Warnings: Character death
Disclaimer: Do not own. I'm not quite that awesome.
A/N: Uh, angst. Also, I reuploaded the first chapter, fixed a minor typo. Usually I would ignore it, but drabbles call for precision of language.
The world exploded, and suddenly where there once was air, there now was water. And as much as normal, everyday human needs were distasteful, even a sociopathic genius can't live without air.
For once, Sherlock's body responded before his mind. He pushed against the floor of the pool (how he had ended up there, he had no idea) but by the time he breached the surface, his mind had caught up enough to remember firing the gun, to remember being pushed, to start to panic.
John, where is John?
The building was burning, fire and debris crashing in chaos around him as he levered himself to the edge, eyes scanning (partially for Moriarity or snipers or something equally as terrible but mostly) for John.
There, lying partially buried under smouldering ceiling tiles—a flash of blonde. Sherlock flailed wetly toward him, trying to ignore the red mixing with the yellow, failing miserably. Reaching him, digging away the tiles, unable to hold back a sob.
"John…"
The doctor groaned, and Sherlock gathered him in his arms.
"You saved me. You should've jumped too…"
A wet cough, and Sherlock again tried to ignore the blood that bubbled to John's lips.
"Y'alright, 'lock?"
"I'm fine, you idiot." He leaned down, their foreheads touching.
When he pulled away, John's open eyes were staring and blank.