There was a shot, but then silence.
Where's my John?
Other people, like their so-called friend Lestrade had considered it very lucky that they actually managed to survive the whole pool-incident. But Sherlock being Sherlock knew that there was more to the case that he had seen so far, and it had nothing to do with luck. He and john did survive without so much than a scratch, which was a miracle by itself, nothing exploded and it would appear that Moriarty was dying while being transported to the nearest hospital. Now Sherlock was sitting in a cab beside his doctor, suffering from a nasty headache and more confused than he could remember ever being.
The consulting detective relied on two things: his mind and John. Or that was the situation before this particular case had showed itself. Now he felt like his mind refused to function, like something painfully obvious was escaping his attention. This had never occurred before, and every time he tried to reach for the thought, it withdrew deeper into some dark corner of his mind. This made him grind his teeth in frustration so he moved on to the next bit that was oddly worrying him even more.
A quick glance at John told the detective that he was falling asleep against the window, head supported to his left hand. It's funny when you think you know someone, and they still surprise you in ways you couldn't imagine even possible. How exactly could a simple man, like John, survive an evening like this and still fall asleep? Earlier he had first shouted at Sherlock, then was kidnapped by a psychopath, strapped to a bomb (or so he thought), and finally he had shot the guy. All that time he had been way too calm for it to be considered as normal behavior for anyone. And besides it wasn't fair when Sherlock was trying his hardest not to pull all the hair out of his skull while gathering his wits. Had John known about the bomb or something?
The cabbie coughed loudly to announce that they had arrived at 221B, and Sherlock nudged the sleeping form beside him.
When they finally had climbed to the cab at the former pool, currently turned into a crime scene, John had decided that the safest possible thing to do was to feign sleep. He was actually very good at it.
Tonight hadn't gone as he had thought it would, much to his surprise. Normally Sherlock was such an easy mind to read, not that John would ever tell that to him. He had known that his flatmate was tired of waiting and overly curious, and so he was alert and waiting when Sherlock sent the request to meet "Moriarty". (Of course he knew every message his friend ever sent, you see when Mycroft's minions have already following his every move, all the doctor had to do was to bug their phones and radios. Simple.) He only disappeared to be a "hostage", and summoned Jim and a couple of snipers to wait in positions. While fetching the smoke bomb and hiding it under the parka, he thought of tonight's endless possibilities with enthusiasm only an adrenalin junkie could have.
John Watson was many things, but a liar wasn't one of them. He had long ago discovered that the best liars always told the truth. He was exactly who everyone thought he was, but so what if he hadn't told every single thing about himself? He wasn't a genius, he wasn't a murderer (if you count the cabbie out, that was so clearly self- or Sherlock-defense), he had been shot while serving in Afghanistan and had a medical degree. Maybe he just didn't tell anyone about his… hobby. Well, in lack of a better expression, hobby it is. John couldn't do what his partly mental flatmate did, and his abilities were average in almost all aspects. But he was a people-person to the core. Quite literally, everybody seemed to like him and trust him against their better judgment. And he could read people's moods, guessing their needs and possible actions very precisely. He still wasn't any genius or mastermind, he just had great hunches and an adorable personality.
The thing was that he had his normal life and he loved it. After all, he was a very simple man. But beside all that he was very interested in the human mind, and as a thrill-seeker he had put his abilities in good use at an early age. When he started organizing dangerous gig's for others under a false name, his goals consisted just plain amusement. It was the safe way, making the plans and watching the action from afar. Only the stupid ones actually get caught, see. Anyhow, his reputation grew among all sorts of criminals, and soon he noticed that he could actually stop working and live off his criminal career. Still, being the smart one (and far too attached to his daily life), he kept his profits small so they would be unnoticed by anyone. The first thing was to be sure that nobody, including his clients, could trace him under the artist name "Moriarty" if he ever needed to quit in a hurry. The second was to stay away from the actual field, so there would be no possible accusations of breaking in, murder etc.
Meeting Sherlock had been a very random event though he was very aware of who he actually was. It was like some kind of leap off a cliff to move in with the man, considering his brainpower and everything. Still something just pulled John to the weird man, and he truly had an interesting mind. He had even started to like the man, and he was so hilarious when John had decided to tease him a little.
But at the pool something went horribly wrong. The setting was perfect for Sherlock and John had stepped out from the shadows expecting a great show. But the minute he laid his eyes on the detectives gray-blue ones, he saw something disturbing.
"…John?" The half-whispered word sounded like a plea. Was he… panicking? Couldn't be, right? Wasn't he supposed to enjoy every second of this creation of his so-called arch-nemesis? Looked like he was crushed by the idea that his friend had done this to him.
Years of learning to control your facial expressions are never wasted. John continued his little play as he'd planned.
"Evening, Sherlock. This is a turn-up, isn't it?" Oh, if you only knew.
Things started to go even more downhill from there. His flatmate didn't recognize the bomb to be a fake (and panicked more when he saw it), he seemed surprised when Jim appeared and finally ripped the vest off me. When Jim reappeared as planned, he kept glancing at John oddly, and was set to blow us all up. This was not the plan, he was supposed to know the bomb to be a fake! After a pause he did shoot at the "bomb "vest, and dove in to the pool dropping the gun. John realized that Jim was no longer more than a threat, so he picked up the gun and fired his minion to the shoulder (oh, the irony) while smoke started to fill the room. He would live, but John was pretty sure that Mycroft would send someone to kill the man who dared to endanger his brother. This way he wouldn't have to get blood on his own hands. And left alone Jim would be very dangerous and it would cost an unnecessary amount of civil lives. Grabbing the astonished and dripping wet Sherlock he ran out hearing the nearing sirens.
"Sherlock?" Heavy silence.
"Sherlock, get inside. People are staring and it's bloody freezing!" None of John's words registered to the detective. He was just standing on the road staring at their door with a confused frown. His friend tried a different approach and stepped in closer to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"For Christ's sake Sher-"
"Did you know it?" The taller man cut through John's voice. "It doesn't make any sense other ways. But why? Criminals aren't supposed to change their patterns, and what would be the game without the chance of actual death? Then the snipers didn't even fire! I'm starting to think that they were just blokes with laser pointers. And then YOU just shot him. Like that, and he let it happen, I tell you! Now we don't know is he going to pull through or not and-"
"Shush! I just got a text from Mycroft, Jim Moriarty died of internal bleeding or something. Just breathe, okay?" Sherlock stiffened visibly for a few seconds and then slumped suddenly forwards. The next thing John realized was that his bloody flatmate was hugging him. Hugging. Him.
"Eh… You alright, mate?" This was totally something unexpected for John. Sherlock hugged him tighter, mumbled something about losing something, and ran off in one blink of an eye. The doctor stood now mimicking Sherlock's earlier position: staring at the door his jaw hanging open. Eventually he'd climb up, but now he just couldn't gather himself. What the fucking hell was that?
At least Sherlock was still clueless. Right?