Howdy, I have jumped on the Sherlock bandwagon. I've just finished watching 'The Great Game' and boy am I excited. Admittedly I know what happens, or at least what should happen, I've read all the books, been reading them since I was little.
Now I know lots of people have done Post –Great Game stories, but hey, we can always use a little more. There will be no Slash here, at all. Sherlock Holmes, has always been and will always be a living, breathing calculator, the only emotion he shows is to John and it has always been in a vague friendly way. I can't read Sherlock romances because he really shouldn't have them; it is going against everything in his character. I won't read them, so I won't write them.
Anyway rant over, on with the story.
Chapter 1: Breathe
The slightest of nods; that was all the indication John gave him that what he was thinking was alright. How could John know what he was thinking, no one knew what he was thinking, their slow tiny minds incapable of following the blistering pathways which Sherlock's took.
But John had nodded, Sherlock turned and raised the gun to point at Moriarty's face. Moments later he shifted the aim of the gun to the bomb which lay, half wrapped in that heavy coat, sitting on the ground at Moriarty's feet. Moriarty was watching him, daring him. Sherlock met his eyes and pulled the trigger.
The bang of the bullet leaving the gun was lost in the roar of the bomb exploding. Something solid hit Sherlock in the side, slamming him into the icy water of the pool. Fire roared above their heads as John dragged both of them underwater.
They were in the middle of the pool, unfortunately the force that John had used to knock him over threw them deep enough into the water that Sherlock cracked his head on the tiled bottom. He had been holding his breath, breathing was boring anyway. The burst of stars which resulted from the sharp contact his head made with the floor forced him to take a startled breath. His lungs filled with water. Drat.
Sherlock tried to pull away from John so that he could finish the resulting choking fit above water where it wouldn't get worse. John however had other plans; he had an iron grip around Sherlock's shoulders holding them both underwater. Things were falling into the water, bits of building knocked down with the force of the explosion. This was far from Sherlock's mind as the edges of his already water blurred vision started to go black. Damn it all, he hated passing out.
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John let out a bubble of relief when Sherlock stopped struggling, but the relief only lasted a moment as his friend went completely slack in the water. It wasn't until that moment that John noticed the faint red stain floating away from the detective. Damn and blast, Sherlock was bleeding, not much by the stain in the water, but enough and the fact that he was now a dead weight in the water meant he was probably unconscious. John looked up, unconscious people and water didn't mix, he needed to surface.
There was no more fire, so John decided to risk surfacing. He pushed up from the bottom and sucked in a much desired lung full of air, easing the burning which had been building up. Sherlock didn't move, without the support of the water his head was slumped on his chest. John twisted and pushed off from the ground again, dragging them both to the side of the pool. The building was in tatters, most of it had fallen in, and the pool was full of bits of building material. There was only a few slight alcoves where John could get up.
With a supreme amount of effort John managed to hoist Sherlock's unconscious body out of the water. He really didn't see how someone who was built like a rake could weigh so much. He leant over his friend, damn, Sherlock wasn't breathing and he had a nasty cut over his right eye, which was already starting to bruise.
John groaned, he'd been hit in the back with something during the explosion, but other than that he was alright. John tilted Sherlock's head to the side and slammed both his fists into the other man's diaphragm. Nothing, John took a breath and repeated the blow. 'Breathe you bastard.' He snapped. Sherlock burst into a fit of coughing and John nearly passed out with relief. The detective coughed up a huge amount of water and then sucked in a great lung full of air and flopped back his eyes half closed. John couldn't resist, 'I know breathing is boring, but it is considered a life necessity.'
The slightest smile coiled the corners of Sherlock's mouth, and he gave a weak laugh. 'Thanks.' He muttered his normally deep voice raspy from all the water he'd swallowed.
Sherlock's eyes dipped closed again, so John punched him on the arm. 'Don't sleep, you probably have a concussion.' When he didn't stir John hit him harder. 'Sherlock!'
'Alright.' The reply was slightly snarky, but John ignored that and looked around.
'No sign of Moriarty.' John said. More to keep Sherlock awake than anything else. He glanced down when there was no reply, but the detective's ice shard eyes were open and watching him. 'I won't be convinced he's dead until I see a body.' Sherlock finally answered.
