Kit felt as though she hung motionless for a split second, unable to comprehend that his arms were no longer there. Then she was falling down, down, down, until her back struck something yielding. The blanket sagged with her weight. There were hands on her arms, dragging her up and planting her firmly on the street.
She spun and looked back up at the window. Holmes had waited until he saw that she had landed safely. His head disappeared as she watched it, the window left empty except for the smoke billowing into the night sky. She shivered in the rain.
"Are there more?" One man yelled at her. She nodded her head, looking around with dull eyes.
The chaos had increased. The flames that engulfed the building rose and licked, casting an angry orange glow of the faces of everyone present. The fire brigade had arrived, and were trying to organized themselves into some kind of useful presence, made more difficult by the sheer number of people racing back and forth.
It was obvious that the block was a lost hope. Instead the firemen focused on keeping the flames from spreading across the street into the facing buildings. The rain hissed on the hot pavement. Kit could feel the heat driving her backwards, away from the conflagration.
She sheltered in a covered doorway across the street, gaze sweeping over the crowd. She noted their looks of fear and horror, mixed with the excitement and interest so common during a catastrophe. Children dodged in an out of their parent's legs, getting underfoot and pitching rocks at the few still intact windows remaining in the building.
Kit watched a pair of small boys snatch an abandoned policeman's hat off the back of a Maria and run away. As they ran they passed a portly figure standing in a doorway towards the end of the block. Something about the figure struck Kit as familiar. Perhaps the way he leaned against his cane. He turned towards her, and his grey eyes flashed, reflecting the bright street. Kit would have sworn it was Mycroft. A group of people passed in front of her, and when she could make out the spot again it was empty.
She felt her legs finally start to give way. Her head was light with worry. She looked back to the flaming building, scanning the windows, searching for any sign of Holmes. Her knees buckled, and she let herself down into a sitting position, her back braced against the brick wall. The feeling of loss was so keen it felt like blades cutting into her chest.
She found herself praying, something she rarely did.
"Dear Lord, please help him get out safely. Get him out safely so that I can knock his bloody infuriating head off and into next week."
Holmes found his way back to the gambling floor. The smoke was thinner here, though he knew the fire was moving his way at an alarming speed.
He crossed the room, eerily warm and empty. He paused at the mouth of the small hallway leading to Harry's office. The place was silent. After a few more moments of intense listening, he moved forward slowly, letting his feet fall as lightly as possible.
The doorway to the office hung open, partially obscuring the interior. Holmes pushed the door the rest of the way, peering inside, muscles tensing in case of the need for flight.
But the office was empty.
Holmes went inside, moving faster now, he crossed to the desk and began pulling out drawers. He knew what he sought was here. Harry had told him as much, if not with words, then with every reflex movement he had made during their conversation. He had watched Harry's hands on the desk, stroking the wood, fist bunching on the smooth top. His eyes had never even drifted anywhere else in the room.
No, the earrings were here, somewhere in the desk.
The drawers proved a fruitless search. Homes made sure he turned each one over to check there was nothing taped to the bottom. His eyes scanned the solid wood frame. Expensive. Hand made. Selected especially for this place. There must be a secret drawer.
He searched for tell-tale scratches, worn lacquer, anything out of place, or slightly different than the rest. Next he ran his hands along the underside of the desktop, where the center drawer had been before landing in an unceremonious pile on the floor with the rest.
His finger slid across the button. He pressed and heard a click. A shallow drawer set into the inlay above the functional center drawer slid out. Holmes pulled it out. The earrings were there, deep forest emeralds like dark pools against the worn wood inside the drawer.
Holmes removed them gently and slid them into his pants pockets.
A floorboard in front of him creaked. Somehow in his haste he had missed the stealthy tread of his attacker, who now launched himself at Holmes, arms outstretched.
Sherlock had just enough time to identify the face of Harry Wilcox before the man crashed into him, catching Holmes around his middle and sending them both sprawling to the floor.
Harry dragged Holmes up by his shirt front, tossing him back into the wall. The impact snapped Holmes' head back, and the plaster cracked beneath it, sending a small shower of plaster dusting down the back of his neck.
