A/N Thank you to Raychaell Dionzeros, Sherlocked For Life and the anonymous reviewer for your support – I'm really happy that you like this piece, and I hope you enjoy its conclusion!

John Watson kicked frantically for the surface, feeling his air supply running low. His head broke through the water and he gasped for much-needed oxygen. Then he tried to raise his left arm, but the weight on it was too much. Sherlock didn't move in his grip.

"Damn it!" He hissed, lifting Sherlock's head above the water so his face was clear of the water. John flipped onto his back, holding his friend in place, and began a rapid breaststroke kick to the edge of the pool. With the roof gone, the night sky was visible overhead with a blanket of thick clouds and the occasional scattering of stars. John had never appreciated the sight of it more.

He hauled himself out of the water, eternally grateful for the loss of his psychosomatic limp, until only his left arm was hanging over the edge. With a grimace, he used one hand to grab hold of the sodden material he held until he got a grip on Sherlock's hands. He quickly let the detective dip down into the water before using the buoyancy to bring him backwards over the edge, pulling with all his strength.

The unconscious form of his friend emerged from the water. John pulled Sherlock's body until his head and torso were above the surface, then grabbed him under the arms and dragged him onto the remaining tiles, swinging his legs up once he was settled.

"Sherlock? …Sherlock, can you hear me?" John muttered, checking his friend for a pulse. There was no response.

"Sherlock!"

Nothing.

And then, very faintly, he felt it. Sherlock's pulse was far slower than usual, but he was alive.

"Thank God! Sherlock, can you hear me?" John spoke a little more loudly this time, but there was still no response from his friend. He lay unconscious, and he wasn't breathing.

"Oh, bloody hell…" John pushed down on his friend's chest, watching in dismay as the water trickled out of his mouth.

Immediately, his medical training kicked in. He started to prepare Sherlock for C.P.R., putting him in the correct position and praying he wasn't too late.

"Come on, Sherlock, please be okay, please God let him be okay…" John whispered, before taking in as much air as he could and pressing his lips to Sherlock's. The irony struck him that at this point he really wouldn't care if people talked, even Sarah, if it meant that Sherlock would survive. He pulled back and pushed down on the detective's chest, keeping count and watching the water spurt out of his mouth.

"How much did he take in?" John muttered, hoping against hope that Sherlock would wake up soon.

He didn't.

"Okay then…" Another deep breath, another attempt to get air into Sherlock's lungs. The taste of chlorine lingered on John's lips as he started another set of pushes.

One.

Two.

One.

Two.

One…

Sherlock gasped, coughing up even more water. He spluttered in shock, water trickling down his face. After a few seconds of this, he regained enough control to sit up, only coughing a little as he tried to take in more air.

"Take it easy, Sherlock. Don't panic, it just tightens your airways. Now sit still and focus on taking small breaths… in… out… in… out… that's it. Keep going." John smiled faintly as his friend started to breathe normally. He let out a sigh of relief. "Better?"

Sherlock nodded. He seemed to be coming round quite well. He coughed out some of the remaining water and seemed to realise something.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I think you just saved my life." Sherlock murmured.

"What makes you think that?" John asked, secretly wondering whether Sherlock had suffered a head injury at some point. Better to get him to tell the story and check for any memory issues. At least it would keep him talking, and talking meant breathing correctly.

"There was a bomb… and Jim was going to get away… and they would have killed us…" Sherlock mused, and then he suddenly seemed to take in his surroundings. The walls were mostly destroyed; all that was left were a few blackened and crumbling stacks of bricks. The tiles had been scorched too, and the plaster dust and ashes were still drifting through the air. "Ah. I suppose I wasn't bluffing."

"You didn't know?" John raised an eyebrow.

"Not really, no. Something wrong?" Sherlock looked at him as if daring him to criticise his indecision over setting off the bomb.

"…No. What do you remember, exactly?"

"I was… holding a gun."

"That's right."

"I fired at the explosives, but then…" Sherlock trailed off, evidently struggling to recall exactly what had happened next.

"Yes?" John prompted him. The head injury theory was looking less likely, as Sherlock was showing no signs of concussion, but he wanted to make sure.

"I wasn't shot. Something happened, and I was knocked into the pool. I was pulled down, away from the explosion… I ran out of air and blacked out."

"Full marks for recollection. I think you're going to be fine." John grinned. Sherlock, however, didn't look so happy. He frowned.

"What happened? Why aren't I – or we – dead?" He groaned and rubbed his head. "I can't think straight…" John decided it was probably just exhaustion, as Sherlock usually thought so quickly nobody could keep up.

He decided to take the unique chance to explain something to his flatmate for once rather than have it explained to him. He smirked. It was kind of fun to be the one with all the answers for a change.

"What, you haven't managed to work it out?" He ignored Sherlock's incredulous expression. "Well, I suppose you have been through a lot. I'll walk you through it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest that he was perfectly capable of solving the mystery, but then realised his head was aching and it would be easier to have it explained and closed his mouth with a nod.

