Author's Note: These are prompts I filled over on the bbc sherlock kink meme. I will update, whenever I have filled a new prompt. Hope you like them.

Disclaimer: They unfortunately don't belong to me and I don't make any money with this either.

Prompt: seeing what Sherlock was thinking when he saw John in that position at the end (we all saw him panicking when he was getting the coat off John) and in what happened afterwards.
Bonus: We see what Sherlock decided to do at the end.

Character Death, also I've rewritten it and had it beta'd by the awesome donutsweeper. I also have a sequel up that can be read in Chapter 16: Endgame

Inside Sherlock's Head

His mind was yelling at him, big block letters of, "No, no, no." Sherlock knew he had been wrong before. A rare occurrence, but it had happened. However, he doubted that he could have been that wrong about the man he had been sharing quarters with for the past few months. John Watson couldn't be that good of an actor to fool Sherlock for that long. His eyes scanned John's appearance. Rapidly blinking eyes, sweaty forehead and unnaturally pale, even accounting for the rather bad lightning in the pool. And then there was the rather atrocious green parka. It was much too thick for the heated swimming pool. John's voice sounded off too. It wasn't the sure, steady tone that he was used to. There were slight hesitations between the sentences, fluctuations in the tone.

No, it wasn't John. Moriarty was using him as his puppet, just like the old lady, just like the child.

When John opened the parka and revealed the bomb strapped to his chest, Sherlock's heart caught in his throat, even though he didn't outwardly showed it. Instead he turned around, looked for this elusive Moriarty, even though Sherlock didn't even know what the man looked like. But he must be around somewhere close, must be watching them. Because otherwise this game would be boring.

The bomb and the words John spoke scared Sherlock. A small red dot appeared on John's chest and Sherlock needed to take a deep breath, needed to look away and instead continued to search his surroundings.

He knew that both of them could die at a moment's notice. While he did not cared much about his own life, John's was not going to be taken tonight.

It was the screeching of a door that finally forced him to focus on something else. The man that appeared was less than impressive, short and unable to keep up the same speech pattern for more than a minute, but still gloating about his deeds, about what he could do.

The revelation of just who Moriarty was, was like a punch in his face. The first and only consulting criminal against the first and only consulting detective. John was just caught in the crossfire. Anger rose in him, but unlike John, Sherlock was a good actor and held it in. Pretended to be not rattled by the events, while his mind was running and lightning speeds, trying to find a way to stop Jim. Without a doubt, Sherlock knew that he would anything to stop that mad man from continuing his criminal empire and one glance at John and Sherlock knew that his friend would do anything to stop Moriarty too.

They came so close, with John tackling Moriarty from behind. Sherlock had never been more worried, more proud, when he realized that John was willing to die for him too. But he must admit that Moriarty had planned for all eventualities. While John clearly was willing to die, he was not willing to let Sherlock die over this. Moriarty knew that they were each other's weakness and was using it against them.

It took him some effort to relax his fingers and not pull the trigger after the pet comment. But he kept his calm, kept the gun pointed at Moriarty) and pretended that nothing could shake him.

He couldn't however suppress the sigh of relief as soon as Moriarty was gone. Sherlock rushed toward John, asked him if he was okay and the detective really just wanted that bomb gone. He kicked it away for good measure, so that it was far out of eyeshot.

He tried to thank John for his altruism, but all that came up was garbled nonsense. Not that it mattered much, because John proceeded to ignore his appreciation and they fell back into their routine of taking everything that had happened with a grin and a stupid comment. That was far easier than to acknowledge the actual feeling.

The bantering felt good, reliable now that the threat was over and Sherlock already saw them sitting in Baker Street, trying to figure out how to stop Moriarty without any of them getting killed.

But his plans were burst the second he saw the red dots dancing across John's chest. Then Moriarty returned and even thought Sherlock could not see John's expression, he knew that it mirrored his own. Exasperation and determination.

The slight nod was all he needed really. Moriarty needed to be stopped with all possible means even if it could cost their own lives. But knowing that John trusted him, trusted him to blow themselves to a kingdom come, that he didn't believe in, helped him focus, helped him to stay strong. It was for the greater good after all. What was two lives compared to the unknown number Moriarty would and could kill?

He didn't close his eyes as he pulled the trigger, couldn't pull his gaze away from Moriarty's face. Because this time the surprise was real and not just played. It gave him a momentary feeling of satisfaction and he let it play across his eyes, even as he felt the recoil of the gun in his hands.

Two things happened simultaneously after he had pulled the trigger. Sherlock felt the impact of a bullet, high in his back and was thrown forward by it and the vest exploded.

The noise and light were incredible, nothing he had ever experienced before could be compared to that. The sudden burst nearly blinded him, even as his eardrums vibrated from the echoing thunder of the explosion. When the shockwave crashed into him, Sherlock was lifted off his feet. He didn't know how long he was in the air, but expected to hit hard concrete on his landing, instead water swallowed him.

