Pain

Here's my newest Sherlock fanfic, set just after The Great Game ends. I hope to make this the first in a trilogy but I know for sure that there will at least be a sequel. I wrote this kind of late at night so please excuse any spelling mistakes that I may have missed and as always, reviews are loved.

Oh, I own nothing pertaining to Sherlock except for the series DVD I so cleverly got off of Amazon and my deep love for Benedict Cumberbatch.

Sherlock saw blackness, but only for a second. As soon as he came aware of the blackness around him he snapped his eyes open, there were spots floating in his vision but he could still see. He could not, however, hear. The lights above him told him that there was something happening, yet he heard only silence. He breathed in but it wasn't air that entered his lungs. Cold water came rushing through his nose and Sherlock immediately panicked. His body thrashed and his arms flailed, searching for any purchase.

He tried to hold his breath but there was no air left in his lungs and soon they were burning. He tried desperately to right himself, but his body wouldn't cooperate in the water. The more he flailed the more terror he felt creeping over him. He was going to drown. He desperately tried to breath in air, still fighting to get to the surface. He pushed something out of his way, knowing that air couldn't be more than a few feet away from him when mercifully his fool hit something. The pool floor. He pushed off of the floor and burst through the water, gasping for air and coughing the water out of his lungs.

He looked around him taking in the area that had once been a clean pool. He could see that there was something on fire and much of the ceiling had come down from the blast. Still coughing but now at least able to breath, he clumsily swam towards the nearby ladder. When he got there he reached onto the rung and tried to pushed his soaking hair off of his face. Pulling himself up and out of the water he felt like we weighed twenty pounds more. Dragging himself onto the floor he pushed aside small bits of concrete and other rubble, a warmth from the fire spread over him and he sighed at the small comfort. He shrugged off his jacket and tried to stand up, his leg almost giving out in the process.

He gasped at the sudden falling motion but caught himself before he hit the ground. He looked down at his right leg and saw a large piece of plastic stuck in it, about half way up his thigh. He was about to pull it out when he saw something out of the corner of his eye, a charred and dirty jumper. Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could you forget! John!

Sherlock limped over to where the jumper was and pushed away a ceiling tile and some other shrapnel to reveal John's face. He was lying on his stomach several feet from where Sherlock had last seen him. There was a large gash at his hairline and much of his hair was singed along with the left side of his face. His right shoulder looked like his arm was no longer in the right place, no longer attached but somehow still clinging to the body. What scared Sherlock the most however, was how deflated the right side of his chest looked, like his right lung was no longer inflated.

"John," Sherlock tried to say, sounding like he had decided to swallow a handful of nails. He coughed and tried to get his voice to work, "John."

There was no response so Sherlock gingerly placed his fingers on John's neck, searching for a pulse. Finally, mercifully, he found the faint pulsing that signified John was still alive. He breathed a sigh of relief and wondered what to do next. John was the doctor, he would know what to do. Why wasn't it him who was so hurt instead of John! Someone must have heard the bomb go off, they were in the middle of a residential area, someone had to have called the police. But would they get there in time? John wouldn't last long like this. After an internal battle Sherlock decided to turn John onto his back to let him breath easier. Hoping that he didn't do any more damage to his friend he turned him over as gingerly as he could, still eliciting a pained groan from John. He breathed a sigh of relief when he still saw the left side of John's chest slowly going up and down.

"John," Sherlock said grasping his friends hand, his voice finally returning to him, "John, please wake up. I can't do this, you need to tell me how to help you. I need to be able to help you John, please. Just wake up! I don't know how to do this on my own anymore, I need you John. Don't leave me here alone John," he finished choking back sobs, his tear running down his face and mixing with the chlorinated water.

This was all his fault. If he hadn't even met John then everyone would be better off. He had tried to protect him but had only hurt his friend instead. John had trusted him, he had believed in him and all he had gotten back was getting killed. And it was all because of him.

Sherlock held John's hand tight in his and allowed himself to feel pain for the first time in many years. He let every happy memory bring another wave of tears, every conversation another piece of his heart dying. He could feel himself becoming numb, every shred of feeling pouring out of him and leaving him empty. He never even felt the paramedics peel him away from John, he never saw them load him onto the stretcher and into a bus. All he could do was cry over how he had ruined such a good mans life with his selfishness desires. If only he wasn't so stubborn and had accepted the rent money that Mycroft had offered him then none of this would have ever happened.

Sherlock woke slowly, not understanding where he was right away. His face was pressed into a clean white pillow and a thin blue blanket covered him. He stared ahead of him and looked out of his window at the center of London. London General Hospital, south side, looking towards the Themes. But what about John? He sat up in his bed pulling his IV's out and angry alarms started to beep at him. He ignored them and got out of bed grabbing a housecoat that was thrown on a near by chair. He was almost out of the room when a nurse came in and stopped him.

"Sir, you can't leave! You need to get back in bed!" the nurse told him sternly. She was barely five foot tall and her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, he suspected that she frightened many of her patients with that tone of voice, but not him.

"What I need madam is for you to tell me where John Watson is, otherwise I know over a hundred different ways to kill, maim or wound the human body. I am not above using them," he told her with absolutely no emotion in his voice other than rage. He stared her down, his height adding to the imposing look in his eyes.

"Room 513, just down the hall," she said pointing to her left and backed away until the doorway was open. He raced out of the room, heading towards John's room. He felt relief knowing that at least he was alive.

Room 513 was on the corner of the building and tucked away between a waiting room and a small alcove. The glass window and door were covered by a thick curtain, allowing no way to see inside. Swallowing his fear Sherlock pulled the door open and stepped through the curtain. The room was fairly well lit, both the sunshine and halogen lights illuminating its sole occupant. A series of machined were arranged around the bedside, each one making its own beeping or hum. One machine was hissing and Sherlock followed the tube leading from it to John's mouth. The machine was breathing for him.

He walked up to the bedside and looked at his friend. His shoulder had been fixed and was now bandaged. There was a bandage over the left side of his face where he had been burnt and other bandages were plainly visible. He was relieved to see that John's chest was fully inflated again, he suspected that there would be a rather large scar from the surgery needed to re-inflate it. He was about to reach out and grab John's hand when he heard the door open and the familiar smell of Lestrade's aftershave wafted through the room.

"He's going to be fine Sherlock," Lestrade offered helplessly, "They were able to fix everything rather easily considering."

There was a long silence before Sherlock said anything, "Moriarty?"

He heard Lestrade sigh and already knew his answer, "We found the body of one of his men but nothing else. It was pretty evident that someone had been dragged out of there though. Were still waiting on anything about the body."

"You won't find anything," Sherlock said and turned to Lestrade for the first time since he entered the room, "But I will."

Sherlock went to leave but Lestrade stopped him before he could get out the door, "What are you going to do?" he asked, his nervousness evident in his voice.

"Make things right," Sherlock said and opened the door to leave. He stopped halfway out and turned around to face the hospital room, "Look after him."

"Why can't you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He looked at John and then turned his gaze to Lestrade, his look seemed to say everything the Detective Inspector wanted to know. "Sherlock," he pleaded helplessly, but Sherlock was already out the door and leaving. He couldn't take back the events that had led to this, but he knew that he could make Jim Moriarty feel the same pain that they were.

He would not get away with this, Sherlock would make sure of it.

Did you like it? I hope so, but the only way that I can know for sure is if you write me a lovely review! *hint hint* I hope to have the sequel to this up in a few days, so stay tuned.