A/N: Flashbacks Overuse alert on this one. Again, apologies for the headaches it might generate. -csf

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'How did it all happen, Captain Watson?' the man in charge of the dark interrogation room asked me, straight face, challenging stare. Intimidating to some, perhaps. Not to me.

'"John", please.'

'How did it happen, John?' he insisted. From a corner of the claustrophobic room Greg Lestrade stepped forward into the light pool. He looks as if disturbed by something. Holding himself back. He can't help me.

'We should give John a break', Greg still pleads in my favour. 'He waved off a medical examination at the scene, Superintendent Chandler. And a good look at him can tell us his holding back pain.'

Racy move; Greg is trying to put a defence on the record for me. Forget it, I raise my chin. I'll show vulnerability to no one.

'I'm fine, I can tell. I'm a doctor, Greg.'

'John, just take five minutes to—'

'No need', I assure them before Greg can worry any longer. 'So, what's up? Asking me how Sherlock and I got out of a burning building with one dead person inside and another outside?' I resume for them. 'Right. Have a seat. This might take a while.'

.

Smoke is blinding me, suffocating, bitter. I'm powerless as it swirls around me. The temperature too, it's very high. I shouldn't be here. I couldn't turn away either.

The crackling and burning stuns me; it's so loud. Makes every fast evaporating bead of sweat, every useless breath of air, the more terrifying. Strangely it's mesmerising at the same time. I'd stand back and watch. Just curl up and watch it consume the old building around me. Must be the carbon monoxide, numbing me. It would have succeeded too, but this is about Sherlock. I need to help him. I need to focus on my mission. Most important mission in my life, right now.

In my friend's life too.

As I open the door at the end of the corridor, fire is creeping up the walls and into the ceiling already. The rush intake of air just smartens the orange and yellow flames, puffing them, doubling their volume in the threatening swirling flows.

A louder noise behind me, and I look over my shoulder. No turning back now. No help either. The long corridor I just came through is already completely overtaken by flames, only way now is forward. Never planned it otherwise.

Finally I recognise a dark figure curled up in a corner, immobile. Despite the high temperatures, my heart freezes at the sight. It's Sherlock. He's down.

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[Transcription notes – 22.10.14 – JHW – 21 47 hours.]

"I thought you and Holmes worked together, or something."

"Sometimes he lets me in on his cases."

"And this time?"

"This time he took too long to call me. Sherlock sent me a text with his location and as a request for help. Like he sent the Yard, Greg Lestrade told me when I immediately called him."

"And you were sure the text had been sent by Holmes? What did it read?"

"You've got my phone. It was apprehended with my gun before I was brought here and had my wrists cuffed. I can't hand you my phone, as you may be able to tell.'

"It says "Vatican cameos", followed by the address and initials."

"It's an old code."

"So you had no doubt that Mr Holmes was in danger at this location, Captain Watson."

"I didn't."

"And what did you do?"

"I went there to join him."

"When you arrived the building was already on fire. You knew help was on the way."

"Yes, I did."

"Captain Watson, you entered the burning building. Why?"

"That's easy. To get Sherlock out."

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How am I going to get Sherlock out now, without his cooperation? Six feet tall of him in a heap of unresponsive limbs and long wool coat.

I mustn't take his coat off. It'll protect him. Dehydration can be dealt with later.

I've rushed over to Sherlock. It's with relief that I assess a steady breathing, even if shallow because of all the smoke around. Less for him since he's been down on the ground, likely for a while. Passing out may have just saved his life.

Not safe yet. It's up to me now.

His life in my hands.

I got him. I'll make him safe.

I take only a second longer to wipe his sweaty brow with my sleeve. It's not a medical gesture, but I can't help it. There's a minute twitch in response. It's not medically relevant, but it makes me feel better. Even if it's a selfish thought to want to feel that I'm not alone in a burning building. That's humanity for you.

Metal splints in a cabinet behind me as the echo of a riffle gunshot overlaps the burning sounds. They're still out there, aiming at us, wanting to make sure we don't come out alive.

I've got my gun in my belt, I take it off and blindly shoot across the cracked window. That should hold them off for a minute while I get Sherlock out of harm's way.

With my gun on my right hand – I'm a right-handed shooter – I have no choice but to pull Sherlock's limp form over my left shoulder and try my best to hold him there. Legs dangling in front of me, arms splayed behind me, as I'll try – must make it – to get out of our burning hell.

I shoot a couple more times, not really bothering with aim, as I move across the room to the second door.

Sherlock is deceptively heavy for a skinny guy.

'Hang in there, Sherlock. Almost out of here, you are going to be fine, I promise.'

I know he's not really listening. It's that selfish need for company again. Don't want to face it, but I'm scared.