Brilliant orange spread over the water's surface and he could feel his lungs straining for air, but not much else. He was floating serenely in the water, watching as the first and biggest flames of the blast disappeared, leaving weak orange light flickering across the surface.

He watched the blurred fire for a while, before his lungs were nearly tearing apart with the lack of oxygen. Only then did he slowly started to swim. With the first voluntary moments of his limbs, the pain ruptured through his body. It was not just the pain of the bullet, but also the strained and torn muscles of being thrown around like a ragdoll.

One though however pushed him onward and to the surface. John. With his last bit of strength, Sherlock grabbed the pool's edge and pulled himself out of the water. He only managed to draw his upper body to the tiled surface, his legs were still floating in the water, powerless and tired.

The explosion had blown away the changing rooms further in the back. His mind was fuzzy and cloudy, and didn't want to believe his eyes as he watched the flames burning away the last curtains. Sherlock blinked water out of his eyes, tried to clear his view. But the sight remained the same.

Nothing was left of the area where John had been sitting. That could only mean one thing. One that he didn't want to be true. Sherlock's heart ached while the rest of his body was slowly getting numb. Somewhere deep in his addled brain this registered as a sign of dying, but Sherlock didn't care anymore. His best friend was dead, so he didn't mind dying either.

He barely registered shrieking sirens coming closer, as he gave into his body's wish and closed his eyes, let himself be carried away into nothingness.

When he woke up again, he didn't know how much time had passed. It was morning and the sun illuminated a white ceiling and white walls and Sherlock knew that he was in a hospital.

Given the general numbness of his body, he was on some heavy duty pain killers. Still, he didn't want to move, so Sherlock just stared at the ceiling, watched the clouds going by and tried to figure out what had brought him here.

The minute it all came back, Sherlock frantically reached for the call button and pressed it. He could hear his racing heart in the frantic beating of the monitor, but all his head was registering was John. If he had survived, maybe so had John. He held on to that thread of hope, needed to really, because he couldn't dare to think about John dead. Finally the door opened and a nurse pushed her head in, a bright grin on her face, "Mr Holmes, good to see you awake, I'll go get a doctor right away."

"No." His voice was rough with disuse and he wondered just how long he had been lying in that bed and he couldn't finish asking the nurse where John was, because she was already gone again.

Frustrated, he stared back at the ceiling, trying to figure out the range of his injures. The morphine prevented that, because he couldn't feel much of anything. There was a dull throb in his back, but he could move his arms and legs. Other than that he had some bruises, but most of them were healing, changing already from blue to green. Scratches were also almost healed and he knew that he had been in that bed far too long.

The door opened again. This time it was a doctor that came in. Sherlock tried to ask her about John, but she just concentrated on him, not saying a word. She checked his blood pressure and heartbeat, some bandages and the wound on his back, before she sat down in the single chair in his room.

"You were very lucky Mr Holmes. The bullet entered your body at the base of your neck, missed anything vital and exited just above your clavicle. While you lost a substantial amount of blood, there won't be any long term effects. You have some minor burns and contusions, but being thrown into the pool saved your life. You have a concussion, which combined with the blast trauma have kept you unconscious for eight days, but I'm sure that you will make a complete recovery."

"I don't care," Sherlock stated, "I want to know where John Watson is."

The pity, that quickly crossed her face should have told him everything, but still he didn't want to believe that. "I have already called your brother, he should be here soon." With that she got up and left the room.

"Where is John?" Sherlock yelled after her, but again received no answer. He turned his head back to the ceiling and started forming ideas of John coming in with Mycroft, or maybe he was just lying in another bed on this station. Everything was possible, John just couldn't be dead. He couldn't, because that meant that Sherlock had killed him and the detective didn't know if he could live with that knowledge.

Mycroft came in silently and sat down in the chair the doctor had abandoned earlier. He didn't say anything, waited until Sherlock had turned his head to face him, before whispering, "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock crept out of the hospital the same night. Together with telling Sherlock what had happened, Mycroft had left him fresh clothing. A Mistake, if he actually believed that Sherlock would stay put.

His room was on the third floor of the Royal Hospital, but even with his injuries he had no problem scaling the facade. On the street, he called for a taxi and drove to the last place he wanted to go to and the only place he could go to.

At this hour of the night, the cemetery was closed, but Sherlock didn't care, just climbed the wall and landed on the other side. Mycroft had told him were the grave was, had told him that they had to bury John Watson while Sherlock was still unconscious.

His legs were heavy as they found their own way along the path, past several gravestones, before he found the only one that mattered. Fresh flowers were placed on the grave, probably from Mrs Hudson and Sherlock gently moved them aside, before collapsing against the marker.

The first tears had already escaped, when he had seen John's name carved into stone. Tears he hadn't allowed to show in front of his brother, but now he was alone and he cried openly.

The End