The Question of Faith in Baskerville

Chapter Seventeen: Save What has been Lost

The explosion rang in Henry's ears as the white-orange wall of heat rose ever skyward before them. He fought for breath, the distant heat still scorching his lungs and throat. What had happened? What did Bob do now? Where was—

"John!" a woman's scream, just before she bolted past him. "John!"

Henry pelted after her, only vaguely aware of the second stranger following. "John!" he shouted.

Sherlock half-turned, his face in fearful shock even as he caught the woman. "Molly, no!"

Molly whipped toward him, half-snarling, "I have seen the aftermath of explosions thanks to that criminal mastermind. I am going to find what remains of our friend!"

Sherlock held her tighter despite her struggles. "No one can survive that heat right now." His voice was dead, clinical. But his eyes showed it was the deadness of feeling too much.

"No," Henry whispered. He stumbled back, collapsing against a tree. While he'd hardly known John Watson for forty-eight hours, not even, he could honestly say he'd never felt so safe as when John was at his side.

The stranger knelt beside him, a cool, forced detachment as he laid a hand on Henry's shoulder. But his own eyes were filled with unshed tears.

Henry buried his face in his hands. Why? Why did Bob have to ruin so many lives? Why did he have to take John away from them?

Sherlock held Molly tight as she sobbed into his coat, clutching the lapels. He buried his face in her shoulder. Tears streamed down his face. He never should have allowed John to run ahead on his own. He should have been there. He should have been the one to be at Frankland's heels.

The faintest pop rose from the explosion. The fire was catching the trees, boiling the fresh sap. They would have to get out of here. Call the local fire department. Yet he couldn't pull himself any further away from where his best friend lay.

"John?" Henry's voice was soft, barely more than a breath.

A flicker of hope, but Sherlock dashed it. It would take a miracle for John to have survived. And there was no god who cared enough about humanity, about one John Watson, to step in and perform that miracle.

"Molly," Lestrade said. "Do you think you could send some of your magic in there?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, lifting her head. She turned, just before stiffening in shock. She carefully pulled away before summoning her keyblade.

Sherlock raised his head to look. He blinked. Uncertain as to what he was seeing. There appeared to be two figures. The taller seemed to be supporting a hunched form. Light refracted oddly around them before seeming to drain away. Then, another faint pop, and more refracted light.

Molly sent out a swirling tunnel of ice, meeting the two figures.

They stumbled a bit, but the taller quickly recovered, pulling the other up a little straighter.

"The Hebrew children," Lestrade murmured.

Sherlock turned to him with a blink. What did an inaccurately titled story from the Bible have to do with what they were seeing?

"Could it be?" Molly breathed. She ran forward, barely faltering on the icy path she had created.

Henry raced after her, but Sherlock found himself rooted in place. All he could do was watch as his mind and heart battled whether or not he should believe what he was seeing.

Henry hardly dared to believe his eyes as he saw who was supporting John.

"Oh, thank you," Molly repeated over and over as she quickly looked the former army doctor over. "Thank you."