A/N: This is basically a chapter of my story "To Those Who Ever Wondered" that I felt the need to elaborate a bit more. Can be read as stand-alone. The basic idea is to cover up the thought processes behind some of the episode's actions along with some blind spots. For some reason it always comes down to Sherlock suspecting that John is Moriarty...

Description: Chapter one will cover up the explosion in Episode 3, The Great Game, that hits the flat after John leaves from Sherlock's POV. Chapter two will explain what it was that John did during that time. Read & Relax.

A Blasted Day (SH)

"Or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!"

The words are harsh, angry, and out before Sherlock can stop them. This makes him even more irritable. What is it with John that grates on his nerves like this? He doesn't like it. Not one bit. With a scoff, he turns on the sofa, hugs his knees to his chest and pouts.

He hears John get up behind him, steps directed towards the door. Now wait a second, this is not how it is supposed to be. John should apologize and they'll get over it and get dinner. Not this. He turns his head, albeit reluctantly. "Where are you going?"

John's face is the next unpleasant surprise. The man's lips are a thin line, jaw set, eyes blazing with something... dangerous, Sherlock thinks, something that is calm and controlled and seconds away from losing both qualities in favour of an explosion. "Out." The word is sharp, voice flat, and it makes Sherlock flinch. "I need some air." And with that he all but storms down the stairs and onto the street.

For one second, Sherlock stays where he is, feeling dumbfounded. What made John react like that? Then bitterness comes up in a wave to swallow him and he gropes at the cushions, angry with himself. He feels just about ready to pick up the gun again, but this time he won't restrict himself to the wall, oh no. John's bookshelf seems like a favourable option right now. He smiles, despite himself, then scoffs. Where is his rationality gone to all of a sudden?

A knock on the door has him look up. Mrs Hudson. The door is open, why does she bother? "Huhu. You two had a little domestic?" She holds up a green plastic bag, universal sign for "I am not your housekeeper but I grocery shop for you all the same", and makes her way through the general chaos and into the kitchen. John should really clean up more, Sherlock thinks. Where is he going anyway? Curiosity then quickly gets the better of him and he gets up, walks over the couch table and pushs the curtains aside to look outside.

John is just crossing the street below, an angry edge to his stride. He is going west. Pub it is, then. He'll be drunk by midnight.

"Look at that, Mrs Hudson." He tilts his head to the side. Look at what, exactly? At John walking away from him? The thought stings, which is unexpected, and he quickly dismisses it. "Quiet, calm, peaceful." He sighs. Obviously his own life is anything but that, thank God. "Isn't it hateful?"

Behind him, the woman sets down the last contents of the shopping bag on the table. "Oh, I'm sure something will turn up, Sherlock." She comes back into the living room to smile at him, and he has to look away, irritated with himself. "A nice murder, that'll cheer you up." She is right, of course. Why does that thought make him feel guilty? He isn't supposed to feel guilty when nothing has even happened.

He looks out the window again, but John has disappeared into the night. Stupid stupid stupid. The man has to learn to control his emotions better. "Can't come too soon", he mutters and finally turns away.

"Hey! What have you done to my bloody wall?" Mrs Hudson is staring in shock at the paint and the bullet holes, and Sherlock has to supress his smirk as he spins around to admire his work. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" She says and huffs angrily all the way down the stairs to her own flat. Sherlock's grin widens. That'll make John mad. Which makes him unreasonably happy right now. How strange.

With a last sigh he abandons the wall in favour of the kitchen. He never gets that far.

A ball of red-hot flames bursts through the windows. The noise is positively deafening and the brute force of the explosion has him fall, hands coming up to cover his face instinctively. He feels bits of debris and glass on his back and all around him and a part of him thanks the heavens that he hasn't been standing in front of one of the windows anymore when it happened.

Meanwhile, the other part of his brain is fully occupied with screaming.

Because John left the flat angry with Sherlock and the world, and only seconds later everything blows up into his face. And it can't be, he made sure, he made sure, and John doesn't like severed heads and experiments and explosions at all and it can't be true, and why does this matter so much anyway, he doesn't understand-

Then he blacks out.

It takes him exactly 5.3 seconds to regather his thoughts and open his eyes again. He knows that because his brain has taken the liberty of counting up while he was out. Little chunks of stone and wall are still clattering down around him and he groans, hands coming up to hold his face and hide it from the dust without much efficiency. Then the dangerous noises stop and make room for howling car sirens and shouting outside.

He opens his eyes. The place is a mess, but then again it always is. He manages to get up on his knees, albeit shakily so, and double-checks. There seems to be nothing broken. He deliberately takes a deep breath to make sure about his ribs and coughs at the dust and smoke that fill the air. Bad idea. His eyes water, and he has scratches all the way up his arms to his elbows, and his dressing gown is in shreds. But other than that, he is fine.

Then Mrs Hudson takes a grip of his arm and hauls him to his feet. She really is a brave woman, he muses while he tries to explain to her that he is fine and not in the imminent danger of bleeding out on her floor. She will have none of it and ushers him out the front door, face pale but cheeks reddened. The paving stones are wet and cold underneath his bare feet and a strong wind sends the remains of his gown flying behind him. Already the blue-and-red flashing lights of police cars can be seen in the distance, always behind, always too late no matter how fast they drive. Sherlock looks away.

Then the cars come to a halt in front of 221 and a lot of people make a mess in the mess. It takes Sherlock some time to realize that Sally Donovan is under them, and then she meets his eyes and comes over to meet him, face a scowl. "Holmes", she says. He meets her gaze steadily and wishes his teeth wouldn't clatter all that much. It is highly irritating and it makes him feel vulnerable and inferior. Her eyes wander down to his bare feet and then up again to the cuts in his silk gown, and only then all the way to his face.

