Sherlock's palms slapped against the wooden flooring as he was struck again – Moran's boot connecting with the back of his skull. The force sent him flying forward, bright light exploding behind his eyes. As he sprawled, he scrambled to his feet, panting, using the momentum to gravitate himself upwards. Finding his footing, but still swaying dangerously, he twisted to eye his opponent.
Moran's skin was bleached pale under the light of the moon that cascaded through the window, an evil sneer carved across his face like a jagged scar.
"So you just thought you'd break in did you?" Moran stalked forward; a predator hunting his prey, "Who sent you? Tell me. Are you one of Morozov's men?"
For every step Moran advanced, Sherlock reciprocated backwards, maintaining an equal distance from him. Moran held no weapons, but he was just as dangerous unarmed than he was wielding a gun or a sword.
"Come on… you've gotta be here for a reason…"
Dodging another swipe of the sniper's fist, Sherlock ducked backwards. His gun was only a few metres behind him – it had fallen from his hands on the first hit – and he surreptitiously angled for it. But Moran noticed. In a rush of movement, Moran bent and pounced, his thick arms encircling Sherlock's waist and tackling him to the ground. Moran's weight combined with his own meant that as Sherlock's skull connected with the hard wooden flooring with a grunt, he all but passed out. Pain like lightning shot through him, and his vision blurred dangerously. A small trickle of blood wetted the back of his head.
Feeling his enemy slack beneath him, Moran straddled the body and fisted Sherlock's jacket in his hands, his breath stroking Sherlock's face with every exhale.
Moran lowered his face to Sherlock's, eyes menacing, burning.
"Now I'm only going to ask you this one more time. Who. Sent. You?"
Head lolling and eyelids drooped, Sherlock sucked in a breath before grinding his teeth together defiantly. Suddenly, he was very thankful for the ridiculous balaclava he wore that shrouded his identity. Should Moran recognise him, he would know his intentions on retrieving his illusive Watson and put an end to his plans. Most likely, if Moran found out – John would be taken into hiding, placed in a secluded outlet of Moriarty's power and kept within the company of Moran for the rest of his days. Which was the opposite of what Sherlock wished to gain from this.
Ignoring the sweet, horribly familiar scent that careened from Moran – a smell that only came when one has in close proximity to a certain John Watson – Sherlock held his tongue.
"Fine, if you're gunna be like that, I'm afraid you're no use to me..." Moran released a hand from Sherlock's jacket and instead refisted it into Sherlock's hair, wrenching his head backwards and tearing curls from their roots.
Frissons of pain alighted in Sherlock's mind, and finally everything focused. He needed to fight. He seized and flailed, trying to roll Moran from his body like a crocodile, but Moran's position was too seated- too strong. He'd have to try harder than that.
As Moran fumbled in his pocket for the serrated knife he knew was kept there, Sherlock put to use his well accumulated fighting knowledge. In his position, where strength would do nothing for him, he would have to use pressure points. And elbows. Because if there was one thing Sherlock had going for him, it was the undeniable hard points that were his elbows. For an impromptu plan, that would have to do. Clasping his hands together in a fist, he brought the concrete end of his right elbow with as much force as he could muster down on the soft, exposed area between Moran's legs that were spread wide over his torso.
Moran squealed.
His hands came free of Sherlock's hair to clutch forsakenly at his groin, tears sparking in the lids of his eyes. Using the adrenaline that now coursed through his veins like fire, Sherlock fisted his hands again and brought his elbow around to connect with the space below Moran's ribs, forcing him to the side and sending him flying off of Sherlock.
The brunette panted with exhaustion, scrambling to his feet, before all but collapsing to the side in a yell of pain. His head seemed to swell and pulsate with every beat of his heart, and the inky coridoor swam in front of his eyes. It took him a few seconds to realise the world was devoid of sound. As the floor rushed up to meet him, Sherlock flung out his hands to cushion the fall; only succeeding in sending angry lines of pain up his arms. He hissed in frustration, not used to being so helpless. Everything seemed to slow.