Harry made a grab for the earrings in Holmes' pocket, but the more agile man was able to duck around him and make a run for the door. Harry grabbed Holmes' collar on his way past, and yanked him off his feet. Both men fell to the floor again. Holmes continued to try to crawl in the direction of the hall, with Harry delivering sharp blows with his fist to Sherlock's ribs.
Holmes rolled onto his back, catching Harry with a kick to the hip that sent him sprawling back off of him onto the floor. Harry's head connected with the floor, causing him to bite his tongue. Blood dripped down the front of his white shirt. Both men scrambled to their feet.
"Those are mine," Harry growled.
Holmes was panting, his lungs burning with the smoke and hot air. He knew the fire was much closer. He could feel the heat coming up through the floor as it spread across the level below them.
"We need to get out of here, Harry. Is there another way out?"
Harry made another dash for him, but Holmes easily side-stepped it. Harry was choking now as well. He pulled his tie off and unbuttoned his collar. Holmes did the same, saying as he did "We can finish this outside if you really want, but we need to get out of here now, or we're both finished."
Harry's eyes narrowed, full of blood-lust, but the heat and smoke were disabling. He coughed and covered his mouth with his hand, then his sleeve.
"There's a ladder to the roof farther down the hall. Around the corner."
"Go," Sherlock gestured to the door. "I'll follow you."
Harry led the way. He staggered and fell against the wall, and Holmes grabbed him and pulled him back to his feet, pushing him in the right direction. The smoke thickened as they went, and finally Holmes was forced to tear the sleeve off his shirt, tying it around his mouth.
"Damn," he groaned, getting down on his hands and knees and proceeding that way.
"What?" Harry yelled back at him, copying his idea to move forward closer to the ground.
"I'm running out of shirts." Holmes yelled forward to him. Harry shook his head in disbelief.
They made several turns before almost colliding into what seemed like a dead end. Harry looked around frantically. "There was a ladder here, I swear!"
Holmes stood, peering up through the smoke. He could just make out a trap door in the ceiling, hopefully letting out into an attic or crawl space.
"Help me up," he commanded.
"You help me." Harry replied, standing next to him.
"And you'll stick around and help pull me up after?" Holmes frowned at him, beyond skeptic.
"Of course."
"You just tried to put my head through a wall."
"Because I caught you stealing my property."
"Your stolen property. Actually, what am I saying? Of course you'll leave me. And we don't have time, so just shut up and give me a bloody boost."
Grumbling, Harry laced his finger together and let Holmes place his foot in the stirrup created by his hands. With a grunt and shove Harry levered the detective into the air, high enough for Sherlock to push the trap door open and grasp the edges, hauling his weight the rest of the way up with his own strength.
Holmes found himself on a wooden catwalk that ran across the ceiling beams through an attic space. At the end of the building was a door. Holmes did not believe in assumptions, but he hoped fervently that it led to the roof.
He swirled around on his stomach and leaned back out the trap door, dangling his arms so that Harry could grab his hands. Together they hauled Harry upwards, until he could grab the edges of the trap door as Holmes had, and hike himself the rest of the way up.
Smoke came with them up into the attic space. The air was so heated that Harry's mustache wax had melted and run in a shinning streaks to his chin.
They crawled down the catwalk together, the wooden boards burning their palms, leaving splinters. On reaching the door, Holmes touched the knob tentatively. It was not hot. But it was locked.
He gestured for Harry to help him, and they both used their shoulders against it, hitting it twice, three times, and on the fourth it gave, spilling them out onto a long flat roof.
Holmes turned onto his back, dragging the sleeve away from his mouth and taking huge lungfuls of air. The rain splashed into his eyes and face, cooling his over-hot skin.
Harry climbed stiffly to his knees and looked around. Here and there holes were opening up in the surface of the roof, and flames licked over the edge, clawing their way up from the windows below.
"You've killed us, Holmes. There's no way down."
Holmes rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself to his feet. He took Harry by the arm and dragged him as close to the edge of the roof as they were able. There were still police and firemen swarming in the street below, a few of whom looked up at his shouts for help.
The blanket from earlier had been abandoned on the sidewalk, but after a good deal of yelling and gesturing, six officers picked it back up and set themselves under the spot with the least amount of flames sweeping over the edge of the roof.
Holmes matched their position, readying himself for the jump.
