Keeping the Strength to Fight

Chapter 5- Sherlock

The second they stood back up, though, Sherlock knew it was a feint. The gun was still aimed at the window, and the two people left weren't moving to reload.

As soon as Sherlock and Irene were in full view in the window, they opened fire again. He managed to grab Irene's arm and drag her down again, but not before letting off two bullets of his own.

Ok, so they were smarter than he gave them credit for, they just weren't counting on a risen-from-the-dead genius to be here to help her.

He knew they hadn't actually identified him from the quick glances they got, they definitely weren't that observant, so they must just be running on the assumption that she has backup.

He promptly began checking himself for wounds, of any kind really, and found himself surprisingly injury free.

Irene however...

Looking over at her, he saw two major looking bullet wounds. One to the arm and one in the abdominal area.

Nothing a good doctor couldn't fix, probably.

Sherlock frowned, the one time he needed him...

He remembered a scrap of information on treating wounds, and told Irene to keep calm, (stupid advice really) and press down on the wound to her stomach, which appeared to be the more serious one, whilst he ripped a strip of the already shredded curtain off, and wrapped it around her wounded arm to stem the bleeding.

He ran a hand through his hair, this messed up his plan a bit. How was he supposed to get out now? He couldnt leave Irene here, she'd die within minutes, either from losing too much blood, or from the attackers outside.

He would have to save her.

How dull.

Leaning back against the wall he started running through possible scenarios in his head, none of which, so far, had seen either of them come out alive.

"I need something foolproof." He began, speaking his thoughts out loud, "Something that will have immediate effects, something that will give me time to get us both out. Something like-"

He stopped, and slowly began building an idea, a map of interlocking elements piecing themselves together in his mind.

"That will work." He whispered, smiling.

He waited patiently for the firing to stop, and when it did, waited again to listen for signs of movement. When there wasn't any, he smirked.

"They're stupid enough to use the same feint twice, and to think we would fall for it again." He thought humorously as he heard them cursing from the street below.

The firing resumed when they accepted that Sherlock and Irene weren't going to fall for it.

And so the waiting continued.

Sherlock turned his attention to Irene again. That would be the humanistic thing to do at this time, not something he would normally bother with, but he was bored of the repeated gunfire.

"You alright?"

"Fine."

"Ok."

Well, glad that was over with.

"Sherlock..."

Oh great.

"Yes...?"

"I need you to get something for me, over by th-"

"The safety deposit box in the roof of the fireplace? I'll get it now..."

Irene sat with both a puzzled and amused expression on her face as Sherlock crossed the room in a heartbeat, keeping low to the floor, and knelt by the bace of the fireplace, beginning to wiggle the box out of the tight space in the roof.

He looked over at her.

"It's jammed."

"I can see that."

Sherlock scowled and tried again, still finalizing his idea in his head.

Every time the box moved, dust and ash fell from the sides of the slot where the box rubbed against the sides. The dust fell onto the marble bace creating the rectangular outline he had noticed earlier.

He loved it when he was right.

Finally the box came loose and he ran back over. He handed her the box and the machine gun stopped.

Time to shine.

When he heard them fetching the third round, he said, "When I count to three, start crawling towards the stairs. One."

Irene frowned. "What are you on ab-"

"Two."

"Sherlock, tell me!"

He grinned.

"Three!"

As Irene set off crawl-limping in the direction of the exit, Sherlock stood up and shot once, with perfect accuracy, at a metal TV dish on the side of the apartment opposite. Which, because of its concave shape and the way it is angled, reflected the bullet off sending it ricocheting towards the gas tank.

He quickly ducked back down, smiling, as he heard them shouting and panicking, trying to get well away from the van.

Sherlock jumped up, realizing he didn't have much time. He reached the stairs to find a passed out Irene slouched on the third step down.

He grabbed her by the waist as he ran past, throwing her over his shoulder, and leaping the last 5 steps, landing wonky but regaining balance quickly.

He quietly dropped Irene to the floor as he pressed his back up against the wall and slid down, peeking through the letterbox as the men cautiously returned to their unexploded vehicle.

"They really are idiots." Sherlock mused. "No one could get a direct hit on the tank from that angle, anyone trained in combat would know that."

From here however...

He lifted his gun to the letterbox and took aim.

"Stupid people, still thinking we're up at the window, they should know a feint when they see one."

And with that last thought, he fired. The bullet slicing through the gas tank like a knife through butter.

Except butter doesn't explode.

Sherlock dived back over Irene when the shockwave hit, knocking the door off its hinges and throwing it halfway up the stairs.

Then the fire came, swallowing them whole. And Sherlock sat, amidst the swirling flames, and waited for the smoke to clear.