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Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

Warning: General Jim craziness, and um... don't panic?

# #

After all these years avoiding being shot to death or accidently overdosing on coffee, Joan didn't imagine dying in an explosion in a swimming pool in London. Wasn't part of her agenda at all. She mentally steadied herself. At least the pain would be gone. At least Moriarty and Moran would be as dead as me.

She was pulled from her dark thoughts by a muffled music tune. Stayin' alive, stayin' alive… Both Sherlock and she glanced around, confused, but Jim seemed unsurprised. "D'you mind if I get that?" fishing out his phone. Seriously?!

"No, no, please. You've got the rest of your life." And did Sherlock really need to be a smartass here?

She was suddenly reminded of the headset still in her ear when she heard a distant and distorted female voice answer to Moriarty's "Hello?".

# #

"SAY THAT AGAIN!"

Things took a very strange turn indeed. As much as he struggled to appear collected, Sherlock was having trouble assessing potential developments. A minute ago, he had been ready to set off a bomb, and his nemesis looked quite amenable to it, for the sake of dramatics, of course. Now, the man was threatening someone on the phone.

On his left, Joan's breathing became shaky. They didn't have time or resources to draw it out any longer.

Letting go of his phone call, Jim dropped his happy-go-lucky mask and gazed blankly at them, standing a step away from the bomb. "Sorry. Wrong day to die."

Interesting. "Oh. Did you get a better offer?"

# #

In her ear, Moran hissed indignantly: "Are we letting them get away?"

Jim didn't appear to have heard, but - or maybe it was just her feverish imagination - his eyes flashed with vicious anger. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock" he said. It felt like he was addressing his goons as well. He started to walk away, resuming the conversation on the phone, and there was faint movement in the shadows above, impercetible, am I just imagining things because I know what must be going on?

Sebastian wasn't having it that way however: "That wasn't the plan." She felt her heart drop. Only moments to guess what the rogue sniper was about to do. He wants blood. Who will he shoot? Sherlock didn't seem to notice anything amiss. "Go to hell" came the snarl in the ear-piece. Moran is vengeful, cruel, he revels in mentally crushing his victims. I'm his personal enemy. He won't be shooting me first. It took her less than a second to come to the right conclusion. "She'll pay."

He didn't finish his last sentence yet when Joan hurtled up and forward, aiming to get Sherlock to cover, or at least out of the line of fire.

Several things happened in quick succession: Moriarty snapped his fingers absent-mindedly, making most of red dots go away, except one; Joan collided with Sherlock, making him stagger and fall into the water; the unexpected tackle made the detective press the trigger, and the deafening shot rang through the pool, the bullet miraculously not ricocheting or hitting the bomb, and losing itself somewhere in the dark, making Jim look up in surprise from his little conversation; at the same time a nearly silent pop signaled the firing of a sniper rifle; Joan, who had somehow caught her balance before taking a dive, stumbled forward a step, then fell head first on the tiled floor.

Through mind-numbing pain in her lower back, she was still hearing Moran swear vehemently on the line. The rational part of her piped timidly that he had only one shot at this and he blew it. If there was any doubt about a possible concussion earlier, right now, she was certain to have hit the floor hard enough to warrant one. The world was tilting and spinning even behind closed eyelids, making her long for unconsciousness. Then…

"JOHN!" someone called in panic, and Joan forced herself to open her eyes.

# #

He could barely believe that Moriarty was leaving, clearly disinterested in their little game for the moment. They were getting out of this alive and relatively unhurt.

The impression of peace lasted less than half-a-minute.

While he was tracking Jim's retreat, looking out for a sign of deceit, he had missed the distress on his friend's face. Suddenly, something collided with him, sending him sprawling into the pool. He felt the gun recoil, and dreaded for a second the bullet's trajectory would kill them all, but it went off-course.

