Sorry for the delay.
I'm just going to beg - please review. Would mean a lot.
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When John eventually came back to his senses, the first feeling that entered his still somewhat disoriented mind was panic. He recalled in an instant what had happened - Molly had driven the car out of the road, causing the accident the consequences which he was now experiencing. But what he didn't know was how long he had been out, and so he immediately feared that it had been too long and that something irreversible might have taken place. With the diligence of a trained soldier John however managed to push the worry away from his mind and focus on the situation at hand - he was still in the car, seemingly in one piece; there was not that kind of pain in his body that would have signaled severe injury. It was very quiet and above all it was dark - but the night had already been setting in when Molly had crashed the car, so he had no way of deducing how much time had passed based on that. The fact that no one had stopped to investigate the crashed car could have indicated that he hadn't been out long - only that the road they had been driving seemed to be a very quiet one, and the odds were that John could have lied there passed out all night without anyone passing by. So it could have been ten minutes or it could have been five hours; the only thing John hoped for was that no matter how much time had passed, it wasn't too late.
One glance to the driver's seat told John that Molly was gone; another one to his own hands that she had took his gun.
Not good.
Carefully John turned his head from left to right and moved his limbs. Nothing seemed to be broken, even if there was a dull throb in the back of his head and his neck felt sore; still, considering the circumstances John knew himself to be lucky. As he undid his safety belt he noticed that there was blood on the dashboard; it would appear that Molly herself hadn't been equally lucky when it came to the amount of injuries.
Grunting John maneuvered himself out of the mangled vehicle. The car had jumped out from the road and hit a big tree; as he quickly observed the situation it became very apparent to John that he could have easily died right there. Interestingly enough this raised little emotion in him; having been so many times face to face with the possibility of death a mere car crash didn't seem to do it anymore. Especially when he had more pressing things to think about.
John walked to the trunk and popped it open. He quickly eyed through the contents of it, hoping to find something he could use as a weapon if - and when - it would come down to that. Unfortunately there was nothing suitable for the purpose; a spare tire wouldn't probably do the trick and a first aid kit wasn't all that menacing. He slammed the lid shut and in the next second cursed himself for doing so as the loud bang cut through the total quietness of the night. He glanced to the direction of the house - it was probably too far for the sound to be head.
Well, off we go
John inhaled deeply through his nose and started to jog towards the house. The slight pain radiating from his back hardly entered his consciousness; the only thought in his head was getting to the house and getting Sherlock out from it. Situated on an open field as the house was, John was glad that it was indeed night - there was no way he could have made his way to the building unseen had it been daylight hours.
He was about halfway when he saw a flicker of light in the second floor window that previously had been dark; and a second later he heard the unmistakable bang of a fired gun which cut the silence of a night like a knife through flesh - intruding, violent and irreversible. Final.
John increased his pace to a run.
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What saved Irene's life was probably the combination of her fast reactions and the physical injuries Molly has suffered in the car crash. On the second the bullet hit the door frame next to her face, Irene didn't stop to think or re-evaluate the situation but acted with the speed of a wild animal protecting its life; she vanished from the doorway in a fraction of a section. Molly, on the other hand, was after her almost equally fast, in her eyes the gleam of a predator after its prey; it was more than obvious that she was after Irene's blood. As she made her way around the bed towards the door, Sherlock saw from the way she moved that she was in pain - a broken leg, perhaps - -and it slowed her down just enough for Irene to get away from the next bullet she fired from the door towards the direction she had disappeared into. Then Molly was gone as well, racing after Irene, and Sherlock was again alone in the room.
Sherlock glanced at his left wrist only to confirm what he already knew - Molly hadn't had time to unlock the other cuff yet. He reached around with his right hand, fumbling around in the darkness of the room for that little piece of metal Molly had used to unlock the other cuff, but wasn't able to locate it. He got up from the bed, his left hand still cuffed to the post of it; as he did a wave of dizziness flushed over him. He stood still for a few seconds, allowing the dancing stars that blurred his vision to settle. When he felt he was more or less in control of his balance again, Sherlock reached around him in the room as far as the restraint of the cuff allowed him to, searching frantically for something he could use to pin the lock. The room, however, seemed to be stripped of everything that could have been of use to him.
