Chapter Text
The explosion was something Sherlock Holmes did not expect.
Perhaps he should have, given they were on the trail of a mad bomber, but this lead had seemed legitimate and was completely unrelated. He’d never struck like this in the middle of the night in a seemingly random and minimally destructive way before. The suspect they were tailing, most likely a late 20's white male, had shown to be methodical and calculated. His attacks caused the widest levels of possible death and carnage with the least possible amount of explosives and exposure. The destruction of an old and abandoned farmhouse in the middle of the country deviated from the MO. Didn’t make any logical sense.
At least, not with the deafening ringing in his ears and the smoke in the air stinging his eyes.
Sherlock sat up with a groan he can't stifle as pain rips through his skull and his vision dances with alternating red and gray spots. His brilliant mind stutters, thought processes attempting to move forward only to fall flat as static seems to crackle between his ears. With shaking fingers, he puts a hand to his forehead and winces as sharp pain flames to life under the touch. Pulling his arm back, he finds his fingertips shiny and slick with fresh blood. It makes him aware of that salty, copper taste in his mouth and nausea surges as he leans over to spit onto the dirty ground below.
As reality seems to fade in and out, although he’s terribly confused, part of him knows they're in very deep trouble
They…… John.
With a start, memories began to flood into Sherlock's consciousness with disjointed and broken pictures flashing by on the 3D screen of his mind palace. The anonymous tip. Surging adrenaline. That aching, twisting, arousing high that pushed him to action. His smile growing at the scowl on John's face that's overshadowed by the sparkle in his partner’s eyes. He may have made a fuss about the drive and the hour, bringing up Rosie's gymnastics in the morning, but John had been texting Molly before he'd finished complaining and was shortly on his way down the stairs to ask Mrs. Hudson to come up and watch the little girl till Molly could get across town.
A sudden groaning, followed by the scream of splitting wood fills the air as the back half of the farmhouse roof caves in. Sparkles of red embers drift into the night sky as a wave of dark smoke rushes towards him like a specter of doom. Sherlock begins to cough, choking and gagging on the smell as it overtakes him. The violent movements cause pain, red hot and almost electric, to streak along his ribs. Cupping one hand loosely over his mouth and the other firmly against the hot agony along his ribs, he calls out his partner's name in a cry that's hoarse and desperate. "John!" The cry floats out into the open and fades into silence with no answer.
Attempting to raise himself from a sitting position to his knees causes his vision to swim in unpredictable ways and he braces one hand against the car to hold himself steady. The smell of electric wire lends an acrid and sour underlay to the smoke that wafts around the area like a noxious fog. Inhaling to take in desperately needed oxygen causes him to lose his breath in another painful coughing fit that he struggles to control. Again, the taste of blood fills his mouth as he calls John's name, over and over between gags. The sound bounces back to him off what flame covered walls that are still standing in the distance.
Bracing one foot flat, Sherlock hoists himself to a standing position only to immediately fall against the side of the car, his vision going black for the space of two full heartbeats. Blinking rapidly does little to bring the blurred landscape into focus as his eyes water and he brushes away the tears with an annoyed gesture. With slightly clearer eyes, his gaze lingers for a moment on the flames leaping toward the night dark sky. Most of the roof was gone and what remained of the farmhouse looked like a twisted Jack-o-lantern as fire licked along the broken out windows and flashed brightly in the open doorway. The dancing red hues are the only illumination this night. With fear growing in his gut, this is the closest Sherlock has ever come to believing in hell.
"John!" Sherlock doubles over, one hand still holding himself up against the car and the other curled protectively over his ribs. Even bracing on the car isn’t enough to steady his center of gravity and he sways on his feet. He needs to, has to, find John. It’s the only clear thought he can pick out of the den of noise in his brain as he sets his sights on the front tire. Counting to three silently in his head, Sherlock throws himself forward. His gaze darts across ground brightly illuminated by dancing flames nearly two stories high. No sign of a dark coat or hair the hue of starlight. Gait still unsteady, he hobbles on shaking legs to the front bumper and braces himself. The already frantic beat of his heart increases when he can’t find any signs of John.
Thoughts race through Sherlock's head as he tries to remember what happened right before the explosion. They had both been exiting the vehicle when the concussion of the bomb had rocked the quiet night. Stepping out of the car, tense and silent. Even the normal nighttime music of bugs and creatures' calling had been hushed. The tip had come in about a completely unrelated, and relatively unknown, case they'd been working on. There was nothing suspicious about the area to the naked gaze, but the surrounding night had felt heavy. Watchful. The tingling electricity of eyes, and not benevolent ones, focused on you from the darkness. He and John had exchanged an uneasy glance right before the night had exploded into chaos.
