After the events at the pool, Sherlock is shot and John starts to experience his PTSD again. The only thing that's seems to help placate the nightmares is platonic bed-sharing. Also, couples therapy and sex. Because yeah.
Canon divergence, obviously.
…
1
Sherlock stepped forward, his eyes trained on the psychopath before him. Any second now, John thought, he's going to come up with something brilliant and get us out of here.
Sherlock stayed silent, only taking a few careful steps forward. Suddenly, his expression lightened, and the tension seemed to dissolve away from his body. "Well, then." Sherlock, Sherlock, what are you doing? Sherlock lowered the gun to the ground, away from the psychopath and the bomb. No, no, Sherlock! Point it back! Point it – "As they say: 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."
John buckled against the cubicle, his legs barely able to support the suddenly enormous weight of his body. What are you doing, Sherlock? God, what are you doing?
Moriarty smiled. "I wasn't offering," he said in a mocking tone. "But I suppose… if you are."
The Consulting Detective and the Consulting Criminal took a few steps closer to each other, eyes locked, posture cautious yet relaxed. John fixed his stare on Sherlock, waiting for a sign – a wink, a gesture, a word - some kind of signal that would indicate he was joking.
John saw nothing. Only the cool, controlled, demeanor of a psychopath he used to call his friend.
John's throat constricted as he cried out, "Sherlock…" It was a plead; a pathetic, pitiful, barely audible whisper. He's making this up. He's just playing Moriarty's sick game. He wouldn't do this. He wouldn't. He wouldn't do this to me.
Sherlock smirked, his eyes still fixed on the criminal. "You should've taken the Yarders' advice, John." John stared at Sherlock's face, looking for anything that might prove his flatmate wasn't the monster everyone thought him to be.
John couldn't believe it – wouldn't believe it – not even if Sherlock shot him in the face or ripped out his heart.
Jim licked his lips, looking Sherlock up and down with a wicked grin. "What makes you think I want you?"
"Jim," Sherlock responded. His voice was joking and calm - like this was some sick, everyday occurrence between the two enemies. Not, not enemies, John corrected. Friends. Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "You know me. I. Am. You."
John's thoughts were a constant, panicked stream of pleas. His throat clenched, and he felt like he was being choked, and as the bile rose in his throat, he was sure he'd be sick. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. Maybe he's just buying us time. Yes. Yes, that must be it. Maybe he's just –
Sherlock casually tossed the gun into the pool, just as Moriarty had done with the flashdrive. Hands in his pockets, Sherlock strode forward towards the bomb and the criminal. Instantly, every single red dot moved to Sherlock's forehead; he didn't seem worried. "Let's make a deal; we can play a bigger game than this… We could have so much more fun together."
He's – he's – he's – he's – John kept searching for something; there had to be something. With Sherlock, there was always something. Some clue, some piece of evidence everyone else missed, something, something –
Sherlock reached forward to shake Moriarty's hand. The criminal took it carefully in his own and they shook. Dammit, Sherlock. Throw him in the pool or shoot him – do something!
Sherlock stepped back and finally looked at John. On his face was a look of disgust and pity as he surveyed his flatmate. "If only you'd have been more interesting. Maybe, just maybe, I would've kept you."
Suddenly filled with an incredible blend of bravery, anger, and fear – John stood up to face the man. He meant his voice to be strong, but it came out pleading. "You can't do this Sherlock… You – you can't…"
Sherlock smiled and shook his head. "John…"
In the next second: Sherlock grabbed John's by the arm and threw him headfirst into the pool, safely away from the bomb; three shots fired: the first grazed Sherlock's neck; the second hit him in the left shoulder; the third detonated the bomb.
John heard the bomb go off underwater; it made an incredibly loud sound, penetrating every inch of John's body and echoing for miles around. The water became warm as a violent cloud of fire erupted above the pool. Bits of rubble crashes into the water, falling to the bottom as they sunk. Chaos raged above the water, but John remained safe at the bottom of the pool.
John came up gasping. The pool around him was in entropy: the changing cubicles blown to bits, two walls destroyed, the ceiling nearly ready to cave in – and in the middle of it all, Sherlock Holmes, lying unconscious in a puddle of his own blood.
"Oh, god," John gasped as he heaved himself up onto the concrete. He crawled towards his friend, who was splayed among the fire, and the rubble, and the ash. Mentally, he began to assess his friend's wounds. Few bruises, scrapes, and cuts – but nothing unmanageable; second degree burns along the his left leg; gunshot wound just above the heart. Prognosis: …
John shook his head to clear the terrible thought away. He'll live. He'll live. He'll live, idiot, John thought as he began applying pressure to the wound. With his other hand, he gently slapped Sherlock on face to wake him up. "Sherlock? Sherlock, mate? Can you open your eyes for me?"
Sherlock groaned. John thought it was good enough. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"
Sherlock nodded faintly and John sighed. "It'll be okay, Sherlock. I promise." Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed again as he slipped into unconsciousness.
John could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. "Hold on, Sherlock. Hold on. Come on, for me."
...
Note: Expect more chapters!