Their Bonfire Hearts

Chapter One – John

The sun shone through John Watson’s window, the rays cutting through his supposed “black out blind”, hitting his face in the exact way he really did not want them to. They were too bright – too cheery. They didn’t know what they were interrupting. Urgh. He tried to turn over, to relapse into the beautiful dream, to no avail. God. He needed to stop dreaming about Sherlock so vividly; it was a recipe for disaster… The bed was so warm; John felt so perfectly airless, cocooned in his own little section of perfection. Well, almost perfection. The smoke alarm going off ruined it a bit. Sherlock? Must be… What the hell was he doing now?

John had got used to Sherlock’s experiments over the few months they had lived together - the clonks of cupboard doors, the constant bubbling hisses from his chemistry set, the squealing violin slicing the precious night-time hours into oblivion - it was just one of the quirks of being best friends with the world’s only consulting detective. If he was any less in love with the man, he might have decided the cons of living with Sherlock out-weighed the pros... Waking up to the fire alarm was commonplace in 221B Baker Street; Sherlock would always just stick his head round the bedroom door, let John know it wasn’t an emergency in as few words as possible, and carry on with whatever the hell he was doing. But today was different. His doorway did not frame the mob of dark curls that belonged to his flatmate; the alarm was still going. Urgh. Today was going to be a bad day.

“Sherlock, will you turn that bloody thing off?” No reply. “Sherlock? For god’s sake; what the hell are you up to now?” Still no reply. The alarm carried on screaming, undeterred. Sighing heavily, John shrugged his way out from under the duvet, wincing as his feet touched the ice-cold floor. He made his way to the door, pulling on his dressing gown as he went, before peering round the doorframe into the hall beyond. He paused at Sherlock's door, knocked once. Silence. “Sherlock?” Even more determined to shut the bloody smoke detector off, he stormed down the passage into the kitchen. The kitchen was a state – more so than usual. The microscope balanced precariously on the edge of a pile of open books; the knife, lying bloodied against the open milk carton; a burning...something in the oven. It smelt awful – gagging, John turned the oven off, opened the near-by window, and turned his attention to the fire alarm, a headache forming in the depths of his brain. God, where the hell was the insufferable git? Tea-towel flapping wildly in the general direction of the smoke detector, John glanced around for a note, or even a clue as to where his flatmate had gone. Nothing. With a final peep, the alarm ceased. As he made his way back to him bedroom, slamming the door behind him, he drew out his phone from his pocket. Five new messages.

“Murder. You coming? Meet me at St. Bart’s in half an hour. –SH” 08:41AM

“Male, aged 48. The artery on the inside of left thigh has been sliced – tiny cut, but lethal. Bled out. Need you to take a look. - SH” 08:55AM

“John, we need to talk. I’m sending a car; save me the bother of kidnapping you again – get in. Andrea’s waiting for you. Mycroft” 09:02AM

“Don’t bother coming then. Molly looked for me instead. I was correct, obviously. On way home. – SH” 09:07AM

“You leave me no choice, John. Mycroft” 09:30AM

‘This day just gets better and better, doesn’t it’ sighed John inwardly, as he raided his wardrobe for something comfy – no point in having a hard day AND being uncomfortable. Just as he pulled his favourite jumper over his head, he heard the door to his flat slam open; a single pair of footsteps charging in, before stopping. The flat fell silent; John held his breath as he inadvertently reached for his gun, trying to remember as much of his army training as possible. Freezing as he listened, the footsteps sounded again. The intruder seemed to be walking round the living room, pausing frequently – presumably to look at one of Sherlock’s absurd artefacts, that lay strewn across the flats living room. If THIS was Mycroft’s doing… The footsteps paused again, but for longer this time. Then they turned, and walked through the kitchen. The owners of the footsteps made an audible groan whilst walking past what John presumed to be the table. Then the footsteps were outside his door. The man on the other side cleared his throat.

“Stop hiding from me John, it’s not becoming of you.” Mycroft drawled. Scowling, John threw the door open to reveal Mycroft’s tall figure. The man glanced at him, distractedly, his eyes rounder than Sherlock’s, but no less harsh and all-seeing, before walking back towards the living room, lounging in his brother's chair. “You need to sleep more. Where is my brother?” John grunted – it was always about Sherlock, wasn’t it. Moving to the kitchen, he filled the kettle - tea would make him feel better, surely?

“What the hell has he done now?” Mycroft shifted his weight slightly, his whole demeanour changing dramatically. It was disconcerting how similar to his brother Mycroft was, in subtle aspects: the brain, the ability to deduce the world around him in a matter of seconds, the blunt sentences. He was in no way similar in looks - Sherlock had the upper hand on sex-appeal but then Mycroft... No. He could not think of Sherlock's brother like that...

“He hasn’t done anything. Yet.” The emphasis lay heavily on the last word. John swallowed hard. In the few months he had known Sherlock, he had become very close to the man, or as close to him as anyone could get. Christ – he didn’t even know the man’s favourite colour, if he had one. But for some reason, he trusted the man with his life. Sherlock Holmes always knew what he was doing – Sherlock Holmes was never wrong. He was a git, yes. He was arrogant, ignorant and unbearable at times, but he never wrong. If he was in danger, John would do anything within his power to help him.

“What do you mean ‘yet’?” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mycroft sighed dramatically.

“Surely you are intellectual enough to know what the word “yet” means, Doctor Watson? Yet – adverb: at the present time; up to a particular time; time still remaining. I would have thought they would have taught you that at least in that quaint little state school you went to… Then again, it was a state school, and the standard of education there…” John could feel the anger building up in his gut, as he cut him off.

“Mycroft, let me warn you know that this is really not the time to piss me off. Tell me, clearly. What do you want?” The man shifted in his chair, and looked him in the eyes, and in that second John knew. Mycroft knew what John felt but could never say. Mycroft knew that he was in love with Sherlock.

“I want you to tell my brother how you really feel about him, Doctor Watson, before it's too late.”