A/N You can never have enough Sherlock whump. Not. Ever. By the way, thank you SO much for the 500 reviews. I'm just... I'm speechless. Completely speechless.

Thanks to 666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, johnsarmylady, hjohn302, Motaku1235, Natalie Nallareet, ThisDayWillPass, RamenMartinez, and LuvMiMusic92

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

LXXXIX. Through the Fire

The flames were hot, hot than Sherlock ever would have expected. He knew the temperature of fire in various conditions, knew it down to a tenth of a degree, but numbers could never really capture the true experience of being near a raging wall of the white-orange flame. He pressed himself down against the dangerously dry wooden wall of the abandoned house, clenching his teeth together and holding his palms over the floor, trying to avoid the clouds of smoke that drifted thickly over his head. Still, he couldn't stop a few tendrils of the heavy greyness from slipping down his throat, and he coughed, hacking into the air, which barely contained the traces of oxygen mandatory for him to breathe.

There was no one inside the house, so there was at least that reassurance. Not even John. He'd come on this mission alone, with the intention to corner the criminal he'd been tracking. Damn man had been a step ahead of him, though… somehow… perhaps he was growing sloppy, no longer covering his tracks properly…

His thoughts wove about in a hazy mess, and he drew his sleeve over his forehead, rather surprised at how damp it was by the time he pulled it away. All of his skin was polished with a thin layer of perspiration by now, sweat curling around his upper lip and sliding into his mouth, tanging it with salt. His throat was scorched with thirst, and a blanket of sleepiness was beginning to overwhelm the adrenaline pumping uselessly through his veins. No amount of reserve energy could save him from the fire that surrounded him on all sides.

Perhaps he should run straight into the wall of flame, just get it over with. It would be less painful, certainly, and he could at least die with the knowledge that he'd been the one to decide the final circumstances.

He couldn't, though. His fingernails dug into the splintering floorboards underneath him, digging deep in as a tongue of flame darted out, scorching the edge of his shoe. He inhaled swiftly against the pain, feeling a cloud of dizziness sweep through his head like a veil of the ash that sat around him.

It was all going to be over, soon enough.

It would be nice, he figured faintly, if only he'd gotten the chance to say goodbye to John. Guilt stabbed lightly at his stomach, but the sensation was too distant to be truly painful. John would manage. He was strong.

John…

Even the fire was shining less vividly now, everything feeling awfully far away as smoke swamped his lungs. And yet, for just the briefest moment before it all vanished completely, he thought he could see the lightest hint of blue, blue eyes, through the streams of red and gold and white, hear voices and feel a distant spray of coolness coasting over his shirtfront…

But it was surely just his imagination.