DISCALIMER: I lay claim to nothing but the story on this page. The characters and the show belong to ACD and Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss and BBC etc.

Prompted from Sixty-four Damn Prompts - A Multi-Fandom Prompt List. (You can find a link on my profile.)

Prompt 1 – 2 AM

"What the HELL did you think you were doing?"

Sherlock didn't know anymore. The muscles in his legs were trembling, but he kept pacing around the living room. Two hours ago. The experience was still vivid in his mind; he was still shaking. The sniper shooting the gun from his hand. Jim Moriarty's laugh as the final seconds ticked past. The red dots fixed on their chests…Mycroft's arrival was excellently timed, his men efficiently taking out the snipers.

"You just had to have your thrill, didn't you?" John was still yelling.

Sherlock couldn't look at him yet, the guilt still pilling up inside his chest.

"You nearly had me, your brother, and a team of government agents killed! And yourself, though I'm beginning to think that wouldn't be such a bad thing."

Sherlock had just managed to process their rescue, a few seconds faster than John, when he remembered his nemesis. Moriarty had disappeared through the double doors once more. Sherlock was about to give chase, but there was the jacket strapped with semtex still lying on the deck, and Moriarty still had the detonator. They were almost too late, the building exploding seconds after everyone poured outside, Sherlock still yelling at them all to run.

Now he had to look. The remark was spoken so viciously that he had to see John's face, if he meant it or not. Fearfully, he searched his friend's expression. John's face was full of anger, more rage than Sherlock had ever seen him possess. But there was a tremor in his cheek, a blankness in his eyes, and Sherlock could guess the other man was also reliving the memories from two hours ago. Well, he had been well taught by Lestrade on that subject.

Legs still shaking, he crossed the room and pulled a blanket out from under the couch. He moved behind John, who was collapsed in his chair, and tucked it around his shoulders. "You're in shock, John," he said gently.

"You should have guessed I'd see your post, Sherlock," Mycroft had said as they picked themselves off the ground where they'd been thrown from the explosion. The calm in his voice was amazing. "I have people monitoring your site twenty-four/seven." Sherlock had never been more grateful for his brother but right now he was looking past him, searching the darkness.

John tore off the blanket, flinging it to the floor. "I'm not!" He roared.

Sherlock shrugged and bent down to retrieve the offending fabric. "You should get some sleep," he advised, absently wrapping the blanket around his own shoulders, pulling it tight.

"I'm not taking advice from you!" John snapped. He sat in silence while Sherlock paced.

Lestrade had arrived. "Sherlock!" He yelled. "What have you done? What have you been up to? Are you all right?" The ruins of the building in flames behind them, Sherlock pushed him aside.

"I'm going to bed," John announced flatly after a moment. He got to his feet and crossed to the door. Now he was the one not looking at the other man.

"John," Sherlock said, almost hoarsely. "I have to…I'm really glad you're okay." His genius mind couldn't find a way to express his feeling articulately.

"Yeah," John said, his face blank now. "Well…" No jokes to be made this time. "Yeah, me too. Thanks to your brother." For a moment, he just stared at Sherlock, then he turned and left. Sherlock heard his weary footfalls on the stairs and tried to make out whether 'yeah, me too' mean he was glad that he was okay or he was glad that Sherlock was okay. He is in shock, Sherlock thought.

A wave of exhaustion rose and engulfed him, and he sank into his chair, wrapping the blanket more firmly around himself. The clock across the room read just after two in the morning. Two hours ago, he had arrived at the pool. Ten minutes later, he and John were facing impending death. Of course, he had faced death before, but never so finally. He always had options before, his brain could always figure a way out. The gun in his hand could usually help, offer a way to escape. This time, it technically did give another option. They had death or death. Two dead or three. Less was never more.

Sherlock ran past Lestrade. John was collapsed on the ground, breathing deeply. Sherlock grabbed him and roughly dragged him to his feet. "Are you okay?" He shouted. "Are you okay?"

John stumbled. "Sherlock," he said weakly. They fell into each others arms, holding each other tightly, the physical contact reassurance that they had managed to get out of that mess alive. There were shouts behind them, Lestrade giving orders about clearing the area, calling in the fire department, finding out if anyone had been left inside. The smell of the explosion from moments ago was still strong in the air.

Sherlock let his head fall back against the chair, closing his eyes. He let the images drift across his mind, accepting the fact that there would be no sleep for him that night, making the most of it. Tomorrow, they would see. See how much of the evening, those fateful two hours, had carried over.

Set just after the confrontation with Moriarty. Just a possible way for them to get out of that, not necessarily what I think is gonna happen, but I suppose it's possible.

Are they slightly out of character? I think they're just really shaken by what happened, if not by thinking "I could have died" then by thinking "I almost lost you"

-Evealle

(Been a while since you've seen me, right?)