"…But all I have to say has already crossed your mind."
"And my answer has already crossed yours." Sherlock aimed the gun at the vest. BANG.
. . .
As the pistol was fired, John launched himself at Sherlock, and just as fire, rubble and blinding light flooded the pool, they were in the water.
John squeezed his eyes shut tight as the explosion roared above the surface. Pieces of roof and tile splashed into the water around him. He must have been under for at least a minute. His lungs burned from lack of oxygen. He pushed up from the bottom of the pool and broke the surface, coughing when he sucked in a breath of ashy air.
Nearly the entire ceiling was gone. Tiles were torn from the floor and about a third of water had blasted over the side of the pool. The air was think with smoke.
The first thing that registered to John was the pain in his side as he hauled himself over the torn edge of the pool frame. He pressed his hand the place where it hurt. Three, no, four broken ribs. His inner doctor voice told him.
The second was that Sherlock wasn't with him, or anywhere in sight for that matter. He stood up, groaning and stumbling.
"Sherlock!" he called out. No answer. Still in the pool, unconscious most likely. His voice told him. John dove back into the pool and opened his eyes. The water stung and was hazy, hard to see through. Then he spotted it. An arm. An arm that was attached to the body of Sherlock Holmes.
John felt his eyes widen involuntarily. He swam quickly over to his floating friend and hooked his arm under Sherlock's and hauled them both to the broken tiles. The sopping wet man John was supporting was completely limp.
John took in a sharp breath as he laid him down on the ground. His broken ribs were getting to him, now that the adrenaline was wearing off.
Another sharp breath came when he looked at his friend. Blood covered his face and a big splotch of red was growing on his shirtfront.
John lurched into action, putting his wet finders to his friends throat. Thump… thump… thump… A horribly slow pulse made it's way to John's fingers. Sherlock was alive.
The doctor could hear sirens in the distance. Good. He then tore the dress shirt away. "Oh!" he breathed. A quickly bleeding bullet wound marred the pale chest. He press one hand to it and brought the other to Sherlock's head. A deep gash, just behind the hairline. He brushed some wet hair back to get a better look.
Suddenly Sherlock was conscious, gasping in pain, his eyes wide in shock.
John jumped, startled by this. Without thinking he hocked his free hand under Sherlock's neck and drew the man into a hug. "Oh, gosh." he chocked, tears stinging his eyes. He surprised himself. He hadn't know his flat-mate had meant so much to him until now. "I'm-I'm so glad you're alive."
Sherlock whimpered and quickly tried to stifle the sound.
John lay him back down. "I'm sorry. It was stupid of me to move you."
"Don't b-be sorry." came the weak reply.
John let out a choked laugh. It sounded more like a sob. A mix of relief and sadness.
Yelling could be heard for outside. Lights from ambulances and police cars danced through the smoke. People in gas masks began to flood the crushed pool. Sherlock was lifted onto a stretcher and taken to the hospital. John was taken too.
John and Sherlock would be fine. They would recover. And better yet…
The charred body of a James Moriarty was found buried under a pile of ceiling.