From her place in the doorway, Kit saw the two figures appear on the roof. She shot to her feet, straining to see if she could recognize Holmes as one of them. Yes, she realized, even in a panicked fight for life, one of the figures managed to come off as completely arrogant. Arrogant and overbearing.
She heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. As the figures approached the edge of the building, she could make out his face, covered in black soot, striped with sweat.
She crossed towards the officers preparing the blanket.
"It's too far," Harry coughed. "There's no way."
"This building is only three stories high," Holmes yelled back. "I'm not willing to do the calculations right at this minute, but I believe we have a good chance of landing unharmed. Or at least with non-fatal injuries."
Harry's eyes bulged. "I'm afraid of heights!"
"Oh," Holmes seemed to think about this. "Well then that's completely different."
He shoved Harry off the side of the building. It was, he had to admit to himself, a deeply satisfying experience.
Harry fell with a scream, arms grabbing at the air. He landed with a whoosh of air leaving his lungs, and the blanket sagged almost down to the pavement, then bounced back up several times.
"Here," one of the officers called. "We need more men to hold this. That was close."
Several more men came over to pitch in, as well as Kit, who's appearance, in the bustle and chaos, did not even illicit a raised brow.
The smoke obscured the view of the roof now. The figure of the detective was a hazy shimmer. All she could see was a shadow pausing at the edge.
She willed him over, pushing him with the force of her mind.
A moment later the shadow launched itself into the air and then plummeted down to the pavement. Kit had no time to think before the blanket snapped taut in their hands, and they all yanked upwards, keeping his body from impacting the ground.
Holmes' body bounced and rolled, spilled from the blanket onto the ground, scraping his hands and knees. His body turned over a few more times and came to a rest in the center of the street, flat on his back. Running feet avoided him. One child jumped directly over the supine form, on his way after a small dog that ran yapping amidst the myriad of legs.
Holmes stared up at the sky. Smoke floated across his view. The glow of flames turned the low clouds an angry boiling orange. His head felt stuffed with cotton, his whole body raw and painful. The world around him tilted and swirled. Gravel on the wet ground beneath him dug into his shoulder blades and hips. Nothing had ever felt so good in his life. Each stinging icy breath was precious to him.
A familiar face entered the field of his vision, staring down, mouth moving. Holmes knew Kit was asking him something, but he could not put the words together, nor did he want to.
Time seemed to lag behind him. He became aware that she was helping him to his feet, brushing the worst of the debris from his clothing, her movements busy and rough.
Ah, yes. Of course. She was angry at him. He had to remind himself that women tended to overdramatize everything…
"…And if you ever so much as think about throwing me out a window ever again…"
Yes. He would make sure to be far more gentle next time…
"I think I saw Mycroft earlier. He must be the one who called the police."
He made a mental note to incapacitate Mycroft. Had he a pencil he would write it on his cuff. But there as no pencil in sight…and his cuffs seemed to be missing. As was one of his sleeves. There was also something he was supposed to be doing right now. Something he had promised himself about Kit.
"Mr. Holmes are you listening to me?" she asked him.
He all but crushed her against him, pressing his face into the side of her neck and breathing in her scent in giant lungfuls. He could feel how ridged she was. She mut be livid, he realized. Which meant she was very much alive, and he should be kissing her. It was difficult to capture her lips while she was still railing at him, but he managed, pulling her tighter as her arms looped around his neck. He was delighted to find her passion for equality extended to this arena as well. She seemed to loose her footing for only a moment, and then returned his actions boldly, the two of them still vying for dominance while their hands carded in and out of each other's hair, trading deep needy kisses back and forth as though both possessed of the same urge to fully explore the other.
A sudden thought prompted Kit to pull back suddenly, causing Holmes to nearly lose his balance and topple into a passing water cart.
"We need to go," she told him, taking his face in her hands.
"But Miss Rushford, we must finish this discussion."
"They're arresting anyone they see coming out of that building."
He took her wrist. "Then we must hurry."
They walked together away from the building, across the street. One of the police officers waved after them.
"Miss, we'll be needing you to come with us. You and your man."
Holmes squeezed Kit's wrist. "Come on."
They broke into a run, heading down one of the side streets, away from the shimmering air, lazy with drifting ash and the pop and sizzle of wet wood. Rain beat down on them, slicking their hair and pasting their clothing to their legs and shoulders. A loud whistle sounded behind them. One alley gave onto another. The streets ran with water and debris.
