"Excuse me, sir, but where do you think you're going?"
Sherlock huffed out a sigh and turned around to see who was talking to him. Three firefighters stood before him. The one that had spoken was clearly the leader. He had an additional stripe on his gaudy yellow helmet, and there were two white markings on his collar. They all had matching glares on their faces, as if they were somehow going to be able to intimidate him into moving away from the scene. How quaint. "I'm going to investigate the arson and suspected murder that just occurred here," Sherlock told them, raising an eyebrow as if daring them to argue with him.
The higher-ranking officer scoffed. "You're not doing anything like that," he countered. "The scene hasn't been cleared yet. We've got no confirmation that a murder occurred. This is a Fire Brigade matter. We haven't even let the coppers in on it yet."
"Let me in there and I can confirm whether or not the body found in there was victim to the same murderer that struck three days ago on the other side of town," Sherlock argued. "I'm a consulting detective. I work on my own. You wouldn't be liable if anything happened to me in there. Just let me do my work."
One of the lower-ranked men stepped forward. "Yeah, we're going to have to pass on that. Doesn't matter what sort of private detective you are. You're still going to need to wait outside the tape, and when the proper police arrive, maybe they'll let you tag along with them."
Sherlock should have anticipated that there would be some resistance at this crime scene. For the first arson in this investigation, Lestrade hadn't even gotten the call about a potential murder victim until the body was already in the morgue. Their visits to the scene had taken place long after the fact. This time, though, Lestrade had been notified right away once the body had been located in the flames, and he had called Sherlock in only to find that the firefighters weren't yet done.
Before he could retort, there was a telltale crackle of incoming communication from the radio of man with the white marks on his collar. "Murray, why the hell are you not inside the building yet? You, Wilson, and Patel were meant to already be inside conducting structural assessments," the voice on the radio said.
Murray glared at Sherlock before lifting his radio to reply. "Sorry, Captain, but we've got an issue out here. Some private detective is trying to bully his way onto the scene."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the vehemence directed his way. Before the other men could process it, he reached out and grabbed the radio for himself. "I'm not a private detective; I'm a consulting detective," he explained. "I'm very good at what I do, and I need to get onto the crime scene right now."
"No offence, mate, but like my boys said, we can't just let a private detective—or consulting detective—waltz onto a scene before we've officially cleared it."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the radio as if trying to glare at the man through the device. "Fine. Perhaps a demonstration is in order. Your 'boys' here called you 'Captain,' but that's not an official ranking in the London Fire Brigade. Everything about their posture indicates military career. They're standing at parade rest right now." He cast a pointed glance to the men before him, and they shuffled uncomfortably out of their rigid stances. "You served with them, then, and you were their captain. You're clearly still ranked above these men out here even in your current career, or they wouldn't persist in using your army ranking to refer to you. How's that? Impressed, Captain?"
There was nothing but silence for a moment on the other end of the radio, and Sherlock began to worry that he had perhaps put yet another person off with his deductions. That hadn't been his aim, especially not with someone as interesting as a retired army captain turned firefighter.
A high-pitched giggle broke through the radio static. Sherlock stared, in shock, as the noise filled the air. The men around him seemed to be equally as stunned, though whether that was from the deduction or the reaction was unclear.
"That," the Captain said, "was amazing. You're absolutely right on all counts. I was a captain in the army, and now I'm a watch manager. I technically out-rank the guys you're talking to. Incredible."
Sherlock blinked down at the radio for a moment before tentatively saying, "I could have done better in person, you know."
There was another laugh. "You know, I'm sure you could have. You're brilliant. Murray, let this guy onto the scene. If he's as clever as he sounds, he'll know to avoid the structurally unstable bits."
Murray snatched his radio back from Sherlock with a glare. "With all due respect, Captain—"
"That's enough, Murray. I'm still your supervisor, and you'll let this man into the flat. Make sure he doesn't get himself killed." And Sherlock could practically hear the smile in those words.
—
When Sherlock showed up at a similar scene three days later, it was Lestrade who greeted him rather than a group of firemen. He pushed away any lingering disappointment.
"We've got another one," the DI said as he escorted Sherlock up toward the burnt flat. "Looks to be another female, about thirty years old, bound and gagged like the other two. Definitely the same guy. He's keeping a pattern, too. Every three days, a new victim."
Sherlock took in this information and glanced around as they approached the decimated front of the building. "Last time, they wouldn't let me within twenty yards of the scene. What's changed?"
Lestrade gave Sherlock a wry smirk. "When I got here, the watch manager came over and told me that you and I have permission to enter the scene before the final checks are done. He seemed very impressed by you."
Sherlock turned around and ducked down next to the body, effectively hiding his expression from Lestrade. He knew his cheeks were pink, and there was an irritating smile on his face that he couldn't seem to get rid of. He told himself that it was simply because he was appreciative of the watch manager's cooperation. Nothing more. He had no further interest in the man that the other firefighters called Captain. He still hadn't met the Captain, and that bothered him more than it should have. It didn't matter, though. He hardly cared whether or not he met some almost stranger who had been mildly impressed with his deductions. And if he started to seek out more arson-related cases after this, then it would merely be because of his desire to keep London safe. It would have had nothing to do with any former soldier who happened to think he was brilliant.
—
Sherlock didn't figure it out for another three days. There had been seemingly no connections between the victims or the locations in which they had been held and set ablaze. It took hours of digging through property records and class lists before Sherlock discovered the common factor. Anthony Blaine. He'd gone to primary school with the first victim and secondary school with the second and third. His family had also been previous owners of the three flats that had been targeted thus far. There was only one flat left before their current residence, and Sherlock wasted no time in getting there. If the pattern held as expected, then Blaine would attempt to kill again before the day was out.