Another set of gunfire echoed from somewhere inside the house, directing his attention momentarily from the mission of freeing himself. Sherlock yanked his wrist in annoyance, in vain; the metal Irene had used to lock him down wasn't a cheap porn imitation of handcuff but the very real thing. Briefly Sherlock wondered if Irene used the same cuffs in her professional life; but quickly dismissed the question as irrelevant.
Sherlock slumped down to the bed. The situation was rather excruciating; in theory there was so little keeping him for his freedom, and yet in practice it seemed that it was just a tad too much.
Suddenly there was a loud noise, a violent bang that sounded a lot more louder than any gunshot could have; Sherlock felt the house shake and knew in an instant that something had exploded inside it.
Explosives in a house? No, Irene wouldn't be that stupid. Some fuel? It's an old house, a boiler perhaps
Whatever it had been - through the window behind which Sherlock had previously seen only darkness, he now saw more - figures of trees hovering in the darkness. Visible because there was light reflecting on them; light coming from the flames that were consuming the house pretty much directly under where he was standing.
Something had indeed exploded, and the house was on fire.
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John was about hundred yards from the house when the corner of the first floor suddenly exploded into flames together with a deafening bang. He froze for a second, taken aback by the sheer surprise of it; in the next he remembered that Sherlock was somewhere in that house and that the amount of time John had to get to him out of it just got considerably smaller.
The fire spread quickly; the explosion had smashed the windows and the flames were licking the walls, swirling out from the shattered windows like alive beings. John felt the heat of the fire on his skin now as he approached the house; the crackling sound the demolition happening in front of his eyes made sounded like mocking laughter in his ears.
I'll be damned if I let a bloody fire kill him twice
John noticed that there were nobody coming out from the house. It was odd, considering that half of it was in flames - but there was no movement, not any sign of life; almost like the building had been deserted. He considered for a few seconds whether it'd be better to look for a more discreet entrance than the main door; but then, as another explosion shook the ground and the flames doubled, now curling inside the second floor through the open window on which was leaning a ladder - strange that he would notice that only now - John knew he didn't have time for that.
He ran to the door, the heat of the flames now uncomfortably strong on his skin. He heard the humming sound the fire made as it devoured the old mansion; or maybe it was just the blood in his ears. The door was not locked, and John slipped in. There was no one in the hall behind it. The fire was on the part of the house left from the lobby; there was no going there and John hoped dearly that Sherlock hadn't been there.
Then a thought occurred o him - the ladder. Molly.
Sherlock was in the room above the fire.
Which left John with about five minutes, judging by the speed the fire was escalating.
John ran through the hall to the stairs at the other side of it, then up them. He wasn't thinking; his conscious mind had stepped aside and given room for his instincts to act. John was on an auto-pilot, every second of his military training leading to this very moment - to act, not to think; to complete the mission, to save the life of the man he loved.
He was almost at the top of the stairs when he heard a door opening downstairs. The sound came from the side of the hall on which the fire was. He glanced down but through the smoke that had already accumulated and now stinging in his eyes John could only see two figures making their way towards the main door. It was impossible to tell who they were; whether they were men or women, young or old - all John was able to make out was two vague shapes disappearing to the direction where he himself had just second ago came from.
But it didn't really matter who those people were; had either one of them been Sherlock, John would have known. Not seen, known.
The flames were now in the hallway, entering through the door left open behind the escaped duo with wild force. Time was seriously starting to run out.
"Sherlock!" John's shout broke in to a wild cough as the fumes entered his lungs.
There was no reply. Just the hum and crackling of the fire behind his back and the steady thumb of his heart in his ears. John slammed the door on his left open; it was a cleaning closet. He moved to the one on his right. "Sherlock!" Nothing behind that one, either - just a dark,empty room, his shadow dancing on the wall of it against the red-glowing hell that was now raging behind him.
And then John heard him.
"...John.."
John heard Sherlock's voice, it came down the corridor to the right. It was barely audible but it was Sherlock's voice; John would have known it had it been a whisper.
His heart stopped just for a second; and then he moved, which such speed that it could have been his own life at stake. John ran to the direction where he had heard him, calling Sherlock's name, and he replied again; and then John was in the room, and Sherlock was there, on the floor, his hand cuffed to the bed post, the room was full of smoke and he was barely conscious.
Their eyes met, and even through the smoke John saw the look in his pale eyes, as intense as ever, like a lazer that cut straight into his heart; and he couldn't tell anymore if the water in his eyes was only because of the smoke.
