Sherlocked (BBC Fanfiction)

Chapter 18 - Warning

Nothing could have prepared me for sudden impact of all the living room windows shattering all at once, shockwaves of force knocking both Sherlock and me clean off our feet.  A bright burst of light seared my retinas and I felt reverberations traveling down my ear canals, rupturing my ear drums.  I felt my body – wispy and weightless – soar backwards through the air.  I hit the ground and rolled into the wall, sharp glass raining down upon me.  It was over in a second.  The fire alarms began ringing, alerting everyone in the building.  But everything was dulled.  It was almost as if I was hearing things through a blanket.  My heartbeat pulsated in my ears, blunted.  Like hammer on cloth.

But my instincts kicked in from my time spent in war and I climbed onto all fours.  My vision inverted and I fell back down onto my stomach.  “Sherlock…,” the word dripped from my mouth like a faucet, the dewdrop splashing down into the sink.

With great effort, I staggered to my feet, holding onto the mantle of the fireplace.  My eyes raked over the living room that was littered with broken glass and found Sherlock’s body thrown under the Christmas tree with reckless abandon.  My vision was spinning as I stumbled over to him.  Rolling him onto his back, he faced the ceiling, his head thrown back.  His nose leaked blood as did his lip and there a nasty cut above his left eye.  “Sherlock, open your eyes,” I slurred.  I shook him and he remained silent.  I sighed, coming to a conclusion. 

I hauled him into a sitting position and, using the strength of my knees, lifted him into an almost-standing situation.  Wrapping on of his arms around my shoulders, I felt myself inhaling a sort of smoke-like atmosphere.  I then began the long trek to the door.  After numerous excruciating steps and nearly dropping Sherlock, I made it and reached out for the handle.  I twisted the knob and faced the corridor.  I dragged Sherlock down and then lugubriously stared at the flights of steps before me.  I shifted Sherlock in my arm and then initiated my descent.  After twenty long, strenuous, tedious minutes, I arrived at the front door, completely out of breath.  Reaching out, it was ripped from my grasp and was swung open.  Several EMTs, Scotland Yard goonies, and other official looking men and women began filing in.  Two EMTs grabbed my arm and hauled me outside, taking Sherlock from my arms.  Almost all the residents, including Mrs. Hudson, were gathered outside on the snow-packed street.  I sat down on the curb, avoiding the broken glass of our windows, my elbows resting on my knees.  I felt the cold of the snow seeping through my pants.  An EMT bent down infront of me, inspecting the inconsequential cuts, scrapes, and bruises on my face and arms.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I said.  “Really.”  The EMT gave me a skeptical look but walked away.  With dizzying vision, I lied back on the sidewalk as I heard Mrs. Hudson’s frantic voice.

“Jordyn darling, are you alright?”  She exclaimed and bent down next to me.

“I’m alright.  Sherlock’s been rendered unconscious though,” I mumbled, the pounding in my head beginning to grow louder.  Snapping my eyes open, I stared up at the sky above me, the stars dancing, mocking me.  The sound of news reporters began to fill my ear canals and I panicked.  This didn’t need to be broadcasted.

With the vivacious buzzing of my phone from inside my training pants pocket, I jumped, alarmed.  Pulling it out, I answered with an inarticulate salutation, sitting up.  “Hullo?”

“Jordyn, Jordyn, are you alright?  Your house, I saw it on the news…,” Misha’s hysterical voice strained through the phone.

“Misha?  Look, everything’s fine.  I promise –”

“I’m-I’m driving up now.”

My shoulders collapsed.  “No, no, it’s alright.  You don’t have to, everything’s taken care of.  Scotland Yard…EMTs…,” my words dissipated into the air and I felt this unrequited argument breathe its last breath.