So imagine when you were in say, eighth grade. You and a friend used to write lovely little stories in a diary to each other. Then: TECHNOLOGY! You began to IM and send emails in which various pre-made characters you loved were used like puppets to act out scenes that were most similar to 4 to 10 year olds being strung out on soda, cotton candy, and pixie stix. Feeling as though that qualified you to send out similar stories-"crackfics", I believe-to the world via this "internet" thing.

Years later. Ouch. Years and years later. You feel the need to pick up some new puppets, since you're much more mature now. Hopefully you can attend them with more dignity and tell a little story with them. It's been a while, and your initial skills were...questionable.

Well, this is that. Enjoy the puppet show.

Disclaimer: Watch Sherlock through legal channels so they can make money and more Sherlock. Surprise! I'm not someone making money from it.

I Want to Know, Too

Calm Hysterics

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he turned his head from left to right. His eyes remained closed against the warm light as the smell of fire and ash assaulted his nose and lungs. Something else hinted in the air, but he could not pinpoint it. Thoughts were running much slower than his usual kilometer per second. Presently, he was terribly groggy and his chest burned. Attempts to expand his chest and get deeper breaths were failing. Iron flavor tainted the inside of his mouth and his tongue quickly found the irregularity of the wound on his lip. Thankfully, he also found all teeth intact. Fingers and toes were all in place and wiggle ready. His hands brushed against wet tiles beneath him. The extra smell was more than water. It was necessary to open his eyes for a better assessment of his situation, as his olfactory system was failing to give him enough data on the situation. Exploring blindly with his arms around when everything said, 'Danger' seemed like a bad idea.

Olfactory. Good word. Brain is speeding up.

Fire was not kind to eyes. Not just warmth to pull out moisture, but ashy debris to scratch. Fluttering his eyelids seemed to be the best idea to combat likely smoke and ash. Lights of red, orange, white and blue flashed and flickered against the white, burned ceiling above him and the set of locker boxes laying across his chest. Lingering in the air was mostly dust. Pieces of concrete and plastic were scattered around him. The floor and much of the debris was covered in water.

Disaster. Police and fire men. Search light?

A sweeping white light confirmed the last. He needed to try to get out from under the lockers. Sherlock had no intention of dieing while help was so close. Pressing against the locker did little to move it, but it did relieve pressure from his chest. He did not have the strength to move the locker, but perhaps he could move himself partially out from under it. Getting the weight off his chest should improve his chances of making it until he was found. With enough air in his lungs, he could make more noise and hopefully be located by those searching.

In his new position, the locker weighed against his pelvic bone, but his ribs were relieved. The first yell wasn't a word, just a desperate cry. Though it vibrated in his throat, it made no noise. It was only then, he noticed the quiet that surrounded him. Fires were dieing down, but based on the separate focuses of blue light, at least twelve emergency vehicles must have been nearby. Searchers would be yelling in hope of a response from those lost. He felt his hands at his ears, but they made no sound. He continued to yell, unaware of his volume. The pain that shot through his throat was hopefully from the strain of vocal chords and not of lungs damaged by smoke. After a deep breath, the faint smell was more clear.

Chlorine. Pool.

That was the unknown smell. That fact seemed to be important as to how he got into his current position. Also, there was something about John. This triggered something, there was something very important about John too. His brain was not wholly convinced the why was as necessary as getting out of his current state. All around it was being unhelpful and his head was starting to swim. His throat was burning and he thought his heart was going to burst.

Hysterics. I am panicking. Where is John?

Sherlock closed his mouth and stopped the silent screaming that had been holding his throat and stealing away his oxygen. He moved his focus to deep breathing and tried to search for John in his memories. Was John at the pool with him? Was he standing nearby? But there was nothing. Best to assume he was here. He would never go to a pool on his own whim. Surely John was close, people stay close to those they know in a disaster. He focused on his surroundings. If he could deduce what caused this, hopefully he could infer where John would be as well.

The deafness was likely caused by some sort of explosion. The locker lay face down on top of him. His feet pointed toward a wall with a large hole and a board punched through it. Water soaked the ground near the wall, but further beyond his hair the water lessened. The force of explosion was from the direction of his feet and water was between him and the explosion. He cataloged other debris, but nothing seemed to give him a hint toward where John might be.

The searchlight had stopped to gleam into the room. The searchers must have heard his hysterical outburst and be on the way. He had to be quicker. John was hidden and he had to find him.

Shower curtains piled near head. Blue latticing to left. Tarp at right near right. Pool cover, actually.

Sherlock could not make out which would contain Watson. When the searchers reached Sherlock, he needed the right place to attack. It seemed reasonable that if he motioned at one and John was not there, they may abandon the search if he could not communicate that his friend should be here as well. Something nagged him that this was not nearly so realistic, but the possibility fed his panic.

None of them had a distinct Watson shaped lump below them. None of the objects were telling him the secret of where John lie unconscious. Reluctantly, he checked for wet spots too dark to be water. Wincing at the mental image of John receiving similar treatment to the locker wall. Smaller beams of light moved around the room.

Torches. No time.

They were here. The searchers were here and nothing helped him toward John. None of the worthless debris was telling him anything. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the locker. The torches were illuminating the destroyed area, but his eyes were growing wet and obscured his view of it. No more data to take in. Vision was useless to him anyway. His throbbing head would not properly process the given data. Maybe he had been knocked his head too hard when being thrown backwards onto the tiles.

On my back.

His own body was the important clue. He lay on his back. If he was running, as he must have been to not be near the blast, why was he facing the blast which pushed the locker onto him? John must have been behind him. A face obscured his vision. A fire fighter's mouth moved and a light was shone in his eyes as the weight of the locker lessened. As his body was being dragged out, he tried putting light weight on his legs. They didn't seem to be broken. Fractured, maybe, but he could make a few steps. When the searchers went for the stretcher, Sherlock tore towards the pool cover.

John had to be here. He had to be behind him in fleeing. John had to be near the door. John would have done something stupidly heroic leaving Sherlock to run ahead. To turn when he realized John was not at his side. His hands ripped away at the pool cover only to uncover more floor and debris. Rescuers moved around him. Grabbed at his shoulders. He would not be deterred. It was a large pool. There was so much cover to move and pile behind him. The search only revealed more empty floor devoid of John.

Sherlock began to crack as he ran out of blue pool cover to search and found he could not get back up. Most of his weight fell to his arms. He could not pull himself to the other side to search. John would be lost. They would pull him away and that would be it. The burning in his chest went beyond smoke inhalation. As Sherlock broke down, another part of his brain was still fumbling in the background. It was quiet in a different way, now. There was not more frenetic movement around him. Where were the rescuers? No one tugged at his shoulders. Light from the torches no longer illuminated the area around him. Blinking away the moisture at his eyes he looked toward the movement to his right. Behind the blue pile he made in his frantic search, someone occupied the emergency stretcher.

John.

He was not sure if the word made it to his lips. The world was going blurry. His eyes were heavy and his body was filling with warmth. An empty syringe above his nicotine patches were the last thing Sherlock saw before everything became warm and light.