Chapter Text
“Oi, Watson!” A quick, stinging slap to the arse jolted John from a fitful sleep. He groaned and turned his head to gaze bleary-eyed at Sawyer’s cheeky grin.
“Fuck you,” he said and buried his face into his pillow.
She laughed. “Not now,” she said, “I’m starving, and there’s free food in the kitchen.”
“Is that why you’re annoying me?” John mumbled.
“Yes. Now get up and come eat.”
John shook his head and burrowed further into the pillow.
Sawyer shoved John’s legs over and perched next to him on the tiny twin bed. “Come on, John, you’ve got to eat.”
John thought about rolling over and ignoring her, but the sincere concern in her voice stopped him short. He raised his head and looked at her. “Sarah, I need sleep more than I need food. We only got in a few hours ago and—”
“I know,” she interrupted, “Morrison told me there were four shouts last night.” She ran a hand through her tangled ponytail. “Rough one, huh?”
“Mhmm.” John sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Three weren’t serious, but the last was an electrical fire. Seven story death trap, practically crumbling. Thirteen occupied flats. We managed to get almost everyone out except for an old man on the top floor—smoke inhalation got him before we could.”
She stroked his arm. “I’m so sorry, John.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “What are you doing here? I thought your shift didn’t start until tomorrow morning.”
“It doesn’t. Jan called and said she’d made some food to send to the station, and she asked if I would help bring it in.”
John nodded. Morrison’s wife was determined her husband and his colleagues would never go hungry. She was forever sending something over—spag bol, lasagna, even once a pork roast with potatoes and carrots—and John couldn’t say he didn’t appreciate it. Many times Jan had provided him with his only meal for days at a time. And it didn’t hurt that she was a damn fine cook.
Sawyer nudged his legs with a hip. “Come on. It’s shepherd’s pie.”
“Yeah, yeah, alright. I’ll be right there.” John yawned and waved a hand to indicate she should go on without him. She frowned but rose from the bed and headed downstairs to the kitchen.
John scooted to the edge of the bed and ran his hand over his head to flatten his hair. He tucked his t-shirt in again—looked like he needed to add another notch on his belt to accommodate his recent weight loss—and straightened the legs of his heavy, industrial-grade trousers. He didn’t want to go downstairs, but he really didn’t want to go back to sleep, either. Too many nightmares soaked with blood and heat, so much red he sometimes felt trapped inside his own heart, thumping and pumping so hard and loud the noise filled his brain until he thought both organs might explode.
John’s mobile buzzed in his pocket, distracting him from his morbid thoughts. He fished it out and glanced at the screen. A text from Mary: Dinner on your next day off? John replied quickly in the affirmative, picked up his boots from beneath the bed, and pulled them on.
When John reached the kitchen, he saw Jan juggling heaping platefuls of food. He grabbed two, and she gave him a grateful smile as she followed him into the dining hall. Morrison, McCaffrey, Wilson, Jones, and Sawyer were gathered round one of the long tables discussing the previous evening’s call-outs. John slipped the plates in front of Sawyer and Jones then returned to the kitchen to fetch two more. Once the food had been distributed and John had convinced Jan to join them, he tucked in and listened to Morrison describe the wrecked building from last night.
“How someone gets away with allowing people to live in a place like that, I’ll never understand,” Morrison grumbled around a mouthful of shepherd’s pie. “Stanley really needs to have the Board crack down on those places.”
“Won’t help,” Wilson said and pushed his blond fringe out of his eyes. “Owner’s probably someone wealthy and well-connected. Always is.”
John nodded and grunted his agreement. He lifted his fork to take the first bite of his food when the firehouse alarm blared. John swore silently and stood, nearly knocking his chair on its back. He joined the flurry of activity around him and headed for the garage, falling in step behind Morrison and Wilson. McCaffrey and Jones followed, and John heard the others on shift rush in from the rec area. Morrison’s radio crackled to life, and the dispatcher’s voice gave the address of a warehouse some four or five blocks from the station.
Once in the garage, John jerked his uniform and equipment from a peg on the wall and hurried to pull it on. Around him, the other guys did the same, and when everyone was kitted out, Wilson climbed into the driver’s side of the fire engine. As John clambered in along with McCaffrey and Morrison, he noticed Freeman readying the second engine. Must be a four pumper then.
“Let’s go!” Morrison shouted and banged his large, meaty hand on the door of Engine One.
Wilson flipped the siren and lights before pulling out of the now open bay door. Morrison had John and McCaffrey check the equipment as Wilson maneuvered through the evening traffic. Required response time was within five minutes of receiving the call, and John wondered if they’d make it; the densely packed cars heading out of the city made it difficult to get any real speed. But then Wilson spotted a break in the traffic and managed to slide through the gap until finally they were able to pick up speed enough to leave the second engine behind. Another two turns, and the engine stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse from which thick, gray smoke billowed. Flames licked at the roof, warm and gold against the darkening sky.
“Empty?” John asked as he jumped to the pavement.
