Erm, this was meant to be a random one-shot, but the story got a bit longer than I intended, and the POV shifts slightly, so I've chopped it in half for convenience. Hope it's alright. Second part is on its way :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with Sherlock - thankfully, proper grown-ups at the BBC do.

Sherlock Holmes is on the run.

He's vaguely aware it might have been quicker to stay in the taxi, but the driver really hadn't understood the urgency of the situation; despite Sherlock's persistent demands, the cabbie had flatly refused to break London's speed limits just to get to Baker Street before his passenger's phone ran out of charge.

Apparently, saving Sherlock's dying phone wasn't a good enough reason to commit a criminal offence.

And given that this particular cab had then crawled, rather than zoomed, all the way from St Bart's to Marylebone Road, the detective had been forced to conclude that if he wanted to get home at all today, he'd have to – to use a local phrase – leg it.

So now he careers past closing shop fronts and hurtles round the corner of Baker Street, coat flapping in the cold night air and hitting several disgruntled pedestrians along the way. Speeding up, he desperately fumbles in his pocket for his mobile, as though the warmth of his hand will somehow extend its rapidly dwindling life.

He darts up the steps to the familiar black door, scrabbles for a few seconds with the key in the lock, and thunders up the darkened staircase to the flat.

When he stops.

'Oh.'

The room is glimmering.

Flickering orange light dances across the walls, pirouettes across the mantelpiece, skates across the closed curtains – an effect created by the plethora of candles and tealights crammed onto every conceivable flat surface. Little flames twinkle merrily, giving the impression that someone has turned the living room into a kind of bizarre, fanatical shrine. Shadows curl around the bookcase, creep across the threadbare rug on the floor, and Sherlock himself creates a long, imposing silhouette that stretches into the furthest corner of the room.

It is, he thinks for a split second, rather beautiful.

A startled yelp, followed by barrage of curses coming from the direction of the kitchen, drags him sharply back to reality.

'John, I appreciate the gesture, but you should know Bunsen burners are more my thing…' he calls, as he swiftly removes his coat, followed by the scarf, and approaches the kitchen. The doctor is running his hand under the cold tap and turns to give his friend a dirty look.

'Funny.' He finishes cooling his burnt fingers and grabs a tea towel. 'And what the hell have you been doing with the gas hob? It nearly scorched my fingers off.'

'Oh, just… flammables,' Sherlock answers casually, and then, 'Power cut?'

'Yes,' says John, eyeing him warily and making a mental note of this suspiciously fast topic change. 'Cut out about an hour ago. Mrs Hudson came up earlier to give me some candles.' He surveys the living room doubtfully. 'I told her we had torches, but she, ah, wouldn't take no for an answer.'

Sherlock snorts and seizes a thick, sturdy candle that has been squatting on his desk. It sits in a rather tacky gold holder and an ugly rose design has been stamped haphazardly into the dark crimson wax. The manufacturers clearly intended for it to create an enticing, suggestive aroma, but it actually fills the room with the fuggy stench of decaying bananas. He blows on it viciously, but the flame resists. Then it sees his Look and surrenders.

John chuckles, despite his throbbing fingers. 'It's awful, isn't it? She told me she used to burn it to get her husband "in the mood."'

There is a pause as both men choose not to think about this.

'Anyway,' he continues hastily, 'the fuse in the microwave blew, and judging by how hazy our landlady was with the details, I reckon the wiring in this house isn't up to legal standards...' He unconsciously scratches the back of his head. A sure sign of stress. 'Electrician's coming later to fix the circuits.'

'A blown fuse? Interesting.' There's a gleam in Sherlock's eyes as he mutters to himself. 'The bile must've leaked somehow…'

'Wait, this had something to do with you?'

'Well it obviously wasn't the result I was expecting, but it can't be helped now,' Sherlock snaps whilst fishing out his deceased phone. 'We'll just have to wait for the power to come back on. So much for charging this thing up – I was waiting on information.' He tosses the phone unceremoniously onto the sofa.

