A/N: Sorry if it sucks. Nothing incredibly original. I just love these two and I had to write something for them. :D

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

A heart. Suddenly, Sherlock could feel it. Sleeping in his ribcage.

Located sub-sternal, center thoracic, superior to the stomach with the apex on the left side. He became aware of it working, desperately, perhaps futilely, pumping blood to his extremities, reminding him in the most fundamental way that he wanted to live. His grip on the gun became slightly firmer.

Maybe it was the madness of the moment, but his keen ears could almost hear the whining of his nervous system slip into a higher register.

Sherlock could feel the shorter man standing behind Moriarty almost as if he were part of his own body. He wasn't sure of his next play in this battle of intellects, but suddenly, he knew- with the clarity and precision of a scalpel- that he wanted that man to live as well.

"If you were dying, if you were murdered, in the very last seconds, what would you say?"
"Please God, let me live."
"Use your imagination."

"I don't have to."

Knives of memories of moments pulsed through his veins.

"Would caring about them help to save them?"
"No."
"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

John's look of disappointment.

His life had been in danger many times before, but this was different. This time he cared. The person on the other side of his nemesis was important to him in a way he had never experienced before. Not because Watson was extraordinary- he, Sherlock Holmes, was extraordinary. But more because John was the right blend of ordinary things. This person- prickly and matter-of-fact and loyal, who housed memories so dark they crept out of his nightmares and into his waking life, who still knew how to get high on danger, who would as risk his life for Sherlock as readily as he would shout irritably at him- was apparently a person he needed. For a moment, he felt like he had discovered an ocean in his stomach, overwhelmingly deep.

That moment of fervent eye contact, when John had latched on to Moriarty. His eyes said everything at once, said I'm willing to die for you, said If we live through this, I'm not going anywhere.

When Moriarty left, he couldn't contain himself- strange, this sudden loss of control, he thought- he lunged forward. A tiny, pathetic "Alright." was all he could muster at first. Then, his voice returned- "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT."
There was no logical reason why John would be hurt. But he needed to know. Sherlock flung the bomb as far away as possible.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Sherlock. Jesus..."
John started in on his familiar, defensive mumbling. It almost made everything seem normal again. He knew then that yeah, everything was alright.
He stepped out for a moment, collected himself, and walked back to where John was collapsed against a stall. Adding to a growing stack of firsts happening that night, Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite sure what to say.