***Author's Note***

It is five days until "Towel Day," a celebration of the life and work of Douglas Adams. notjustmom over on AO3 said, "Hey, I'm doing a thing, you should too" (or something like that), and so here we are. She picked the Douglas Adams quote for inspiration, and I wrote a quick (don't think about it too much) drabble. There may be more Douglas Adams prompt to follow, so keep your towel handy. :-)

"'The Guide says there is an art to flying,' said Ford, 'or rather a knack. The knack lies in learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.'" -Douglas Adams (from "Life, the Universe and Everything")

There had been a moment - the very briefest, and if Sherlock were completely honest, the most exhilarating of moments - when it had looked as if John had actually learned to fly. Moriarty had stepped between them, distracted by taunting Sherlock with the missile plans, and John had leapt.

Rather, he dove. Had Sherlock been in John's position, he might have jumped up, aiming for Moriarty's torso, but John had gone low and taken the man out at his knees.

It was a precision hit, executed with a fluid grace that should not have been possible for someone strapped into a semtex bomb. Sherlock had frozen, mouth agape, as he watched Moriarty tottering backwards just as his knees gave out. Time seemed to slow as a stunned-but-not-really grin spread across the madman's face, and John's momentum forced Moriarty to lurch forward. He never had time to brace himself; his forehead hit the tile floor with a sickening thud.

The fact that a single shot had been fired from the viewing gallery remained in the forefront of Sherlock's mind. As a plethora of laser dots lit up his chest, he took a few quick steps and aimed his gun directly at Moriarty's head. The lights remained unwavering. He looked down to see John's grim expression. And then the exasperating man quirked that irksome brilliant lopsided smile and nodded. Sherlock shifted his hold on the Browning, took a step back, and aimed the gun at the explosives still strapped to his friend.

"I'll do it. Don't think for a moment I won't kill us all." Sherlock shouted, his voice exuding a confidence he certainly did not feel.

A few dots blinked off, but most remained. No one moved as certain death hung heavy in the chlorinated air, when the tension was pierced unexpectedly.

"Ah ah ah ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive..."

John had the audacity to snicker. "His bloody... mobile... Sick bastard." There was something troubling about the way John's words slurred together, but when Sherlock glanced down he realized the laser dots had disappeared.

"John, get up." Without giving his flatmate a second look, Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and texted Mycroft to send a containment team to pick up Moriarty. He checked the madman's pulse, a bit slow, but a blow to the head could do that, and started searching his pockets for the mobile that had acted as a signal for the snipers to retreat. "John, he's out cold, you can let go now. You need to get up so we can..."

"Bit of a problem, that..." Panting, John pushed himself up and half rolled, half fell over off Moriarty's legs. "Ohhh, bloody hell... You'd think I'd be... be use to getting shot by now."

Tossing the gun aside, and shoving Moriarty's mobile into his pocket, Sherlock dropped to his knees and tore frantically at the vest. "John. John are you all right?... Oh god, you've been shot."

"Get this damned parka off... that'll make things easier..." John ground out as he sat up just enough for Sherlock to yank the coat away and finish ripping the straps that held the bomb together free. He picked up the explosives and dropped them onto Moriarty's back. Just in case.

Sherlock held off assessing John's wound in favor of getting him to cover, in case the snipers should change their minds. He hauled him to one of the changing stalls and arranged the parka under his head.

"Glad no one saw that... You ripping my clothes off..." John squeezed his eye shut and exhaled deeply.

"Shut up." Quick hands ran over John's right thigh, trying to suss out the extent of the damage. Sherlock stuck his fingers through the rip in John's trousers and tore the hole wider. "Sorry... I need to see the wound."

John huffed a breathy laugh and winced. "Dragging me off... in the dark... to have your way with me... People will talk..."

"They do little else. Now shut up and lay still."

"Sherlock..." John reached out grabbed his arm. "Sherlock... It's okay... If it had hit anything vital, I'd have bled out by now..."

Sherlock blanched. "I think the bullet's still in there. What do I do?"

"Okay... Okay... First, call for help..."

"Mycroft's people are on their way."

