Like Wire (A BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

[twenty four]

His wrists were bleeding from the struggle of trying to release himself from the ropes that kept him in the chair; he was still not free and the fire was closing in on him.

"John?"

He didn't even know if John was here with him or if Moriarty had something else planned, not knowing scared Sherlock.

He threw his body down, crashing the wooden chair against the floor, again and again. Shards of wood cut into his aching back as he slammed it back onto the floor, breaking up the cheap chair. A chair arm snapped in an unclean motion, freeing one of Sherlocks stinging wrists, which he twisted around, regaining his ability to feel them before releasing the other arm. He clamped one hand over his bleeding wrist, drawing it back and seeing the blanket of blood on his hand.

The jeering fire circled him, pointing, laughing, mocking him. Anderson darted forward and Sherlock stumbled back, Sally laughed: everyone laughed. They chanted his name, forming an inescapable ring around him. Their cackles and voices rang through his ears as he stumbled side to side, back and fourth.

"John!" He choked, Sherlock knew he needed to find his friend.

He ran forward, barging into Anderson but the contact burnt his flesh and Sherlock snarled at the realisation there were no people - just the fire. Just the fire.

Again, he hurled his body forward; this time knowing the source of the scorching pain trapping his feeble, incapable, dissapointment of a shell that limited Sherlock.

The pitiless fire lashed against him, scraping at his skin, scratching his flesh like millions of hands reaching out, trying to grab onto him, to pin him down, force him into hopeless despair.

"Sherlock?" The voice was faint and raspy but it was there.

"John, is that you?" Sherlock called out, breathing in thick smoke fumes.

"Yes, Yes Sherlock, theres a fire!" John croaked, panicked.

It wasn't just Sherlocks wrist that was stinging now, his whole body was seering with a horrif, merrciless pain as the ruthless fire attacked him, cooking him from the inside, sizzling his gut like a steak.

"I know, I know," Sherlock choked, "Where are you? I'm coming to get you - are you okay?"

"I'm in a little room," John replied, interrupted by a large crashing noise as burning wood collapsed.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock repeated, his vision still intruded by the angry, vicious fire.

John didn't reply, the sound of the fire spluttered and cracked but there was no audio from John.

Sherlock came face to face with an alite door, which Sherlock lunged towards, breaking through to a - hopefully just - unconcious John.

"John? Are you okay? Can you hear me?" Sherlock asked, patting his face to try and wake him.

The heat was sufforcating, wrapping around his lungs as he disloged some fallen wood which had been keeping John in place. Sherlock felt like he was dying, his body was screaming out in inexorable pain from the touch of the flames. He collected John and struggled to pick him up, carrying him slightly over his shoulder like he would his scarf.

Red.

Orange.

Yellow.

Burn.

Red.

Orange.

Yellow.

Burn.

Relentless fire held onto Sherlock, pleading with him to stay as he fought his way to where he hoped the exit might be.

Red.

Orange.

Yellow.

Burn.

Red.

Orange.

Yellow.

Blue.

Blue sky, light, freedom!

Despite being weighed down by John, Sherlock found the determination and will to hurry himself forward, avoiding the hypnotizing, sparking embers. A much needed gush of cold air hit him as he placed John on the ground before crumpling down.