Something warm and unknown pooled from underneath him —alarmingly chilling—and despite his every intention, he could not move. A force was grabbing at his arms and pulling from all directions, and as he thrashed about looking for an escape, his head merely swam in darkness. Slowly but surely, what was a black conscience, grew even darker—his vision being completely disabled. Sherlock had never experienced such a state of darkness before. The very thought of it sent his heart plummeting and his brow to sweat.

John—was all he could think of. I have to get to John—Sherlock waved his arms in a desperate attempt to wade to his injured colleague-

no...his FRIEND-

Much to his dismay, the harder he swam the less he seemed to accomplish anything; the grip on his shoulders and legs only becoming tighter and tighter. Sherlock's natural response to analyze and deduce what he could from his situation seemed to escape him—his brain shut off to everything and anything other than what he was doing at that moment, and that was to find John.

He could hear John, yes. He could hear his shallow breathing, his whimpering in the very near distance. It was a soft, pleading sob that rose and fell in intensity and emotion, wailing like a ghost; calling his very name. Sherlock swallowed hard, tasting a coppery, hot, and sticky fluid in his throat.

Nothing frightens Sherlock Holmes. Nothing,

except for this…

Sherlock gathered every ounce of strength he could find within him, and used it to turn his brain back on. With just a mental click, thoughts flooded back into Sherlock's mind, lighting the darkness that surrounded him. Instantly, he deduced that the bomb had indeed gone off. Had he really shot that semtek vest? Apparently so—judging by the smell of burnt flesh and hair, and of smoke. He however, couldn't understand why he was still alive—surely the blast would have killed both he and John almost as soon as it happened?

And Moriarty, Sherlock scowled, though no one could see his expression. If he was still alive, then does that mean Moriarty was alive as well? Sherlock attempted to frown, but it was too painful to do so. The bomb had gone off. He needed to find John. Where the bloody hell was he? Sherlock struggled. Were his eyes open? He couldn't tell. Everything was so dark—perhaps he'd gone blind?

A scream rose from within the darkness, and sent chills down Sherlock's spine. Even though it was blood-curdled, he could recognize the voice very well. Sherlock's mind went frantic for a moment, and despite every ache and pain within him he cried out, hearing his own, deep and rigid voice for the first time since...since when? He sounded awful-

"John? John? Where are you," Sherlock's voice soon became shrill, compensating for the lack of movement his body had so grudgingly befit upon him. The pain was overwhelming all of a sudden, and he could for a few seconds hear only the blood in his ears; feel the broken and shattered bones in his body as he lie on his back on the wet tile floor; the hot blood on his face and hands—In such a rush as the pain hit him, he did his best to roll onto his side so he did not choke while he wretched a mixture of blood and whatever it was he had for supper.

Dizzy; exhausted... his mind fogged over again, but he could hear John screaming still—screaming bloody murder. What was happening to him? Sherlock begged, and as he tried to call out again. His throat betrayed him. What was supposed to be a shout for his comrade, turned into some pitiful hiccup-like sound; he began to sob between shouts. Unable to move—to locate or help John—Sherlock continued to call out to him until after what he considered to, in fact, have been forever. Slowly, against his every fiber of will and determination, he lost consciousness— John's now soft moans fading with it.

Another nightmare...

John hugged his pillow as best as he could, even if just for a few moments longer. He could hear Sherlock. He was having another nightmare... about that night at the pool. Poor Sherlock... As often as he had tried to tell him that the events of that night were not his fault, Sherlock just wouldn't hear it. They had both already recovered from thier initial injuries- broken bones, severe burns- But Sherlock kept on getting nightmares, re-living the worst of that night.

Lestrade, upon Mycroft and Sarah's advice, and upon the news of the explosion, had gone out with a team of men. They arrived only a few minutes after the explosion- though, John admits- It felt like forever.

They said, later, as both he and Sherlock recovered in a pair of hospital beds, that they never found any traces of the ghosts that haunted them that night. No snipers, gunmen... no Moriarty.

nothing but he and Sherlock, lying broken, burned, and bleeding amidst shrapnel and flames...

John sighed, and sat up. He could still feel the sorness of his burns, the brittleness of his hardly-healed bones. Placing his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands, he breathed deeply. He could hear Sherlock still. The quiet, agitated groans and sobs of a man who everyone thought had no heart. John knew that was a stupid assumption. Of course Sherlock had a heart. People are stupid. John smirked to himself- he could imagine Sherlock saying such a thing- so stupid.

John heaved a sigh once more, and rose out of bed and put the tea kettle on. He walked into Sherlock's room, to try and comfort him as he had done many times within the past six months. He pulled up a chair to the restlessly sleeping man's bedside and sat, talking softly and soothingly, bringing two cups of tea. One, to keep him awake, and the other, just in case.