His vision seems to glitch again, silver and black static, when he suddenly realizes, John was on the other side of the car. The pain in his side has subsided to a dull ache but the fire in his head was still a roar as he half tripped, half raced to get around to the opposite side of the vehicle. There, amidst small pieces of still flaming debris, broken glass, and a partially open door, lay John's prone form. Sherlock stumbles forward and falls to his knees beside his partner, shaking hands immediately going to John's face. The abrasive touch of an 11pm shadow scrapes against Sherlock's fingertips as they trace along John's strong jawline to his too-silent pulse point.
The world seems to stand still and hold its breath as he waits for the tell-tale jumping under this touch. For just an instant, he can see the two of them there in the darkness. It’s as if he’s outside himself, looking down, in a moment outside of time and space. Two men frozen in a tableau lit by red and yellow light and outlined by blackness. Sherlocks normally imposing figure, crouched down and diminished. The tall frame bent and folded protectively over the still body on the ground. John’s legs and arms splayed wide, head to the side. Eyes closed. Expression deceptively peaceful as the light of fire dances across his features. His face was relaxed, the shifting shadows hiding wrinkles Sherlock knew to be there. Deep lines of thought carved into John’s forehead and the crows feet built from laughter in the corners of his eyes. With his own vision flickering, it’s hard to tell if his partner has a head wound or if it’s just the flames reflecting off the silver of his hair and turning it the color of blood.
Sherlock finds himself pressing his fingers, firmer, harder, against John’s neck. Waiting to feel that steady thud. A pulse of life. The only life that mattered to him at this moment. That life that was laying, still and silent, on the cold and unforgiving ground. He isn't quite sure if the fluttering he feels is the barest sign of a heartbeat or weakness in his hands. Sherlock's own heart feels like it's dropped into his stomach as his free hand cups John's face. "John? Wake up." Stinging tears, not entirely due to smoke, begin to fill his eyes. One wells up and over his lower lid to trail slowly down his cheek like a line of fire on his flesh.
Fingers moving from John’s throat, Sherlock places his hand lightly over his partner’s nose, desperate for the feel of warm breath. The night was bitterly cold and the effect of his injuries was dulling his ability to think clearly. Injuries he hadn’t yet assessed and couldn’t bring himself to care about when the man laying before him might never open his eyes again. The skin against his was still warm but he didn’t feel the brush of air. Fear, his head wound, or a combination of both causes dizziness to sweep through him, followed by a wave of weakness that almost takes him to the ground. As he sways and sits back on his feet, Sherlock realizes he needs to do something. It’s also at that same time he becomes aware of a buzzing in his pocket. Reaching into his coat, he pulls out his cellphone, finding a text from Lestrade.
Find anything?
Above the incoming message is the address Sherlock had sent him before he and John had left the flat. Again, his vision cuts out, but Sherlock can almost text in his sleep and sends his response without delay.
Explosion. Critical. Help.
- SH
Not waiting for a response, Sherlock drops the phone and uses his now free hand to tip John’s head back, chin towards the night sky. Eyes clearing again, he’s able to focus on the body before him. John’s sweater is torn and burned, pieces of rough knit sticking to his chest where fire and heat had melted the fibers into his skin. Sherlock had had the protection of most of the door in front of him when the house had gone up and was spared a majority of the bodily damage. John hadn’t been that lucky. There had been nothing between him and flying debris and fiery heat as the explosions had gone off.
Sherlock’s next actions aren’t going to be good for the burns but there was no helping it. Dizzy and sick with fear and pain, he gently presses down on John’s chin and opens his mouth. Taking in as deep of a breath as he dares and bracing himself with weakening arms, he leans forward and presses his lips against his partner’s.
In all the ways he’d imagined his mouth and John’s coming together, this was something he’d never pictured in even his darkest nightmares.
Exhaling his breath makes him feel like he’s choking again, but he holds it back, breathing as much as he can into his partner’s lungs. Sitting up causes the world to spin like a wheel but he resolutely braces his hands on the motionless chest in front of him and begins to pump the silent heart.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
A faint buzzing tries to distract him. Not sure if it’s his phone or a result of head trauma, he ignores it. His sole focal point is the man beneath his hands. Every bit of his attention he could focus is on getting John’s heart beating, making him breath on his own again. Any other alternative is unacceptable. He can’t exist in a world where this man does not.
