Chapter Seven

"The Fire inside"

The fire was still raging behind them, too close to John's boots for Sherlock's comfort. Grabbing the doctor under his arms, Sherlock half lifted, half pulled John farther from the flames. The crowd parted around them, people crying out in concern and trying to see what was going on. He ignored them all, his only concern being the man lying on the damp ground. Terror and anger burst inside his heart, burning like the fire in the square. John seemed to be drugged, blinking slowly, incoherent words coming out of his mouth. Mary huddled on the other side of John, urgently calling his name. Blood was running from several cuts from around his hairline, the most severe the one by his right ear. Mary had a handkerchief out, and she was holding pressure on the wounds.

"Sherlock, I want to call emergency, is it safe? Are they still here?" Mary asked, never taking her eyes off John's face. He knew instantly who she was referring too- the people responsible for taking John. Sherlock looked up, searching the crowd. He was impressed; most women would be screaming, crying and generally getting in the way. Not thinking about potential threats sneaking up on them while their focus was on John.

"I don't see anyone acting unusual- if they were still here there's too many people around for them to risk anything. Don't call emergency- I'm getting Lestrade. He'll send what we need." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and hit Lestrade's speed dial. Sherlock had no doubt that several people in the crowd had already called emergency, he wanted Lestrade and his team, not the entire idiotic force showing up, getting in the way.

Lestrade answered amazingly fast for him- seems he really was happy to see me, used to be it would have to ring out for almost a minute before he answered- Sherlock didn't give him a chance to even say hello.

"Lestrade, we need you now. John's been kidnapped, and almost burned to death at the fireworks party at St James the Lesser. Yes, the church. Hurry, send an ambulance and some slightly intelligent people. And call off the calvary- several people have already phoned, we don't need the whole world here messing things up." Sherlock ended the call. His eyes kept sweeping the people crowded around them, and he hated being closed in. "Mary, get them back- I've got John." Sherlock knew if he tried moving the strangers away he'd be unable to restrain his fury, so mad was he. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his anger was like a wild thing, crashing inside his head and making his teeth clench.

Sherlock was struck by how well Mary handled herself; without hesitation she pressed the handkerchief into Sherlock's hand, stood up, and in her light, charming voice began to ask people to give them room. She kept herself facing the opposite direction Sherlock was-between them they could see both sides of the square. Sherlock processed everything, filing it away for later. Sherlock didn't care at the moment about her resiliency; John had the majority of his focus. Part of him felt the lessening of the crowd at his back- sirens were approaching in the distance and a slight rain had begun to fall. Sherlock worked his arm under John, lifted him up and pulled him back against his chest, holding him tightly. He put the cloth back to the cuts, and put his head next to John's. John was coming around, his eyes were beginning to get some intelligence back in them. He was cold, his temperature lowered by the drugs and laying on the cold, damp ground. He shivered and Sherlock drew him closer.

"John, can you hear me? You're alright now, we got you out. I'm here, we're both here," he said quietly into John's ear, trying as hard as he could to sound calm and in control. The rain began to fall harder, but the trees in the square blocked most of the wet, cold breeze. Sherlock was lucky he'd still been wearing his jacket and scarf when Mary had come crashing into 221B. He wouldn't have waited to put anything back on, so quickly did he and Mary run out of the building. His gloves had borne the brunt of the fire's fury, he knew the leather was scorched through in some places, but he didn't care. He could still use his fingers.

"Sherlock?... what happened...went back to your place...where am I?" John struggled to look around, and Sherlock hitched him up alittle higher. His head rested back on Sherlock's shoulder, and he was able to see clearly enough around him. He lifted his right arm, hesitantly at first, and then very carefully, wrapped his fingers tightly to Sherlock's wrist, of the arm holding him so firmly. He squeezed, and didn't let go. Sherlock hugged him tighter in response.

Mary was back, kneeling in front them, her hands on John's face. She had a torch from somewhere, and was checking John's eyes, the cuts on his face. "It doesn't look too bad darling, seems the worst of it may be whatever they drugged you with. I don't see any burn marks that are too bad, thankfully your clothes seemed to have shielded you from the flames. The paramedics are coming over dear, let them have a look at you."

