AN: Hello, dears. Hope you all are having better winters than I am (bipolar and long periods without sunlight are not a recommended combination). But here's some whump to cheer you up and make your intenets a little more sunny :-)
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Sherlock can't breathe. It hasn't been easy for days but now he really CANNOT BREATHE and it's becoming less boring by the second. Well, at least he wouldn't die bored. Mycroft would be furious with him; he hated he would miss that bit. He should really be trying harder to fight the pull of the water, but he lungs have finally given up on him after weeks of neglect and abuse.
Something drags at the back of his shirt making it even harder to breathe. He feels disconnected from his body now, and away from the pain everything begins to re-fracture so that he can make sense of what's happened. John is pulling him from the depths of the pool, so the blast wasn't ultimately damaging. John is also immediately starting in on CPR so Moriarty must be gone, escaped or killed there's no way of knowing yet. Sherlock vaguely considers a desire to inspect the blast radius of the bomb but he has to concede that his body is useless to him now.
John pumps furiously at Sherlock's chest, forcing his heart to contract and compressing his lungs in an attempt to expel the water the detective has apparently swallowed. They weren't under for long though for all John knows Sherlock might have had no idea how to swim but he hadn't time to consider when he barreled them both into the pool. He's almost certain the backs of his own legs caught some of the shrapnel but he couldn't care less right now. He just has to keep Sherlock's heart working.
Searing pain draws Sherlock back to himself as water suddenly expels itself from his lungs, and now he's coughing uncontrollably, the water having instantaneously doubled the amount of damage the pneumonia had caused. He can taste blood and John is all but screaming at the emergency service personnel that have appeared, seemingly from nowhere. Sherlock grabs at John's sleeve to explain that he's perfectly fine, but his voice box is useless and he continues to cough, the taste of iron even stronger than before. John looks even more panicked which was not the idea at all, so he'll just have to wait.
When Sherlock regains consciousness he finds himself inspecting a very white, very uninteresting ceiling. After a moment he turns to inspect the rest of his surroundings to find John in a chair, arms crossed, glaring murderously at him; this is far more interesting.
"You," says John, not moving, "Are a damned, flaming IDIOT."
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow and tests his vocal chords. His voice comes out raspy and a bit deeper than usual.
"On what basis?"
"On the basis that you are an idiot!"
John is up and pacing now, and Sherlock decides to wait for the explosion rather than stoke it. Sure enough, John whirls to face him and stalks up to the bed.
"Two weeks by the x-rays. Two bleeding weeks you've had pneumonia and don't say a word! Of course not, what possible reason could one have to speak to the doctor they live with about a potentially life threatening illness that is preventing them from breathing? And then I go and dunk you in a freezing pool!"
"I told you, breathing's boring. And had you not dunked me in that pool we wouldn't be having this conversation."
John's face contorts, torn between rage, annoyance, concern, humor and possibly eight other emotions Sherlock has no desire to contemplate at the moment. John hangs his head in an attempt to compose himself.
"Boring, Sherlock, but necessary."
John sighs and turns away running both his hands through his hair. Sherlock notes John has talked an orderly out of a pair of scrubs. It suddenly strikes him how different John appears and he unconsciously starts cataloguing the shifts. His tan lines are significantly more visible, toned biceps, broad back, the first signs of needing a haircut. Yet somehow, he looks much more commanding in this pale green uniform than he ever does in his jumpers. John turns back to him, face serious.
"Sherlock, I know you don't care much for the conditions of the flesh but you can die. And I don't just mean like last night with bombs and guns and Moriarty. You are mortal and as mundane as it is you have to take care of yourself. Or at the very least let me do it for you. I'm a doctor for god's sake. I can treat you at the flat; you don't have to interact with anyone else. But you have to tell me when something's wrong because I'm obviously not anywhere near as astute as you are."
"Hardly anyone is."
"I know Sherlock, which is why I'm asking for you to enlighten me as to when you're not feeling well. I won't live with someone who's neglectful to the point of self harm, do you understand?"
Sherlock studies John's face and knows he had best learn to makes some adjustments. He settles his head more firmly against the pillow and closes his eyes.
"Yes, my dear doctor, I understand." He opens one eye. "But don't expect me to be an ideal patient."
"Never, Sherlock, never."