Magic Show
In which there is blood, sweat and tears.
The pain didn't come gradually. It came as strong and painfully as death itself.
….
Sherlock stood panting, his arms burning form the sudden strain and his heart pounding from that moment of pure adrenaline. He was certain he had been right; all the facts and observations up to this point had all led to him making the decision to save one and let the other plummet to the floor. One had fallen with a sickening crack, but the other had fallen safely into Sherlock's arms and, aside from a few bruises, seemed unhurt. Quickly Sherlock pulled away the blindfold and undid the knotted rope.
"Are you alright?" he hissed.
John blinked in the sudden light, rubbed his sore wrists, and nodded. His legs shook from the combined shock of feeling floor beneath his feet and crushing knowledge that he nearly died. There had been the release, the air rushing past his face, and John Watson had braced for death. Instead of falling into Death's crushing grip, however, he had fallen into the strong, but boney arms of Sherlock Holmes.
Now John stood, sucking in air and trying to regain his balance and focus. Even through the shock still thrumming through his veins like a second heartbeat, he was reminded of a single, important fact.
We're surrounded by killers.
He had no idea why Irene had kept them alive as long as she had, though he was fairly sure it had only been as a game to spite Sherlock into doing something stupid. Irene had left him the impossible choice; whether to save him or Lana, and left the rest up to-
Lana.
John turned on the spot so quickly he nearly cricked him neck. Lying on the floor at the foot of the second pillar was a tiny, still form.
Sherlock dashed past him in a storm of black coat. He dropped to his knees at Lana's side, staring at the pile of flesh and hair before him. He couldn't even tell if she was breathing. Slowly, he brushed away her hair and turned her face toward him, pulled away the blindfold and studied her for a moment.
"John!"
But John was already there, letting his professional side take control. He knelt beside Sherlock, surveying Lana as calmly as he could. What he saw wasn't good. There was extensive damage to her right shoulder, her arm lying as useless as rubber at a horrible angle. Her shoulder was clearly popped out of its socket, and her head was wet with blood from a blow to the back of her head. But John could feel her heartbeat and the shallow breaths on the back of his hand.
She was alive. At least for now.
John looked up at Sherlock. "why?"
"why what?"
"why not save her?" john tried his best to keep his voice down; he didn't think Irene or either of the Magicians would take kindly to the news that both of them had actually survived.
"Because I was watching her," Sherlock replied shakily. His thoughts flashed back to all the data he had gathered; Lana, curling in on herself in the alley, Lana turning onto her side as she fell down the stairs, and now, here in the hideout, jerking to the side the moment the Magician had shoved her forward. He knew she would be hurt, but if his theory was correct, she would survive.
And Sherlock was almost never wrong.
It was the sound of a slamming door that made them look up. Both of them snapped to attention, looking around for the source of the noise. In the room with high ceilings and hard stone, everything bounced off the walls and reflected off everything.
But I guess that made things all the easier for Irene.
She was back on the microphone for only a moment, long enough to get the message across.
"You know you've been beaten, Mr. Holmes, and old habits die hard for me."
The next sound was that of an explosion on the other side of the door.
It took Sherlock exactly one sixteenth of a second to decide what to do.
"John, take Lana and GO!"
The two men grabbed the semi conscious girl and made a break for the door behind them. Already, the crackling of the flames and the smoke was seeping into the room. Sherlock passed Lana off to John and started feeling the edges of the door.
Fact- bolted from the outside, about an inch and a half, hard wood, weakest around the edge of the door frame.
Fact- kick the door in, two kicks around the lock, one good shove, extra kick for good measure should bring it down.
Fact- one right turn into the main hallway, three different exits, one blocked by fire, one by debris, which
Fact- leaves the roof.
….
John heard Sherlock kicking the door in, a loud crack that was still muffled by the sound of crackling flames. It made him shudder; the sound of flames licking the walls brought him back to Afghanistan. Already the air was choked with smoke and making his eyes stream, but he tried his best to blink the smoke out of his eyes and lean as close as he could to Lana's face. She stared up at him, trying to focus on his face.
"Lana, listen to me. you're going to need to get up as soon as I tell you, ok? I'm going to have to pop your shoulder back now; it should- it should give you a hard enough adrenaline rush to get you out of building until we can call an ambulance. Do you hear me?"
