Guns, Games, and Mutual Appreciation ~ A BBC Sherlock Fanfiction {Book I}

Chapter 4- A Save, A Smile and A Serial Killer

Millie's POV

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The door.

It's locked, but made of thin wood. It could be broken down. There's a gap in the flames, wide enough for one person. I turn to Holmes, who is pressing his scarf to his mouth, and he confirms my thoughts.

I push him forward.

He looks at me, then runs, sidestepping through the flames and slamming his shoulder into the door. 

Nothing.

He slams again. A crack, the fainest indication of give. A groan of wood against force and then-

The door collapses, and I see the outline of Holmes stumble through the flame, coughing. The flames lick the gap closed. I'm trapped. I'm trying to think clearly, but the smoke and the smell and the sweet chemicals are making my head swim and thoughts tangle. I sink down the wall, on to my knees.

I don't believe in a god, but in my state of half-deranged frenzy, I make a silent prayer to the empty space and ask to let it be quick.

I hear a hazy coughing next to me, and feel my body being lifted up, and carried, quickly out of the room. The heat of the flames burning me through my clothes and the slick sweat on my forehead remind me that I am not dead, but almost, and I open my eyes enough to see me and whoever is carrying me run through the broken door and sway down endless stairs.

"I can walk," I croak, surprised at how distanced my voice sounds. I can tell this person is struggling, what with my added weight and the smoke and the heat.

I'm placed on the stairwell, albeit a bit roughly, and I shakily get to my feet, before stumbling and veering of to my left. I hear the noise of plaster cracking and woodwork crumbling. We've got to get out.

I lean against the person, and we make our way downstairs, out the door, into the garden.

The last thing I see is John Watson, his face a picture of relief and concern.

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John's POV

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I smile to myself. I can see elements of him in her already. She stolidly refuses my help, despite the fact she had just blacked out in front of me, and gets to her feet. 

"Thankyou, Dr. Watson, but I need to leave now," she smiles without humour, and taps her head. "I need to think things through."

She looks dangerously woozy, but determined. She's not thinking clearly, but I know better than to argue with her type.

"Call me John. Millie, seriously, I think you should sit-" but it's too late, she's walked away.

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Millie's POV

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I walk towards the gate that leads to the main road, trying to clear the fog from my thoughts as I do so. I don't like feeling so mentally incapacitated. I feel naked, and helpless, without the ability to analyse and explain. I've just reached the end of the path when I turn, and see Sherlock looking intently at the ground nearby. He looks up, distracted, his face smudged with soot, and glances at me unsmilingly.

I nod, my hand on the gate.

"See you, Sherlock Holmes," I say, as I leave him, and the house with all its unsolved mystery, behind.

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It's one week later, and I'm standing outside the door labelled 221B. I keep my face blank, and check my stature- I'm not going to give him anything to analyse this time. I knock twice, and the door opens to reveal an elderly lady, wearing a blouse and a white apron.