Finding himself in the abrupt silence underwater, Sherlock's mind whirled at a mad speed to process the new development. John pushed me into the pool, risking the explosion, while the apparent danger was on the verge of disappearing. I had missed something.

Getting past the initial shock, he pushed himself up, the depth was only about one and a half meters. His hair splashed against his skull in a impenetrable curtain, blocking effectively his field of vision. Irritably pushing offending locks back, he first glanced at Moriarty who stood in a perfect embodiment of unpleasant surprise, phone forgotten by his ear. It wasn't part of the plan then. Then his attention went back to Joan, who had put him in this rather uncomfortable predicament.

His blood ran cold and the breath caught in his lungs at the sight.

Joan was laying face down on the floor by the water, motionless, one arm floating lifelessly in the water. No.

Paddling frantically, hindered by wet clothes, Sherlock scurried to the poolside. A smallish dark smear was slowly growing larger on Joan's brown shirt. No. "JOHN!" he cried out desperately.

To a small relief, her eyelids fluttered open, but her gaze was unfocused, barely conscious. "John!" He finally reached her side, grabbing her shoulder but completely at a loss as for what to do next. "Talk to me. John." Dried lips stirred weakly, but no sound came out. "Come on." He didn't even think of disguising the anguish in his voice. Moriarty was all but forgotten at this point.

But he was still there.

"Dear me, what a show!" the man clapped slowly to emphasize his point.

Evidence: Gunshot wound, entry point between the 11th and the 12th rib, on the left side.

Assumption: The intended target had been him.

Conclusion: John took a bullet for him.

Still half-immersed in the cool water, Sherlock glared fiercely upwards at the Irishman, murder evident in his eyes. "Don't gimme that look, Sherlock" Jim raised his hands in mock protest. "I don't like my toys broken before time either." He narrowed his eyes dangerously, the vicious snarl flashing on his face again. "It will be taken care of." He must have been wearing a dissimulated communicator, as he appeared to listen to something before nodding absently. "I reeeaaaally must go though. Give my best wishes to Johnny."

If he could, Sherlock would have ripped James's throat out already. But he couldn't leave Joan's side, not now that she was slipping away, and he watched his nemesis disappear, for good this time, in an unlit corridor.

A ringing silence fell upon them, disturbed only by soft murmur of water and Holmes's own labored breathing. Think, Sherlock, intoned Mycroft's voice in his head.

He was no use while being stuck in the pool. In a great splash, he hoisted himself out, scrambling to Joan's prone form on his knees, not bothering to get up properly.

Assess the damage.

The blood wasn't gushing out, a good sign, but the stain was steadily spreading.

Provide first aid.

He regretted not paying enough attention to this part of his self-education. Laying face to the floor isn't very favorable to breathing, he decided. Breathing is good. He attempted to gently turn Joan on her back. But he didn't take into account residual pain from previous abuse, and felt her body tense slightly, a pained grunt making him panic again.

Call for help.

He patted his pockets in frenzy, searching for the phone. Unfortunately, it hadn't taken well to the short dip in the pool and refused to power up. John's phone had obviously been removed by Moriarty. And he refused to leave her side for any amount of time in search of a possibly non-existent landline.

Sherlock found himself wishing for Mycroft's monitors to pick up his whereabouts soon enough to send in competent help.

"You okay?" A faint whisper broke his thoughts. Dulled blue eyes watched him with resigned fondness.

"If you can talk, tell me what to do" he demanded immediately, arms flailing over her, not quite touching. She blinked slowly at him, possibly suppressing a wave of pain.

"'S all good. Just a scratch. 'll be fine" Joan mumbled, taking deep shuddering breaths before each sentence.

"John, you're a doctor and should know that a gunshot wound can't be qualified as a scratch" he spoke in reproach, almost tripping over his words.

She winced at him. "'ll be fine" she repeated more forcefully. "Just hurts."

"That's the problem!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated, and honestly feeling more and more clueless by the minute. His (presumably only) friend was hurting, presumably by his fault, was possibly bleeding to death, and there was nothing in his power to do to stop it, and that is too many conjectures, not good, this is all far from good.

