Sherlock was right; shock was dull.

John was right; shock was bothersome.

Get down, get down! John reacted without thinking, pulling Sherlock by his coat, and before he even had time to bite back an insult for laying a hand on that precious coat, they were both knocked flat by the force of the explosion.

John hoped Sherlock had the good sense to close his eyes.

He felt the glass piercing his skin, tiny shards invading his hair and face and arms and every bit of bare skin, burrowing in and biting.

Sherlock had been rather focused, pondering the case, doing what he typically did when thinking, scarcely noticing anything around him except immediate dangers. (And even sometimes not those, because as John would remind him, he saved him from stepping in front of a car more than once, and once he didn't. That hurt.) There was a tug on his coat, John, and then he turned to face him, possibly to berate him for slowing him down, except that there was a whoosh and a rush and a shattering of glass and he was flying through the air except it wasn't flying it was falling.

It happened painfully slow. John watched it all, rather detached. John saw what was going to happen. He reacted without thinking. He grabbed Sherlock's coat, somewhat afraid that Sherlock would turn around and lash out for touching it, but Sherlock only turned his head with an irritated expression before it happened. John noted, detached, as both he and Sherlock flew through the air. He stopped noticing after he hit the ground, his head making a sickening sound before everything went black.

Sherlock's ears were ringing. It was endlessly irritating.

He recalled... John pulling his coat. Falling. Slow motion. Glass shattering. Glass piercing his skin. Pain. Some blankness. Now this.

Still pain.

He shifted slightly, trying to get his bearings, but instantly regretted it. Painpainpain. It shot up his leg and ran into every fibre of his being. Right. There will be no more of that then.

So Sherlock just lay still. He breathed. He thought. And he worried about John.

"John," he croaked. His throat was filled with dust.

Sherlock, was John's first thought after he regained semi-consciousness. It was rather pressing, so it was acceptable. Second came the pain. His head throbbed from where it hit... something. Something hard. What? He wasn't quite sure. And then third, again, was Sherlock, and if he was hurt.

He then briefly wondered if anyone knew where they were, and if anyone would come looking.

He then returned to thinking about Sherlock when he heard a voice call out for him from somewhere in that mess.

(And it was rather a mess, because John wasn't sure which way way up, except there was that sort of pressing issue of gravity, so up was probably up, but he had no clue of the location of anything else, including his limbs or Sherlock.)

And John oh so wanted to reach out to Sherlock, comfort him, make him sit still so he could check him over for injuries, but he was a little stuck at the moment, which he only realized when he tried to move.

And there was the matter of the dreadful pain in his head which was making it rather difficult to think. And his vocal cords seemed incapable of forming any sort of speech or sound, so he coughed in response.

It very much hurt.

Sherlock waited for a reply. He thought that he waited rather patiently, although given the circumstances, he had little choice.

John didn't make any sort of noise in response, and Sherlock was just about ready to call out again when John coughed. (Or at least it was likely it was John, as there probably weren't more people trapped inside a collapsed building.)

It was a bit of a relief to Sherlock, knowing that John was at least alive and breathing, and even sort of close by, if the echoes weren't messing things up too much.

Sherlock's fingers crawled in the direction he thought John was in. They searched for the warmth of the other man. Human contact wasn't really something sought out in every day life, but today he would have given anything for it.

Sherlock's fingers found something warm and dry. They grabbed on and held for dear life.

"John? S'at you?" he croaked out in the darkness.

There was a cough in response.

Sherlock sighed happily, which turned out to be a mistake, as it led to a coughing fit that racked his entire body, jostling his leg which sent painpainpain shooting throughout his entire body again and he lost reality for a bit.

Sherlock's fingers had managed to find John in the dark, and they were wrapped around John's wrist when he began to cough.

But then the coughing stopped and Sherlock's fingers let go.

Oh damn.

And John mustered the strength to manoeuvre his hand to find Sherlock's wrist, thankfully nearby, and check it for a pulse.

It was there thank god and although it was a bit fast and thready for John's liking, it was there.

And that was the last thing he remembered, the beating of Sherlock's pulse, and then some more unconsciousness. (Not good when you have a concussion, just like he'd told Sherlock so many times before. But if Sherlock got to sleep, he wanted to too.)

Lestrade had been enroute, only just down the street when the explosion occurred. Thankfully, Sherlock had texted him his location, which was a relief because that was normally left to John, who hadn't made any attempts to contact Lestrade. (Somewhat worrisome, but Lestrade figured he was rather busy, keeping Sherlock alive and such, while still having a job.)

His proximity to the site of the explosion didn't nothing to quell the terror he felt when he realized that was the exact building Sherlock and John had gone into.

The terror remained as he shifted through rubble, calling out to them, hoping for anything in response. He focused that terror into strength, lifting beams and ceiling tiles on his own, all the while ignoring the calls from the other officers, then the firemen, who insisted it wasn't safe for Lestrade to be there. But he didn't give a damn about safe, not when Sherlock and John were still lost somewhere in there.

The terror lessened slightly when he heard a muffled cough, and dug out that spot to find a very pale consulting detective and his faithful blogger.

His fear was rekindled when he got a good look at both of them, Sherlock with his leg twisted up next to him, bleeding, bone protruding out of the white skin, both a shocking contrast with the blood. John was only slightly better, with his limbs seeming alright, but a large gash open on the side of his head and the bruising that had already begun all over his head and face.

They both had multiple wounds with glass embedded in them and were both covered in dust.

But they were both breathing, both of their hearts were beating, and that would do for the time being until Lestrade could get them dug out and into the safety of the waiting ambulances.

It would have to do.