"Sherlock, dear God, you're alive." John's voice was husky and the smoke made him cough; yet no one could have escaped the emotion in his tone. He knelt down next to Sherlock, who was lying on the floor trying to escape the smoke best as he could.
Sherlock smiled at him, a true genuine smile that for a moment lit his gaunt, tired face. He raised his right hand and placed it on John's temple as if to make sure he was really there. For a fraction of a second they shared an eye contact that told both of them more than any amount of words ever could have; pure emotion, nothing more and nothing less. For a fleeing moment the fire didn't exist, the reality of the situation escaped them both; it was just them and no one, nothing else.
Had they died right on that instant it probably would have not mattered.
But the next second brought about the presence and pushed them into action. "We have about a minute to get this lock open before it becomes too late to leave. Quick. Find a piece of metal, a hairpin, anything I can use to picklock this." Sherlock's voice sounded raw, like he hadn't talked for days; probably it was the smoke.
John got up and started to search the room. There was not much to go with. "There's nothing... *cough* here." Somehow John managed to keep the fear away from his voice. He knew it wouldn't take much longer now for the flames to enter the corridor; once they did, there would be no way out.
"Molly had something but she dropped it and I can't find it. Try on the floor at the end of the bed, I couldn't- " Sherlock's voice broke down to a violent fit of coughs.
John dropped on his knees at the end of the bed and searched the floor with his hands. They met only smooth floor planks. It was a little bit easier to breathe on the level of the floor, but the smoke was getting thicker fast.
"We have about 20 seconds. After which you will leave." Sherlock's voice was calm but firm.
John didn't stop his search. "You're a bloody idiot if you honestly think I will leave you now." John's voice was equally steady.
"15 seconds."
"One funeral of yours was enough." He moved around the room on all fours, groping the floor. Nothing.
"10 seconds." Sherlock's voice came through the smoke like the ticking of a time bomb.
"Sherlock, do you really want to do a countdown as your last words?" Still nothing. John was able to feel the heat of the fire downstairs through the floor.
"I love you, John. 5 seconds. You must go." His voice was more quiet now.
John's finger's met a thin piece of metal. "Got it!"
John jumped to Sherlock who grabbed the object and faster than John would have thought possible maneuvered the cuff open. Sherlock tossed it away and grabbed John's wrist. "Let's go. Now!"
They crawled to the door. The sound the fire made all around them was very loud now, it sounded almost like a wild animal; a one that was very angry. There was smoke everywhere and it was very difficult to see anymore, let alone breathe; the air was thick and hot and every breath burnt in their lungs. John knew that they wouldn't last long; he had already started to feel dizzy because of the fumes and Sherlock's somewhat sluggish movements next to him revealed that he wasn't far from passing out, either. If that would happen it would be the same as death; there was no way John could have dragged him out of the burning house, and like he had said - one funeral of Sherlock's had been enough.
If this is it, so be it
The thought of dying passed John's brain and then he determinedly pushed it away; he wasn't ready to give up just yet.
They peered into the corridor. It had turned from a passageway to the gate of the inferno; the fire had reached it and was now consuming it with a rage that could not be matched.
"That's not going to work." Sherlock was right next to him - John could actually feel his body touching his own - but he was barely able to see him, and his voice sounded muffled.
"No." John closed his eyes. He did not want to die, not now, not like this. He reached for Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him closer to himself. "We have to jump. From the window."
They both knew it was insanity. The whole exterior wall was on fire, and there was a rock solid paved surface underneath the window; and yet it was their only option.
Sherlock nodded. "The window is open. We can run and jump. You go first, when you hit the ground roll to your left so I don't land on top of you. And then run away from the house."
"Can you make it?" John was worried; he had noticed how weak Sherlock had looked, how his even normally so thin a frame had got emaciated. His movements and speech were slow, as if he was running out of life force.
"Yes, of course. Now go." He did sound almost convincing.
"Come on." John forced himself up and pulled his weight with him, getting Sherlock up as well. His tall frame staggered, a couch ripped through his body, and then they were moving through the fire and the flames towards the open window. John pushed Sherlock towards it, he wasn't able to see anything anymore, all he knew that he had to get Sherlock out from there, just had to, the air was so hot and heavy, like liquid fire on him and in him, blasting hell all over them and then the window was there and he practically threw Sherlock out of it and jumped after him, and the fall through the smoke and the flames felt longer than anything ever had before.
And then it was dark.