"Please tell me you're not responsible for this", she says.

He has always been under the impression that she'd rather like to arrest him as soon as possible. Seeing that she is honestly hoping he's innocent is somewhat a pleasant surprise. Of course his innocence is fairly obvious, seeing as the building on the other side of the street is still crumbling with the occasional flame here and there. He actually feels silly as he points it out to her, but then again, she really might not see that. Sometimes people are like this.

"Seeing as the explosion came from over there and I have spent the entire evening in my flat, I can hardly be at fault." He is still shaky though and the words hold none of their usual spite. He also can't quite come up with a good deduction at this point. Parts of his brain keeps screaming John and it distracts him greatly. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"Mh." She is already turning away. "You have any damage to report?" She doesn't really listen anymore and he doesn't feel like answering. John. Someone hands him an orange shock blanket and he wrapps it around himself. This was quickly becoming habitual. Maybe he should start a collection of shock blankets. John'd like that better than his collection of roadkill in the bathroom. John. The thought stings and it really shouldn't. He tightens the blanket and looks down at his feet, toes curling against the concrete.

There is a ruckus going on all around him, with people shouting and babbling and the smoke has yet to clear, and the sirens are still wailing and he finds his bare feet to be quite interesting indeed. When he catches a faint whiff of a very specific Eau de Cologne on top of it all, he purposefully changes his expression into one mortified. "Mycroft", he says without looking up. "What are you doing here?"

The soft noise of designer shoes on concrete is interrupted only by the sharp snap of the tip of an umbrella hitting stone. "Why, brother mine", Mycroft says and his tone is unfathomable. "You know how I worry."

Sherlock snorts loudly but doesn't respond otherwise. He also doesn't look up from where he is perched on the doorsteps of 221. The silence between them stretches thin for long seconds before his brother speaks again. "You want to go upstairs?" It isn't really a question, but he waits, always polite, never once dropping his act.

I don't want to go anywhere, and I want you to die. Unfortunately it is rather cold out here and he really feels like having company right now. Preferably company that won't try and kill him, but he will have to make do with the ressources available. If he is perfectly honest with himself, all he wants is for John to come back. John. Sherlock quickly stops being honest to himself again. He needs some quiet to figure it all out, but if anyone knows more about the incident, it really is Mycroft. He doesn't have much of a choice.

"Fine", he said. He tries to sound dignified and failsd miserably, and Mycroft's smirk is proof that he knows it too. "Come on in, then."

They march through the door, scratched raw and powdered white with splinters and debris, and up the staircase in silence. Sherlock walks through the glass and spiky stones on the sitting room floor without care, even shuffling his feet as he goes. There are case files scattered around, too, and John's laptop has fallen from the chair- John's laptop, he has to force his eyes away from the blasted thing. He slumps down on the couch cushions, then gets up again and brushes them off before sinking down again.

Mycroft hands him tea, raw and black and steaming. Sherlock becomes acutely aware of how throughoutly frozen he is, and he tucks his feet underneath his body and wraps his hands around the mug. He hasn't noticed Mycroft cooking tea, and water needs its time to boil. Which means that he is losing track of time. Which results in him being in shock. He grips the mug tighter, and then it is taken away from him because he is shaking and the hot liquid is spilling all over his hands, burning the raw skin of his knuckles.

"Sherlock", his brother says, and when he doesn't react Mycroft grabs his chin and forces their eyes to meet. "Sherlock. Go, have a shower. Compose yourself. You are a wreck." The younger Holmes continues to stare up at him, with unnaturally wide eyes, the black almost blodging out the white iris.

Mycroft switches tactics. "God, look at yourself. I knew you wouldn't manage living on your own. I'll tell Mummy to let you back home tomorrow." Sherlock's eyes widen even more, impossibly so, and he suddenly seems very concerned and also just a bit enraged. "I will, you know", the older man says and steps back from the sofa. "I will grant you ten seconds to shake yourself out of it and go get a shower, or I will and you won't stop me.

"Ten." Sherlock shakes himself out of it and leaves to take a shower. If Mycroft notices that it takes him longer than usual, he doesn't tell.

When they are both reunited in the living room, Mycroft's man have already been here, sweeping the floor and the furniture and taping the gaps in the windows. The flat isn't in immediate danger to collapse on top of them, Sherlock is clean and feels better, and Mycroft is being smug. The heating is on, seeping warmth into the crisp air. Unfortunately, Sherlock's tea is cold.

"My tea is cold."

Mycroft's left eyebrow quirks up. "What do you expect me to do about it?"

"I don't know. Heat it or something."

The silence is very loud, as silence can be when it wants to. Finally Sherlock huffs quietly and Mycroft chuckles. The younger man mentally debates calling Mrs Hudson, but she will likely kill him. He debates calling Anthea, but he would have to research her phone number first and he'd have to get up to grab his laptop. Then he thinks about texting John and finds himself studying his own toes again.

"Fine," Mycroft says. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

They end up not talking about it, and it really is all fine because neither of them sleeps much at night anyway and these dark hours don't really count. Sherlock has many questions, and each one scares him enough to talk about the violin instead (dull), or the job (strictly confidential, here are some files I brought for you), or life in general (my diet is just fine, thank you), or the weather (really, Sherlock? Really?). Anything at all. In the end he wriggles out of his shock blanket and gets dressed in one of his better suits that, annoyingly, matches Mycroft's. The sun is peeking over the rooftops and sneaking in through battered windows.

And eventually, John comes home.