TITLE: Bound Into the Fire
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter One/ Fire and Ice
RATING: T (language, content)
A/N: Title comes from the book of Daniel and the story of the fiery furnace (which will make sense later - don't worry - no, I'm not comparing Sherlock to Jesus - I think that would raise some serious questions and counseling sessions) A short beginning to a little something that I think a lot of people will probably be writing, if the gifs on Tumblr are any indication. I know this first chapter is tragically small, but I thought it was a good stopping point. (Plus it's a bit cliffy and I can't get enough of ending updates on a cliffhanger!) Next chapter is longer and from Sherlock's POV. This is John's POV. It's short and vague, because he wouldn't be thinking too clearly in this moment. Also, I'm not a member of the fire brigade nor am I an arsonist or doctor or any other fire savvy individual. Please excuse any errors.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock. All credit to Doyle, Gatiss, and Moffat - and fire.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
- excerpt from "Fire and Ice" by Robert Frost
"Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."
As soon as the flames began their hungry descent upon the cage surrounding him, John knew what was happening. Even the drug, which fought just as hard to paralyze his mind as it did his body, couldn't hold the truth at bay.
He was going to burn.
"Burn the heart out of you."
Amazing how everything in his life seemed to come down to this raw, raging substance.
How he accidentally set his sister's hair aflame with a fire cracker one New Year's eve. How his parents had burned to death, still strapped in their car, while a helpless teenage John Watson watched, hands holding him back from the blaze. It was a bomb that sent their vehicles flying in Afghanistan as a firefight broke out around them. The flames were too bright, too hot. He didn't see the insurgent until it was too late. He had been pulling a comrade from the fire's grasp when the bullet burned through his shoulder.
Meeting Sherlock. Of course, there had been no fire then. Not tangible anyway.
John sometimes compared Sherlock Holmes to the flaming beast in his mind. Beautiful, yet dangerous. Wild, unbridled. Passion and fury. Single minded. Selfish. Alluring and amazing, but destructive and deadly. Powerful. Temperamental. Not easily extinguished. You're eyes are drawn to it, but sometimes it shines so hot and bright you have to turn away. Something primitive, savage, yet elegant and intelligent. Simple and complex. It doesn't distinguish between friend or foe, it doesn't feel at all. All could fall prey to fire's whim, as all could fall prey to Sherlock's sight. Prone to lashing out. Quickly kindled and raging, and then suddenly smoldering.
If Mycroft was the Iceman, then Sherlock was surely fire. And John knew which he would choose to die by.
Like a moth, John had returned to Sherlock. He had been on his way to 221B, to confront the not-dead man, when he had been attacked. That was the flame that was Sherlock for you. You went around the detective, well, you were bound to get burned one way or another. And it wasn't always by his scorching tongue.
Not such a bad way to go, John mused. Being consumed by Sherlock. Dying in his fire.
No.
This was different. He was burning alive. Not figuratively. Not some flowery metaphor.
Burning.
It wasn't his heart that was burning though, as the feeling of flames licking his skin brought John back to the present.
Fire. Pain. Screaming. Children screaming. A girl.
He needed to help her. He needed to break free and save her from the fire.
He jerked his body again, still to no avail. It was almost worse than being strapped down. It wasn't ropes or bindings holding him. His own body was fighting against itself.
Another shout.
Familiar. Sherlock?
And then a woman's shriek. Crying out. A name. His name.
Mary!
Oh go - Sherlock! Mary!
Where they in the fire too with the little girl? He had to get to them. Had to save them.
He twisted and felt the fire wrap around his leg.
No. They're not in the fire. I am. I'm on fire.
"Help!"
The single word stole with it more energy and suffering than John could have imagined.
He closed his eyes, trying to detach himself from the horror at hand, slipping into the clinical part of his mind.
Burns inflict immediate and intense pain through stimulation of the nociceptors - the pain nerves in the skin. Burns also trigger a rapid inflammatory response, which boosts sensitivity to pain in the injured tissues and surrounding areas. Fantastic. Third degree burns destroy superficial nerves, lessening the pain. But it's like comparing being crushed by an elephant or a small house. Still hurts like hell. No. Stop. Back to business. What else about fire? Sometimes adrenaline can block out the pain at first. Nope. Not this time. Can definitely feel that. Sweet Je - no. No. Focus. Breathe. No. Don't breathe. Idiot.
His inner voice slipped into Sherlock's at that.
The most common cause of death due to fire is inhalation of toxic gases. Think. What were they?
His mind was slipping. It hurt too much. He wanted to scream. Or maybe he was doing so already. He wasn't sure.
Right. Gases. Carbon monoxide. Carbon dioxide. Hydrogen cyanide.
Lovely.
Those, added with the lack of oxy -
Yupp. There it is. Headache. Dizziness. Won't be long now.
His skull felt like it was splitting open. It had already been buzzing from the mystery drug and whirling and pounding from whatever he had hit his head against in the dark.
The flames danced around him, on top of him, above him, everywhere. Fading in and out. Or was that his vision?
What was he supposed to be doing?
Breathing. Right. No. Not breathing. Breathing is boring. No. Shut up, Sherlock. Breathe. No. Don't breathe. Gases. Smoke. Don't breathe. Good. I can't do that anyway.
A cracking cough tore through his entire being, ripping away at his throat.
Is my throat on fire too? Am I burning from the inside now? Why can't I see? It was so bright before? So -
The darkness drank John in and swallowed him whole, leaving John Watson limp and unconscious among the angry flames.