I don't own the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, the wonderful John Watson or any other characters. I will play with them for a bit, but always return them as found.
Reviews/positive feedback/pointers/constructive criticism is lovely and will be cherished.
Without further ado, enjoy.
Fire
He could smell it. It was streaming from the windows and the open doors of the house. It was all encompassing. It was impossible to breathe. The smoke worked its way into your lungs, and stayed, stealing all the space where oxygen would reside. It was overwhelming.
He could hear it. He could hear the neighbours screaming as flames licked at their heels, and started swallowing their belongings. He could hear the roar of the inferno as it worked its ugly head into his home. It was starving; he could hear the hunger of the mighty beast as it worked its way through their kitchen, slowly crawling up the stairs to their rooms.
He could see it. He could see the living hell as it crept its head into the open space at the top of their stairwell. He could see himself running to grab his flat mate and his flat mate's stupid dog. He could see the beast having no concern for the damage it was conflicting on his home and his belongings. He could see the indifference in the flames. The pure indifference was destruction.
He could taste it. It was close enough now that the heat produced its own taste. It tasted like metal. But he could only really taste the fear that was coming up through his throat, choking him. Silencing him. He could only taste the bitter air as he screamed for the man to get out.
He could feel it. Maybe he should have acted faster, but now the flames were close enough to them that he could feel them on his skin, licking and tasting him, just like it had everything else in his home. He could feel the heat on his face, and everywhere else. It was hot. Too hot. It felt like Hell.
Then he could feel someone shoving him through the house. That same someone was yelling at someone else as well. Then something was shoved in his arms. He could feel a small body, with little hairs everywhere. Furry. Very different from the hellish hot he was just in. He was shoved again, but this time there was no smoke in his face, only fresh air. Clean air and he gulped it back greedily.
Someone new was in his face yelling. Shorter, stouter and with a face full of anxiety. He must have not understood because the new man grabbed his shoulders and shook. He could feel his body moving with the deceptively strong body in front of him.
"Holmes!"
Rapidly, like surfacing from a lake too fast, everything sped up around him. He blinked and looked at the inspector in front of him.
"Lestrade."
"Where are Watson and Mrs. Hudson?"
Slowly, too slowly, the pieces of the puzzle fit together. The man shoving him inside was Watson, without a doubt. Looking down, he realized the furry little body he was holding was Gladstone.
"He went back into the house for her."
"The building is going to collapse!"
Holmes threw the dog at the inspector and made an aborted attempt at returning to the doomed building. He was stopped however by two burly officers.
"No, let me through!"
"Sir, it won't remain standing much longer!"
As if on cue, the house fell. Everything fell. His home. His housekeeper. His friend.
Too shocked to yell, Holmes stood there and watched as the smoldering remains burned on, as if to remind him of failure and its triumph.
A hand rested on his shoulder.
Lestrade stood behind him, offering what little comfort he could.
"I'm sorry Holmes. If we had been a little faster…"
"Lestrade!"
Head snapping, Lestrade looked to the man yelling. Behind him was a soot covered Mrs. Hudson and Watson, looking worse for wear.
Wrenching the little dog from the inspector's arms, Holmes ran over to the pair, climbing over some of the rumble, to make his way to the back of the house. Or what was left of the front.
Mrs. Hudson, looked a little haggard, but fine. She would blame Holmes for the fire, until she realized that it wasn't him that started it.
Watson was coughing, hard hacks that jarred his slight frame. A body with little reserves shouldn't have been subjected to that kind of abuse. Then again, nobody should have.
The coughing abated and a weary head looked up and Holmes was face to face with blue eyes, blue eyes that were bloodshot, and teary, but held a silent strength that Holmes knew he could never possess.
"Good Lord, that was hot."
And the spell was broken. It was if the fire hadn't happened, and everything had returned to normal.
"Yes, hot fire, a nuisance if I ever saw one."
The man chuckled and coughed, acting as if this was to be a normal occurrence. Maybe it was.
There was a pause, calm and gentle.
"What in the world did you do this time Mr. Holmes?"
I apologize for the long wait.
Please read and review. Reviews make writing more rewarding.
Seulment Alors
