The last thing Sherlock knows is that he is flung high up into the air, dust and rocks battering him from every direction, and then slams into the ground with bone cracking force. What he remembers right before that is the blinding light, the roar and flames of the explosion. Then Sherlock does not know or feel anything else, because the world around him spins wildly, shudders and goes black.

Sherlock gasps and painfully drags in a mouthful of air. His fingers have difficulty unclenching from the bed sheets. Each one of his limbs feels crushed and heavy like lead. He tries to swallow but his tongue seems stuck to the roof of his mouth. There is no moisture - his mouth is arid as sand. Sherlock's mind refuses to cooperate; it is sluggish and slow. He can't figure out where he is, or why. Torturously slowly he forces his mind to recall any event that would allow him to comprehend. His forehead crumples in concentration but that hurts, so he compels his facial muscles to loosen. He draws a sharp breath as a memory slashes through his mind.

Dust. Billowing blankets of dust. Rocks spiral and soar through the air. The air roars. The heat scorches and burns. Sherlock's body crumples in a pile of limbs and pain. Pain, unendurable pain, and sheer terror.

With this revelation comes a damnable sense of failure and guilt. Now he remembers. Now he knows. He should have guessed - it had been all in front of him, but for the sake of the game and the chase he had refused to see. He had been so close to capturing Moriarty that nothing else mattered. And that's how he'd paid for his carelessness. He'd walked headfirst into Moriarty's sophisticated and elaborate trap putting himself and John in grave danger. Oh God…John!

"John." The word is barely more than a hoarse moan, but suddenly there is someone striding across the room and he feels a calloused, warm hand gently slide around his.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?" John's familiar and frantic voice is next to his ear and he groans in reply. "God, Sherlock, you're awake. You're finally awake. Sherlock, I really thought you'd…" He's repeating Sherlock's name like a mantra or a safety line, when John's voice breaks off and Sherlock flinches as he feels a drop of moisture land on his hand. He tries to utter a sorry, to apologise for his idiocy, for having caused such havoc, for almost having died and let John suffer…for having made John think Sherlock would leave him. Instead his throat rasps and gurgles, his tongue too stiff to curl around the letters. Instantly John comprehends and places cold, cool glass against his lips. "Drink Sherlock. It's water – you must be parched." Sherlock parts his lips and feels the precious substance trickle inside his mouth, cooling and reviving. It takes him a few attempts to force his throat to swallow, and most of the water spills back out pooling across his chin and chest, but it's water – actual water, and he thinks he hasn't felt anything more lovely in his life.

Now Sherlock wants to talk, explain, and ask for forgiveness, but he's too drowsy, and so, so tired; and he doesn't know how to explain what has happened or where to begin from because he only knows how he feels. His body, his ally, is already sealing his eyelids shut and leadening his arms. And somewhat against his own wishes he is pulled back into the protecting downy quilt of sleep with John's hand clasping his.

He feels himself drifting in and out of consciousness in a continuous loop, barely being able to move because his body is trapped in a web of tubes and drips and lines. So whenever his mind attempts to gain control over his body he stills them both and forces himself to return to the dark silence of unconsciousness.

Minutes, hours, or possibly days later Sherlock awakens from hushed whispers around him. His head pounds in a nauseating rhythm together with the mechanical whirring and beeping and the human voices. He grunts in annoyance wishing for everyone to be quiet, but in response receives a high-pitched squeal as someone, doubtlessly Molly, realizes he's conscious. He snarls and recoils from the sound as the noise vibrates painfully throughout his head. However, his thirst is more powerful than the pain, so with his fingers he gestures the common sign for drinking, which is gently handed to him, and soon Molly shoos the other voices out of the room. The bed creaks as she perches by his side and launches into a somewhat hysterical monologue. "Goodness, Sherlock, you had us all so worried! You were in a coma for an entire week, and the doctors couldn't say whether you'd ever wake up from it, or if you would, whether you'd have any permanent injury. And John, poor, dear John…he didn't leave this room for a minute while you were unconscious – he dozed on the chair in the corner. I had to send him home yesterday after you first woke up, because he could hardly stand from not eating. He was so scared. We all were! But now you're fine, aren't you? You'll be back on your feet soon, you'll see!" Sherlock lets the air in his lungs flow out in a long sigh, even though his ribs scream in protest. They had been worried about him. Why people would have felt worry towards Sherlock was beyond his comprehension - it had been his fault after all. He lets the thought spiral away for now because he does not know how to deal with it in the present situation, and instead focuses on Molly.

"Yes, Molly," he croaks, his voice still rusty. A cough to clear his throat, and then his voice becomes stronger and more familiar to his ears. "I feel better. And…I'm sorry." Only a few words uttered, and he feels exhausted as though he'd climbed a mountain.

Giddily Molly shushes him, "Rubbish, Sherlock! You have nothing to be sorry for! It's just a mistake you made. Everyone makes mistakes, because we're all human!"

Somehow Sherlock gathers the strength to shout, fuelled by the rage he feels towards himself. "No, Molly! I do NOT make mistakes! I put you all in danger! John could have died, I probably wouldhave died, and there would have been nothing and nobody to stop Moriarty from avenging Moran's death on everyone I know – you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…" He breaks off to cough savagely, his entire body heaving and shuddering but he goes on as soon as his voice returns. "Bah, even Anderson wouldn't have been spared. Do you have any idea what repercussions my human mistake would have caused? It's my entire fault." Here his voice shudders to a halt, his anger and energy spent. Sherlock's breath jars in his throat and he feels the pressure of unwelcome, hot and heavy tears welling up behind his tightly shut eyelids. He knows he must regain composure, but once his carefully built and exceedingly well protected shell has cracked, the human emotions slithering underneath keep threatening to break free and unleash havoc upon him. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. See where it's gotten you now, you fool. He can almost hear Mycroft in his ear, and knows that he'd have been faultlessly correct. Human emotions are the downfall of people like he. Yet… No. He feels too tired for mental imaginary battles against Mycroft, or himself for that matter.

There is silence from Molly's side on the bed, and Sherlock knows that if John was here he'd scold Sherlock for having shouted at her. Bit not good, and all that. "I'm… sorry, Molly. I…just need…time to come to grips about what happened. I certainly didn't intend for anyone to be worried about me, when you should all have been blaming me instead."

"Oh, but Sherlock, nobody blames you. Quite the opposite – I think that what you did was incredibly brave and self-sacrificing. Now you must stop these self-blaming thoughts, and rest and regain your strength. Here, I'll open the curtains and let in some light so you can see what lovely weather you're missing. It's pitch black and stuffy in here." Her voice wavers with emotion and she's talking far too quickly, but Sherlock senses that she's trying to hold herself strong.

The bed groans as she gets up and Sherlock hears her heels click across a tiled floor. He hears curtains whoosh open and waits to feel sunlight hit him across the face. He even winces automatically to protect his eyes from the assault. He slowly opens one eye, then the other and begins asking Molly why didn't she open the curtains properly when he registers warmth on his face. His eyes strain wildly, blinking rapidly, his forehead creasing and furrowing uncomprehendingly. His breathing becomes ragged and hurried as his hands rub frantically across his eyes trying to clear the inky blackness shutting out every last glimpse of light.

The next thing he hears is Molly running out of the room screaming for a doctor because Sherlock cannot see anymore.