She nodded, but he wasn't sure she understood. Carefully as he could under the situation, considering the fact that the fire was starting to lick though the door behind them and heat was making it feel like a sauna, John felt through along Lana's shoulder to the popped out bone. He gritted his teeth, held her down, and pulled it forward.
The sickening pop reverberated through the air, and Lana snapped forward with a cry like an animal. John grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet, caught her when she pitched forward, and pulled her toward the now cracked door. Sherlock gave the door one final shove and it fell forward, and the three of them pushed each other out as fast as their weakened bodies would allow. Just as they crossed the threshold, the door on the other side of the room imploded, and the firestorm raged in, it's hungry fingers craving oxygen.
And it seemed like the fire was after them, too.
The three of them dashed as fast as they could, feeling the heat and the smoke on their backs as they tore through doorway and into the main hallway. The flames licked at their heels as they charged forward, John and Lana chasing after the flapping black coat in front of them.
"This way!" Sherlock roared, throwing himself against one of the doors on the right side of the hallway. It led them all onto the foot of a steep stairway, and they threw themselves up in a blind determination bordering on panic. The cracking roar of the fire was getting closer; if John had dared to look back, he would have seen the flickering orange growing brighter as the fire closed in.
Irene meant to burn them alive.
Another explosion rocked the building as they pounded up the steps, Sherlock flying up them like a huge bird of prey, Lana in the middle, dragging her useless arm and hugging her broken ribs. And John, ever the soldier, holding onto his strongest bit of control and hurtling up the stairs, urging Lana to keep moving and never taking his eyes off of Sherlock's back. All three of them tried their best to block out the sounds of fire roaring behind them like an angry beast.
They reached the landing and tore to the right under Sherlock's direction. The other two assumed Sherlock knew what he was doing, and now wasn't really the best time to contradict him. Down the choking hallways, the smoke forcing its way down into their lungs and making them cough and sputter as they bent lower and lower, trying to get away from its prying fingers.
For the briefest of moments, John was back in Afghanistan, the heat of the battle, the rage of the firestorm. His friends were dying around him. And then he blinked, and the burning timbers of the house were creaking around them, taunting them with the promise of collapse. And still they ran, only stopping when Sherlock skidded to a halt in front of a huge bay window. Through the smoke and light behind them, they could make out a sweep of grass and the road curving like a trail of ink. john looked at his friend, and understood with a rush of clarity what his friend intended.
If anything, this was definitely the moment for one of Sherlock's stupid snap decisions.
Sherlock swept off his coat, wrapped it around his hands like a giant cast, and smashed it through the window. The glass shattered like glitting diamonds in the firelight as they fell to the ground two stories below, leaving behind a hole large enough for them to slip through.
But only just. One way or another, there was going to be blood.
John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and threw himself out into the cool London air.
It was odd, but in that moment when he cleared the house and it was just him and the night air, with the sounds of the house tearing itself apart roaring in his ears, John felt the strangest sense of calm. He let his military training take control, shifting and rolling onto the ground. The smell of the grass was like a blessing; he inhaled, hacked out a cough, and forced himself onto his knees.
Kneeling in the grass, John looked back up at Hell's inferno.
The house was all but consumed now, flames licking the walls and turning the walls a dark, angry black. It was raining embers and ash, falling like burning snow. But even through the raging fire and crackling wood, John kept his eyes on the window high above him on the second floor.
And as he stared, John Watson said his closest thing to a prayer.
Please God, let them live.
….
"GO!"
Lana glared at him, a look of anger and fear. "I know what you're thinking. You first."
"She has to be stopped!"
"At what cost?" she cried, the sweat on her face running down her face like tears. "She's gone!"
"We don't know that!"
Lana grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders and forced him to look her right in the eyes. "I know I won't lose you to her. So stop arguing and jump!"
Sherlock glared right back. In the heat of his anger and, he seemed like a demon, wreathed in flame and smoke. Still holding her gaze, he cradled her neck in his hands and brought his lips to hers.
