Disclaimer: So obviously this is waaaaaay late and if I owned the show then we wouldn't have had the first series yet.

A/N: So sorry this has taken as long as it has but there's this terrible thing called real life and university work that kept getting in the way. So this has been a front-runner in my next-update poll since day one and I've spent the last five days on it, making and polishing. This is also now my most subscribed to story and I thought I owed a lot of people some sort of thanks for the support. I've rewritten a few parts of chapter two as after reading a few reviews and reviewing the chapter myself there seemed to be a couple of problems which I have (hopefully) written out. It's updated, although don't expect the changes to be glaring. Thought it would be easier if I updated them both together. So, please read and let me know what you think. l-h

Endgame

Chapter Three: Ensnared

Sherlock's plan had been to stay ahead of the explosions, convinced, as he was, that they were lining the room; why else would the rifles have withheld their fire after the bomb jacket exploded?

Yet in the split second between his opening the door and the detonation, Sherlock realised how much he had underestimated this adversary.

The snipers had stopped their barrage of bullets in order to set the charges and vacate the building while Moriarty's second showing was to ensure the two 'meddlers' stayed in the room and didn't discover the detonators.

This room, the room where he had killed Carl Powers, held such memories for Moriarty. It stood as a trophy for his first victory against Sherlock all those years ago, as a testament now to his self-assured brilliance and annoying smug attitude. Damaged as it was, this room was far too important in Moriarty's twisted mind to be destroyed.

The explosions were aimed to take out all the doorways, sealing them in.

Upon this realisation, Sherlock just had time to raise his arms in an attempt to shield his head in the moment the charge exploded.

Within an instant of the phone starting to ring, Inspector Lestrade had picked it up.

"What?" his bark was impatient and caught the person on the other end by surprise, causing them to stumble over the words as they relayed their message to him. "Alright, I'll be there."

Slamming the phone down, he paused to think about that annoying fool of a man he'd come to count on too much for his liking. Sherlock was always swanning off, chasing down leads on his own, leaving Lestrade in the dark.

Stringing the police along all this time but only when it was all figured out…and then all of a sudden he fell, seemingly, off the face of the earth. For hours, nothing. Not a peep.

Alright, so he always got his man in the end, but there could be no denying that anyone who became involved with that man was always at threat for whatever reason.

And John Watson was living with the asshole.

"Another explosion?" Donovan stood on the other side of the desk looking worriedly at the phone before turning to the Inspector.

"Worse." Looking up at Donovan he saw her face change to one of great worry. "Several."

"You think it's this bomber guy?"

"Possibly." He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair. "We won't know until we get there." He began to stride out of the office.

"So where's the freak?" He turned back to her; the half-smug smile immediately disappearing once she realised he was watching her.

"Are you going to make jokes or are you going to be useful?" She immediately avoided eye contact.

"Sorry, sir." Her reply was through gritted teeth.

Waiting to see if she had anymore to say he looked her up and down. "Alright, then. Inform Anderson. I want you both on site." And with that he left the room, his coat whipping the doorframe as he exited.

The explosions had stopped, specks of dust were still settling on the scene as John tried to process what was happening. There was no sound from the rubble and a terrible throbbing in the back of his skull told him he would be lucky not to have a concussion now. And he wasn't exactly feeling very lucky

A dull ringing pierced the air, almost like a high-pitched whistling in his ears, left by being so close to the explosion, though it wasn't deafening as he could still hear his own rapid, shallow breathing.

"Sherlock!"

His eyes were fixed on the huge pile of bricks and mortar that had moments before been a door. He paused hoping for some sign of life, a sound, some form of movement anything to indicate there was somebody alive under that…that…mess.

…

There was nothing; no movement, no voice, no sound; nothing; absolutely nothing at all.

"Sherlock!"

…

The silence was grinding; unbearable. From the first moment he'd met the reckless impulsive, insensitive idiot, the man had always been surrounded by noise. Whether it was talking or the sounds of those dangerous experiments in the kitchen, he was never quiet.

"Sherlock!"

The sound of the clattering debris still echoed around the empty room as he waited again for some form of response but nothing seemed to get through to his mind except that there was silence. Horrific, unending silence.

"Sherlock!"

His legs scrambled as the lack of movement and sound continued, while he struggled to push himself up on his arms.

"Sherlock!"

The world suddenly shifted and pain exploded in the side of his temple as his head made contact with the floor once again. Wincing, he cracked an eye open peeking down at the poolside beneath him.

A small layer of water coated the entire floor making it ridiculously hazardous.

Brilliant!

"Sherlock!" he was practically screaming as he clumsily tried to shift his weight "Answer me, you…" Finally pushing himself to his hands and knees, his head reeled and he had to stop before his stomach tried to empty itself. "…you…arrogant PRAT!"

