Disclaimers: I own nothing. Absolutely nothing. Please do not sue me. I am making no money from this. It is purely for entertainment purposes only.
Notes: AU, set after 'The Great Game.'
More Notes: Forgive the horrible suckiness of this story. I have never written anything Sherlock related before. He is most likely terribly out of character. Please, accept the excuse that he has a head injury and isn't likely to act normally.
Even More Notes: Again, be aware that I am American, so my grammar and spelling is most likely atrocious.
Acrid smoke burned Sherlock's lungs as he slowly rose through the layers of awareness. There was an almost overwhelming taste of ash in his mouth, the smell of it thick in the air around him. He was lying face-down on the ground, and he didn't know how he had gotten there.
What had happened?
Oh, right. The explosion. Why had he thought shooting a vest full of explosives was a good idea?
The answer was immediate. Moriarty needed to be stopped.
He blinked his eyes open. To his annoyance, his vision was clouded. Dark splotches swam in and out of his view. He blinked rapidly to try and clear it. It did little good.
He pushed himself up with his hands, ignoring the stabs of pain that were sent up his left arm. A wrist injury. A sprain perhaps, not serious. He cataloged his other injuries, even as he coughed the ashen air from his lungs. His throat was parched, dry, and ached.
His chest hurt and his head felt like it was prepared to split in two. And there was an irritating ringing in his ears. There were other aches and pains, but they were of no consequence. He'd had worse.
That in, and of itself, confused him. Why wasn't he injured more severely? He HAD just survived an explosion and the collapsing of a building on top of him.
Something warm and wet trickled down along the side of his face. Blood. He must have sustained a head injury. That would explain the splotchy vision and the difficulty in concentration, the gaps in memory.
Sherlock looked around, noting the shambles that the pool was in. Half of the building had caved in. Most of the roof was missing and had fallen in. The surrounding area was littered in debris. In the distance, he could hear the far-off sound of approaching sirens.
Something was wrong though. Missing. He couldn't put his finger on what.
Then it came to him and something in his chest clenched. John! Spinning, he scanned the room again, nearly collapsing as his vision blacked out completely.
He blinked furiously, growling to himself in frustration. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he opened them again, the room was spinning in a nauseating way. He didn't stop though, needing to locate John so they could get out of there. If John were hurt, he would need medical attention.
If John were dead ...
There! Half buried beneath a pile of debris, Sherlock could see the sleeve of John's jumper.
Sherlock scrambled across, slipping and banging his right shoulder on the ground once before he managed to get to his flatmate. He pushed aside the rubble and slapped his fingers to John's throat, cataloging the numerous injuries he could see with his first look. Bloody laceration over the left eye, perhaps responsible for the man's unconscious state. Contusions, abrasions, dirt-smudged bruises. But there was nothing that seemed life-threatening. Internal injuries were a possibility.
John's pulse was strong and steady. Only unconscious then. And he had groaned when Sherlock's hand had come into contact with his skin, his eyelids flickering but not opening.
A strange creaking pierced through his unwavering attention to John. He looked up, eyes flying wide as he surveyed what hovered just above their heads. The ceiling itself was levitating above them, as if held up by invisible walls. There was nothing there though. No, wait, there was something. A translucent blue light glimmered just underneath the heavy rubble. The light wavered and the roof shifted ominously. If that fell, it would crush the both of them.
He looked at John, eyes scrabbling over anything and everything. Then he saw it. Clutched loosely in the doctor's limp hand, a slim length of wood.
Sherlock plucked it up, examining it thoughtfully. The wood was light, perhaps from an ash tree. He couldn't tell properly without closer examination. He hardly had time for that now.
He looked up at the hovering ceiling, then down at the thing in his hand again. What the hell was John doing with this?
He groaned, clutching the slim length of wood. It felt strange against his palm. This was ridiculous. He couldn't believe he was about to do this.
Giving John's unconscious form a wry grin, he said, "I was always rubbish at protection charms, John."
With a flourish, he threw his hand into the air and aimed it up at the collapsing ceiling, which was barely being held back by the failing shield between them and it.
He only hoped it wouldn't backfire on him. One couldn't expect another wizard's wand to work as well as your own.
Repello Rudus - Repel Rubble...a very very rough translation.
A random idea that popped in my head. I might write more. I do have a few more ideas.