Darkness. Blissful, terrifying darkness. It encompasses you, suffocates you, wraps itself around you until you can't see, can't hear, can't breathe. You are drowning in this darkness, this empty black void. This nothingness.

Data. You need data. The darkness is limiting the information you receive. Why is it so dark? Where are you? You need facts. You need to establish facts. How do you establish facts when you can't see? You are starting to become disturbed by the lack of sensory input. A flare of white-hot panic shoots across your mind, but you swiftly stamp it out. This is no time for hysteria. Think.

Use your other senses. You're floating. There's nothing beneath your feet, no solid ground. Your feet aren't where they should be either (but where should they be? You can't remember; you can't think clearly); your body is in a strange position, but you can't quite pinpoint how it is strange. This is frustrating. You don't like it when you can't pinpoint things. It implies a lack of accuracy, and you are known for being accurate. But you have a fact now. You're floating. But how? Why?

The air feels thick around you; it's hard to move. Your arms feel heavy and useless; you're trying to pull them upwards, but they are moving so slowly, just like the rest of the world. Everything's so slow. Everyone's so slow. Wait. No. Not everyone. Not everyone.

There was someone. A name without a face. Words without a voice. Five pips (challenges, your mind whispers). Phone calls. A new pink phone. Twelve hours. Eight. Ten seconds. A 'fan'.

Who? What? How?

No, there was a face. There was a voice. A sing-song greeting. A forgotten slip of paper under a petri dish. Black, shining eyes, not unlike this oppressive darkness that blinds you. You were wrong; you were so wrong. You didn't see. You didn't observe. You made a mistake – you hate making mistakes. But what's the mistake? What's the name? Who was it? Who was…?

Moriarty. Then it all comes rushing back to you; memories fill the spaces of your hungry mind to compensate for the sensory deprivation. There was a gun in your hand, black like death, black like his eyes. You remember now. The strong, sharp smell of chlorine; the artificial, rippling blue light of the swimming pool. You were waiting. You were alive; alive with the thrill of the chase, alive with the mental stimulation of the cases, alive with the electric ecstasy of finally, finally, being able to see the hidden leader, the spider of this intricate, beautiful web. The web that chased away the boredom, and oh, it was the most fun you had in ages.

Then it went wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

You remember the sudden, heavy weight in your gut, like an anvil had just dropped inside of you and crushed something delicate (but that's not right, there shouldn't be anything inside you that can be crushed). You remember soft beige colours, a familiar checkered shirt, and you remember something twisted inside you. There were words, voices ("bet you never saw this coming"), but you were thinking wrong, wrong, wrong. It was wrong. The words did not match the person, not at all.

Then you saw. Wires, red and blue and yellow (the colours never looked so horrible before); the flashing red light that was too bright, too red, blinking at you too quickly and too slowly at the same time, as if laughing at your helplessness, your stupidity. And you remember being terrified, terrified like you've never been before, but why, what was so special about the bomb; for god's sake, Moriarty's a bomber and bombers use bombs and that's not even a deduction, it's common sense…

John. John. It was John strapped with explosives, the same bombs that were taunting you with their bright, horrible colours and flashing red light. It was John who was held hostage by a stupid, stupid, detonative vest. It was John who had the awful flickering red dot hovering over his heart (so much red, red, red), who closed his eyes and prepared himself for the worst. You should've known; you should've thought. You're Sherlock Holmes, how can you be so stupid? That was the height of the game, the climax, of course the bomber would prepare a surprise. You should've known. You should've warned John. You should've made sure that he was out of harm's way. You should've…

Told him what was going on. Not get him involved. Made him stay away from you. Anything. Everything.

He was willing to sacrifice his own life for you. Shining eyes locked with yours, ("run, Sherlock!") arms wrapped tightly around their opponent's neck (since when did Moriarty become their opponent?), hope sinking into despair as a red dot appears on your own forehead (but what does that matter? John's the one who is decked out with explosives; he's in danger, why is he throwing away his life like that?). Cold, gleeful laughter, but it's not funny anymore. You hate the game now, hate it and love it at the same time. Why, why, why? John Watson's just another piece of this game, just another pawn, not unlike the other hostages except he's not crying and sobbing and shaking… It shouldn't matter. He shouldn't matter. But he does. Why?

You remember the flickering red dots, dancing across his shirt (no, no, no, not now, not ever), remember the flashing red light of the bomb; the black gleam of the gun and the black insanity in Moriarty's eyes (you wonder for a moment whether you're a reflection of him, if you're both the same dark, mad addict to this danger, this game). Red and black, horrible and beautiful, but it just looks wrong with John in this; you have to get rid of all this red and black – get it away from John…

A ringing shot. Something rammed into your side and threw you harshly off your feet and god, no, where's John? Oh, you remember now. This airless, heavy darkness. Oh. (But where's John; John is in danger, must get John out of danger…)

Then the darkness is blown away in an explosion of white and yellow and orange, and the world erupts into flames.

John.

.

A/N: Yes, I know I'm three steps behind everyone else; Season 2 is out already (and maybe explaining what happened after the end of The Great Game) and there are plenty of post-TGG fics published ages ago. But, honestly, I couldn't resist writing this – I understand why this scene is so popular now.

I also know that it isn't realistic for anyone to be able to have so much go through their minds in the split second before a bomb goes off. I left it vague whether Sherlock's bullet struck the bomb or he missed and a sniper's did, but either way, the bomb should go off almost immediately. Which means that, at best, Sherlock barely has time to be submerged in the water before he's blown out of it, leaving no time for such detailed recollections and reflections. But here's my excuse: this is Sherlock – if he can't think at an insane speed, then who can?