"…nt worry" Joan mouthed weakly, voice fading into a sigh. She was losing the battle to stay conscious.

"No, no, stay with me, John, please! John!" he pleaded. He could see the effort Watson was making to try to satisfy his selfish request (Isn't it something first-responders were supposed to do? Keep the patient conscious? Or is it just another movie myth?) "Please…" His voice broke, eliciting a twitchy frown from Joan, but her features were already slacking into blank slumber, unresponsive. "John. John! JOHN!" He grabbed her, ignoring any damage he could do manhandling her like this, trying to keep his friend awake.

# #

Doors banged open on the other end of the room, allowing masked men in protective gear to swarm the pool. They quickly secured the perimeter, zeroing on the explosive vest. Sherlock remained hunched over his passed-out blogger, awkwardly trying to both shield her and track all movement around them.

Someone must have given an all-clear, and part of the SCO team left the main room. In their place, a haggard-looking Lestrade burst through the door, eyes wild, followed closely by a very tense Donovan and a flock of constables. It took them four seconds to notice their lonesome forms on the poolside and scurry towards them. Seeing Sherlock's dripping wet frame and Joan's unresponsive body, Greg cursed under his breath. "MEDICS! Now!"

He gingerly knelt down, painfully aware of Holmes going into deep shock. The young detective was shaking violently, but did not seem to notice his own state, gaze running from Watson's pale face to surrounding activity, pupils so blown that his eyes looked like black holes. It was a harsh reminder of his drug days - the drawn traits, the dazed eyes. "Sherlock" Greg tried. He tried really hard to ignore his heart dropping at the sight of the immobile and deathly pale army doctor sprawled on the floor. God, why John…?

Unseeing stare focused on him, and a glimpse of recognition swiftly morphed in a barely hidden relief. "Lestrade." The usually unflappable tone was gone, Holmes's voice was as bare as his heart, and Greg's chest tightened. The man might be an arrogant ass most of the time, but he could never stop himself from caring about the genius, even if it made him feel like an underpaid babysitter on the best of days. This... this was not what the DI wanted to happen to his consultant, far from it.

"It's alright, paramedics are on their way" he started calmly. He glanced down from the silver stare to the unmoving soldier in Sherlock's arms. He sagged in temporary relief at seeing the slow but sure rising of her chest. Breathing. "You should lay her down" he advised, aiming for a neutral and calming tone, but coming as stressed. Sherlock's grip on his blogger tightened, but he let go eventually, lowering Joan down with unseen gentleness. Once he lost his burden, his hands hovered briefly in the air, then he wrapped them around his waist, hiding tremors and gathering some warmth. It still left him hunched protectively over Joan's body. "We should get you out of here" Lestrade continued, trying to catch the younger man's eyes. This earned him a deer-in-the-headlights, half-panicked half-affronted glare.

"I'm not leaving John" Sherlock enunciated, every syllable punctuated with taut shakes of the head. Cold droplets of water flew all around from his soaked hair, making Lestrade wince both in surprise and defeat. At least, Holmes sounded coherent.

He was about to try a different approach, when paramedics finally rushed in, weaving between still hovering SCO members. They pushed the DI back, and tried to do so with Holmes, but Sherlock glued himself to Joan's arm, refusing to let go. "Sir, we need access to the patient" soothingly explained one of them. Her colleague was already pulling a heat-blanket from his bag, covering the shivering detective in it.

Sherlock lost another couple of precious seconds staring blankly at people gathering around him, then something seemed to click in his head and he fired a rapid string of instructions in a surprisingly steady voice, even if Lestrade could hear the uprising terror behind the words: "She was shot in the back, between the eleventh and the twelfth ribs on the left side, sniper rifle 7.62mm caliber most likely. Dislocated left shoulder, she had a previous injury, the shoulder had been reconstructed with metal holdings, and it had probably been displaced. Might have other blunt injuries to internal organs. Concussion from the fall from her own height, subsequent to the shooting." He finally took a breath, which was interrupted by dry coughs that rocked his skinny frame. Everyone in vicinity blinked in shock at him, but luckily paramedics had retained their professionalism, and their assessment had concurred the strange man's information.