Three men in emergency uniforms were racing over, and Sherlock saw Lestrade not too far behind. Several police cars were there already, officers pouring out and mingling with the crowd around them. Everyone was talking and shouting- Sherlock ignored it all and made eye contact with Lestrade across the distance. Lestrade began roping his people into order, making them pull the spectators away and starting interviews. "Let no one leave until we get statements, they're all witnesses!"

"Sherlock, let them at John now dear. It's ok, they'll take care of him. Sherlock-" Mary was speaking to him he realized, not unkindly. She seemed to know that he didn't want to let go of John, and she didn't mind one bit. Sherlock nodded tensely. The paramedics held back, seeming to understand that Sherlock was not quite himself-his face probably gave evidence of his current state. He briefly tightened his grip, and John squeezed his wrist one last time. "Alright, he's all yours-" and Sherlock let the paramedics take over, his knees protesting at finally being able to move. Sherlock stood and went to Lestrade, positioning himself to keep John in view at all times. The medics swarmed over him, asking him ridiculous questions and poking at him. John had managed to stay sitting up after Sherlock let him go, and he was responding easier.

"What the hell happened, Sherlock? John was kidnapped? What was that about a fire?" Lestrade asked, his hands on his hips and eyes darting around the square. He was pale, and Sherlock noticed he was out of breath. I do believe the detective broke all speed laws getting here! Good for him!

"I got home moments before Mary came over- she had received a text from an anonymous source that revealed in skip code that John had been taken. He was in immediate danger- I got us here within ten minutes, and figured out at about the same time it was lit that the kidnappers had stuffed him into the bonfire. I pulled him out, and called you. Whether they were still here or not after they put him in there is debatable- personally, I would have left as soon as possible." Sherlock said, his eyes still cataloging the scene around him. Some of the spectators were gone- the number of people remaining didn't match up with the amount that had been present when he had charged into the square. He suspected that the kidnappers were indeed gone- the police were wasting their time. But he held his tongue and looked to Lestrade.

"What in the world is a skip code? Bloody hell man, you're back a week and already the world goes insane! And how did you get here so fast? That's a twenty minute drive! Did you bribe the cabbie?"

Lestrade seemed at a loss, dumbfounded by the fact that the entire evening wasn't some cosmic joke. Sherlock just smirked, a tiny smile on his lips. "I have my ways, Detective Inspector."

John could smell nothing but smoke, his throat burning. His eyes stung, and for some reason his face was bleeding. He kept wanting to shake his head to clear it from the fog it was in, but the annoying man pointing the light in his face kept telling him to hold still. Mary was kneeling by his side, and he had no idea where he was or why she was there. All he knew for certain was that Sherlock had saved him. He had been surrounded by fire, unable to call for help or even breathe- and Sherlock had torn through that wall of fire like an avenging angel and pulled him free. His arms had held him, given him an anchor to fight free of the drugs he'd been pumped full of. Then the medics had arrived, and shooed Sherlock off. John looked past the people kneeling around him, and his gaze found the one he wanted standing not to far away.

Sherlock stood with Lestrade, out of hearing but close enough for John to know they were talking about him. Sherlock would look away to scan the square, but his eyes would come back to rest on John as the paramedics and Mary fussed over him. Sherlock noticed John staring at him, and in a moment so quick that no one else seemed to catch it but him, looked him straight in the eyes and winked. John coughed, his cheeks warming slightly. He felt a frisson of heat travel up his spine, and his mind seemed to clear even more. He would've sworn Sherlock grinned before he turned his attention back to Lestrade. John coughed some more, his whole body shaking. His lungs were clearing, and he could feel his hands and toes again.

"Mary? What happened? How did you get here?" John turned to Mary, struggling to figure out why he had almost been burned alive.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Mary asked, as the paramedics took his vitals. John was starting to get annoyed- he knew he was fine. At the rate he was recovering his wits, he was fairly certain he knew what he had been dosed with, and there wouldn't be any side effects other than some nausea and a slight headache.