Bracing himself again, he breathes in deep before exhaling against the soft mouth beneath his. Feeling John’s chest rise briefly only to fall again and lay still. Pulling himself painfully back to a kneeling position. Back straight, he applies another round of compressions to the warm flesh beneath his hands. His breath sobs as he watches John’s body jump beneath the rough compressions. Head falling to the side, mouth lax. Dark lashes laying still against his pale cheeks.
Repeating the motions over and over as weakness causes Sherlock to sway with each time he pumps John’s chest. Vision fading in and out each time he breathes for the body on the ground. The world, time itself, moving in slow motion as the flames behind him reach toward a cold and uncaring sky. It seems to take ages for the tear he feels sliding down his cheek to fall from his face. Dozens of thoughts careen through his mind but they all with one common theme.
The introductory encounter with John in the lab at Saint Barts hospital. He’d been struck from the first by this soldier with ramrod straight posture and eyes hungry for something dark behind a polite facade. The giddy adrenaline of their first case and that initial, tentative touch of connection. Just the smallest spark of a fire that would become a inferno neither of them had been ready for or able to control. Two torn and broken souls that had started to find missing pieces of themselves in each other.
He’d taken it for granted that John would be there when he returned from tracking down and destroying Moriarty’s web. In his arrogance, he'd never considered the man he would see in his dreams, the partner that had stood by his side, would move on and choose another. He hadn’t counted on loving John’s wife nearly as much as he loved John. Mary had been a bright and complex puzzle that had taken a piece of his heart into the ground when she died. The rest of his heart had been lost when he thought he had pushed the man he loved away for good. Only by John's forgiveness was Sherlock able to start to heal, even if the effort to earn that forgiveness had nearly cost him his life. A life that wasn’t worth living if he didn’t have the one person who he needed by his side. The man who knew him better than he knew himself sometimes.
They fought with each other, but they also fought for each other. They grieved, but it hurt less when they grieved together. Life was brighter when he could see it reflected in John’s eyes. Pain was worth enduring when he could bear it with the touch of a firm hand on his shoulder. They made each other stronger by sharing their fears. Although John may never love Sherlock the way Sherlock loved him, that didn’t truly matter. As long as he could see John’s smile, hear his laugh, even the darkest of days could be endured without the oblivion of a needle.
He had no idea how much time had passed. How long he had knelt by John’s limp form. The number of breaths he’d desperately pushed into the silent lungs or how many times his trembling arms had pumped the still chest. Slowly, he became aware of his own sobbing breaths, conscious of the fact that there were tears falling from his eyes. Splashing onto John’s still warm skin where they steamed in the cold night air. In contrast to the motionless heart beneath his hands, his own heart thundered in his ears and hammered painfully against his ribcage with each movement.
The night around them remained unchanged. Fire crackled and burned in the distance and only Sherlock’s scream of defiance echoed out above the roar of the flames. Unwanted and unexpected, his mind provided an image of John’s eyes upon seeing Sherlock two years after his assumed death. Behind the rage that had fired John’s quick and brutal fists, he’d seen the agony and betrayal clearly. He’d known he’d hurt his friend, but he’d never realized how much until one drunken night about a year after Mary’s death. John had told him the real reason he’d pushed Sherlock away. He’d never blamed him. Not really.
“I pushed you away because I had already lost you once. After losing Mary….. I knew I wouldn’t survive if I lost you again.”
They’d never spoken of John’s confession in the three years since, but the words played through Sherlock’s mind every night when he closed his eyes. He’d never told John, but that confession had terrified him down to the marrow of his bones. He’d meant it when he told his partner that the value Mary had conferred on his life was a currency he didn’t know how to spend. All he knew was that he would do anything he could to never cause John that kind of pain again. If John would stand by his side, he felt like he could march into Hell itself. He was everything that was solid and familiar and needed in Sherlock’s life, and now John’s absence left a gaping wound in the center of his chest that would never be filled.
The feeling was one Sherlock would remember in nightmares for years to come.
With a roar born of rage, desperation, and crippling fear, Sherlock raises his fist and brings it down directly over John’s heart with what strength he had left. To his complete shock, John immediately pulls in a strangled breath, eyes flying wide. With a gasp, he rolls to his side and begins to cough violently into the ground beneath him. Sherlock almost doesn't believe his eyes but his body is already moving, scrambling forward till his hands are on the other man’s back. Rubbing and stroking, encouraging the wet, shaky breaths. His relief is so all consuming that he fails to appreciate the dimming at the edges of his vision.