The one of a kind, world only consulting detective was…stuck…trapped…in trouble… Hell, he was in trouble…they both were. John shook his head lightly trying to shake the clouded, foggy feeling that was slowly taking over his mind. He just needed…just a bit of time… If he could just think…

There was a gnawing feeling rising in his gut as he carefully pushed himself to his feet. "Sherlock!"

Again, his head reeled and John half-stumbled towards the wall, smashing into with his shoulder. Gasping against the pain and using the wall to prop himself up as he hobbled towards the wreck, he called out again. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

He tripped just as he reached the pile, barely noticing the graze on his hands in comparison to his growing confusion. Reaching out, he started frantically grabbing handfuls of the rubble tossing it out of the way. Handful after handful. Glass, bricks, wire; anything that was blocking his way; anything, everything, all of it was thrown aside. Splashing and clunking quickly filled the air as he grabbed as many lumps of rocks and mortar as he could, desperately hurling it behind him.

"Sherlock." John's voice had quietened, no longer having the energy to maintain his angered shouts. "Come on."

For the first time since he'd met the damn fool, John wished he could hear Sherlock saying something; something derogatory or belittling or ridiculous; something seemingly random but surprisingly relevant to their current predicament. Anything…

But there was nothing but that ever-grinding silence and the continuous sloshing of the pool water behind him.

Then, suddenly…

He stopped clawing at the rubble.

An abnormally thin pale hand stuck out from under what remained of the top of the pile.

There was a small trail of blood crossing the palm, which was facing up. The source of the bleeding wasn't immediately obvious, it could be the hand or it could be somewhere further down the arm, which was hidden beneath the rest of the rubble; there was no telling.

"Shit."

More of the mess began to be shoved, thrown, tossed, anything to move it off the fool that was trapped beneath. But John could feel the growing exhaustion pushing on the back of his brain, forcing its way down his limbs, slowly but surely hindering his progress as he continued trying to dig out his flatmate.

"This is all your fault." He could feel his mind already starting to slow as the adrenaline started to drain from his bloodstream. Each handful was gradually becoming smaller, soon he would only be grabbing at little more than dust and pebbles.

He was so exhausted and just wanted this to be over.

Most of the windows were shattered to pieces; blasted outwards with the shards spread across the ground, glinting in the mediocre light of the street lamps. A large crack ran down the North outer wall, heralding nothing but more of the same within.

Every doorway within the building appeared to be blocked with no exceptions. The only way onwards was to dig through the rubble.

Initially, there had been little effort by the small group of officers on site to venture within. If for no other reason than the place could still be rigged with explosives, set to go off as someone walked inside.

Pulling up outside the building, Lestrade spotted the small congregation of police officers stood discussing the best course of action. Getting out of the car he prepared to begin organising the team before hearing a familiar tune emerging from his mobile phone.

Sighing he slammed the car door, before reaching inside his jacket for it.

This better be you, Sherlock.

There were two messages; one was an image, the other a voicemail.

Anderson and Donovan had moved off, setting into motion the necessities for the beginning of their investigation. So it was that Lestrade was stood alone as the voicemail played, letting out one solitary pip.

"God."

Now the bomber was sending him messages.

Tentatively, he opened the picture message and he would later, unashamedly admit that what he saw caused his blood to run cold.

A deserted, serene indoor swimming pool.

Sherlock's right arm and part of his face were now exposed; dirty, dusty and bloodied as they were. Having uncovered them though, John was unsure whether he felt better or worse about the entire situation.

There didn't appear to be any troubling injuries except for two, rather deep cuts; one along the length of his forearm and another, worryingly close to his right eye. Thankfully, John had checked and there appeared to be no major damage to the actual eye but without Sherlock being conscious there was no real way of knowing.

All the while, John had continued to talk to Sherlock even though his brain was almost completely detached from what he was doing and he was fully aware that his flatmate probably couldn't hear him. It was mainly comments such as how Sherlock was not leaving him to clean up the kitchen again or other such things, all brought on by a mild sense of delirium.

Even now he was still working to get Sherlock out; that was his main aim. To be honest, what else could he do?

Yells came from one of the other entrances, the sound bouncing and echoing around the wall and John swore he would never enter a public swimming pool again, if only to avoid that harrowing echo.

"Hey!" His yell, like every word within this place, bounced off the walls and water, warping and distorting and echoing. "We're in here!"

The sounds of people sounded as though they were getting closer but John couldn't be sure any more.

"We're in here!" He turned back to the still form of Sherlock and tapped him on the face. "Wake up. They've found us. Some…someone's found us."

The voices were definitely closer now; John strained to see if he could make out any of the words but his head throbbed heavily, telling him that it was unlikely he would make much sense out of anything else for a while.

There was a clunking on the other side of the pile, bricks being shifted and moved out of the way. Looking over, blurred though his vision was, he saw a familiar shape bent over looking back at him.

"Lestrade?"

It took about ten seconds for Lestrade to look away from the doctor's battered and bruised face and find what was visible of Sherlock's in the pile of bricks at his feet.

"Shit."