"You said, 'if we can finish you, I will be happy to go down with my friend at my side' right before you pulled the trigger. It made me think. In Afghanistan, a bomb explodes and they order you to get down. Generally behind something, or in a trench, for some level of protection. No walls or sandbags were available, but there was a nice, deep trench. Full of water to minimise the heat impact, too."

"The pool…" Sherlock murmured.

"Precisely. So I decided to use that as my shelter. Next problem: you were going to be shot the moment you pulled the trigger. So was I. And if we survived that, there was the explosion to look forward to… so I made up my mind to try and knock you out of harm's way, into the pool, the moment you fired the gun."

"You thought of all this in the seconds before I fired?" Sherlock's tone was caught somewhere between surprised and impressed, as if he'd never realised that other people were capable of processing data at such speed.

"Naturally. My mind works fastest in life-or-death situations, as you know. Plus, the way you phrased things… 'to go down with my friend at my side' was practically an instruction, when you think about it. To knock you sideways into the pool, pull ourselves down, away from the bomb, and live to fight another day. Unlike that lot." John motioned to the scattering of charred corpses, presumably Moriarty and the snipers who had fallen from their hiding places when the building fell apart.

Sherlock smiled sheepishly.

"I was actually just trying to be heroic when I said that, you know."

"Really? I thought you didn't see yourself as a hero." John was puzzled.

"I don't. I just wanted to see what it felt like for a moment, before I died."

"…Oh." There was nothing else he could say to that.

Sherlock averted his eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly. More drops of water rose up from his throat and he shook his head in annoyance.

"So, um, what happened next?"

"I knocked you in, pulled you underwater, got you deep enough to avoid injury… well, by the explosion, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't breathe in much before I pulled you under. By the time it was safe to resurface, you weren't moving. I needed air, so I came up – dragging you with me – only you were unconscious. I dragged you out and tried to make you wake up, but you weren't breathing. I managed to resuscitate you, and here we are." John smiled at Sherlock, who was staring at him in surprise.

"I, um… don't know what to say."

"The situation might be appropriate for a 'thank you'." John raised his eyebrows. Honestly, sometimes "high-functioning sociopath" seemed like a stretch.

"No. I mean… that was way beyond a casual 'thank you'. I owe you my life, twice over from the sound of it. What you did was…"

"Don't tell me, 'good'?" John chuckled.

"I was going to say 'extraordinary'."

John looked at him in surprise. It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes gave out compliments – it took offering to blow yourself up while clinging to a master criminal just to earn the comment 'that was… good.' Yet he had just heard his friend give him another compliment, in total sincerity. John gave Sherlock a wide smile.

"I'll have to save your life more often – I don't think I've ever heard you describe someone else as extraordinary, even the really clever criminals."

"None of them deserved it." Sherlock said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. There was a moment or two's silence.

"John?"

"Yep?"

"I'm really glad you're okay. For a moment back there, when you came in, I thought…"

"Don't." John grimaced. "It wasn't the best moment, and besides, I don't think Jim will be 'fixing' things any time soon. Better not to dwell on it."

"You're probably right."

"And anyway, it was nothing compared to when I realised you weren't breathing. Now that was a scary moment…" John trailed off, remembering Sherlock's cold, motionless body lying by the poolside, and his struggle to find a pulse. He paled slightly.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, staring at him.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"What?" John stared at him, wide-eyed. "How can you make deductions as to whether someone's lying?"

"I could just tell."

"Fine, don't tell me. But you're right, I was just thinking… what if it hadn't worked?"

"Your plan?"

"That, or the CPR. If either hadn't worked, one or both of us would be…" John swallowed anxiously. He was prevented from continuing the sentence as Sherlock pulled him into an awkward hug.

"Don't worry."

John let out a breath and hugged his friend briefly, before pulling back and wiping his eyes.

"Sorry."

"It's fine." Sherlock took a deep breath – thankfully there didn't seem to be any more water forthcoming – and then seemed to remember something. "Come on, let's go and get the shopping." Sherlock said, getting to his feet.

"What?"

"Milk. And beans, too. Remember?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You said you'd do it!" John said indignantly, standing up.

"Well, I planned to do it once I was finished here. Problem?" And just like that, things were back to normal. Well, whatever passed for normal for the residents of 221b Baker Street.

"Yes, actually." John said, checking his pockets.

"Well?"

"All my money seems to have turned into a useless pulp. Do you mind paying?" John grinned and headed for the road, with Sherlock following him.

"Not at all. Do you think credit cards react to being soaked, though?"

"Probably not. What's bothering me is the idea of both of us turning up at the shop, dripping wet, in the middle of the night. They already think I'm mad from the incident with the self-scanning machine…"

And once again, the pair walked away from a crime scene in fits of laughter.

A/N Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, why not check out my current joint project with Legendberry? It's a crossover fic called How I Met Your Father. Even if you don't usually read crossovers – I didn't before I started work on this one – you might find it interesting. You never know until you try, right? (Okay, okay, I'll stop plugging the story now!) Reviews for either story are greatly appreciated. ~Yellow Emerald