What would happen if the one thing Sherlock Holmes could rely upon suddenly stopped working? What if that 'one thing' happened to be what he used everyday? What if he couldn't work without it?

How would he survive?

Disclaimer: Every thing you see or recognize is not mine.

NOTICE: I have been going over this and I plan to update and fix a few problems I may have missed.
Thank you to those who have kept up with this!

o0o0o0o

221 B Baker street was fairly quiet one cold Sunday afternoon until the gentle sound of violin music was interrupted by the harsh buzzing of a phone.

The detective, Sherlock Holmes, put down his violin and pulled the device out of his pocket.

1 new message
From: DI Lestrade

[ Front and center, ASAP. Cab waiting outside. ]

The detective smiled. He had a feeling that today was a case day. No more boring.

"John! Let's go!"

The doctor, John Watson, looked up from his crossword puzzle.

"Lestrade?" he guessed. Only so many things excited Sherlock, a murder being one.

Sherlock nodded as he pulled his scarf snugly around his neck.
"Yes."

John stood to his feet, throwing his paper on the experiment covered table with the rest of the unfinished crosswords.
"Let me get my coat."

Sherlock pulled on his gloves as John shrugged into his coat.

"What is it this time?" John asked as they made their way out the door and to the street where a taxi was waiting for them.

Sherlock was busy texting Lestrade.

[ We've got a bomb called in by a teenager. ]

[ Strange. Did he plant the bomb? -SH ]

[ According to him, no. Come find out. ]

[ On our way. -SH ]

"Bombing." Sherlock finally answered aloud.

John raised an eyebrow. Bombing. Odd.
"Where?"

Sherlock shrugged and put his phone safely back in his pocket.

"Not sure."

They ended up going to some random house on a deserted street somewhere south of London. John looked around. Weird. Usually crowds of pedestrians and bystanders gathered around crimes scenes. Why were there no people around here? Also, there was no bombing wreckage nor sign of an explosion. Just police tape twenty yards from an old house.
What was this?

"Where is everyone?" John asked, somehow feeling like it was a stupid question.

Sherlock pulled the edges of his leather gloves down.
"Evacuated for their own safety.

John stopped dead in his tracks, five feet from the police tape that guarded the house in question.

"The bomb is still in the house?"

Sherlock smiled innocently, as if John should have known.
"Of course. What else would you have thought?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called, standing next to a very scared looking seven–no. Sixteen year old boy.

Clothes: formal school-wear, muddy and wet. Been splashed within the hour. No rain here. Rain 20 miles up.

Library card sticking out of his pocket.

Sherlock and John made it to Lestrade.

"Not our bomber." Sherlock smiled.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.
"What?"

Sherlock pointed at the teenager.
"Mr. Logan here is not our bomber."

The teenager raised an eyebrow as well.
"H-How did you know my name? And what do you mean?" he asked Lestrade, "You thought I was the bomber?"

Sherlock sighed.
"Don't worry. You are obviously innocent. You don't even live on this side of London. You were miles away when the bomb was planted approximately...two hours ago. You only came here to visit your grandmother, isn't that right? And then you heard something strange from the house adjacent to hers?"

"How do you know my grandmother lives over there?" he pointed to the house left to the one surrounded by police tape.

John shook his head.
"Ok, explain Sherlock! I can't stand this!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Library card from a boarding school on the other side of London. Ergo; doesn't live here. Name on the card; Michael Logan. Obvious. Now, what would Mr. Logan be doing here on his weekend? You could obviously suspect he was in some sort of gang, but considering his well grooming and boarding school library card, I'd say not. Most gang members don't visit their local library. So that leaves us with the question; what was he doing here? Well, mister Logan's eyes have not left that house over there. Someone he knows lives there. Not a friend, but someone he truly loves. Mother and father are still together; a single parent would struggle to pay for his highly expensive tuition, so not visiting his parents. But judging by the empty oxygen tanks beside the house I'd say he was visiting his dying fraternal grandmother."

Lestrade, though confused, nodded in agreement.

"Good enough for me. You're free to go."

The speechless teenager gave Sherlock a strange look before running to the other side of the street and as far away from him as possible.

Johns mouth hung open in amazement, breath making small clouds in the air.

"You...you...wow." words seemed to have escaped him. Again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"You are doing that out loud again."

John shook his head and shut his mouth, coming back to reality.

"Sorry."

