A/N: Spoilers for Sherlock S3E1. Basically a rewrite of the bonfire scene. Because of feelings.

"Oh my God."

The words were breathed out on a harsh exhale, as Sherlock jerked the motorbike at a sharp turn towards the crowd gathered around the bonfire. The flames were leaping higher, the bright orange and yellow of it searing on his retinas. He faltered for a brief moment because John, John was trapped in there, buried under pile upon pile of furniture, and the flames were already licking their across the wood, eating it up as the crowd looked on and cheered, the bloody imbeciles.

Too late, a voice, surprisingly similar to John's, whispered at him, You're too late. He's gone. Shaking his head to dispel the idea, he rounded the corner and leapt off the bike almost before it had stopped, not caring where it landed as he virtually threw it away from himself, shoving his way through the annoying swarm of people, Mary somewhere behind him.

"Move, move! MOVE!" he heard himself shout, pushing at people left and right, almost trampling a kid or two in his haste to get to the blazing bonfire. The thrill of the chase – there was an indistinct roaring in his ears that had nothing to do with the fire – the feeling of the blood pumping through your veins – his heart thudded erratically in his chest, fast and uneven – just the two of us against the rest of the world – he stumbled briefly, refusing to dwell on what it meant if John didn't make it, if the two of them were no longer 'the two of them'.

Time was running out, and the flames showed no sign of letting up. Then Sherlock heard it. Faint and indistinct, but there all the same. A choked off, 'Help!'

"JOHN!"

Pushing past the people at the front, Sherlock wasted no time in practically flinging himself at the edge of the bonfire, where the flames hadn't caught on yet, scrambling madly at the slightly charred pieces of furniture. This close to the bonfire the heat was scorching, an uncomfortable burning that wormed its way under his epidermis and intensified with every second. He could only guess at what John must be going through, and redoubled his efforts, pushing aside table legs to get at where John must be.

His hand coming into contact with something that was definitely not wood, Sherlock put all the strength he had into pulling on the limb – it turned out to be John's arm – until he managed to extract John from under the burning wreckage of furniture.

"John," he muttered, laying his friend down as carefully as he could, a safe distance from the bonfire, and studiously ignoring the crowd gathered around them. Mary was there, cradling John's shoulders and looking breathless with relief.

The doctor's eyes opened blearily, focusing dazedly on Sherlock's face.

"John," he breathed, hurriedly blinking away the moisture that had collected at the corners of his eyes – obviously a result of close proximity to the fire – the same went for the tightness in his throat.

Only when he had attested that John was indeed fine – or, as fine as someone who had almost been burnt alive could be – did he sit back on his heels, feeling wrung out and utterly drained, his hand sliding from where it had been cradling John's cheek., leaving Mary to contact the emergency services.

Once, in what seemed like a lifetime ago, he would perhaps have been either indifferent or ignorant of the emotion he currently felt. But meeting John, being without his company for two years, meeting him again and almost losing him had taught him to recognize the feeling for what it was. It was one he had experienced only once thus far in his life.

Fear. Total and complete, gut-wrenching fear.

The first time Sherlock Holmes had been truly afraid had been the night he couldn't trust what his eyes saw, in a forest in Dartmoor. The second was the moment when he had seen the bonfire light up, not knowing if there was still a chance John Watson would survive.

"I'm sorry, John," he gasped, still kneeling beside the doctor, not quite aware of what he was saying but not really having the energy to care. "So sorry. For –" he cut himself off, feeling the weight of everything he wasn't saying constricting in his throat. For hurting you. For never telling you I'm not dead. For letting you grieve all that time. For not realizing what a complete and utter idiot I've been.

"I know," John mumbled, slowly lifting a hand to weakly pat Sherlock's thigh. "'S okay, though. It's fine. It's all fine."

"No, it's not – it's not okay," Sherlock muttered, smoothing a hand (he refused to admit it was trembling) down the collar of John's wrinkled and bloodstained shirt. "I thought it was for the best, at the time. But I was wrong, John, I was wrong."

At that, John gave a weak chuckle, which quickly turned into a mini coughing fit. "Well, look at that," he gasped, once he had his breathing under control again, one of Sherlock's hands between his shoulder blades, rubbing in what he hoped was soothing, circular motions, "The great Sherlock Holmes made a mistake."

Sherlock frowned. John would find his attempt at apologizing amusing, wouldn't he? "John – I –" he began, faltering when he realized he had absolutely no clue what to say in response to that. "– yes," he settled on saying, instead.

Then, "Forgive me."

There was a prolonged pause during which Sherlock avoided eye contact with the person he was essentially cradling in his arms, and John did nothing, said nothing, just continued lying there like a goddamn damsel in distress, staring at him for longer than was probably socially acceptable.

Finally, John apparently took pity on him, because he nudged Sherlock in the side and grinned. "Of course I forgive you. Honestly, Sherlock, it's alright."

The doubt must have still lingered in his eyes, because the grin slid off John's face as he struggled to sit up, which he did, with Sherlock's help, so John was upright by virtue of leaning into Sherlock's body for support.

John locked eyes with the detective. "Look, you dove into a bonfire to get me out, there's not really anything I can hold against you for that."

Sherlock let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, shoulders sagging with his relief. They sat in silence for a while, each leaning against the other for support, before Sherlock chose to break the silence with a quiet, "I didn't know."

"Hmm?" was John's non-commital response.

"I didn't know how you felt," Sherlock clarified, the words coming in a rush, as if he was anxious to be rid of them, for them to be out there in the open. "Until tonight I've never understood what it is to lose someone – someone you care for."

John shifted against his side, fidgeting as if uncomfortable. "Sherlock, I –"

The crowd gathered around them that had stayed silent throughout the entirety of their conversation now took it upon themselves to play matchmaker. As one, they began to chant, 'Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!', drowning out the rest of John's sentence.

"Uh – we're not – that is – I'm not gay," John protested, although no one in the crowd appeared interested in that particular fact.

Sherlock said nothing and hid his grin against John's shoulder.

Fortunately Mary chose that moment to elbow her way through the throng of people, a few paramedics carrying a gurney right behind her.

John's eyelids were drooping by the time he was strapped to the gurney and being wheeled towards the waiting ambulance in the distance. Mary climbed into the ambulance after him and Sherlock made to leave, intending to return to Baker Street.

At the sound of his name being called, however, he turned back. Mary was leaning out the back door of the ambulance. "John wants you to stay."

Sherlock smiled. "I'll take a cab. Tell John to sleep, and when he wakes up I'll be there. I promise."