Joan was rapidly hoisted on a stretcher and wheeled out of the building. Unable to follow the quick pace, Sherlock stumbled after her, supported by a frowning paramedic whose hand he tried to shake every couple of minutes. He presented a sore sight, with his mop of hair plastered on his skull, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, looking lost and painfully young.

Not seeing any value in staying either, Lestrade trailed behind, ready to help if needed. They exited the thrice damned pool just in time to see Joan being loaded on an ambulance that immediately sped away. Remembering Sherlock's rant on the doctor's injuries, the DI repressed a shiver. What the hell happened to these two? The consulting detective was gently coaxed towards another ambulance. The fight seemed to have left him once his precious blogger was brought out of sight, and he followed meekly.

At least, that had been the case until Sherlock noticed a slick black car at the edge of the police cordon. Greg had barely the time to notice the predatory flash of rage on the younger man's face before he lurched away from the surprised medic, and covered the distance to the car in long, if a bit unsteady, strides.

Having a good idea about what was about to happen, Lestrade hurried after him. They had barely avoided death casualties for the evening, it wouldn't do to have a fratricide in the middle of a crime scene.

The impassive government official detached himself from the car, his dignified and bored stance a striking contrast to his disheveled and rightfully furious brother. "Impressive show-down, brother dear" he drawled, annoying the hell out of every living person in hearing radius.

"Mycroft" Sherlock hissed in response, swaying a little when he came to an abrupt stop before the umbrella-holding man. He made a considerable effort to not punch his brother, judging by continuous clenching and unclenching of his fists. At that moment, he looked so much like an angry cat that took a dip in a lake, that Lestrade would have laughed out loud if the situation wasn't so dire. He couldn't forget that one half of the consulting duo had just been sent to a hospital with a bullet in her back, nor the six kilograms of Semtex the bomb-disposal team had just extracted from the building.

"Why didn't you intervene?" growled Sherlock. He rocked on the balls of his feet, either from exhaustion or from the willful effort not to devolve into physical violence.

Mycroft Holmes looked down his nose, something akin to regret appearing for a second in his otherwise calculating eyes. "Believe it or not, I have been taken by other urgent business, Sherlock. The surveillance team failed to inform me of any anomalies during that time. They will face consequences."

All aggression drained suddenly from Sherlock, and he visibly sagged in defeat, radiating confused helplessness. "Six hours, Mycroft." Greg strained to hear the hollow whisper, not that he could understand the meaning, but it seemed to be like a punch in the gut to the older Holmes. "And that bullet was meant for me." The DI felt all blood drain from his face. That would explain the dive in the pool. "The one time I needed you to be there. Just this one time, Mycroft." The addressed man didn't avoid his gaze, but he visibly lost some of his arrogance. Sherlock continued glaring reproachfully at his brother for long silent minutes, sadly eliciting no additional reaction.

"Sherlock" Lestrade ended by calling out. "We should get to the hospital." Both Holmeses gave him a blank stare. While Mycroft turned back with a slight nod that could have passed for a nervous jerk of his chin, Sherlock's eyes locked on his, impossibly wide. The consulting detective started trembling again, underneath the shock blanket, his face going through a frightening range of emotions Lestrade couldn't begin to identify. He opted for the safest option: "Come on, let's go."

# #

A/N: I'm taking a bit of poetic license on the whole shooting thing. The scene played out in my head so nicely, I couldn't resist. And I don't know much about guns, beyond what a quick google search (and a half-forgotten experience with an air-rifle about twelve years ago) could give me, so sorry 'bout that too, just in case.