John nodded, with someone like Moriarty that was probably the best way to go. 'Shouldn't be too long before they start searching the rubble, that explosion would have drawn some attention.' John continued to ramble.
'Obviously.' Sherlock replied dully. His eyes were a little unfocused and he was paler than usual. John looked around, Sherlock was still half in the water, but John didn't want to move him too much. The detective shifted his weight a little and winced, raising one hand to his forehead. 'Hmm.' He murmured discovering the blood which was now trickling down the side of his face. John glanced up most of the building was still intact, though the roof had almost completely caved in and the walls were leaning perilously to the side. Come on, he thought, someone hurry up.
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Lestrade stepped out of the police car almost before it had stopped. Emergency services were already in place looking through the rubble of the swimming pool for anyone. Lestrade looked down at his phone, he had been calling Sherlock and leaving increasingly abusive messages on his phone, but the consultant hadn't even sent a text in reply. The fact that a bomb had gone off was too much of a coincidence. Lestrade just didn't know what they had done wrong, or what Sherlock had done wrong this time to result in the explosion.
'Everyone quiet.' One of the rescue sergeants yelled, everyone immediately fell still, straining their ears to hear the slightest sound of survival. Lestrade didn't have much hope that anyone had survived this; the building was mostly collapsed and very unstable. Lestrade picked his way towards the sergeant as quietly as he could.
'Hello.' The man yelled. 'Is there someone down there?' Even Lestrade waited with baited breath. A long moment passed, and then a voice replied, heavily muffled by the layers of rubble between them. 'Yes.' A sigh of relief went through everyone present; it was always good to find someone alive at a scene like this.
'Are you hurt?' The sergeant yelled down again.
Another pause. 'No, but my friend is.'
'There is someone there with you?'
'Yes, he had a concussion...' There was a moment where there could only be heard the faintest of mutters, as though the two people trapped together were arguing. Lestrade checked his phone again, where the hell was Sherlock. 'He's awake though.' The voice called out.
'Good, try and keep him that way, we're going to dig down and get you.'
The voice didn't reply. 'Sorry sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to back off a bit so we can get them out.' The sergeant said. Lestrade nodded and returned to stand by the car.
It took nearly an hour to dig through the rubble to the two trapped men. Lestrade looked up as a cheer went through the rescuers. Sherlock still hadn't replied and according to his landlady, both he and Dr. Watson had rushed out earlier that night.
Lestrade picked his way to where the medics were waiting as the first man was pulled out. He went perfectly still; he would recognise that build and mop of dark hair anywhere. Sherlock Holmes was lifted out of the hole which had been created and passed onto the medics. The detective was complaining already, Lestrade knew that he hated to be fussed over. 'Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?' No point fussing or he would just get ignored; treat the incident like Sherlock had turned up unexpectedly at a crime scene and Sherlock would probably answer his questions.
Sherlock waved away a paramedic who was trying to look into his eyes and he sat up. Lestrade could see the effort it took, the man had a nasty cut over one eye and his eyes were out of focus, he was also soaked to the skin. Lestrade assumed he had been in the pool and that was how he had survived the explosion. 'Oh good Lestrade, look the bomber was in there with us, name of Jim Moriarty, short, dark hair, expensive clothes, insane, you know the type. Now where the hell is John?' Sherlock reeled off.
'Look you really need to...' The medic snapped.
'Go away.' Sherlock cut her off, his eyes on the workers in front of them, waiting impatiently for his flatmate to be pulled out. Lestrade wondered if the Doctor was alright. Moments later he had his answer. John was able to walk out of the collapsed building himself, though he was limping again and supported on one side by a third medic. As soon as he saw Sherlock, still trying to keep the two medics at bay, sitting up on the gurney he snapped at his friend. 'Sherlock will you lie down and do what you're told.'
The detective paused, then grumbled and dropped back onto the cushions obediently. Lestrade was absolutely amazed; he had never seen Sherlock do what he was told, ever. The medics gave Dr. Watson a grateful look and turned their attention back to their unwilling patient. Soon the two of them were packed into ambulances and taken to St. Bart's. Lestrade would catch up with them later; he had to start the search for this Moriarty character.
So what do we think? I will continue this it will just depend when I get to write it.