They made a blind turn and found themselves in a side street, there the cobbles shone with oil brought up by the downpour. A costermonger had abandoned his cart at the side of the curb next to an iron red brick building. Rain beat a high-pitched tattoo on the greased canvas cover that protected the open back. Holmes urged her over to it and dragged the cover back, helping her climb over the side into the bed.
Holmes climbed in after her and fell into the soft fragrant pile of abandoned turnip tops and cabbage leaves. He pulled the cover back over them and secured it the best he was able before collapsing back onto his shoulders beside Kit.
They lay still, trying to quiet their noisy breathing, listening to the street outside.
Another shrill whistle blared nearby, and someone cursed. Footsteps slapped past, and then several more chased heavy-booted after them. The sounds died, and Kit counted the heartbeats she could feel in her ears. There was only the tapping rain.
Holmes finally lifted himself to his elbow and looked down at her. He was still thrumming from the feeling of holding her against him, and eager to repeat the experience. Large wet drops fell from his hair onto her face. "Are you all right?"
"Of course I'm not all right!" She whispered back, a hysterical edge to her voice. "I'm distraught! I'm completely and utterly entangled with a raving madman! Just what the hell did you think you were doing?!"
He laughed at that. "I couldn't leave without the earrings! It would have been a waste of a trip."
"You could have been seriously hurt!"
"But I wasn't. And…" He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the matching diamond and emerald drops, letting them dangle from his index finger for her to see. Even in the low light of the cart they dazzled her. He replaced them in his pocket.
"You are insane," she said.
He traced a finger down her still wet cheek. "I suppose…but I think perhaps that doesn't frighten you."
"You have no idea how wrong you are."
His eyes flicked over her face, and he paled. "And yet here you are."
She leaned into his kiss slowly this time, learning his taste, shivering as his tongue caressed her lips and inside her mouth.
Oddly she felt for the first time as though she was finally meeting him, the actual blood-warm man, beating somewhere under all the layers of clothing and manners and eccentricity; full of secrets that she wanted to explore.
He must have felt the same, because he rolled her under him, his body humming, heartbeat bright and sharp against his ribs. She could feel it in her own chest.
"Come back with me to Montague Street," he asked.
"I can't," she breathed back.
Their legs tangled together, and then their fingers dragging, exploring, marking each other in ways only to be discovered later, directions on a map of a newly discovered foreign land. Each holding the fascination of the exotic for the other, the scent and feel of mystery, the delirious craving for pressure and release.
"I can promise you discretion," he urged, abandoning her lips for her neck.
"I know. But it's not what I want."
He hovered over her for a moment, eyes narrowing.
"My soul?"
She smiled sadly and shook her head.
"Then what?"
"You wouldn't understand."
How could she say It was his heart she wanted, and he was obviously not prepared to give it. His perplexed look made her chest ache. She kissed his sooty cheek tenderly and brushed furtively at her stinging eyes.
The cover of the cart pulled back with a snap, exposing their overwarm bodies to the cold night air. A police officer stood frowning down at them.
"Here now, don't you bloody fools know there's a building on fire only a few streets over?"
Holmes blinked up at the man, looking for all the world like he was about to tell him that the entire city could burn down right now for all he gave a damn.
Kit spoke first. "No, officer, sorry. We didn't know."
He looked unsettled at such a proper voice emanating from what he assumed was a soaking wet street woman in tatters, and her dirty companion for the night. She knew he must be aware that they had been there. They were both in terrible shape, Holmes was missing a sleeve from his attire, and she realized suddenly that she had lost her shawl.
The officer sighed, weighing the possibility that they were hardened criminals against the likelihood that such two would be found in a cart full of cabbage leaves.
Perhaps he and his missis had shared a few leafy encounters of their own, Kit thought, because he waved them on.
"Well, you'd best move on before you have cause to regret it."
"Yes, sir." Kit agreed immediately.
She clambered from the cart, gesturing for her companion to follow. The officer watched the tall man hop nimbly down, brushing at a few muddy streaks on his remaining sleeve. The man tipped the officer a respectful bow, and then followed his lady companion down the street, offering her his arm, which she graciously accepted.