Sherlock's eyelids fluttered. He vaguely felt a great deal of pain, and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to see just yet. He stopped trying to open his eyes and lay still as if he were sleeping. There was a blurry pause where he felt the pain slowly recede, and then disappear.

Gingerly, he opened his grey eyes and looked around whilst he sat up. The swimming pool was destroyed. The building was in tatters, slowly bleeding bits of debris. With the ceiling gone, he could see the night sky covering the sun, rays peeking through pinholes in the blanket.

For a minute he sat almost calmly as he attempted to collect his thoughts which were scattered all over his mind and not making a great deal of sense. There had been a… bomb… that explained the destroyed swimming pool. Also… Moriarty, and John... John! Where was he? So now he had his next move: find John.

Silence. It was abundant in its quantities. No sign of the laser people, or Moriarty. Sherlock wondered if his arch-enemy had survived. Perhaps he'd already left – Sherlock didn't know how long he'd been unconscious.

Before he got up, he checked himself for any injuries. Disconcertingly, he found none. Not a single scratch or bruise. Glancing around at the building that was now just a memory of what it was, he frowned. That didn't make any sense. There was no conceivable way he could have survived that with no injury whatsoever. The pain when he woke up, what had that been? For once, he could not think of any explanation other than an extraordinary piece of luck.

Feeling confused had just irritated him. Sherlock liked to know things, certain facts. Anyway, he could wonder about it later, when he had more time to sort his thoughts out. Right now he needed to find John. He got up and scanned the surroundings.

'John?'

In several places there were stacks of fallen debris, wall and plastic and wood and metal. As he looked at these it suddenly struck Sherlock for the first time that John might not have been as lucky as him. He could be seriously hurt, or trapped somewhere, or…

No. He shouldn't formulate theories before he had facts.

A nasty little voice chose this moment to make its entrance in Sherlock's thoughts. "Are you blind? There are facts, you fool. Look at the place, it's ruined. I think that's fact enough to formulate a theory."

'Shut up!' Sherlock muttered, not just to the voice in his mind. He was saying it to his surroundings too. The way the remains stood there hopelessly, urging him to give up. They were wrong, he knew, so they could just shut up, shut up, shut up!

Finally he made his way to the heap of broken building roughly around where he recalled John had been when he last saw him. Quickly, he moved some of the smaller bits of debris from the spot, but was soon struggling with the larger bits.

Stopping to regain his breath, he threw a glance around the place once more, but this time his eyes latched onto something close on his left. A hand under a slab of wall. A hand attached to an arm attached to a body belonging to someone called John Watson.

Trying to ignore the feeling that his heart was turning to stone in his chest, he immediately turned his attentions to the slab of wall, pushing with a fervour that surprised even him.

After what seemed like an eternity, the slab agreed to slide away with an indignant grunt, revealing John. Sherlock kneeled down and pushed out the horrible voice that was screaming now as he took his limp wrist to check for a pulse.

There was none.

One horrible second where Sherlock forgot to breathe or think. He desperately reminded himself that he was no doctor, he could have been checking it wrong. To prove it to himself he took his own wrist and tried to find the pulse. His breath finally returned when he couldn't find it. See? He just didn't know how to check for one.

He turned back to John. The doctor was still, then suddenly his head twitched.

'John? John, wake up! Come on, come on John, wake up!'

And his eyes flew open. Sherlock couldn't prevent the smile starting to shine on his face.

'John! Can you hear me? Are you hurt?' Questions flew from Sherlock's mouth.

'Sherlock?' John said, and his voice got stronger with every word, 'Sherlock, I'm fine… what happened? Wow, this place is destroyed… wait, what about Moriarty? Oh… No, really, I'm fine, in fact…'

He tentatively stood up, Sherlock standing next to him, ready to catch him if he fell, but he stayed steady on his feet. The detective looked at him with amazement.

'How is that possible? You're not injured at all!'

'Well, you don't seem to be either.'

'That is true, that is… amazing.'

They stared at each other in confusion and disbelief, then abruptly started laughing. It was ridiculous, they had survived! Not a scratch on them. It was inconceivable, impossible… but there they were.

Eventually the laughter died away, but not the exhilaration. John looked at him. 'So what do we do now?'

'Well, Moriarty might have survived too, we need to find out if he did…. I know! Come on, there's somewhere we need to be! The game is still on, John!' Sherlock started to race away as if he were being pursued by the hounds of Hell. John looked at the shadow of a building, then followed the detective, filled with adrenaline, and he laughed as he did.

XXX

Lestrade looked at the exploded swimming pool in despair. People were searching it for survivors. It had somehow got around that Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson had been in there facing the legendary criminal mastermind, Professor Moriarty. Lestrade had never quite known whether to believe if the killer really existed, and he desperately hoped that the rumour was just a rumour. No-one could have survived that blast.

'Inspector?' he turned around. It was Sergeant Donovan. She looked worried and downcast. 'They've… they've found bodies. Three.'

'What?' Lestrade froze for a second, and then turned around again as he heard fire fighters going to the paramedics. They were holding three stretchers.

He hardly noticed as he rushed over to them. Who were the victims? He needed to know, needed to know NOW. Brushing off the people in the way like flies, he stopped next to the stretchers just as the paramedics pulled away the sheets covering the bodies.

The first one Lestrade didn't recognise. He had short black hair and a resigned face. He wondered if this was Moriarty. He looked tired… well, he wouldn't be now.

The second….. short blonde hair. Dr Watson. Oh, god! He couldn't look at the body, and dreaded seeing the third.

He forced himself to shoot a look, just one. A mop of dark brown hair. Closing his eyes, he practically ran away, not noticing that one paramedic followed him.

Lestrade looked at the sky, subconsciously trying to see if there were three more stars than before. He jumped and wiped his face quickly as a voice spoke directly behind him.

'They died almost instantly, sir. If they woke up, they surely died instantly from their injuries. If that helps, sir.'

At least it was both. It would have been anyway. Lestrade had seen enough from the cases they were together that they needed each other to level the other out. One didn't die; they had to die together.

Lestrade thought he could see two stars shining brighter than the others after all.