Author's Note: TGG stands for The Great Game, by the way.

Did anyone else loooooove when John got all freaked out about the explosion at his house and ran up the stairs yelling "Sherlock!"

Then, of course, he got to his room and found Sherlock was calmly playing his violin and having a conversation with Mycroft.

Well, for this I'm deleting Mycroft from the scene and some... different things happen.

John was stretched out on Sarah's couch when he caught sight of the news. There had been an explosion. A big one, from the looks of it.

But that's not what caught John's eye.

The explosion was at his apartment.

Sherlock.

John jolted up from the couch, yelled a quick excuse or a goodbye or whatever came out of his mouth to Sarah, and sprinted out the door.

It didn't take him long to get to his apartment, and when he did he pushed through the thick throng of people standing outside. He bypassed the guard, who didn't try very hard to stop him (probably recognized him), and shoved open the door.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, sprinting up the singed stairs as fast as he could. "Sherlock!"

He felt panic entering his chest when there was no response, and pushed himself to climb even faster.

John finally reached 221B and threw the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

"Sherlo-"

He stopped mid-sentence, because there was Sherlock, sitting peacefully in a chair and holding a violin.

John let out a colossal sigh of relief and slumped over to a corner, "There was an explosion," he muttered, trying to explain himself.

Sherlock glanced vaguely in the direction of the window, "Yes. I suppose their was."

"And you didn't think to send me a text to let me know you were alright?" John demanded, frustrated, "I ran all the way from Sarah's without even giving her a proper reason!"

"So you were at Sarah's, were you?"

John spluttered something unintelligible and then calmed himself enough to say, "Yes, I was at Sarah's, trying to have some shred of a normal dating life. Don't see why you'd care, though, considering you didn't even send me a bloody text saying 'fine' or, 'don't worry' or, 'don't bother leaving your girlfriend John because I'm alright'."

He stopped, out of breath.

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, "Yes, those would be nice things for someone to do."

He laid his bow on the violin and played a few hard, ear-achingly sharp notes with vehemence.

John raised his eyebrows and turned his attention away from his childlike flatmate. He looked around their flat with a sigh. The windows had been completely blown in by the explosion, and the floor, walls and furniture in the surrounding area were covered with debris, soot and small shards of glass. It would take some serious action with a vacuum and a small army of dust rags to clean the mess up.

Sherlock abruptly set down his violin and bounced to his feet. He kicked his char, sending it rocking back and forth on creaking hinges.

"What was that for?" John asked in exasperation.

"Bored," Sherlock responded, both of them moving to stand in the middle of the living room, "The explosion was from a gas leak. Nothing to investigate. Nothing exciting. Bored, bored, bored."

As if tacking a visual period to the end of his sentence, Sherlock stomped his foot hard on the floor.

A creaking sound filled the room, followed by the noise of splintering wood, and before either of them knew what was happened the floor had completely caved in.

John let out a yell, his arm shooting out to grab part of the floor that was still remaining. He dangled over the hole, large splinters from the broken slab digging into his palm, making his grip slippery with blood.

"Sherlock!" John yelled for the second time that day, peering down into the haze of settling dust and debris. He could see his flatmate anywhere, but he didn't have much of a vision span with the way he was positioned, and it would have been hard to see through the dust anyway.

His entire hand throbbed, and John struggled to keep his grip on the board, "Sherlock, answer me!"

He heard a faint, muffled, "John?" and he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Where are you?"

"The floor gave out..."

"Yes, I know!" John felt his grip slip and frantically reached up with his other hand. He couldn't seem to get a good purchase on the wood; his arms beginning to tremble violently, "I'm hanging from the- well, the floor. Where are you?"

"The floor gave out..." Sherlock repeated, his voice even quieter then before, "I think I'm... under it."

At least they were making progress, "Okay, Sherlock," John said, trying to sound calm and in control, "I'm going to see if I can drop down from the, uh, the floor, and dig you out, alright?"

"Careful, John," He thought he heard, before his finally released his hold on the slab of wood and dropped to the ground.