A slow, single motion caught his eye – a figure sprinting past and dropping to the floor metres from him. The figure's momentum meant that he skid as his knees hit the floorboards. The figure made no sound as he landed by the inert, sprawled Moran, but Sherlock saw his mouth moving, words forming, sentences being said. Yet still, no sound. Nothing save the fluctuating palpitates of his skull, and the heavy throb of pain through his system was heard.
As the figure turned, his face disencumbering in the light of the moon, time sped up.
The first thing that alerted Sherlock to this was the shrill, even sound of a fire alarm – ringing through the halls brutally, filling his ears with its horrendous shriek. The second, was that the crouched figure was a very alert, very slim, very distressed John Watson.
John.
John had caught Moran's arms in his grasp and was attempting to pull the sniper to his feet, his words distorted – drawn out – nonsensical, or so it appeared. Moran was replying, his voice tenor and husky with breath. Neither of them spotted the camouflaged Sherlock hidden in the shadows.
"-just get out while we can," John's tone sent horrid shivers of fear down Sherlock's spine. His John was brave, that much was obvious, but the way he had fallen so effortlessly into soldier-mode meant that something was up; something was wrong. "The entire Fourth Wing is up in flames, there's nothing left; we need to go-"
"Whhh-" Moran shook his head to clear it. "Where is he? The fucker that beat me up, where the fuck is he?"
"Woh, woh, mate, calm down; there's no one here. Hurry, Seb, we have to get everyone out before the fire spreads-"
Moran was nodding nonsensically, biting his lip and using John as a frame to drag himself vertical. Fiery jealousy burned in Sherlock's mind as he watched John's caring nature take hold and wrap his arms around Moran's waist to keep him upright.
"-not to forget there are sixty or something armed men storming the building," John snorted as he continued, unamused, "As if the raging inferno wasn't enough. All my stuff's been burnt."
"Good," Moran was testing the waters, taking little steps and wincing at the heavy pressure between his legs, "It's about time those disgusting pants of yours went up in flames."
Through the darkness, Sherlock heard the delightful trills of John's laughter, "Oi, fuck off. The amount of times I've seen you staring at my arse, I'd have thought you liked them."
A small grunt sounded as Moran backhanded John in the stomach, "Shut up and help me out of here before I punch you in that pretty ass."
"Always so threatening," John murmured as he led Moran to the left of Sherlock down the corridor. "How do you expect to have any friends?"
They reached the end of the coridoor, Moran scoffed. "I've got you, haven't I?" He smirked, leaning heavily into John's body. Sherlock's fists coiled impulsively. He should have aimed for Moran's face instead and wiped that smirk clean off.
As the pair rounded the corner, Sherlock crawled to his feet – small, breathy gasps of pain escaping his lips. At least now he had confirmation of John's safety; as much as it irritated him to think so, Moran wouldn't let John come to harm. Now he could clear his mind and concentrate on his first goal. The real reason behind this all.
To retrieve John's father. John Watson Senior.
And if his new hypothesis was correct, it would be easier than he hoped.
xxxxxx
With Moran outside, John instantly rushed back in. Military training ran deep, and although many of the recruits were opting for the, "save yourself," tactic, John was exempt from that. If he didn't return into the building and he later found out a man had perished inside – he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. As a doctor, a soldier, and a damn good person, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.
And so he ran.
Ignoring Moran's calls, he shrugged off his military coat and flung it over his head to shield him from the flames licking at the walls around him.
He followed the maze of corridors towards the Fourth Wing where the fire had originated. With the intent of flushing out Moriarty from the safe depths of Liberty House's confides Mycroft's men had started a controlled fire just outside of the Fourth Wing. They had hoped that with a call of 'fire', Moriarty's lizard instincts would kick in, and he would flee to safety. What they hadn't predicted, however, was the strong winds that would catch the sparks and draw them into the homely shelter of Liberty Hall and become the beginnings of an immense blaze.
With none of the enemy soldiers in sight, John continued, every now and then meeting his friends whom travelled in the opposite direction; fleeing the fire, instead of heading for it. It took John a few seconds to register the sounds of agonised shrieks over the combined roar of flames and creaking wood.
"SOMEONE HELP!" A voice was screaming, "PLEASE!"