"Tell him we need an ambulance."

Sherlock nodded, stared at his blood covered hands for just a moment, wiped them on his trousers, and texted Mycroft.

"Good. Okay, we need a towel or something. You need to apply pressure."

Sherlock scanned the stall. He'd managed to pull John to the one where he'd hung his coat. "Scarf. My scarf, will that work?"

"Perfect. You have to press hard... I mean it Sherlock. Hard as you can... It's going to hurt like a mother..." John cried out then as Sherlock pressed the wadded up scarf to his leg.

"Sorry..."

"S'fine." John took a few deep breaths and patted Sherlock's arm before balling his hand into a fist at his side. "I'm fine... 'Tis but a scratch."

"No it... It's really not. It's not fine, nor is it only a scratch..."

"I was just quoting... Never mind... Just a joke." John scrunched up his face. "Guess I'm going to need the cane again for a while... My therapist will have a field day with this."

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. "I wish you would take this more seriously. You've very recently been shot."

"And strapped into a murder vest."

"No." Sherlock snapped. "We're not calling it that. Do not call it that in the blog. Do you understand? I will leave you here to bleed out."

John giggle-snorted and winced. "Did I at least stain his posh suit? None of this is worth it if I didn't ruin the smug bastard's suit."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth ticked up slightly. "I think there's a distinct possibility. He's also going to need a number of stitches on his forehead, so well done for causing maximum damage."

"No sense doing something half arsed."

"That ... thing that you... that you did... that, uhm ... it was..." Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at the blood soaking through the scarf.

"Good?" Breath hitching, John offered a smile that looked infinitely more like a grimace than any smile Sherlock had yet catalogued.

Sherlock shook his head. "No... No. Stupid. Stupid is definitely the word I'm looking for."

"I... I don't know..." John gasped as Sherlock lifted the scarf to check the wound underneath. "...think I'm pretty damn smart..."

"A smart man would not be laying in a puddle of his own blood, ruining his flatmate's very expensive scarf." Shifting slightly on his knees to face John more directly, Sherlock pressed down firmly and frowned. "It's... distressing."

"It worked didn't it? ...haaa..." John's attempted laugh turned into more of a hysterical sort of groan. He turned his head and tried to sit up. "You're sure he's..."

"Unconscious. Will be for some time." Sherlock glared at John. "Stop moving, you idiot. Lay down. Did you learn nothing in your medical training?"

John dropped back down onto the parka and his tone was sullen. "Learned more about bullet wounds in the army."

"Did the army teach you that move? Seemed a bit risky. Brilliantly executed, mind you, but incredibly risky." The effort to keep John distracted paid off.

With a chuckle, John scrubbed his hand over his face. "No, actually, I did learn that in uni... What you saw there was a perfectly dealt rugby tackle... Aim low, shoulder into the knees. The lads would've been proud."

"Hmm. Indeed." Sherlock did genuinely smile at that.

"Look, Sherlock, about the other... With pointing the gun at the vest..."

"John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry... I wasn't actually going to..." Sherlock let out a shuddering breath and nearly whispered, "I could never..."

"You could. And in the future, if that's what it takes, you don't hesitate... You hear me? You take the shot... Speaking of, we need to address your gun safety. You just threw the bloody thing. God, Sherlock..."

"John, please." At the pleading in Sherlock's tone John became very still. "I don't think I could take that shot. Not if it meant..."

"We'll just have to make sure you never need to, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah."

"But that means no more secret meetings with maniacs. No more secrets, Sherlock. Can you promise me?"

"I... John, I can't... You know my methods."

"Methods be damned..." John was cut short by a group of agents and medics rushing in. "We're not done with this, Sherlock," John called over the din of activity.

"What? I can't hear you!" Sherlock smirked as he stepped back out of the stall to let the medics work. He cocked an eyebrow at his flatmate.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. We're talking about this..." John hissed in pain as the medics lifted him to the gurney.

"Later, then. When you're well." Sherlock fell into step alongside the medics as they wheeled John to the ambulance. "You're going to be fine?" John nodded, reached out and took Sherlock's hand in response.