"John, do you know sign language?" was the question that woke him. John stuttered to a sitting position to find Sherlock, looking blankly ahead, holding his laptop and sitting on the edge of the bed.

John would have said "Very little," but of course could not, and didn't know why Sherlock was bothering to ask, when John would be unable to answer, and Sherlock would be unable to see any signs he did know.

Sherlock managed to look impatient behind the swollen burns on his face. "Type it into the program, John," he said, thrusting the computer toward the direction of John's rustling.

John was getting a little tired of Sherlock bossiness. He knew that it was in the man's nature, and he was likely twice as frustrated as usual because of his new handicap, but as John didn't have the ability to tell him off or even give him a dirty look, it was doubly as frustrating for him as well. John typed out a message with his good hand. The monophonic computer voice read out the sentence: "I know the alphabet, and a few common signs. Why?"

Sherlock nodded. "You can sign the alphabet into my hand," he said.

"Like Helen Keller?" John typed. He wished that he could make the computer voice sound sarcastic.

"Or, we could get your phone updated when I update mine," Sherlock prompted. His lip twitched upward into a smirk.

"Nice segueway," John typed. The computer voice mangled the word. "Give me some time to get ready."

Sherlock reached to clap John on the shoulder, in a brotherly way, but missed and nearly poked John in the eye. John fell back on the bed to avoid being hit.

"What just happened?" Sherlock asked. His face grew confused and concerned.

"Dot-dot-dot," John typed ironically.

"Whatever. We're going," Sherlock insisted, trying to grab John by the arm.

John wanted to shout at Sherlock to give him a minute! but had to settle for, "Stop. I'm not ready yet."

Sherlock made a sound of annoyance and stalked out of the room.

/

"CALLING JOHN WATSON," said the monophonic voice on Sherlock's mobile. Sherlock was thrilled when John's phone started buzzing. John just stared at his phone. Sherlock knew he couldn't answer. "Send me a text, John. I want to try it out."

John smiled at his friend's enthusiasm and typed a short message.

"NEW MESSAGE," Sherlock's phone announced. Sherlock pressed a button. "YOU ARE AN ARSE. HA. HA. HA." Sherlock narrowed his left eye at John. "Hilarious," he said sarcastically. "New text message," he told his phone. "To John Watson. You are imbecilic."

The phone took a pause, then said, "SENDING TEXT MESSAGE TO JOHN WATSON."

John hailed a cab and sat it in, leaving Sherlock standing on the sidewalk looking undeservedly glib for at least ninety seconds.

/

John awoke dazed and uncomfortably warm. There was a heavy weight laying across him, digging painfully into his hip bone and crushing the bones in his hand. Help…what happened? Doesn't make sense… he thought silently. Liquid dripped over his eye and down past his chin. He carefully reached up with his bad arm to determine the cause. Blood. Bad cut at his temple.

He searched his memories and tried to figure out how he'd gotten under the metal roofing. He looked to his right feeling like he was in some sort of stupor. Concussion, his mind provided. He blinked cautiously in the bright glow of the room and realized that the wall was on fire.

He'd been going for a few groceries. They'd needed pasta and protein powder, and Sherlock certainly wouldn't be going out to get it. Even if he wanted to, John would never let him out on his own for something like that. John had simply noticed that they were lacking a couple of their staple ingredients, had texted Sherlock, and headed out.

Then…there had been a child screaming inside of a building. Old red brick two-story. In need of renovation. Probably ideal for a couple of artist lofts. John had gone into soldier-mode and followed the sound of the child's cries. He thought he'd found the right room, and had pushed it open with little effort.

A little girl was crying for help. He had run throughout the abandoned apartment, trying to find her. He suddenly realized that she was in the adjacent apartment suite. He could hear her screaming through the wall. John could feel heat coming from the other side of the thin dividing wall.

Fire, he'd thought. Then he'd turned around to race to the other apartment when he was suddenly struck with something heavy. And then he'd fallen.

John couldn't move the massive piece of rusted ceiling. His good arm was crushed against his body and his other arm was still broken. His mobile was tucked away in his pocket. He could feel the phone's buttons through his trousers and he tapped away at them haphazardly. Maybe someone would figure out that he was in trouble.

The little girl had stopped screaming. He swallowed. She'd probably passed out from smoke inhalation…or worse.

Then, he suddenly heard a siren. Thank God. Please, please hurry, he thought, as flames licked closer to the spot where he was lying.

John coughed as the smoke passed over his head in an angry black swirl. The sirens grew nearer. At last, he heard footsteps in the hallway. He could hear people talking. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing in with the blood. A door was forced open in some other part of the house. He could hear movements and voices in the apartment on the other side of the wall.

Then, a few loud footsteps and the people were out in the hallway again. He heard a few clipped words and phrases: "…rescued victim…no other occupants…structural damage…collapse…abandoned building…"

Oh god…they don't know I'm here. They don't know that I'm trapped in here, John thought in horror. He tried to scream for help, to say anything, to bang with his feet and make noise but he couldn't. The metal on him was too heavy and even if he'd been able to talk, the smoke was choking him.

He shoved at the metal in a panic as he heard the footsteps and voices fading away. It wouldn't budge. He cringed as it sank harder against his stomach. He suddenly felt very claustrophobic. And very scared.