Because I'd Die For You
Sherlock looked to John for reassurance that he was doing the right thing. He needed to know that it was okay because he, himself, was unsure. He knew that the bomb was the logical choice. It would end Moriarty and the death that followed him like a dark, wispy shroud. The blast might take him too if he couldn't think of a way out in time, but that was fine. He just didn't know if he could do that to John, he didn't know if he could bare the thought, so he needed him to tell him that it would be okay.
The barrel of the gun was trained upon the bomb, his hand steady, his face as solid as stone. He gazed into the eyes of the just as unwavering Moriarty before looking back to his loyal companion again, one last time. And he saw it, the slightest of nods. It was all he required.
Sherlock fired within the very same instant and time slowed so that the bullet seemed to travel with the speed of a snail. Moriarty wasn't surprised but he was certainly disappointed. The shot rang like a requiem in the ears of the three men, each quickly figuring a means of escape, but it was much to Sherlock's surprise that John was the first to react. The man of war leapt just as the bullet struck the bomb, seizing his friend, dragging him into the pool.
The master detective, the man who was rarely thrown, was momentarily disoriented, unaware of where he was and what had happened. He was shocked back to reality, however, when he noticed a red liquid pooling and diluting in the water. He ignored the blast still raging on the surface, the fire, Moriarty, none of it mattered because he knew what had happened. Stupid John.
He could've screamed at him, hit him, but his lungs were burning for air and John, the only doctor close by, demanded immediate attention. He dropped the gun he still clutched in his hand, lifted his colleague into his arms, and swam for the surface. The shrapnel protruding from his back, what he shielded Sherlock from, made it difficult to hold him but he was determined. He pulled himself up first, keeping a firm grasp on John's arm, then dragged the idiot up stomach side down.
"John?" Sherlock asked, moving John's head to one side. "John, are you conscious? I need your expertise."
A weak grunt followed by a sputter emanated from the seriously injured man. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to speak. The fire was spreading fast in the pool room, devouring the walls with a voracious appetite. Sherlock patted his pockets for the familiar form of his phone and found it in his right pocket. He flipped it open and attempted to turn it on with no result.
"Where's your phone?" he asked John calmly in an attempt to hide all panic from view.
"Dinn brrn it," he slurred.
"What?"
"Didn't bring it," he tried again.
"What good ARE you?" he shouted, his emotions getting the better of him.
His fear was eating him alive, the smoke filling his lungs was burning his chest, but the look of hurt on his friends face caught the better of him and brought it back down.
"Sorry," he said softly.
He glanced at the blood, his heart stuttering at the sheer volume surrounding the doctor, before frantically pressing every button his cell offered to no avail. He tried again. And again. And again. Until a spark of light on the screen ignited his hope. The phone sprung to life and he texted the first person that crossed his mind: Inspector Lestrade.
Urgent!
At pool. Send an ambulance.
-SH
"John, what am I to do about this shrapnel?" he asked, attempting to shield his mouth and nose with his arm
"All that knowledge and you never thought to learn how to staunch a bleed?" he smiled before coughing up more blood.
"It was pointless! I never expected to have to save someone myself! I work with the dead!"
"Calm down, Sherlock. It was just a joke."
"Help me. What do I have to do?"
"Put… pressure around the wounds. Remove nothing, it'll only make it worse."
"I… I can't do all of them."
"The worst one."
Without a second thought, he ripped off a sleeve of his jacket and wrapped it around the edge of a particularly bloody wound and pressed down. John shouted in pain, startling Sherlock and causing him to step away.
"No, keep the pressure."
"Right," he said, picking up where he left off. "Where is Lestrade?"
Sherlock moved from wound to wound but blood continued to spill and he felt more and more helpless. Sweat was dripping from every pore as the flames spread, always hungry. Time was crawling, there were no sirens, and Johns life was dyeing the floor red.
"John," Sherlock asked with no response. "John?"
Still nothing.
He looked at John's face which was unmoving, he checked his pulse and it was too faint for his liking. He shook him gently and then harder and the doctor was still unresponsive.
"JOHN WATSON, IF YOU DIE ON ME I'LL KILL YOU!"
He couldn't wait any longer. If the ambulance wasn't going to arrive he would carry John to the hospital himself. He moved him into a sitting position, wrapped his arms loosely around his neck and picked him up as one would a child to avoid touching the metal and plastic jutting from his back. Adrenaline carried them both out of the burning building and down the street. Never faltering, Sherlock Holmes ran towards the closest hospital, draining all of the energy that was left in his body. As far as he thought he had run, he hadn't run far enough. His blacked lungs captured his breath. He couldn't make his legs move and he collapsed under the weight of his only friend.
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry I've failed you."
As Sherlock's consciousness retreated, the last thing he swore he heard before the blackness was a siren.