This is a 221b fic, which means the last word of the fic begins or ends with b and it has exactly 221 words (at least according to my writing program), when you count hyphenated words as one and common abbreviations like it´s or doesn´t as two words. Second chapter is a 221b fic too. Had a lot of fun writing this. Enjoy! Reviews will make me happy.

Sherlock is kneeling in a short distance from the pool, wet and dripping. Shards of glass, charred wood and other debris are cluttering the site, some of the remains still smoldering .The smell of smoke and chlorine is heavy in the air. His ears are still ringing from the sound of the explosion. At some level he is aware there is pain, but it feels like something distant, tugging faintly at the edge of his consciousness. Red is mixing with the water running down his temples, but he does not care. His hands are busy staunching the wounds of the body he is cradling in his arms, feeling the life of Watson seeping through his fingers along with too much blood. His fingers are trembling slightly, his heart is racing too fast to explain it away with shock alone. He always claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath, but his actions contradict his words now. Tears are running down his face, not the fake ones he uses to get what he wants, no, genuine tears, and he actually feels something, like concern, like fear. Fear because Watson is too quiet. Because Watson, who has borne the brunt of the explosion while shielding him, may be dying. For the first time in many years, Sherlock is pleading. "Please... Oh my... John, please breathe."