Who wouldn't be?

The smoke must be getting to me, I'm dizzy.

I need to hurry.

Here's the door. I know the draft created by opening a door on a fire can smarten it. I need to be careful. I need to make sure Sherlock is protected, his coat and I acting like a physical barrier. I cannot let harm come to him when he's so defenseless.

With my hand inside my sleeve, I push the door open to the hall, we're almost outside.

The blaze blinds me as I bend myself in a coughing fit I couldn't repress, no matter how much I've tried. Must get out as fast as I can. Sherlock's too dehydrated. It takes every last fibre of my being to get up again. One last time.

There's a sudden move I manage to pick up through the smoked glass of the nearest window. In reflex I raise my gun and fire. This time I think I got the shooter. Just before he gunned us down.

One last door and we're safe, outside. The cold night air startles me as the first respondent's sirens are getting closer.

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[Transcription notes – 22.10.14 – JHW – 22 10 hours.]

"We have footage of you coming out of the burning building with the apprehended weapon, Captain Watson."

"Of course I did. It's my gun."

"It's an illegal gun."

"Still mine."

"Are you admitting to owning the gun?"

"Yes. Anyway, who filmed me? Was it you, Greg? Why?"

"You were looking... heroic, mate. I'm sorry, didn't mean to get you in trouble."

"Any news on Sherlock yet?"

"John. You need to worry about yourself now."

"Then I have nothing more to say."

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'Mr Holmes, what is the meaning of this intrusion?' Chandler yelled immediately upon Sherlock's arrival. I'm glad to see him all lit up again.

'Sherlock, you can't just—! You need to rest!' Greg just lectures our crazy friend.

Sherlock glances at him, then at me in the interrogation chair. His gaze lingers on my handcuffs, a disgusted look crawling on his face. Finally he turns to the film projector, with Greg's amateur masterpiece on a loop. He freezes at that for a few seconds, before turning back to Greg with a look full of anger and exasperation alike.

'Are you daft?'

Greg freezes reflexively. There's unfiltered anger in Sherlock, more than our usually distant and cold detective has accustomed us to. Something in that film has triggered it.

'Look here, Sherlock! Superintendent Chandler is my superior and—' Greg starts for the sake of reasonability.

'Can't you see it?' and he points at the screen across the tiny room. 'There! You've been looking at it for long enough!'

'What am I missing, Sherlock?' Greg actually assumes, still patiently. He's looking older and more tired than I've ever seen him.

'He carried me out.'

'John?'

'Yes, John!'

It's like those two are having a conversation of their own. Not very efficient, I could add.

'I know, I saw it. We all saw it, Sherlock.'

'Over his left shoulder, Greg! His shattered shoulder, Greg! I can't tell you how he's still standing, let alone getting interrogated for doing the rescuers' work!'

'I'm fine', I interrupt them immediately.

'He refused medical care', Chandler defends, covering his steps.

'Yes I did', I calmly admit for the record. I don't want to get Greg in trouble.

Sherlock is ignoring them, jingling the keys to my handcuffs to set me free. Greg just pats his empty pockets in confusion.

'Sherlock', I try to direct him, 'you really need to rest. I can handle this.'

'Just drop it, John, there's no need to play tough anymore.' I'm startled at first, but only Sherlock could have seen right through me so fast. As he leans me towards him to open the handcuffs behind my back, I'm suddenly realising how drained and empty I feel. I finally allow the last hours' emotions rush past me. I shiver, unfiltered, exhausted. Did I really get inside a burning building? It's all too much all of a sudden. I did the only thing I saw fit. Now I can hardly concentrate on Sherlock's brilliant fast-delivered monologue to our audience: 'The body inside the house is two weeks old and was used to lure me in. The pathology report will confirm it. Someone locked me in there. I texted John and Lestrade for help. That's when the fire broke out. It had clearly been prearranged as it spread too fast. The second body, outside, was John's doing in self-defence. John's a trained army soldier. He never owned an illegal gun. Any ownership he may have claimed can't be taken to account because he was in no condition to be interrogated. You've cuffed and held prisoner a war veteran after a major trauma and with no medical clearance. That places the entire Armed Forces at your office first thing tomorrow, asking for explanations. Plus the Secret Services - trust me, I will call him. Unless you let John go right now. Better take us to Baker Street while you're at it.'

Superintendent Chandler tries to stop us. I see Greg holding him back. Greg's position between us allows only me, and perhaps Sherlock, to see a relieved contented smile. All the while, Sherlock's pulling me out and we leave behind the claustrophobic interrogation room with a loop of the maddening hell he just escaped. Sherlock is helping me along, half-carrying me by his side. Taking me from my hell.

Symmetry.

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