Title: To wipe a smile
Summary: For once in his life he hadn't thought out every possible outcome. For once, he didn't think at all. One-shot, but I may continue with this as a general theme. John/Sherlock no slash, yet, unless you look really, really, hard.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Sadly, I own no part of the BBC's Sherlock, nor Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's eternal characters Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. I just like to play with them.

For once in his life he hadn't thought out every possible outcome. He didn't map out the exact path or range of the explosion; he didn't calculate how long it would take for Moriarty's men to pull their trigger after he pulled his. For once, he didn't think at all. He was backed into a corner and he didn't care about his own life as long as he could wipe that smug smile off of the consulting criminal's face. His mind was full of the mocking eyes and Moriarty was right about one thing, he did enjoy the shocked look on his face the split second it took him to pull the trigger.

He didn't have a chance to savour it for long, as the sound of a gunshot and the impeding explosion reached his ears Sherlock was falling, the momentum of the forceful tackle driving him sideways down into the bottom of the pool. Shock registered on his face for a moment before his mind caught up with him and he closed his mouth around the gasp wrenched from his throat. He plunged to the bottom of the pool as the explosion shook the building, the deafening sound muffled by the water but still detectable as fire raged above him.

John, he decided. There was no other explanation. The brilliant Doctor had barrelled into him the second Sherlock pulled the trigger. The army doctor did well under pressure; he'd have to remember that. He may have the patience of a saint and the hands of a healer but he had the heart and mind of a soldier. Sherlock looked down at his dearest friend clinging around him, his eyes shut tight, as if by sheer force of will he could keep the two of them at the bottom of the pool. He doesn't know how long he stared open eyed at the man around his waist, admiration obvious in his every feature, but he stared until his eyes started to prickle, irritated from the chlorine. He tensed however, not from the discomfort, but from the feeling of the strong arms clutching at his waist going slack. Sherlock wrenched his eyes from the sandy head on his chest and looked above in desperation. He didn't know how long they'd been under, but he could feel a burning in his chest that told him they didn't have long. Damn! Why hadn't he paid attention to how long they'd been submerged? He hadn't the faintest if the air was safe for them yet, or if the heat would be too much to bear.

His heart froze. The body in his arms went limp, unconscious. Skin be damned. Sherlock kicked up from the bottom of the pool, clutching at the limp form still loosely wrapped around him. He pushed up with all his might with only one word on his mind: John.

A/N: Well, as always, I hope you enjoyed that! I wrote this right after I finished The Great Game, but I never posted it because, well, it was quite common and unremarkable. However, the new season is about to air and I felt this was as good a time as any to post it. I may even continue with "For once in his life he hadn't thought out every possible outcome. For once, he didn't think at all." as a general theme if this gets enough love.

Thanks for reading and please review!