Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, be it the movies or the books. I am merely an admirer.
Apologies for delay – had another exam I didn't realise I had, but it's all over now and I'm completely focused on this... until I get distracted by a bright light or something...
He took a breath, and prayed the detective and doctor could get out in time, before he threw the match onto the trail of liquid and ran as fast as he could out of Silverstone's mansion before the great line of raging fire behind him could engulf himself and his surroundings.
Sherlock Holmes frowned at the faint noise outside. He could have sworn he'd heard footsteps. He looked to Silverstone and could tell he'd heard it too. John Watson still had the knife to his throat, but Smiley had loosened his grip a little whilst waiting for orders from his boss. Holmes silently urged Silverstone to make a decision quickly – he could feel blood still seeping from the slashes on his chest and he knew he was fading. By the state of him, Holmes imagined Watson wouldn't last much longer either. Silverstone was still looking towards the door, and he shot a sharp look at Fredericks before ordering him to go and see what the noise was. The small man staggered across the floor, still affected by Watson's blow, and left the room. A second later, the entire corridor suddenly lit up and a piercing scream was heard. Fredericks pelted back into the room with the lower half of his body ablaze. He continued to scream and looked desperately at his employer, who stood staring at him with wide eyes.
"GET DOWN, NOW!" Watson yelled, his voice hoarse. Somehow, he had managed to remove his gag and was trying to get the man to listen to him. Fredericks glanced at him, and realising the doctor was trying to help, promptly fell to the floor. He stayed on his front, the flames slowly consuming him.
"ROLL, YOU IDIOT!" Holmes added. Immediately, Fredericks was thrashing around the floor. The flames would not subdue, though, for there was too much gasoline on Fredericks' person. Soon his clothing was burning to a crisp, and Holmes winced when he heard the hissing of the man's smouldering skin. Watson was trying to break free from Smiley's grip, but the giant would not let him go. Instead, the doctor fixed his gaze on Silverstone, who was still watching the scene before him.
"FOR GOD'S SAKE, HELP HIM!" Watson screamed. Silverstone slowly slid his eyes to rest on him, before returning them back to Fredericks. He put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out a revolver. Before anyone could say anything, Silverstone had fired a shot into Fredericks' head, immediately silencing the thrashing and yells. The flames continued to lick him, and Watson froze, staring in horror at Silverstone who still had his arm raised. Instantly, he snapped back to reality and faced Smiley. The tall man looked at Silverstone, and when his boss nodded, he violently struck Watson around the head with the hilt of his knife and sent him wordlessly crashing to the floor, hands still bound behind him.
"NO!" Holmes yelled, "What the hell was that for!"
"That," Silverstone answered, "Was because you can't escape now, as your ticket out of here is currently immobilised." With that, he motioned to Smiley, and the pair of them walked around Holmes' chair and out of his line of vision. He heard a bang behind him, of doors closing shut, before he was left alone with the unconscious doctor and the impending fire. Futilely, he struggled against his bonds, but the rope was too tight. He tried to lift the chair off the ground, but when he looked down he found the piece of furniture was bolted to the floor. He could feel the smoke contaminating his lungs, and instantly began coughing heavily.
"Watson!" he croaked, but his friend did not stir.
He continued to cough continuously now, and his eyes were beginning to water from the poisonous gas. His body was beginning to shut down, and Holmes fought valiantly to keep his eyes open. However, soon the smoke was too much, and he couldn't breathe in enough air as he coughed. His last look was of Watson sprawled on the floor, his chest barely moving, before darkness overwhelmed him.
Something in the back of his mind was annoying him. At the current moment, he was in a state of bliss. But a dull throbbing on his head was beginning to pull him back to reality. He sucked in a breath, and immediately tried to cough it back out, sending a bolt of pain through his head as he did so. Blearily, he cracked open his eyes and was immediately attacked by a burning sensation, causing him to glue them shut again. Wait a minute. Slowly, he squinted through his eyelids and confirmed what he thought he had seen a second ago. Strength suddenly coursed through his body, and he ignored the burning as he opened his eyes fully to take in the scene.
Smoke. That was the first thing he saw, and smelt. The thick, black blanket was engulfing him and his surroundings, and he could faintly see what he thought was a chair a few feet away. He blinked and allowed his vision to clear. It was definitely a chair, and it seemed as though there was someone on it. Swallowing his fears, he focused his gaze on the person slumped on the furniture. He paled as his mind confirmed that said person was Sherlock Holmes.