Blood running cold despite the heat, John threw himself through an adjacent door, using his shoulder to bring it open. As the door flew open, he recoiled as a cloud of burning smoke assaulted his face. Tears smarted his eyes, and he hacked a rough cough. Trying again with his heart firmly in his throat, he entered the room.
The entire ceiling of the common room had collapsed inwards, rubble from the wreckage scattered across the room. Flames that verged on white scattered across the edges of the room burned ever inwards and upwards and smoke in thick curls swathed the walls. A large, charcoaled wooden beam ran from one end of the room to the other, its ends riddled with fire.
And then there was the source of the screams.
Jones was trapped, writhing in agony under the beam that had fallen and crushed his thigh into the boards below. His pale face was twisted and crumpled in pain as he tried fitfully to lift the beam from himself. Healy was next to him, as always was the case, both arms surrounding the beam, red faced with exertion and heat as he too tried to pull the beam from Jones' leg. But he wasn't build for that; the man was a sniper, not a weight lifter.
"John!" Healy looked as if he was about to burst into tears in relief, "Thank fuck you're here; you've got to help us-" His voice was drowned by the sound of creaking wood, the floor threatening to buckle under the duress. They had hardly any time before the floorboards would give way, and they would all be plunged two stories downwards into the flames. Terror alighted in Healy's eyes.
"Please, we've got to help him," Healy released the beam to clutch at John's arms in desperation, dragging him forward. Never before had he seen a man so terrified. "I can't leave him, please. I love him."
"Then let me help."
John pulled himself from Healy's arms and bolted forwards, surveying the beam methodically. If it was too heavy to lift, he would need a counterbalance of some sort.
He turned to one side, eyes roaming the wreck of a room. He would need some sort of wood or metal to slide under the beam and lift it free of Jones' leg. Bending, he gripped a thick plank of what had been flooring and dragged if forward. It took a few moments for Healy to catch on – his attentions narrowed to Jones and Jones alone; placing kisses on the man's head tenderly and telling him it would be all alright – but as he saw John's actions, his eyes brightened. Leaving his lover with a final affectionate kiss to the forehead, he assisted John in positioning the plank under a gnarled edge of the beam that rose ever so slightly from the ground.
With that done, John – tears running freely down his reddened face from the smoke – gripped the end of the plank that stuck from underneath the beam.
"When I lift it," He growled over the roar of fire to Healy, who was coughing obscenely, "pull Jones out and run, got that?"
Healy collapsed forward, nodding his understanding, his movements become laboured. Falling to his knees, he scooted up to Jones as close as he could, before immersing the little Irishman in his arms gently. Jones' bottom lip was protruding and shaking as he held back his little sobs of agony. Trying to be brave. Healy resumed his murmurings rocking the tiny body of his sweetheart in his arms. It's OK, he was saying, I love you, it's OK.
Planting both his hands on the plank that heated in his grip, John forced it downwards and in return, the beam rose upwards.
Jones screeched, hands clawing at Healy's forearms as a cloud of ash was blown up in the movement and settled in the open, bleeding flesh wound that was his thigh. In the same instant, when his thigh was clear, Healy was pulling with all his might, face screwing in concentration. Nothing would stop him getting Jones to safety, not now.
As soon as Jones was free from underneath the beam, Healy gathered the man further into his arms, his sobs softening and becoming smothered in Jones' ridiculously big jumper.
"Let's get you out of here, you stupid git," Healy all but whimpered, climbing off his knees to his feet. The floor groaned dangerously, small shivers of cracks scorching along its entirety.
When he reached the door, Healy turned, searching for John amongst the smoke. "John!" He roared, "Come on, let's go!"
A vague shape in the billowing smoke shimmered. "Just a- just a sec!" John bellowed back, barely audible and choking, "I need to put the beam down!"
The floor shuddered violently once more as John shifted the weight. Suddenly, Healy was aware of a much more imminent danger.
"JOHN, NO!"
Healy could do nothing but watch as John released the beam, sending it cascading through the weakened floorboards and into the fire that carpeted the first and second floors. The floor splinted and roared as it continued to break, fragile under the fire's relentless attack.
John looked up once, horrified panic clear in his wide, blue eyes, before the floor gave way to his weight, and he was sent downwards into the flames.