For a moment, John is stunned rather than furious. Sherlock? With no Internet, phone or microwave? He's actually taking this rather well. Then –

'I'll use your phone,' says the detective, holding out his hand expectantly. 'It's slow, but it'll keep me occupied and Lestrade knows the number.'

John doesn't move. 'You can't.'

Another pause, but a chilly one this time. Sherlock tuts impatiently. 'Oh, look, if it's about me giving your number to a serial killer, then –'

'No,' John replies coolly, raising his eyebrows in defiance. 'I left it at Sarah's.'

'What?' It takes Sherlock a couple of seconds to process such a preposterous revelation and his voice almost rises an octave with horror. 'Why?'

'It wasn't intentional, I just had more… important… things to think about.'

'What's more important than my sanity?' cries the taller man, clutching at his hair in agitation.

'Quite a few things actually. Do you want a list?'

'Well how will I – what am I supposed to – but I can't – aarghnmmm!' The detective lets out an anguished cry and hurls himself onto the sofa, face down, with a loud whumph.

John looks on with amusement as he eases himself into an armchair. 'Try coping like the rest of us. Do some reading. There's a book about the Solar System somewh –' he stops abruptly at the sight of his flatmate's half-turned face. Its withering expression could destroy entire civilisations, or at the very least, the forensics squad at Scotland Yard.

'Do you think that reading –' the escalating disgust in Sherlock's voice muffled by the cushion he's just fallen on – 'will switch off this?' He prods his temple with a long finger, and then rapidly swings himself into a sitting position, elbows on knees, fingers twisting together. 'I need information. I need to be solving. I need to be experimenting. I -' He sniffs. 'Can you smell that?'

'It's Mrs Hudson's cand–'

'No, no…' he murmurs, leaping up and heading for the kitchen. 'It's like… argh, it's like…'

John leans around his chair just in time to see the man emit a strangled howl.

'My earwax mosaic! You used it as a candle!'

It's going to be a long night.

CRACK.

Sherlock manages to count for three seconds before he hears the sound of running feet and sees the glowing outline of his horrified flatmate lurch through the living room doorway.

'Oh, for God's – Sherlock, in a room full of candles?'

The blasted remains of the fire alarm cling to the ceiling for dear life. There's a feeble '…bleep.'

'It wouldn't stop beeping at me.'

'So you shot it?'

The accused is sprawled across the sofa, gun in hand, every word costing him unnecessary effort. 'I tried yelling at it first. Didn't work.'

John shakes his head with incredulity and hurriedly extinguishes some of the tealights. 'Fire alarms save lives, you know.'

'Ohhh…' Sherlock groans in exasperation as he slides the gun across the floor. 'Don't be such a doctor.' But his eyes fix curiously on the thin, square box in his friend's hands. 'What's that?'

Clearly pleased to have distracted the man from blowing them into oblivion, John replies in earnest. 'It was in my room when I moved in. Must be Mrs Hudson's.' He walks across the room and places the box on the desk, shifting aside the candles. 'Snakes and ladders.'

'They all fit in that box?'

'No – what?' John gives a baffled grin. 'You've never heard of the game snakes and ladders?'

'Hm… ' The detective frowns whilst throwing the idea around in his head and sifting through the intense mishmash of information in his mental database. Speckled snakes and green ladders spring to mind… but no games. He turns his head with interest. 'Does it involve death?'

'No-o…'

'Urgh.' His head snaps back to face the ceiling. 'Dull.'

'Actually, we used to play it out in Afghanistan,' says John quietly. 'Not quite so dull when there's a possibility it'll be your last game.'

The shadow of a smile flitters over Sherlock's face – funny how the thrill of being only inches away from death is sometimes one of the only things worth living for. If John understands that too, then they've got more in common than he'd like to admit. Now is not the time to be too trusting, however. He raises a quizzical eyebrow. 'If it's game, how do you win?'

'If you play, I'll tell you.'