When he arrived at the scene, there was already smoke billowing out of the second floor windows. It was pouring rain, and he deigned to think that perhaps the water would make the fire slower to progress. His coat and scarf were utterly soaked within seconds of arriving. No firefighters were on the scene yet, though Sherlock suspected that his cabbie was going to call it in. He didn't wait around to confirm that, though. If the fire had just started, then it was entirely possible that the victim was still alive in there.
He spared a brief moment to text Lestrade before he was dashing forward into the building, starting to cough almost immediately as he pushed through the thick cloud of smoke. He could feel it burning down his lungs, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to last in that place for very long. The fire was still relatively small, but it was spreading fast. He could detect a faintly sweet smell in the air, and he knew enough to understand that there must have been an accelerant present. His eyes burned, but he forced himself to continue looking around. He wasn't going to let this girl die on his account. No, he would get her out of this alive.
In the end, he nearly tripped over her. With his eyes as watery as they were, it was slightly more difficult to see than he'd anticipated. She appeared to be barely conscious, bound and gagged just like the previous victims. He dropped to his knees beside her without a second thought, pulling the gag from her mouth and untying the restraints around her wrists.
"Are you all right?" he asked, having to practically shout over the crackling of the fire overtaking flat's appliances.
She nodded but didn't speak as she suddenly started coughing.
Sherlock hurriedly untied his scarf from around his neck. The fabric was damp enough that it might actually help prevent further smoke inhalation. "Here," he said, balling it up and pressing it over her nose and mouth lightly. "Hold this right there. It should help."
He supported her weight as she lifted herself off the ground. He wasn't sure what had been done to her, but she was weak at the very least, her legs seeming to barely support her. He led the way toward the entrance through which he had come in, but there was now a large patch of flames that seemed to aggressively guard the door. Sherlock cursed, and he started coughing again. He found it difficult to stop. He felt dizzy, but he needed to get them out safely. He wouldn't let Blaine claim another victim.
Just as he felt on the verge of collapsing, two firefighters stepped calmly through the flames, protected by their thick boots and trousers. One of them—a lower-ranking member, he couldn't help but notice—stepped forward and took the victim off of his shoulder. Sherlock stumbled to the side with the loss of her weight, and he started to wonder whether or not they had been supporting one another equally all along. The other firefighter—white helmet, signaling higher rank—scooped Sherlock in his arms without a moment of hesitation.
"I'm—" Sherlock paused to cough a bit more. "I'm fairly certain this isn't how firefighters are meant to rescue civilians." He was being carried bridal style rather than in the traditional firemen's hold. It must have been highly against protocol.
"I didn't think you'd appreciate being slung over my shoulder," the firefighter told him with an obvious smile. Sherlock recognised that voice, but when he tried to say as much, he only ended up coughing more. "Don't try talking just yet. I'm John Watson, watch manager for this group of men. We talked on the radio about a week ago. You called me Captain." Sherlock nodded to show that he remembered the man as they started moving toward the exit. "I've been tracking your progress on this case, you know. You're brilliant. Really, quite impressive. I knew you'd be amazing after we talked, but I didn't expect you to actually put everything together like this."
Sherlock could feel his face heating, and he wasn't sure what had caused it. He blamed it on the heat, even though they were now crossing the threshold back onto the pavement in the cool, rainy air.
"I'd be more impressed, though," John continued with a practically audible smirk, "if you didn't end up having to be treated by a medic for smoke inhalation."
Sherlock tried to tell John to shut up, but it came out as a pathetic wheeze instead. He settled for glaring at the man as he was set down gently on a stretcher beside an ambulance. John went about getting him an oxygen tank and setting the mask over his nose and mouth. Only then did he lift up the visor on his helmet. Without that reflective, tinted bit of plastic in his way, Sherlock could finally see John's face, could finally take in all of him. He sat up, a bit shocked by what he saw.
John Watson was attractive. Fairly unassuming face, evidence of the capacity for very stern or seductive expressions. Sandy blond-grey hair. Relatively short stature but with a strength in his body from his army training. Dark eyes that looked like they might have been blue. In addition, his familiarity with the ambulance indicated a medical background. He was therefore an attractive former doctor-soldier who had become a firefighter, likely for the added adrenaline rush. He was perfect.
Sherlock was glad that he had the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth to remind him to breathe, because he was fairly certain he'd have forgotten otherwise. Of course, that merely made him look more foolish in comparison to possibly the most attractive man he'd ever seen.
John furrowed his brow at Sherlock's expression. "Are you feeling all right? You look a little flushed." He pressed the back of one hand against Sherlock's forehead and seemed satisfied that he didn't have a fever. He seemed to realise, then, that there might be another cause for the pinkness in Sherlock's cheeks. He smirked and began needlessly wiping soot out of Sherlock's hair, which did nothing to help him keep his face a normal colour. "When I heard that voice of yours for the first time," John said, "I knew your body had to be amazing as well, but I have to say, you've exceeded my expectations."
Sherlock started to wonder whether or not it was possible to actually spontaneously combust. He supposed he was lucky that there was a firefighter standing so close to him. A little too close. Sherlock was starting to get ridiculous ideas about reaching out and touching John, and that was just not on. He was meant to be married to his work, after all. Besides that, John was just joking, surely. He couldn't have actually meant it.
John pulled away right then, and Sherlock panicked for a moment, thinking he had said all of that aloud, but John was smiling and didn't seem put off. "I have to go brief that detective inspector about all of this," John explained. "Don't go anywhere, and keep that mask on until you feel like you can talk without coughing or wheezing." He winked before walking away, and Sherlock collapsed back onto the stretcher and flung an arm over his eyes despairingly. He was so, totally helpless, and John was so, totally hot.
Let me know what you thought! The next and final chapter will be up by next Wednesday!
