A/N Alternate ending to the pool scene, I suppose. I actually wrote a longer, slightly different version of this (by 'longer,' I mean 8000 words o.o), which can be found under the name 'Elemental' on my profile. Also (THIS IS IMPORTANT): I'm going to be gone for about a week and a half (no internet), so don't be expecting updates during that time.
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
X. Breathe Again
John leaps forward just as the pool explodes.
A gigantic boom rings through his ears and flames flare up behind eyes that he forces closed, and he flings his arms forward blindly, managing to secure his hands tightly around a slim, suited arm that he can only pray is Sherlock's and not Moriarty's. They fall through the air for a moment before splitting the surface of the water, and John only just has time to cup a hand over his nose and mouth, not entirely blocking them from the stinging rush of chlorine that presses in on his eardrums as they plunge together like rocks. The whole world slows and becomes distant, so that the raging fire surely caused by the eruption is nothing but a faint rumble. Already, John's lungs are screaming for oxygen, but he forces himself to stay under until a deeper black than visual darkness begins to taunt the edges of his mind. Forcing his eyes open against the angry burn of the water, he kicks rapidly, beginning to ascend.
But something is wrong.
Sherlock.
Why isn't he trying to swim?
John loops his arm around the vague blur that's all he can discern of his companion, refusing to acknowledge the doubts churning in his stomach, cruel whispers that maybe he wasn't fast enough, perhaps Moriarty's sniper had just enough time to fire… his legs cycle harder than ever, and just as he feels ready to burst, his head breaks through the surface.
He gasps, taking in deep lungfuls of air as he uses one arm to lift himself out of the water, climb out onto the side. Everything is aflame and at least partially collapsed, and he's kneeling in a mass of charred rubble, the fire there thankfully extinguished by overflowing pool water…
He's hardly acknowledging this, though, fixated as he is on Sherlock. He clutches the limp detective's shoulders and biceps, struggling and slowly managing to drag him out of the destroyed pool, onto solid ground, where he lies with an awful stillness, water streaming off of him.
John's hands move without thinking, probing over Sherlock's chest, searching for some sort of a wound. But though the whole front of his suit is wet, it doesn't carry a trace of the deadly heat of blood. His fingers hesitate over the place where his medical experience tells him the heart resides.
Nothing.
"No, no, don't be ridiculous," he mutters to himself, shocked at how hollow and cracked his words are. Sherlock is fine, of course he is—John's just too nervous and worked up to feel the delicate thrum of a heartbeat, that's all. So he kneels down farther, pressing his ear against Sherlock's shirt, which is sodden to the point of transparency.
Still, it's silent. So silent…
John is suddenly moving at an absurd pace, his actions detached from the sick drop of his stomach and the throbbing chorus of no, no, no that rings clearly through his mind. His hands are pumping, slamming and crashing down onto Sherlock's ribcage, furiously prompting his heart and lungs. And then, in an action that somehow doesn't at all feel like that of a doctor, he lowers his head and brushes his warm lips against Sherlock's cool ones, tingling chills running through his body, only remembering at the last moment what he's doing, how he has to pinch the nose shut and exhale fully into the mouth that his own is touching, move his head back down to the chest, listen, up again, breathe, wait…
It's with a massive, hacking cough that Sherlock comes back, and John springs away, giving the dark-haired man room to convulse and choke water up out of his lungs, gagging and twitching for what seems like it must be multiple minutes before he finally falls back, gasping raggedly.
"John…" The cracked rasp slips out of him, and it's all the indication that the doctor needs to scramble forwards, to scoop Sherlock's horribly shivering form up into his arms and begin whispering ceaseless reassurances into his ear.
"It's all right, we both made it, Moriarty's gone, Lestrade will be coming soon, everything will be fine, every single little thing will be just fine now…"
He stays like that, rocking Sherlock back and forth, and he doesn't intend to stop anytime soon.