couldn't bear to see the ex military man reduced to a trembling, horror struck young boy. He didn't though.
He stood stock still, gun still aimed and ready at Moriarty, wanting so badly to wipe the smug grin off of his face, but he couldn't.
Then, so suddenly it had seemed as if the man had changed his mind, he had gone and Sherlock had reached out to his friend for the first time, trying to convey his feelings and the promise of safety in all but one look.
He'd ripped the bomb from his back and his boswell had joked, which had surprised Sherlock, but also sent relief coursing through his veins at the same time. The feeling of euphoria of the escape they had just made didn't last long.
Sherlock and John soon found the lasers of half a dozen guns aimed at their chests, and the same puddle of fear dropped into both their stomachs. Sherlock didn't see a way out alive. He was a scientific man; he worked on facts and with what he had in front of him, and what he had in front of him didn't look altogether promising. John however, was a man of faith and belief, and if there was one thing he believed in, it was Sherlock Holmes.
The rest, as they say, is history, and as they stood outside 221B Baker Street, leant against the door, dripping wet and panting heavily, John turned to Sherlock, squeezing his hand in the process, and asked the immortal question.
"Are you alright?"
Sherlock grinned.
"Yes John, I'm fine."
The sound of their joint laughter rang into the night air, and if you'd looked out of your window if you were lucky enough to live on Baker Street, you'd see two very lucky and fine men indeed.