Uhm, just want to say, I hope you enjoy this! This is my take on how the pool scene might play out (I have many ideas, this is just one of them).
This wasn't meant to be slash, but it can be read as so, if you want.
If you ARE curious as to how I theorized that Sherlock's gun has no bullets when he meets Moriarty, feel free to ask!
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC anywhere outside of my own head.
John didn't know there were no bullets.
So when Sherlock pulled the trigger John was already up on his feet and barrelling into him, knocking him into the only thing that would shelter them both.
Shots rang out and bullets scattered on the tile around them. He heard Moriarty shouting, "YOU FOOLS!" but his words vanished in the enormous explosion that ripped through the pool.
Then there's water filling his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. He remembers to clamp his lips shut and clings to Sherlock desperately. Cracking his eyelids open so they're razor thin slits, he peers through the dark and murky chlorine-filled water. Plaster, cement, and fibreglass sink all around them, and a faint orange glow - warped by the rippling surface - indicates fire.
John looks back at Sherlock, trying to figure out how much air the consulting detective has left. Not much, going by the straining, burning feeling in his own lungs. But they can't go back up now. The smoke would be no better for their lungs than the water. It felt like they were trapped, like there was no way out.
Sherlock is staring back at him blankly, and John panics. Is he dead? Oh God, he can't be dead, not after everything we've been through together. He can't be-
Then all of a sudden the dark-haired man grips his arm - hard, John thinks - and tries for the surface. Shaking his head John moves closer to the bottom of the pool, but Sherlock yanks desperately on his arm. For a split second it was a game of tug and pull, but seeing the determined, serious look in Sherlock's eyes, John supposes he just has to trust him.
A second later air is being forced into his lungs, along with mouthfuls of thick smoke. Next to him Sherlock coughs violently and grips John's good shoulder, and John is sure the force of his fingers and nails will bruise.
But then he doesn't care, because Sherlock is staring into his eyes intensely and his mouth is moving but John can't hear anything. He refocuses himself and slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock's voice makes it to his ears. First what he's saying is full of static and indistinguishable. Then the repeated words form in his mind.
"John, John, John!"
The ex-army doctor shakes his head as if to clear his mind, and then nods to let Sherlock know he's alright, that he doesn't need to worry. But the worry doesn't fade from Sherlock's eyes one bit.
His head is pounding the way it does only after a particularly long night at the pub with his mates, and his body feels slightly numb. He vaguely registers Sherlock slipping an arm around his waist and dragging him through the water to the edge of the pool. Scrambling awkwardly, he manages to haul himself onto the tiled floor before slumping onto his back. But that's as far as he's going at the moment, it seems, because Sherlock keeps a firm grip on his good shoulder and forces him to stay down.
He's saying words again, and this time it's a bit more difficult for John to focus. Still, he manages, if only grasping bits and pieces of his speech.
"...bleeding profusely ...really, you idiot, why did you do that? ...bullet seems to have gone straight through. Missed the bone, you're lucky there..."
Then Sherlock is hastily slipping off his suit jacket and pressing the fabric firmly to John's right thigh, and John briefly ponders why Sherlock is kneeling next to him instead of chasing after Moriarty, if the consulting criminal is even still alive...
"Lestrade is nearly here, just hold on, John."
The doctor wonders when Sherlock even texted Lestrade, but the thought quickly evaporates because silver eyes appear before him and gaze at him fiercely. Concern flashes so quickly across Sherlock's face that afterwards John believes he imagined it. While one hand continues to press hard against his thigh, another checks his forehead, his pulse, and so on, all the while muttering things, deducing John.
"Pale, due to loss of blood... slight fever... God, Lestrade, hurry the hell up... pulse is steadily weakening... don't leave me, John..."
John wants to re-assure him that he isn't going anywhere, but no words can be formed and his throat feels tight and hot. The red and blue flash of siren's suddenly appear through the haze, the wailing unmistakable even to John, and a minute after that there's pounding of hurried footsteps.
By now John's eyes are fluttering on the verge of closing. He just feels so sleepy, and he doesn't understand why Sherlock insists on keeping him awake. Not that this is the first time, he thinks bitterly. Sherlock's always playing that ghastly violin of his at 3 in the morning, or chasing after murderers through shadowy alleys long after most of London is safely tucked into their warm, comfortable beds.
"...was shot... lost a lot of blood, nearly a pint! You have to hurry..."
But John wouldn't trade his flatmate for anything. And he sure hopes Sherlock feels the same way.
Although, he does reluctantly accept the fact that he is a dull human compared to the brilliant genius that is Sherlock Holmes. John is not immensely intelligent, nor good at lying. He cannot sprint for blocks upon blocks without breaking a sweat or go a week without sleep. His essential needs include a well-brewed cuppa at least once a day and because of this, he thinks, he is dull. Perhaps, for now, Sherlock is interested in him, but what about when he gets bored? Will Sherlock throw John away like so many used body parts in his experiments? Is John merely an experiment to Sherlock?
But John stops caring then because he needs this; this life full of smugglers and serial killers and disguises and bombs. If Sherlock became bored of him, if he were to be kicked out of 221B Baker Street, and forced back to his mundane, barely-surviving-on-an-army-pension life, he wouldn't be able to handle it. Going out and buying milk and beans and avoiding the decaying body parts in the fridge is a minute price to pay for his addiction; his addiction to the war, the battleground of London, his addiction to Sherlock.
His body is moving - not of his own accord - and he suddenly finds himself lying on a stretcher- why is he in need of a stretcher? He's sure he can walk on his own - and being wheeled out of the pool area, jerking slightly as the wheels continue to run over pieces of rubble.
The whole time Sherlock is rushing alongside him, as well as several other people in uniforms, barking orders and calling them all idiots; the usual, John thinks. Some of the medical terms flowing past the detective's lips John recognizes, but can't put a definition to. A fog clouds the edge of his vision as his body continues to become numb.
He's hauled into an ambulance - but why? He feels no pain. Why does he need an ambulance? - and he can hear Sherlock arguing loudly with some poor paramedic, insisting that he must accompany John in the ambulance because he's the only one around here who's bloody intelligent enough to take care of John properly. It makes something warm flutter in John's stomach (mixed with the pain he now feels.)
It must have worked, because a second later Sherlock is by his side, leaning awfully close. Sherlock is only wearing a thin button-up shirt and he's probably freezing and John tries to order him to grab a coat or blanket or something to keep warm because he's going to catch a cold and then John will be stuck taking care of a wall-shooting, sociopathic consulting detective for at least a week and he doesn't think he can handle that.
A hand grips his own hesitantly, unsure of the correct course of action, as his eyes begin to close. He realizes it's Sherlock, and wonders why the detective cares so much; after all, he is just plain, dull, boring John.
His eyes fully close, but he hangs on to consciousness for a few moments, listening to Sherlock's hurried whispers.
"You can't die, John... I need you, here, with me... I need you to be a bloody idiot at crime scenes, and to let me deduce aloud at you until I reach the most plausible conclusion..."
And then John discerned that Sherlock was in the same predicament as him. They were two halves of the same coin; always meant to be together, through thick and thin, until the end. They could never be truly separated.
"This can't be the end, John..."
And John agrees.
Relaxing, he allowed himself to drift into a comfortable sleep, his hand still being held onto tightly by the detective. He knew this was not the end of their adventures, not by a long shot.
Again! If you're curious as to how I theorized his gun having no bullets just drop it in a review or a PM!
Have a nice day!