The air was thicker now, the smoke closing in on them ahead of the flames. John's eyes stung with it, tearing up in a futile defense. He blinked rapidly, feeling the tears track down his cheeks, but trying to clear his vision didn't help much. The flashlights were rapidly becoming useless, unable to cut through the haze.
His lungs burned; he needed to breathe deeply against Sherlock's weight slung between the three of them, but doing that would make him succumb faster to the smoke. He gritted his teeth against coughing, against the rattle in his lungs.
They didn't have time for that now.
They weren't going to make it out.
They had to make it out.
John lurched to the left when Alexandre weakened suddenly, doubling over to cough, still holding Sherlock, but barely. John and Bridget managed to stabilize Sherlock, to keep from dropping him, but it was costing them precious seconds, continuing their exposure to the smoke.
"We're almost there," Bridget said, and John wondered if she really knew – and how – or if she was saying it to keep them going. "John, there are police outside by now. I'm going to get someone and bring them back to help. The two of you need to keep going. Understand?"
He nodded grimly at her – it was probably the best choice out of all the poor choices they had at the moment.
Bridget's gaze flickered to Alexandre, just visible in the weakened beam of John's flashlight.
"Alexandre, can you do this?" John asked.
Alexandre nodded, readjusting his grip; the surgeon in John railed against ignoring the obvious struggle.
He had no time to deal with that.
"Yes," Alexandre said. "I'm sorry."
"Let's go," John replied. He gave Bridget a final glance and a curt nod; she didn't hesitate before vanishing into the smoke, moving quickly without the burden of Sherlock's limp weight.
John swallowed against the apprehension that she might not come back at all – she'd saved their lives once before and had come with him to find Sherlock despite having no obligation to do so.
She was a search and rescue worker, he told himself. That meant something.
It was harder going with just the two of them, and impossible not to breathe deeply now, fighting for oxygen that was being devoured by the fire. They were dragging Sherlock, heedless of his feet trailing and bumping against the ground. If it injured him but got him out, it would be worth it. Choosing between Sherlock's complaints and sulks at being laid up and Sherlock's life was no choice at all.
"Here we go," John said, coming to the top of another set of stairs. Some hint of intuition told him it was the last one – he hoped like hell that wasn't a dark premonition. The heat from the fire was making him sweat, which made it harder to keep hold of Sherlock, and he could hear the flames all too clearly, cracking and engulfing the wooden structures behind him.
"Down!" John shouted, dropping into an awkward crouch, dragging Sherlock and Alexandre with him as he went, fighting to keep them steady when Alexandre nearly lost his balance. He curled himself over Sherlock's upper body, foreheads almost touching, wincing at the crash behind them and the sudden crackle and spike in the heat as the fire fed off new oxygen.
John felt suspended there, the temporary floor shuddering under his feet, a chaotic contrast to the faint brush of Sherlock's breath on his skin.
"Turn him around. Come on!" John said. Alexandre gave him a befuddled look that John tried not to resent – they didn't have time for confusion but he also didn't have time to be irritated at a man who had never been trained to do this and who had just been abducted.
It wasn't the best position by any stretch of the imagination; having Sherlock facing them, arms slung over their shoulders so that John and Alexandre were nearly walking sideways made the detective harder to hold onto – but it made it easier to move, especially down the stairs, keeping them from tripping on his feet.
Sherlock, with whatever awareness he still clung to, curled his hand weakly into the fabric of John's shirt, hanging on as best he could.
"Good," John murmured, half to himself, half to the detective, doubting Sherlock could even register it now. "Let's go."
They raced down the stairs as quickly as they could, flashlights nearly useless now, pressed as they were against Sherlock's body. The smoke obscured what weak light they were giving, but John couldn't spare the time to drop it, focusing on the fire chasing them, on staying conscious long enough to get out.
They hit the ground floor without being able to see it, both of them collapsing as muscles tried to keep carrying them down stairs that weren't there. John grunted, just managing to keep Sherlock from hitting the floor as Alexandre lost his hold on the detective completely.
He tried to haul himself back up, feeling a stab of panic at the sound of coughing beside him. His own lungs protested; John tried to fight them and failed, doubling over, trying to keep Sherlock in his grip as his lungs seized.
Come on, Watson! he shouted at himself.
Gritting his teeth hard, he swallowed against the coughing and forced himself back up.
"Get up," he ordered, not caring how harsh the order was – he couldn't drag Sherlock and Alexandre out and knew the choice he'd make if forced to.
Alexandre struggled to his feet, swaying, and there was suddenly someone in front of him, holding him steady. John blinked, convinced for a moment he was hallucinating, but the figure resolved itself into Bridget, followed by Greg Lestrade and Amanda Hassard materializing from the smoke.
"Get him," Bridget said to the two DIs, who swooped in without a word, taking Sherlock's weight from John. He almost clung to the detective, a panicked, instinctive reaction more than anything, but forced himself to let go.
A firm hand grabbed his, and Bridget helped pull him up, pushing Alexandre on in front of her. John steeled himself, grabbing Sherlock's legs – he could still do this, and neither DI complained at the sudden redistribution of the detective's weight.
