Some Game

(A/N: This is – you probably already guessed it – a continuation of The Great Game, so yeah, spoiler alert for that :D)

John watched Sherlock watching Moriarty; focused, unblinking determination. A faint smile played on the villain's face, his eyes dark and bizarrely calm as he waited for the detective's decision. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his gun aiming at the bombs, and he had made his choice. He chose to be a good man. How proud Lestrade would be.

John heard the click and his heart plummeted, "Sherlock…" he said, his mouth suddenly dry. He couldn't really do it, could he? The doctor rose to his feet, legs still shaking and moved to his friend's side.

"Stand back, John."

"No!"

Moriarty gave a signal and another sniper dot appeared, this time on John's forehead.

"JOHN, STAND BACK!"

"NO!"

Sherlock fired. The light and noise overwhelmed him and arms surrounded John as he was pushed, blasted backward but he felt no pain, only heat and a body covering his own before there was cold. Water rushed around them and he still couldn't see but he fought with arms and legs, his soldier instincts taking over and his next thought was Sherlock.

'Can't leave a friend behind,' but his lungs burned and he couldn't breathe and that protective form was lost somewhere in the water. 'Have to breathe.' He fought his way upwards until his head broke the surface and he was gasping and coughing. He blinked the water from his eyes and tried to see past the white spots that clouded his vision as he groped for the side of the pool. His knuckles made a painful connection with concrete but all he could care about was 'where the bloody hell is Sherlock?'

He scanned the water, littered with pieces of flaming debris. "Sherlock!" he called but was left in a coughing fit as smoke curled out onto the water's surface. He took a last breath before diving back in. He could barely see and the chlorine hurt his eyes but he reached out in front of him and all around as he swam into the deep end.

'Sherlock…Sherlock…'and his vision grew darker and his hands grabbed at nothing and all he wanted was to feel fabric, hair, something besides water and concrete and then his fingertips brushed something soft. He almost thought he was a hallucination, just before blacking out but there it was again! He thrust both hands forward and grabbed hold of Sherlock's jacket and yanked. He hauled him upwards, back to the surface; it might seem impossible but he had never felt stronger in his entire life.

And then there was air, dense air but easier to breathe in than water, and he swam until his back hit the solid edge of the pool. Soon he was out and was pulling the still body of his partner onto dry land as well.

Quickly, he issued mouth to mouth while still trying to pull air into his own burning lungs. This wasn't working and Sherlock wasn't breathing and all John could do was panic and keep trying. He breathed in, his head whirled and he fell forward onto Sherlock's chest.

There were hands on him and someone barking orders. For a moment, he thought he was back in Afghanistan, until he felt cold air on his face and everything came rushing back; the pool, the bomb…Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" he tried to shout but it came out as a hoarse moan and he descended into a coughing fit. His body ached.

"Dr. Watson!" It was Lestrade.

"Sherlock…I need…where's Sherlock?"

"They're trying to revive him, just relax."

John shook his head limply, "I couldn't do it…" he muttered, hot tears prickling his eyes, "He saved me and I couldn't…"

There was an oxygen mask over his face and a needle in his arm before he could berate himself any further. Lestrade gave his arm a comforting squeeze and then he was in the care of the paramedics.

When John awoke, he was alone. He reached a hand up to rub at his sore eyes and yanked the plastic clip off of his finger in annoyance. He looked around the room. It was dark. Was it the same night or had he slept through? And Sherlock…? His insides turned cold and twisted…was Sherlock even alive?

He jolted at a sudden tapping noise and turned to see Lestrade standing in the doorway, a look of concern on his longsuffering face.

"You look a sight," he said quietly, trying out a grin.

John returned a tight-lipped grimace before asking, he just had to ask… "Where is Sherlock?"

He waited for what was only a second but felt like an eternity, not breathing, not moving a muscle. "He was in the ICU, but he's stable now."

John let out a long, shuddering breath, his whole body jittering with the weight of it and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing himself not to cry as the relief crashed over him. "Oh God… he's alive…" he must have said it out loud because Lestrade muttered, "He was very lucky indeed."

"Take me to him," John said suddenly, sitting bolt upright in bed, though his every muscle protested the movement.

"You really shouldn't be out of bed yet. The doctors said you can leave tomo-…"

"I said take me to him," he demanded, throwing back the covers and touching his bare feet to the icy hospital floor.

Lestrade shrugged and let out a sigh as he handed John a generic powder- blue robe. "I swear, you can sound just like him at times…" he grumbled but John could hear the smirk in his voice.

He was soon being led down the hallway and past a nurse's station, whose only inhabitant glanced up long enough to give Lestrade an appraising smile before returning to her magazine and buzzing them through a set of frosted glass doors. The third door on the left was slightly ajar and John could hear the familiar beeps of medical machinery drifting through.

"Just in here," the DI said, nudging the door open quietly and allowing John to move in front of him, "I'll just er…wait outside then…"

John stood, frozen in place, staring down at the man in the bed before him. Pale, eyes closed, black hair splayed around him on the pillow, long limp hands resting beside him. His doctorial mind began to assess the damage: bad cut across right temple, deep tissue bruising on left cheekbone, ends of hair singed, right arm in sling, bandages surrounding left forearm- probably cuts or burns… but he was alive and one of the most beautiful sights Dr. Watson had ever laid his eyes on.

A tremor running through his body, John lifted one foot from the ground with the effort of pulling up the roots of a tree and carried himself forward, nearer to the man who had risked his own life to save him, the man whom at this moment, he felt a deeper affection for than he had ever felt. He stood and looked down at his sleeping face and considered brushing the back of his hand against it but instead, reached out and held his hand in his own.

"Thank you, Sherlock," he whispered, "first for turning me from an invalid soldier into a doctor who has brilliant adventures and lives with an even more brilliant detective; and thank you for what you did. It was…well I'll just say: thank you for saving me in every way."

John laughed a little to himself, feeling his heart grow lighter and more full at the same time, "Oh and did I mention I think I probably love you? Yeah. Well, I do."

Sherlock's face remained still but John could feel his fingers moving, curling loosely around his own. He smiled, "Some game this turned out to be, eh?"

(A/N: Heh well…thoughts? Reviews? :D)