Sherlock

Stepping into the train compartment, Sherlock felt himself go radioactive. This is what a good case did to him, caused him to be conscious of the blood flowing through his veins, his senses to be heightened to the thousandth degree.

Or maybe it was just the feeling of being on this good a case with John Watson.

Sherlock frowned at himself. Interesting.

He took to examining the compartment with his flashlight. Don't misunderstand, he was trying very hard to decode the location of the bomb, but it's slightly disturbing when you could feel someone else's peripheral gaze burning a hole into your neck.

Sherlock Holmes didn't have a good many mistakes to call his own. But brushing his hand against John's was quite possibly the stupidest thing the detective had ever done. The poor man's already so sexually confused, he thought with a mental smirk. You don't need to add to the mess.

But then...he was the reason for his flatmate's sexual confusion.

Didn't bother him as much as it probably should have.

John

John felt the tiniest bit useless as he followed into the train compartment after the detective. He had half a mind to just take a seat and let Sherlock do the scouting, but he decided against it. He let his flashlight beam dance over the train seats, over the plates holding the train together.

Obviously, he was only following Sherlock, who had already examined the compartment within twenty seconds of them having entered.

But nothing stood out to him, he wasn't Sherlock.

"It's empty," he stated. "There's nothing."

John's curiosity snagged on the tone of Sherlock's reply. "Isn't there," came the baritone thrum, distracted, focussed, all at once.

John's eyes shifted to where Sherlock was looking. He watched as Sherlock ripped off a seat covering, and John's heart took off at one hundred and fifty miles per hour.

Sherlock turned to him, with the most intense air of foreboding John had ever seen. "This is the bomb," said Sherlock.

John felt his throat go dry. "What?" he said breathlessly.

This couldn't happen, no.

No, no.

"It's not carrying explosives," said Sherlock, ever the level headed sociopath. "The whole-" he grunted, "-compartment is the bomb."

As he spoke, his slender fingers danced around the seat confidently, revealing exposed luminescent charges in their wake.

Oh, my God.

Sherlock

The whole case was terribly, terribly thrilling.

Even when their deaths looked imminent, Sherlock couldn't help but hold a certain respect for the intricacy of Moran's plan. From discharging the carriage to loading the explosives, to the date and timing, down to the dot, it was all perfect. Or...almost perfect, anyway.

Because he was Sherlock Holmes, and he wasn't going to die today. Not today, not like this, not without-

Not today.

He sifted the image of the compartment in his mind, slowly trailing his steps down the aisle when his foot depressed a portion of the carriage floor. He froze, turning back and tapping at a loose panel on the floor.

Kneeling and peeling off his gloves, Sherlock pried the panel up with his fingertips. John looked over, and Sherlock could practically see his heart pumping faster. He was overcome with a wave of guilt at being inconsiderate towards John's reactions to explosives, but Sherlock knew John would never admit that bit of his weakness, his pressure point.

"We need bomb disposal." John's voice came out hoarse at the sight of the mother bomb in the heart of the carriage.

"There may not be time for that now." Sherlock willed himself to remain calm, one of them had to.

He saw John beginning to show signs of a panic attack, saw the fear in John's eyes.

It scared him, too.

"So, what do we do?"

Why did he think Sherlock knew what to do? "Why do you think I know what to do?"

John's gaze turned dark and he took a restless step forward. "Because you're Sherlock Holmes, you're as clever as it gets."

"Doesn't mean I know how to defuse a giant bomb, what about you?" The idea that John thought Sherlock would know something like that was without question the most ridiculously flattering thing Sherlock had ever heard.

"I wasn't in bomb disposal, I'm a bloody doctor."

"And a soldier, as you keep reminding us all," Sherlock shone the flashlight right at John, like a sign of annoyance at his uselessness in the situation. He directed his focus back to the bomb.

"Can't..." John really was starting to panic now, Sherlock could see it. "Can't we rip the timer off, or something?"

Idiot, that would set it off. "That would set it off," said Sherlock, trying and failing to keep the condescension out of his tone.

"You see, you know things!" John grew thoroughly exasperated with him.

Sherlock was tensing up more and more at the sight of the timer, two and a half minutes away from a Guy Fawkes-style explosion.

How do I do this?

John

He had to be joking. He couldn't solve this? Something as ordinary (compared to the others) as a bomb, and this was what would beat Sherlock bloody Holmes?

No, he wouldn't believe it. He wouldn't, because if he did, they were definitely going to die. Hold out on a bit of hope, and they might die.

What fabulous options.

John's train of thought was interrupted by a sudden mechanical whirring and blinding white lights flickering, the whole compartment coming to life.

The whole compartment, including the bomb.

2:29.

He saw Sherlock look around wildly, confused as well. This, of all the new things they'd seen that day, scared John the most.

"Oh," said John, as his heart sank and his heart rate shot up. "My God!" He felt his head go light, and feet go numb and he did not want to die!

"Erm..." John could hear Sherlock's breathing now. Even Sherlock was panicking.

"Why didn't you call the police?" John wheezed out, his anger and exasperation surpassing his fear. "Why do you never call the police?" His voice rose to a shout.

Sherlock held up a hand in the midst of his pacing. "Well, it's no use now." His voice quavered just a bit, and John realised that he was expecting too much of Sherlock to actually know how to get them out of this.

2:15.

It was still weird seeing him alive, though.

Sherlock Holmes was the most frustrating sod he had ever met.

Something snapped inside John. "So you can't switch the bomb off," he said, exasperated and frightened and half mad. "You can't switch the bomb off, and you didn't call the police." He paced backwards, and paced forwards, it did absolutely nothing to shake his nerves. He saw Sherlock look up at him, frozen, his eyes locked on his own. Sherlock had a slightly frightening of determination alight in his eyes, the kind that made John immediately think No.

No.

Sherlock

No.

He couldn't - he wouldn't -  let John die here. Not here, not now. But he also knew John wouldn't leave. Even if their lives depended on it, which they did. So he looked at John. Trying to convey the necessity that John leave and save himself.

"Go, John," he said, raising an arm in the direction from which they came. "Go now."

"There's no point now, is there," spat John. "Cause there's not enough time to get away-" Right, "and if we don't do this-" he pointed at the bomb, "-other people will die!" Also right.

A few seconds of panicked silence.

Sherlock stared at the bomb, the timer, the luminescent red digits ticking down.

1:57.

And suddenly, it hit him.

Staring at him right in the face, and he had missed it. He was wrong when he told Mycroft he was slipping, it was Sherlock's skill that was deteriorating.

He would get them out of this.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Smol beans  ^.^

Also I'm sorry it's been so long since an update on this, but I'm already working on part 3

I really, really appreciate feedback on my stuff so leave a comment if you feel like it

If you don't that's cool you're still amazing

Okay bye

~A.M.