"This way," Bridget said, cutting a path through the smoke from them, a hand around John's wrist and the other around Alexandre's to keep them in a chain, her pace urging them onward.
They broke into the night air as suddenly as John and Alexandre had come to the base of the stairs, the shock of fresh air making John stumble. Military and medical instinct made him let go of Sherlock as he lost his balance, vaguely aware of the grunt behind him as Lestrade and Amanda took all of Sherlock's weight.
"Keep moving," Bridget said, grasping him hard to keep him standing. John managed a nod, coughing but stumbling forward into the sudden and unexpected grasp of a PC who wrapped an arm around him, keeping him upright.
The sound of sirens and yelling voices hit him as if someone had unmuted the universe, hammering his eardrums. John tried to see around the smoke-sting in his eyes, the blurred images around him resolving slowly into emergency vehicles – police cars and ambulances with their lights flashing, fire engines swarming with firefighters trying to tackle the blaze. The tell-tale whump-whump of helicopter blades cut through the air above them; John tried to tip his head back to see it and regretted it immediately when his vision blurred and nearly faded to nothing.
There was another set of hands on him suddenly and something strapped around his head – John tried to pull away, sucking in a deep breath of oxygen as he did, the sensation leaving him momentarily lightheaded. He stopped, nodding to the paramedic and the PC to indicate that he was all right, and leaned forward slightly, breathing in a few more times. The relief was short lived; the oxygen brought back some clarity of mind, and John pulled the mask off, turning back to Sherlock.
"He needs a hospital," he said to Lestrade and Hassard, who were still supporting Sherlock, waiting for a rapidly approaching team of paramedics carrying a stretcher.
"That's where he's going," Hassard replied. "You too. You've inhaled a lot of smoke."
"Not enough to do any damage," John said, closing the short distance between them to take Hassard's place supporting the nearly unconscious detective. "Get me some gauze!" he snapped, snagging the handful that was thrust at him by the paramedic and pressing it against the back of his partner's head.
Sherlock moaned, tipping his head slightly as if trying to get away; John held him firm, keeping a steady pressure on the wound, taking deep, steady breaths and blinking away the small, silver spots that danced around the edges of his vision.
"It's all right," he said, half for the detective and half for himself. "Sherlock, you're all right. You'll be fine."
Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered, lips moving slightly.
"You're okay," John said. "Just stay with us, stay awake, just a little while longer. You can do that."
Fingers tightened again where Sherlock's hand rested limply on John's shoulder. It was almost nothing, but John took it as a good sign, shifting a bit so the paramedic who had helped him could hold the oxygen mask over the detective's face.
John glanced up when the paramedics with the stretcher crouched down next to him, one of them trading places with Lestrade. Another pair of paramedics were treating Alexandre, under the watchful eye of Amanda Hassard who looked as though she was keeping a lid on a lot of questions. John didn't blame her, but they didn't have time for any explanations right now.
His eyes skittered over the group around him, police officers and paramedics and firefighters – and the notable absence of a search and rescue worker.
"Shit," he sighed, catching Lestrade's attention. The DI followed John's gaze, noting the same thing, and pushed himself up. John swallowed on a comment that Lestrade shouldn't bother trying to go after her, and refocused, helping the paramedics shift Sherlock onto a stretcher.
"You'll have to let us–"
"He's going with them," Lestrade snapped. "He's a surgeon. John, I'll be right behind you. We'll take care of the rest."
John nodded, pushing himself to his feet, gripping one of Sherlock's hands tightly to let the detective know he was there and, as much as he didn't want to admit it, to help him keep himself steady. The world spun gently before righting itself, still a panic of sirens and smoke, of yammering voices and the roaring fire.
He followed the path the paramedics cut for them, grateful to hand that responsibility off to someone else, and focused on talking to Sherlock, on keeping the detective as conscious as he could be while trying not to think about what had happened.
Both Mary and Adler had been in there – John was sure of that – and someone had hit Sherlock hard enough to incapacitate him.
One of them?
Or someone who worked for them?
He nearly snarled to himself – it didn't matter now.
Whoever had done this would pay. But not with Sherlock's life.
One of the paramedics helped haul John up into the ambulance, the sudden change in height making John lightheaded again. He set his jaw against it, crouching down at the foot of the stretcher where he could reach up to hold Sherlock's hand – however uncomfortable that was, to let the paramedics work. One of them thumped twice on the front of the ambulance and John braced himself as the vehicle rumbled to life, catching a nauseating whiff of the vomit he was still wearing.
He pushed that down too, squeezing Sherlock's hand.
"Stay with us, Sherlock. Stay awake. You can do it. Just stay awake a little while longer."
He might have been imagining the faint pressure of fingers around his but decided to believe in it anyway – Sherlock was fighting, John could see that, and the detective was going to win.
John wouldn't let him get away with anything else.
He squeezed his partner's hand again, rubbing the inside of Sherlock's wrist with his thumb.
Don't go, he thought, trying to smother a flash of panic. Please don't go without me.
"Good," he said, forcing the thoughts down, refusing to let them take hold. "You're doing great, Sherlock. Not much longer now. We're almost there."