It happened in a fraction of a second, and it was so sudden she was forced backward. She felt the edges of the glass, and in a terrible realization of what he was planning, looked up just in time to see Sherlock's arms shift and throw her out into the night. Her arm outstretched, she fell toward the dark grass, his name and his kiss still tingling on her lips.
….
Sherlock watched her fall, saw her hit the ground, saw John rush over to her and help her away from the worst of the fire. He saw John pull out his phone and dial for an ambulance that was already on it's way.
Then Sherlock turned back to Irene, standing at the end of the hall. Behind her was a flight of steps; Sherlock guessed it led to the back door.
"I suppose I do need to be stopped, Sweetheart, but that's for next time."
"I could stop you now."
"Oh, you know I've already beaten you. Beating you once was an honor, but beating you twice, the same way, is a privilege."
Sherlock snarled.
"I'll give you some time to work on your manners. Then next time I'm in town we'll have dinner."
"I'm not hungry," he responded. Irene smiled.
"Not for my cooking anyway." She turned to leave. "And just so you know, you should tell her the truth about us. About the scandal, about the camera phone-"
"What I do is none of your business."
"That's what you think." She turned to leave. "You'll be hearing from me again, Sherlock. Make no mistake." She blew him a kiss, and with a wave of smoke and flame, she was gone.
Again. She had beaten him again.
Sherlock bit his tongue and jumped.
….
Lana saw him jump from the window like some downed hawk. He fell to earth in a crumpled heap and then she was sprinting toward him.
Never mind the fact her arm was on fire, never mind the fact that she could barely breathe. He was there. He had to be alive. He had to.
She ran into the smoke, coughing and sputtering as more and more poured out of the windows and onto the lawn. It made everything dark and blurry as she staggered through the grass, looking for Sherlock.
In reality, they bumped into each other.
Sherlock, coughing just as hard, felt her fall into him and Lana felt the warmth of his jacket and instinctively clung on. She felt his arms around her, his breath in her ear, his muscles tighten and relax as he picked her up. She went limp, exhausted. Sherlock looked down in concern.
"Stay with me, Lana. Just a little longer, we'll be fine."
"Shut up…" she murmured, as everything began to feel dark and heavy. Then she was gone.
….
Lestrade stood beside the ambulance, watching a very wired John Watson. John was standing, twisting his head this way and that, and honestly looking like he was going to pass out from panic. Lestrade was about to tell him to sit down, that the firemen had put out the blaze, that they would soon find Sherlock and…the girl, but he saw it would do little good. There was nothing to do but wait and hope that Sherlock had made it out.
Then out of the smoke rose a dark shadow, a figure wrapped in smoke like a sable cape, carrying something in its arms. He advanced, growing closer and closer, more and more defined as he stepped from the rubble of the burned house.
Yes, Sherlock did love to be dramatic.
He was covered in soot, sweat, and dirt, and was holding a young woman who looked more dead than alive. Wordlessly, he placed her on a waiting stretcher, and then watched as they loaded her into the back of the waiting ambulance. John came and stood by his best friend; then they both climbed up beside the stretcher with such a sense of finality no one dared try and stop them.
The last thing Lestrade saw was Sherlock reach out and take hold of the woman's hand before the doors shut.
Sirens blaring, the ambulance drove off, soon followed by the squad cars, the bystanders, and the fire trucks. Silence fell on the burned block, the smoke still rising, a pillar reaching up against a starlit sky. There were no other cars passing by, no more sirens blaring, no more people yelling or screaming in panic.
There was only Lestrade and the ash.
Up next- Baggage Claim
In which there is packing, goodbyes, and wishes
Authors note- hey everyone! I'm really sorry about that cliffhanger. It could be a case all it's own 'the case of the terrible cliffhanger; in which an author is murdered by her readers for leaving them hanging due to a huge wave of writers block.'
Meh, whatever. I hope you like the chapter, and I'll be updating soon, I promise. My exams are currently driving me up the wall though, so I have to work around that. But don't worry! As soon as they're finished, I'll post the next chapter.
I apologize again for any spelling errors, even though my lovely editor caught most of them. I think.
Happy to be back, relieved I got to keep the page, livid at the fact that SHERLOCK SEASON 3 WONT COME OUT UNTIL NEXT YEAR, and praying for your patience,
Jay