John/Sherlock Friendship - Not Slash
Blurry, the last thing… what? Sherlock was dazed as he laid on his back in the most uncomfortable and contorted of ways. There was an incredible pressure on his chest, and he felt as high as a cloud.
What the heck happened? He remembered the pool and Moriarty, but then what?
"Sherlock?" He heard a muffled voice call.
Who was that? Sounded male… and far away… oh, blast it all! Where was John?
John.
Suddenly the memories flooded back. Sherlock had shot the Semtex vest. The bullet had seemed to fly out of the barrel in slow motion and then he felt a sudden pressure in his side. He figured it was one of the sniper's bullets, but as Sherlock had looked downwards, he saw John wrapping his arms around him as he pushed both Sherlock and himself towards the pool.
A bullet whizzed past his ear, clipping it, and then another whizzed by, hitting John square in the shoulder. Then they were in the water and a great explosion could be seen through the film of the chlorinated liquid. John had wrapped not only his arms, but his legs around Sherlock's body so as to prevent them both from surfacing too soon and burning to a crisp. Sherlock hadn't cared at the time. He was too busy staring the outburst of colors just above them. Beautiful shades of orange and red and yellow blended, mixed, and flowed with each other in a beautiful sequence, and then the show was over. He felt the sudden pressure in his chest, the need for air, but his limbs couldn't move. He was constricted. Why?
He had looked down and saw John still wrapped around him. Sherlock hadn't known at the time, but the temperature would still be unbearable at the surface. John had been in enough explosions to know that, on the surface, they would burn instantly; but Sherlock hadn't cared. He wanted air! Oxygen! 02! Sherlock tried to struggle, but even with a bullet in his shoulder John was too strong wouldn't budge. Stupid military training. Sherlock didn't remember much else after that; expect the feeling of the world slowly fading to black.
Now here he was, the great Sherlock Holmes, on the deck of the charred pool, lying on his back, completely incapacitated. John had no doubt fished him out of the water once it was safe, and resurrected him using some sort of medical technique. Sherlock fought for the word. What was it? Whatever, it didn't matter.
Suddenly Sherlock felt the pressure on his chest lift, he wasn't sure why; but he was glad for it. Maybe John had removed some debris off his torso? That wasn't the case.
John had been performing CPR on Sherlock and had been doing compressions. Sherlock, no thanks to the concussion, still hadn't realized it until John's mouth capped his own and forced air into his lungs. Then he figured it out.
Sherlock laid there, thinking about it, if John had been breathing for him that would mean that he, Sherlock Holmes, was not breathing for himself. Interesting feeling it was, not breathing.
"Sherlock!" Sherlock heard John shout again as he started the chest compressions for the second time, "Wake up you bloody moron!" He shouted.
Always complaining, John was.
Sherlock felt something cold and wet drop onto his cheek. He wasn't sure what it was until it dribbled down his face, and came to drip off his ear. That had been a drop of liquid, and when the drops had become more frequent and with a pattern, Sherlock deduced that they were tears. Most likely John's since, after all, John was the one performing CPR.
Conclusion: John was crying. Why? Sherlock couldn't figure it out. Stupid concussion. He really hated those.
"Don't die! Not now!" He heard John shout.
Had that been the case all this time? Had he been dying?
Was he dying?
"Sherlock!"
Well he had had enough of this. Sherlock was not going anywhere any time soon!
John would be lost without him. Lestrade would never get any cases done. Anderson would have no one to rival with, and Donovan would have no one to mock. Mycroft would have no one to pester, and Mrs. Hudson would be broken in two of course.
Sherlock decided he was going to breathe on his own, without John's help.
He tried to breath, force his lungs to fill and all that, but it wasn't quite as easy as he remembered it.
How did it go again? Right to left? No, no, that was ridiculous! It was left to right of course! No luck.
Darn it all!
What other variations were there? Up and Down? Back and forth? Maybe it was up, right, down, left, back, and then forth? Now to repeat that sequence for 50 years…
John stopped the compressions again and began to breathe for Sherlock again. "In and out!" He heard John shout between the two breaths, "Breathe you idiot! In and out!" John switched back to compressions, "I don't care if it's boring! Breathe already!" He was being very ridiculous, but he did have a point. Sherlock hadn't tried to breathe in and out, he'd tried most of the other combinations, but never in and out.
Could it be that simple? Well, it was certainly worth a try.
He managed to take a breath. His first breath without the doctor's well needed but undesired assistance. It was tiring, troublesome and painful, but it seemingly relaxed John some. The compressions stopped, and no longer was the Doctor giving him the precious 'kiss of life'. Thank goodness for that much at least.
"Oh thank, the Mother of Mary." John wheezed, "You're alive!"Duh.
Sherlock felt more pressure, but it wasn't on his chest, it was around his shoulders. John bloody Watson was hugging him. Awkward much?
Ah well, Sherlock had just come back from the grave, he supposed it could warrant a hug… just this once.
After what seemed like an eternity, an awkward eternity, John released Sherlock. Sherlock then looked behind John, and saw Lestrade and Donovan with a couple of other cops behind the distressed doctor. The two had looked relived. Then Sherlock's gaze focused on the paramedics who'd just then come into view. They were obviously very, very late into the game. Poor souls, look at what fun they missed out on.
"Sherlock, you're going to be okay."
John was so sappy.
In response, Sherlock had tried to say 'course or something else that was snarky, but only air seemed to escape his lips. John chuckled at that, obviously understanding on some unconscious level what Sherlock had meant to get across, that was something to study later.
"I've got to go now. These nice fellows will take care of you until you get to the hospital."
John then rubbed his right thigh, which was defiantly something to mention since John was ignoring the bullet in his shoulder. That could only mean that the psychosomatic limp has returned for a dramatic season finale. Well, you're not wanted you little bugger!
"Be nice, Sherlock."
Idiot.
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