"I was outside Sherlock's flat on the street when this arse bumped into me- then I felt a sharp pain in my neck, and hands holding me down. After that, nothing. I came to inside that woodpile- I could hardly move, and I couldn't scream for help. Next thing I know, there's fire all around me. I thought I was going to die- until Sherlock-" John stopped, short of breath. Lestrade had wandered over as John was explaining. Sherlock stayed where he was, still looking at John. John would occasionally catch his eye, but the cockiness Sherlock had displayed earlier seemed to be gone. Now he just looked ...inhuman. His collar was popped up, coat buttoned tight. His face resembled cut marble, all smooth planes and hard edges. John swallowed nervously. He knew that look- someone was going to die.

"You ok then John? Going to the hospital?" Lestrade asked. One of the medics opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off.

"I'm fine. Seriously, I'll be ok. Nothing broken, just some scrapes and some superficial burns. Help me up, I need to get off this wet dirt, it's driving me insane." John started to stand, and about a dozen hands seemed to reach out to help him up. Mary grabbed his elbow, and John stood warily, waiting to see if he found himself back on the ground. He turned to Mary, and smiled at her. She was an amazing woman- she didn't look fazed at all by having her boyfriend nearly burned alive at a bonfire party. John thanked the medics, declining their suggestions he go get checked out at the hospital. Lestrade came over to his other side, and John tried walking. He wavered at first but he kept to his feet. Proud he was handling himself so well, John smiled and looked for Sherlock. All John saw was a sweep of dark coat backlit against the flames, and Sherlock was gone.

Sherlock rode the bike back towards Baker Street, the helmets strapped behind him to the seat. Prudence had made him wear the helmet on the way to the church, but he was past the point of caring now. John was safe, so Sherlock was free to release the rage that had been building inside. It was an inferno, eroding his control.

Someone had dared to harm John Watson- and then taunt him with it. He knew of few people who had the audacity to do such a thing. The attack had been less about John and more about him. It was clear in that John had been grabbed outside Sherlock's flat, and in the messages to Mary. They had never been for her, but for him. Anyone with half a brain would know that the best person to save John Watson was Sherlock Holmes.

If he had been at home it's possible he could have stopped the kidnapping, maybe even caught John's assailants. But he had been out all day with Molly and Lestrade, after Mycroft had left that morning. Frustration burned along with the rage, and he had no doubt that if anyone was to get a good look at him now they would run screaming.

He had enjoyed Molly's company outside the lab, much to his surprise. She was stronger, less frail than she had been two years ago. The years away from him had done her wonders, as evidenced by the ring on her finger and the smile on her face. He hoped the engagement would finally expunge the unrequited love she held for him; he knew how poisonous such feelings for another could be. He probably shouldn't have kissed her though. He couldn't help himself- he owed much to Molly Hooper, more than a day out with him solving cases would ever be able to cover.

Sherlock shifted gears, increasing speed and dodging past several vehicles. The bike's power and suspension aptly suited his reflexes, and he pushed himself and the bike to their limits. He felt the cold wet air of the late London night on his face and neck, biting him like shards of glass. He was soaking wet, and chilled through to the bone. He felt alive- the anger, adrenaline, and fear mixed a heady cocktail he found intoxicating. Sherlock sympathized with John- it was indeed a heady mix. Addicting. So much so he contemplated keeping the bike instead of returning it. He'd left the owner and his girlfriend cooling their heels at Speedy's, a handful of pound notes tossed their way to keep the fuss to a minimum. Their cooperation wasn't surprising though, for Sherlock was fairly certain he'd put the fear of God into them when he commandeered their ride.

It had been several years since he had the chance to ride, and he was enjoying himself immensely. So much so he jumped the curb in front of Speedy's and slid the bike in for a insanely fast halt directly in front of the cafe's door. Deftly dropping the kickstand and hopping off in one smooth motion, Sherlock stepped through the door. Locating the owner, he tossed the keys to the kid and smiled sharply. The ride back had cleared his head enough for him to be slightly cordial.

"You ever want to sell it, I live just upstairs. 221B," with another dramatic swirl of his coat, Sherlock left the cafe. No doubt Twitter would light up tonight with #sherlockstolemybike, or something else equally ridiculous.