Title: In the dark
by Oneiriad

Disclaimer: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created the original Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Sherlock is the work of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. In case of doubt, definitely not mine.
A/N: This tiny fic fragment was inspired by a pretty awesome fanvid and probably makes more sense if you've seen it first. Can be found at youtube, just add /watch?v=3gOmrhzquiM after the basic youtube url (the pit of voles is annoying when you want to show people something, or is there a trick I'm unfamiliar with?)

Unconsciousness fades into darkness and the sort of dull pain he knows will be a lot worse later. He feels trapped, something heavy on top of him, and he can't see.

Somewhere close, there's a slurping sound.

He supposes he should be afraid, should cry for help, should try to push whatever is on top of him off. He must be trapped under something, surely he should be trying to… but he's tired and he can't think. Not right now. Later. Later he'll do all those things.

Somewhere far off is a sound and suddenly it drizzles what must be dust into his eyes. He blinks, trying to clear them, shakes his head – and suddenly he needs to cough, and he can't, there's not enough air, he can't breathe because of whatever is lying on him and he can't move it and…

And then it moves, lifting ever so slightly, letting him breathe, even as more dust rains over him, and when he looks he sees a pair of glowing eyes, and the only thing he can think is "how the hell did a cat get trapped in here?" – except then they're gone and he supposes he must have been seeing things.

"Hello?", because obviously the heavy thing on top of him must be a person if it can move like that, and the person standing closest to him when the bomb went off was "Sherlock? Is that you?"

"Yes." Cool fingers find his in the darkness, tangle reassuringly.

"Are you alright?", because he knows he isn't, knows he's going to be going straight to the hospital once someone manages to dig them out, and if Sherlock is on top of him, has been shielding him – it's not a nice thought.

"Yes," and his hand is squeezed, firmly, and somehow he finds himself breathing calmly again.

He turns his head, spotting a tiny spot of light, dancing as if it's reflected by water.

Somewhere, in the darkness he's not looking at, the slurping sound resumes. It's strangely soothing, he thinks, before sliding back under.