Watson tried to reach out, but found that something was restricting his hands. Frowning, he attempted to move his arms, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and realised that they were bound behind him. He growled and struggled violently against them but they wouldn't budge. He struggled harder, now fully aware of the great wall of fire that had consumed one wall and was slowly creeping up on him. Suddenly, a glint caught his eye, and he couldn't believe his luck when he saw the small blade that the giant had been using against him. He placed his feet against the floor and propelled himself forward, towards the inferno. He continued to do this until he shimmied round and felt the blade in his grip. The heat was considerably greater on this side of the room, and Watson found that even sawing some rope was beginning to tire him. Finally, his bonds broke free, and he gingerly sat up and massaged his wrists. Once the feeling in them had returned, he gently raised himself on his feet and stumbled towards Holmes. His vision was beginning to grow worse as the smoke thickened, and he used the cloth that was loosely tied around his neck and had been used as a gag to feebly try and aid his breathing.
Watson dropped to his knees in front of Holmes and immediately began untying the ropes around his feet, calling his name in an attempt to rouse him as he did so. Next he moved to Holmes' wrists, wincing as he saw the rope burns around them. Once the bonds were off of him, Holmes listed forward and Watson quickly caught him in his arms, trying not to aggravate the wounds on his chest. Watson gently laid him on the floor and lightly tapped him on the cheeks to coax him back to consciousness.
"H-Holmes," he said between coughs, "W-wake up!" the detective kept his eyes closed and showed no signs of stirring. Watson looked around him, desperately looking for a way out. Where did Silverstone go? He couldn't have gone through the corridor without being burned alive, so where was the other exit? He cast his vision to behind the chair and could have sworn he seen a light. Absentmindedly patting Holmes on the shoulder in comfort, he got up and slowly walked into the fog. Looking at the floor a few metres away from the chair, a vertical sliver of light gave him his answer. Watson tilted his head back and searched the ceiling, and allowed a smile to cross his features when he saw the faint outline of the exterior basement door a few steps in front of him, undoubtedly leading to the outside world. Watson moved towards it, and caught himself when his foot hit something. Reaching out, he felt the cool, concrete stairs leading up to the doors, and let out a triumphant cry. Turning around, however, that cry soon faded from his lips when he saw the distance the fire had travelled. It had now eaten away half of the side walls, and was easily destroying the wooden furniture. It would be a matter of seconds before it reached the limp form of Holmes.
Rushing back towards his friend, Watson snatched him away from the fire's grip and easily carried him in his arms across the floor. He blindly raced up the steps, cautious not to trip and drop his friend, and cursed aloud when his head crashed against the doors. Coughing still, he set down Holmes and searched for a handle and cursed again when he found none. He pounded heavily against the doors, but soon gave up when the white-hot pain in his head and shoulder protested loudly against the action. He slumped down against the wall and closed his eyes, willing himself to gather some strength and breathe. Breathing was becoming difficult, and Watson knew the both of them were not going to last long. He forced himself to carry on, and soon he was standing again on shaky legs. He awkwardly threw his good shoulder up against the doors, and almost missed the creak as the hinges began to lessen their grip on the door. Determinedly, he threw himself again at them, and this time he did not miss the resulting crack as one of the hinges snapped and released their grip completely. Moving down a few steps, Watson shot a powerful kick at the broken corner, and almost shouted in relief as a large chunk broke off. A limited amount of daylight flooded in and briefly held of the looming smoke, but there was not enough oxygen in his lungs to keep him going for much longer. Blindly, he stuck his hand out of the gap and fumbled for the handle. The tips of his fingers brushed against something metal, but he could not get any closer to it. Defeated he slumped against the wall, his arm slipping back into what was left of the basement. Watson's energy was pouring from him, and he weakly struck the doors, but to no avail. His hand fell to his side and brushed against something in his pocket. He froze. You have got to be kidding, he thought to himself. Slowly, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out his old service revolver. He smacked his head against the door in annoyance, before gathering the remaining threads of strength he had left. He raised his arm, and pointed the gun at the doors. A sharp crack threatened to deafen him, but he did not care. Weakly gathering Holmes in his arms, he pushed against the doors and stumbled into the bright light. Watson gently laid Holmes down on the soft grass and looked around him. His vision began to blur as the coughing continued and the pain everywhere in his body overtook him. He faintly remembered a figure dressed in an officer's uniform sprinting towards him, before his knees buckled and his world went black.
TBC
A/N: I realise this isn't the most exciting of chapters, but I promise the next ones will be better. You know I love receiving reviews, so need I ask?