He hit the ground hard and stumbled foreword, bracing himself on the floor with his knees and nearly crying out in pain as all of his splinters were shoved farther in.

Gritting his teeth, John straightened on the precarious balance of floor boards, insulation and other debris from the explosion, "Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me where you are."

"Boards," Came Sherlock's muffled voice. John followed it, "Dust in my nose. My arm is free."

"Wave it," John commanded.

He heard the sound of shifting wood and scanned through the haze of dust.

"I see you," John said, shutting his eyes briefly in relief and increasing his pace towards Sherlock, "I'm coming. Keep waving."

He stumbled over the last few boards and fell to his knees beside the dirt covered black sleeve of Sherlock's coat. John yanked frantically at the boards covering Sherlock's body, uncovering his head and chest as fast as possible and then moving on to his legs.

Sherlock let out a groan as the filtered light hit his eyes and sat up slowly, rubbing at his chest.

"Anything broken?" John asked, pressed his fingers along Sherlock's ribs.

"No."

"Bruised rib, though," John reported, "Probably more then one. Legs alright? Head?"

Sherlock reached up and touched his mass of dust covered black curls. His fingers came away stained red and John's jaw tightened.

"I think..." Sherlock muttered, blinked slowly, "That something might have hit my head."

"Got that, somehow," John agreed. He pressed his fingers lightly against the spot on Sherlock's head, feeling a large bump swelling under his fingertips. Sherlock winced, trying to bat his hand away, "Come on, Sherlock. Let me take a look."

Sherlock grumbled, "I'm fine," he said gruffly, "Just a bump."

"I can't see in this light," John muttered, ignoring him, "We need to figure out how to get out of here."

The dust had finally started to settle, so John sat back on his heels and took a look around. They were in the flat below them, one of the ones that had blown up. The wall and windows had been completely blasted apart, and the whole room was a mess off broken boards and pieces of furniture.

"Did everyone get out okay?" John asked, searching his brain to try and figure out who even lived below them.

Sherlock shrugged, "I didn't ask."

John raised his eyebrow, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Hmm?"

"I didn't know it was possible for you not to know something," John smirked, resisting the urge to laugh as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Very funny," Sherlock muttered, "Now let's get out of here before I get permanent damage from the dust in my lungs."

John snickered, reaching down an arm to help Sherlock up. Sherlock stumbled to his feet, swayed, steadied himself on John's shoulder, and then joined him in a trek across the uneven floor.

Sherlock squinted around, his face contorting into his "deducing expression"- one that John had come to recognize after months of seeing it pass his flatmate's face. "Door should be over there. Each room is a mirror image to the one above it, and our door is 4 steps this way."

He set off, wobbling a little on his feet, and John scrambled to follow.

"Move these boards and there should be a way to get to the hallway, and then the stairs. We will be able to get out by way of the stairs because you were able to get to our room fine. The way the explosion hit means that if the stairs are structurally sound then the door leading to them will be. Doors frames are some of the sturdiest places in houses-"

"Which is why you're supposed to stand underneath them during an earthquake," John added.

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed with a crisp nod, "Now, whether or not the hallway with be alright on this floor I'm not sure."

They had reached the area where Sherlock seemed to think the doorway had once been. John reached over and began to pull them away.

"Careful," Sherlock said, "Not only could moving the boards shake the already precarious balance of building, but you don't want to hurt your hand more then it is. Splinters aren't hard to aggravate."

John stopped with his hand on a piece of debris, "How did you know that I had splinters?"

"It was fairly obvious," Sherlock shrugged, "You always use your right hand to check for head injuries, and you used your left when you checked up on me. You could have just hurt your hand jumping down from where you were hanging but there were no noises except of you landing and a gasp when your hands hit the floor. Not only that, but you were hanging from a broken board, and the angle you were standing when you fell would mean you were grasping the end- the splintered part."

John shook his head slowly, "Brilliant."

Sherlock looked pleased, but it didn't last long. The whole building shuddered, and he glanced around, "The explosion must have weakened the building's supports," he muttered, "We don't have much time."

