The first thing John became aware of when he awoke was the smell. The stench of fresh pine wood assaulted his nostrils as he struggled into consciousness. An involuntary groan escaped his lips. There was something across his legs, weighing him down. Pain was the next thing. His head felt like it was going to explode and John became aware of a warm liquid on the side of his head. There was a buzz of noise. In his disoriented state John couldn't work out where it was coming from. Cheering, laughing, the stamping of feet.
He tried to move, his limbs were numb and unresponsive. All his strength seemed to have gone.

What happened? He was outside the flat….there was a man….He was struggling to think through the fog that seemed to swamp his thoughts. One thought stood out, emerging from the fog. Not so much a thought as a soldier's instinct – danger.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark John made out a figure above him. A figure on a mountain of wood….today was the fifth. His stomach turned. He was in a bonfire.

'He- Hel' he tried to shout: barely a whisper came out.

John felt himself splashed, the putrid smell of petrol reached him. Someone was trying to fuel the fire.

He tried to shout again, succeeding in producing only a series of groans. He was still desperately trying to move, battling with his sluggish mind. He had to get out of here.

'Help!' it came out a little louder this time. Would he even be heard over the noise?

'Help!' he tried again.

Then the flames started.

Intense heat attacked him from all around. The dark space John was in was illuminated by streaks of orange and yellow.

There was a scream.

'HELP' he shouted, his vocal chords finally consenting to work. He was not going to die in here. John Watson was not going to die this way.

Then a shout 'JOHN!'

John felt his heart lift on recognising the baritone voice. Something was pulling at his legs. The weight on them was lifted.

Then there was darkness.

John came to a few moments later, on his back with his arms splayed above his head. Everything hurt.

'Stay with me John.'

Two faces swam into view. Sherlock. Mary.

'John.' It was Mary's voice now. 'John.' Someone touched his face. 'You have to stay awake.'

John coughed, hacking up the contents of his smoke filled lungs. Sherlock helped him onto his side, holding his back up so he didn't choke.

'The ambulance is on its way John, hold on.'

'Is he going to be Ok?'

'He'll be fine. Come on John.'

'I'm – alright' John tried to speak, but it came out a crackle.

'Where's that Ambulance?' he heard Mary say.

Blackness crept into the edge of his vision and then John Watson was out like a light.

'Who did this?'

Mary and Sherlock sat in the back of the Ambulance as it bumped at speed along London's streets. John was completely out of it on the stretcher, an oxygen mask over his face. The paramedic's opinion was that John would be fine once whatever he had been drugged with had worked its way out of his system. He had some smoke inhalation, but not enough to be severely damaging. They'd clean up his head wound at the hospital and let him sleep off the drugs. Sherlock was very aware that it could have been a lot worse.

'I don't know' Sherlock said quietly.

'How can you not know?'

'I don't know. I don't like it.'