“Sher….” John starts but he’s unable to complete the name as another fit of coughing hits him, causing his arms to curl protectively across his chest. Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s hair in what he hopes is a soothing motion, part of him relishing the chance to touch the other man so unashamedly. Relief made him dizzy and he was speaking before he’d even decided on exactly what he was going to say or even that he was going to speak at all.
“John. I thought I’d lost you.” On a deep, shuddering breath, he rushes through the next words. “And I have to apologize, right now. I need you to know how sorry I am.”
Coughs dying down to sharp gasps, John manages to get out in a voice full of gravel “What are….you talking...about?”
“I’m sorry John, I’m so sorry. I had…no idea. No idea….it would...feel…..” He hadn’t noticed till this moment, but the night around him had gradually become more dim. The hungry growl of the fire was little more than a dull roar in his ears. Even his hands on John’s body felt almost remote, disconnected. Underneath his touch, the other man rolled over, grunting in pain as he pressed a hand lightly to his chest. Even with his failing sight, Sherlock can see John’s face is washed of color, eyes heavy lidded and not fully focused. With a shaking hand, he reaches out and cups John’s face, whispering, “I never knew how it felt.”
John blinks rapidly but his eyes remain fuzzy as his unfocused gaze fixes on Sherlock. The hand not pressed to his chest raises and grips Sherlock’s shoulder “Sherlock….what are you...what happened….” John tries to brace his elbow to sit up but collapses back with a wince before Sherlock can even voice an objection. His hand drops, wrapping his fist in the side of Sherlock’s long coat. “My chest….burning.....are you alright?” As John painfully gasps out those words, his fingers run along Sherlock's neck, down his shirt, and across his ribs. Abruptly, pain streaks through Sherlock’s side, ripping a cry from him as he suddenly finds himself collapsed beside John.
“Sherlock!” John tries to sit up again, and this time, the action rips a scream from this throat as he collapses flat immediately. The anguished sound pushes Sherlock to move towards him through his own pain. John has the same idea and tries to turn toward Sherlock.
Rolling from his back to his side, John gasps out, “Sherlock...my god. You’re hurt," in a voice hoarse with pain and panic. John draws his hand back, fingers glisten darkly in the wavering light from the burning farmhouse.
The scent of fresh blood, his blood, drifts to Sherlock's nose. For the first time, a shiver deep inside his gut makes him realize he might be quite badly injured. He doesn’t remember doing it, but he realizes his eyes are closed. It seems a Herculean feat to open them again, but he forces his eyelids up. There’s something he has to say to John.
“Lestrade...is coming. But I need...I have to...tell you…”
“Sherlock, for fucks sake….shut up. I have to...try...to stop this bleeding.” John tries to move closer, his own body shivering and his gaze still heavy lidded. Barely back from the dead, half conscious, and his first instinct is to try to help his best friend.
“John, please…” With strength he didn’t know he had left at the moment, Sherlock grips John’s chin and pulls his head up till their faces rest mere inches from each other. He can see the words gathered in John's eyes die as their gazes lock. Both go still simultaneously as Sherlock fights to stay aware and conscious. He doesn’t have much time and he has to say what he needs to while he still can because he’s unsure if he’ll have another chance.
You know the pull of that darkness. You feel how deep it is. How cold. You don’t know if you’ll wake up again.
Staunchly ignoring the mocking voice in the back of his head, Sherlock trails shaking hands along John’s jaw and allows his arm to collapse to the ground between them. His voice comes out a whisper but he knows from the look in the other man's eyes that John hears him. “I needed to tell you how sorry I am. I had...no idea how you felt when you thought I was dead.” As he watches, grief begins to sparkle in the endless blue of John’s eyes. The sight brings a mist of tears to obscure his own vision, but Sherlock pushes through it as each blink brings the creeping blackness closer to blotting out his world. “John, I wish I had told you. I wish I’d never had to leave. If I hadn’t…..maybe….” Swallowing painfully, Sherlock cranes his neck and moves his face closer, “Maybe we wouldn’t be here now.”
John lets out a sob and his bloody hand is suddenly locked in Sherlock’s curls. “Sherlock, stay with me. Do you hear me?. Please….please god, stay with me.”
He can barely see John now, his face the only thing still in focus. The only thing Sherlock needed to see. As his eyes drift shut and his vision goes black, Sherlock whispers, “I love you,” just before his lips meet John’s. He’s barely aware of the kiss as a wave of blackness wells up from deep within and drags him down into it’s cold and unfeeling depths.