The death and resurrection of Sherlock Holmes
Sufficed to say, that particular bucket of cold water had been eye-opening.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary... Just who exactly are you?
I'm fine, Mycroft. Why wouldn't I be? Everything is under control.
Sherlock has always had a grudging respect for fire. Human civilisation wouldn't be possible without it. The wonderful internet wouldn't be possible without it. Magnificent experiments wouldn't be possible without it, and sometimes if he's lucky, he will get a brilliantly challenging burnt corpse!
However, at that moment, he has never hated anything more than the phenomenon known as fire.
It hurts John. That is enough reason for him to start hating it.
Sherlock has always had a certain admiration for ice. It destroys absolutely everything that stands in its way: calm, cold and utterly ruthless, emotionless as ever as the victims encased within die a slow and wonderful death, forever young, forever beautiful. If he's lucky, sometimes he will get a beautifully preserved body part. Nice preservatives ice has always been.
At that moment, he wishes that he could be like ice, unaffected and cold, because he's feeling (internally, he cringes at the word) anything but as a physical fire licks his skin, trying to deter him from saving John, as an imaginary fire licks his heart, burning those cardiovascular muscles into ash, turning his reasoning and sharp mind and his precious logic into the emotions that he has always despised and panic and horror takes over and_
Shut up Mycroft. Shut up.
.
.
.
I'm fine.
(because Sherlock Holmes is always fine and he is all fire and ice and he is Sherlock Holmes, so he is fine, all fine. Just fine.)
The off switch was a nice guess. It's satisfying to see that he hasn't lost his touch yet. His gamble had paid off beautifully. Though he wouldn't mind it terribly had the bomb gone went off, the world could have ended right then and there and he still couldn't have cared less. He had John's forgiveness and that was all that mattered.
Tut, tut, lying to yourself is unbecoming of a man like you, Sherlock. Bit not good, as a matter of fact. Then again, hearing voices inside your head isn't exactly a good sign of your sanity, isn't it? Maybe you should arrange an appointmentwith your doctor, Sherlock, now that he had forgiven you. Or had he? I'm still getting married to a random woman, and you'll still be alone and alone and alone and alone and _
Sherlock has always had a certain fascination for fire. Call him morbid if you want; it's not like he has ever cared about the rest of the world. Sure, it hurts John and it could be used for innumerable not-good things, plus getting burned isn't exactly a walk in the park, even for an extraordinary man such as Sherlock Holmes, but he simply can't help but be fascinated by the way it licks at his skin, turning it into a shriveling mess, or the way it licks at his heart, turning all those useless emotions (internally, he scoffs at the word) into a deadly resolve, clearing his mind of (almost) all those clutters, leaving behind nothing but cold ice.
The true Sherlock Holmes (no, not the one in that romanticized blog of yours, no, not the one in your nostalgia filter either, the real one, John, focus on me, only on me) in the end, hasn't been anything other than ice, has he?
He's drowning. Ice cold water invades his lungs, burning everything was Sherlock Holmes into nothing but ashes. Even so, he can't help but lament silently: "Ah, it's been a good life."
And then he wakes up, feeling more alive than ever before.
He is free, finally.