Sirens blared loudly as squad cars got in their way, letting out very heavily dressed officers carrying large equipment.
The bomb squad.

Lestrade noticed Sherlock's fist tighten.

"Just let them do their job and then you can do yours, alright?"

Sherlock nodded and he and John backed away somewhat, John with his hands over his ears.

Bomb patrol officers entered the house slowly and carefully, wary and with a watchful eye for any signs of the supposed bomb. The usuals, Donovan and Anderson, had been replaced by the bomb control staff.

Sherlock and John had been pushed farther away from the house as to keep them safe. This aroused great annoyance from an already highly irritated Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled, tapping his hand against his side in impatience.

"Not fast enough," he growled, his deep baritone layered with heavy frustration, "The bomber is getting away! With every second it will be harder to find him."

John sighed, his voice patient and kind as to soothe his friend's irritation.
"Just wait."

Nearly 2 freezing hours later the bomb squad found the explosive, carefully disarmed it and brought it in to the officials.

Finally, feeling as if they had waited for years instead of hours, Lestrade called them back over.

"Sherlock! I need you."

John and Sherlock ran under the police tape and stood beside Lestrade, only 7 feet from the house.

"It's safe now? You got it all?" John asked, more concerned for he and his friends welfare and safety while Sherlock just seemed to be itching to go inside and investigate.

Lestrade nodded and waved off some of the bomb squad, who were sure to not let them in.

"They've checked the rest of the house. Nothing in there. Go check it out yourself. I'm counting on you."

Sherlock stepped into the house and took off his leather gloves and replaced them with surgical rubber ones. He pulled out his pocket magnifying glass and looked around, breathing in the surroundings as if they were air.

Hallway - Old carpet, covered in sawdust, era 1969, not taken out since house had been built. Nasty wooden plank walls, no drywall.

Kitchen - Drywall in kitchen. Drywall replacement in kitchen + sawdust = Renovation.

"This place is over forty years old judging by the design and material used to make it. Previous owner tried remodeling."

He turned on the rather ugly kitchen water faucet. Nothing came out.

"Water has been cut off. Abandoned for some time. No takers."

He walked into living room, which appeared to be completely empty beside the strange pictures on the walls, connected by red yarn and blue strings.

Photos include;
Three different photos of a (Rather lovely) Stradivarius violin, Sunflowers, a woman with too much makeup, two different photos of a close up on an eye; Color, hazel green. The London eye, Big Ben, and a downtown London theater.

Sherlock stealthily took a picture of the wall with his phone and turned to leave when he noticed something; the floor dipped underneath him. He began jumping up and down, floorboards groaning in protest underneath his feet.

John noted his friends odd behavior.
"What's up?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"This one place in the floor is hollow."

"What?" John asked, confused.

"It's hollow!" Sherlock repeated.

He put his ear to the floor and knocked on the wood.

"Start pulling these floorboards up!"

He, Lestrade and two other officers bent down and pried the floorboards from the floor, only resulting in a low concrete under-surface until, finally, Sherlock smiled as he found the right board.

And then the bomb exploded in his face, knocking him backward, flashing brightly in his eyes.

o0o0o0o

"...ohn?"

"Sher...ock?"

John sat up and looked at his surroundings. Lestrade and a few other officers were knocked back, but alright. Dust was floating in the air from the explosion, obstructing John's vision. His head pounded as he looked around the dust for his friend. Sherlock was lying on the ground, face up, blue eyes rolling back into his head, not breathing. John ran over to him and jostled him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, stay with me!"

Sherlock blinked and looked around, disoriented. His lungs struggled for air.

"I...cn't...ee" he wheezed.

John couldn't hear him over the ringing in his ears.
Sherlock was coughing and blinking in the dust. John's medical training kicked in. He checked his friends face to find it was surprisingly unburned except for a few minor places on his cheeks. He was moving his legs about, so no spinal breakage. But he was obviously injured somehow. Head trauma? Internal bleeding?

"Where are you hurt?" he asked, panic slowly setting in to his supposedly unbreakable 'Doctor Mode' as Sherlock once called it.

"...ohn..I can...ee..." Sherlock was barely moving his lips, still recovering from having the air knocked out of his lungs. John still couldn't hear over the buzzing of his ears. He shook his head in attempt to focus as his hands help his friend find breath.

"Just breathe. Breathe and then talk." John whispered calmly.

