Hi, everyone! This is my first Sherlock story, so if it's not up to the standards, then I'll just have to work on that. :)
I wanted to write something that focused on Sherlock's thought process in the final moments of The Great Game...
Regular text is third person, italics are his direct thoughts.

I do not own Sherlock Holmes. He'd be bloody annoying to deal with 24/7.

Deafening Boom

His hand shook- not enough for John, or even Moriarty- to notice, but it shook nonetheless.

He was afraid.

Sherlock Holmes was afraid. And not just for himself- John's fate was tied up with his. The red dots of light speckling both of them gave him little doubt as to the likelihood of their imminent demise. He was going to die.

Most likely.

Perhaps.

The gun was searing in his grip, almost excruciatingly so- like he was holding a hot iron. The weapon felt foreign, despite his experience with it, yet he held it firmly, never taking his eyes off Moriarty. He wasn't solely concentrating on the brilliantly psychotic man standing across him, though. His peripheral was focused on John. And somehow, Sherlock found himself compromised.

Feelings- the heart he'd so often claimed he did not possess- had overtaken him. He didn't want to hurt John. He didn't want Moriarty to hurt John.

Sherlock knew he was a hypocrite: the game had been jolly fun until it struck too close to home. Why John? Why did Moriarty have to use the one person Sherlock cared about?

But Sherlock already knew the answer. Moriarty had been watching him. He knew how much John meant to him. John was his only friend, and Moriarty had used this to his advantage.

If the standoff the three of them were currently engaged in had been merely between Sherlock and Moriarty, Sherlock would have come up with a solution, or a way out, immediately. He might have shot Moriarty and risked the onslaught of the snipers. He would have most likely escaped. He would have risked his mortality on his brains. Yet… now, he found himself unsure. He hesitated. Should he shoot? Run? Call for help? How could he get both of them out alive? - if that was even possible.

And why did he have to care about anyone, anyway? Just look at the mess it caused-

No. Reflecting on that wouldn't suit now. He had to think…

Shooting Moriarty would mean instant death- no doubt his snipers would level John and I in an instant… however bringing down such a raving madman might be worth it- no, what about John's life? I'm not simply playing with my own here. What would he want?- I already know. He trusts me to do whatever is best in my opinion… Heroism is not my perfect idea of death; I would prefer to shoot Moriarty and escape to fight another day…

The bomb.

Heat is a painful thing, but from an explosion that massive- as in all likelihood it would be, death would be instantaneous. Survival would mean severe bodily damage- however, the bomb is a good deal closer to Moriarty than to either of us, and the pool is near enough to provide a hypothetical means of escape- yet it's far enough away to make reaching it in time very unlikely.

But it's worth a shot.

Sherlock's hand steadied as he changed his target from Moriarty to the rigged coat fifteen feet in front of him. Moriarty was surprised, shocked even, but only for a fleeting instant. Sherlock knew his adversary didn't think he'd do it- didn't think he was really mad enough to force an explosion that could kill all of them. Sherlock saw the smug grin sweep over his face.

He knew that Moriarty assumed he'd won- because he wouldn't risk John's life. Clever. And at any other time, it would have been true. But now, he wasn't risking John's life. He was trying to save it.

He took a deep breath, waited a moment, and then fired. There was a crushing silence, and then a deafening boom. And then heat.

And then nothing.

I know, an abrupt ending, but I just couldn't help myself. What did you think? Was it dreadful, mediocre? Good? Please review and let me know!