"Great," John said, gritting his teeth. He began to quickly yank away boards, and it didn't take Sherlock long to join him. Soon, there was a big enough whole in the debris for them to squeeze through.

They tumbled out into the hallway, the carpet ripped and covered in dust. John let out a sigh of relief, but he was quickly urged to his feet by Sherlock as the building trembled again.

"Move!" Sherlock yelled, and the two of them ran for the stairs.

They sprinted down a few steps at a time and broke out of the apartment building just as the entire two bottom floors crumbled to nothing.

Gasps and murmured traveled around the crowd and Sherlock and John were grabbed away from the unstable building and dragged behind the security tape. Both of them stumbled to a stop, heaving for breath.

"You alright?" John gasped, hands on his knees as he sucked in air.

"Quite," Sherlock answered, straitening up and batting off the paramedic that had started to approach him, "You?"

John inspected his hand. There were a few larger splinters that were causing small red rivulets of blood to run down his hand, but most of the damage was tiny flecks of wood buried in his skin.

Sherlock grabbed his hand before he had time to hide it and flattened it out. He inspected it closely, and waved the paramedic back over, "His hand needs attention. Now."

John rolled his eyes, "Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I can take care of it."

"Nobody wants to pull out their own splinters," said Sherlock, sounding almost petulant.

John's mouth twisted, "Fine. Then, miss, could you send someone over to look at his head?"

Sherlock glared at him, but the paramedic nodded, "I'll take a look at him after I clean up your hand."

"Thank you."

John let himself be dragged off to the emergency vehicle that was set up on the side of the road. The paramedic pulled the splinters carefully out of his palm and wrapped it. John would never admit it afterword, but he might had grabbed hold of Sherlock's hand and squeezed so hard Sherlock lost circulation in his fingers.

After, John stood up and all but shoved Sherlock toward the paramedic, who checked for a concussion and any other head injuries before handing Sherlock an ice pack and clearing him, "Good to go."

"You're ribs-" John started, but Sherlock gave him an imploring look.

"You can look at them," he said, "You're a doctor. I'd rather you."

John's lips twitched with a pleased smile, but all he did was nod, "We're going to have to find a place to stay."

Sherlock raised both his eyebrows and started to grin. John felt suddenly uncomfortable. That was his 'I've got a plan that you are probably not going to like but is completely genius' look.

25 minutes later, Sarah was opening up her door with a tolerant, very forced smile.

"Thank you so much," John said for the eight time.

Sarah sighed, smiling a little more naturally at him, "No problem-"

"Of course it's no problem; you've got a perfectly large flat and we're homeless," Sherlock cut her off, pushing rudely into her apartment and leaving poor Sarah to grit her teeth and follow.

She left them alone in the living room in no time, probably trying to avoid Sherlock as much as humanly possible.

"Let me take a look." John said.

"Hmm?" Sherlock mumbled questioningly, as if he already didn't know what John was talking about.

John rolled his eyes, "At your ribs."

"Right," Sherlock gave him a quick smile, "They're fine."

"Uh huh. Then let me look."

Reluctantly, Sherlock took a seat on the couch and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. John peered at the mass of slowly appearing bruises.

"Ouch."

Sherlock shrugged.

John leaned foreword and began to gently press all over Sherlock's chest and ribs, trying to ignored Sherlock gritting his teeth and tensing every time John touched him.

He sat back after only a few minutes, "You should be fine with some rest. Just take it easy."

"I told you," Sherlock grumbled.

They were silent for a few moments, exhausted from their morning and everything that had just gone on.

Then Sherlock looked over at John with a sly grin, "Good thing I didn't text you, then."

"What?"

"You never would have shown up," Sherlock shrugged, "Never would have pulled me out of the wreckage."

"Don't make a habit of getting buried under wreckage," was all John could come up with as a rejoinder, because he was completely right.

"Guess I'll get into the habit of making you run from your girlfriends house whenever our house explodes."

John just groaned.

Author's Note: YAY! Longest drabble in this series so far!