"I can't see..." the detective finally spoke clearly.

John raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"

"I can't see!" Sherlock then screamed, feeling around the floor to try and get his footing.

John stopped him from standing.

"Don't get up, no! Stay here, Sherlock! Breathe! An ambulance is on the way!" Lestrade was on the phone as they spoke.

"I...I can't see..." the detective mumbled, dust from the explosion causing stinging salt water to leak from his eyes. Or at least that what he told himself.

John checked his friends wet pupils. Sure enough, they were dilated and unfocused.

"I can't see anything...John...where are you?"

"Calm down! I'm gonna stay with you. I won't leave. I promise."

Pulling off his friends surgical gloves, he took Sherlock's wrist and checked his pulse. Too fast. His lungs were working overtime as panic became inevitable. He carefully examined his torso, under each of his ribs to check for breaks. None. He didn't dare move his neck nor his back; they could still be injured somehow. He didn't know yet. He wasn't going to take his chances. His friends thin frame was shaking with cold and fear. Sherlock had never truly shown fear before. Not like this.

John kept mumbling under his breath, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get his friend to relax and not hyperventilate in his disoriented fear.

"Calm down, Sherlock. You're alright. I'm right here. Breathe. That is all that is important right now. Just breathe."

Sherlock searched for his friends face with his hand, just to be sure he was there.
John seemed to know what he was doing. He had seen countless other patients do it.

"It's me. I promise. I'm here."

"I...I can't see..."

"I know. It's okay. You're going to be alright-"

"Sir, get out of the way!" an unfamiliar voice was suddenly beside him as the wailing of an ambulance could be heard from out the front door.

"I'm staying with him!" he heard John's voice yell over the noise, one hand leaving Sherlock's shoulder to push away the paramedic.

"Sir, we need to get him out now!"

Something hard pushed against him and John, separating them from each other.

"Sherlock?" he heard John's voice fade away over the now blaring ambulance.

Suddenly hands were all over him; pressing him down when he tried to stand, picking him up off of the floor and onto some sort of hard plank that felt like a surf board. A gurney, he realized.
He could feel the picking and poking of needles jabbed into his arm. He could hear the many voices of rushed ambulance paramedics talking to each other, but only one seemed to be talking to him directly. A young man by the sound of it.

"We are going to wheel you into the hospital. What's your name? Are you in any pain? Where?"

Sherlock waved a hand in the direction of the voice until he found something solid; a shirt collar. He pulled it forward.

"Where...Where's John?"

The paramedic seemed confused.
"Don't worry about him. He's fine."

"Where is he? John?"

The paramedic lightly pressed against his chest, trying to keep him calm and down on the gurney.
"Sir, don't shout! I will contact any family member you need. Can I get a name?"

Sherlock's breathing quickened as he continued his blind search for his flatmate in the ambulance.

"Why isn't he here?"

"I need a name, sir." the paramedic calmly asked, growing more impatient by the minute.

"John...John Watson." He gave him his number.

"I'll find him." the paramedic assured him.

He felt more poking and prodding at his body and heard the familiar beeping of a phone.

"John Watson?" the paramedics voice asked.

'I'm sorry. I can't talk right now-'

Sherlock could hear him now.
"John? Where are you?"

John could hear his friends frantic screaming from over the phone. He knew who it was.

'I'm in the ambulance directly behind his.'

"He's behind us."

Sherlock tried to calm himself down, but it was too late; he began hyperventilating as he went into shock, body shaking violently against his will. They put a ventilator mask on his face.

His ears began ringing again and he heard no more.

"...er...ock!"

John. Definitely. It was John's voice who pulled him out of his trance. His breathing had evened out some now that the paramedics were in charge of his lungs. His heart still pounded frantically against his chest, his limbs still shaking uncontrollably and he was awfully light headed. He felt terribly weak, like he was about to black out again. Well...Pass out. Everything was already black.

"John?" Sherlock asked, voice muffled by the ventilator on his face.

He could feel motion beneath his gurney and heard the sounds of feet scuffing against the floor; they were running him into the hospital. He could hear John gasp at the sight of him. He must look terrible.

"I'm right here. I'm not leaving this time." John's voice followed.

"I can't see..." the detective informed the doctor. It's all he knew to say right now.

John reached for his friend's shaking wrist with an iron grip, determined not to be separated by the paramedics again.

"I know, Sherlock. We're fixing that."