A/N Now the last line of this one just makes me think of the Avengers, wow.

Thanks to TooLazyToLogin, sparrowismyhummingbird (not creepy at all-I'm extremely flattered!), MapleleafCameo, johnsarmylady, and Motaku1235

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXVIII. Hero

By the time they arrive there, the building is already on fire. The orange light reflects in John's eyes, bright against the darkened horror of the rest of his face when they stumble to a halt, Sherlock barely out of breath but John practically doubled over.

"We were too late," Sherlock murmurs grimly, staring as a large portion of the house's siding slips down into the grass and crumbles to dark grey ash.

"Don't say that!" John hisses in defiance. "They might still be trapped in there, somewhere!"

"Unlikely. It took too long…" His internal defeat is evident in his voice, taking on the form of acid frustration, and John lets out a disbelieving noise.

"So you're disappointed because you couldn't make it on time, right? Didn't live up to your own stupid ego? Do you have any idea—there are people dying in there!"

"Trying to get inside at this point would be suicide," Sherlock growls. "The best we can do is call the fire department." With this in mind, he slips a hand into his coat pocket, retrieving his mobile phone and dialing up the emergency number.

John takes a moment to catch his breath, glaring fiercely at Sherlock while the phone rings steadily. "…No," he finally snarls, through gritted teeth. "I'm not going to give up on this."

"John—wait!" Sherlock calls, alarmed, but the other man is already dashing up the path to the house, holding his arm over his mouth and nose and dodging a fierce bout of flame as he ducks inside the smoking house. Hissing with frustration and terror that he would never admit to, the detective cut off the phone call—one of the neighbors was sure to have notified the police already, in any case—and runs to the porch just as a veil of fire darted over the wood, licking it up and completely blocking any view or entry inside.

"John," he repeats again, faintly, but of course there's no response. Oh, God, John… what have you done now…? The seconds stretch into minutes, slowly, and the house starts to fully collapse, the highest floor caving in first, then the others beginning to slip and collapse. Sherlock stands in the yard, eyes wide, figure frozen, mind numb.

There's no way, is there…? No way that John might actually not make it out, could be ended by that fire… why the hell did you let him go…?

Then he sees them, running over from around the back—the woman is limping, and the little girl can barely drag her feet along the ground, but he has her, his arm wrapped around her shoulder as they dart away from the wreckage of the house…

John.

John, with the family of two that had lived there, and they're alive, they're all alive.

Something breaks in Sherlock's chest, and, at least in that moment, he does believe in heroes.