Morrison pressed a button on his radio. “Status on occupation?”
“Caller said two individuals spotted going into the building but not seen exiting,” the dispatcher’s voice answered.
Morrison nodded and spoke into his radio. “Hear that? Possible occupants. Engine Two, ETA?”
Freeman’s voice came through the speaker. “Stuck at the moment. ETA four to five minutes.”
“Right,” Morrison said. “Wilson and McCaffrey handle the pump. Jones, Collins, Michaels, and Smith, you’re on the hose. Watson, you and Mason come with me—we’re going in.”
John lifted his pack and shouldered it on. As they headed for the building’s front entrance, he flipped his face mask down. It didn’t look as if the fire had reached the front of the building yet, but John knew the status of the interior couldn’t be determined until they went through the door.
John and Mason lined up behind Morrison, and with one hard kick Morrison had the door swinging on its hinges. Smoke wafted from inside; Morrison poked his head in then gestured for John and Mason to follow him. Once inside, they made a quick sweep of the immediate vicinity. The warehouse was mostly empty except for several rows of barrels to the right and some large crates on the left.
John glanced up and saw fire chase across the ceiling. The flames from the roof were burning through, and John knew a collapse was possible. He looked at Morrison and pointed upward. Morrison looked up and nodded.
“Mason, you take the left. Watson, go right. I’ll cover the back. Circle round and meet me back here in three minutes. If there’s anybody in here, we’ve got to get them out before that ceiling goes,” Morrison’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker inside John’s helmet.
John moved to the right, snaking his way through the barrels. The visor of his helmet made seeing a bit difficult, but he didn’t spot anyone in the shadows. He knew calling out would be useless—no one would hear him through the thick visor or over the roar of the fire that now threatened several of the overhead beams.
John continued to wind between the barrels until he thought he heard a faint clinking noise, like metal scraping against metal. He paused to listen closely; when he identified the direction of the sound, he hurried toward it. He rounded the final row of barrels to find a series of pipes running along the wall and toward the ceiling.
There was a man handcuffed to one of the wall pipes.
The man’s arms were trapped behind him, a set of shiny silver handcuffs securing him to a pipe running horizontally along the wall. The man jerked against his shackles, which explained the clanging that caught John’s attention.
John watched as the man kicked back at the wall and wrenched against the hold of the handcuffs. The smoke began to thicken, and the man stopped fighting long enough to take a breath that had him coughing within seconds. John moved forward, and when the man spotted him, his face twisted into an expression John couldn’t identify. There was a glimpse of relief, but it was mixed with anger and frustration. The man started to speak, but John could barely make out his words. He flipped his visor up and stepped closer.
“Lockpicks. Inside right coat pocket,” the man shouted. His voice was a deep baritone, his accent posh.
Right. Of course he had bloody lockpicks. John ignored the oddness of the situation and instead nodded and reached inside the man’s long, slate-colored coat. John’s glove prevented him from getting in the pocket, however, so he yanked it off and returned to searching for the lockpicks. His hand closed around what felt like a velvet case; he pulled it out and hurriedly flipped it open to reveal a rather impressive set of tools.
“Know how to use those?” the man asked. There was a sneer in his voice John didn’t appreciate.
“Think I can manage,” John answered. He had to remove his other glove to handle the slim instruments. Once he had what he needed, he moved behind the man and quickly unlocked one side of the handcuffs.
The man looked at John, clearly surprised. “That was fast.”
John ignored the man and freed his other wrist. “Let’s go,” John said, placing the lockpicks in the man’s hand, “The ceiling’s not going to last much longer.” Already the fire had ignited the beams in a few places, and chunks of wood and metal crashed to the ground only meters away. John motioned for the man to stay behind him and turned to head for the entrance, but when he glanced back, he saw the man wasn’t following. Instead, he had dropped to his knees and seemed to be searching for something around the base of one of the barrels.
“Come on!” John shouted. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and tried to pull him to his feet, but the man jerked and spun away.
“I need a minute,” he shouted back. “There’s evidence here.”
John’s retort was lost in the sudden splintering crack of a beam above. When the burning end of the beam fell and swung toward them, John knocked the man from its path, and the two of them ended up sprawled on the floor. Both John and the man watched as the beam swung crazily for a moment then crashed against the wall. Pieces of ceiling dropped just inches from the man’s head, so John crawled up along the man’s body to shield him; he felt the man’s arms wrap around him and try to roll him over, but John was stronger and held the man in place.
When John was certain the shower of debris had ended, he scrambled to stand. He seized the man by his coat lapels and yanked him to his feet. The man didn’t look pleased, and he opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off. “I don’t care! You’ve got to get out of here now!” With that, John bent and shoved his good shoulder into the man’s abdomen, lifting him so John could carry the bloody idiot.
John felt the man’s fists strike the spots where John’s pack didn’t cover his back and shoulders, but he disregarded it in favor of finding a way around the rapidly crumbling ceiling. He maneuvered through the barrels, ducking every few seconds to avoid falling ceiling fragments. He finally reached the door, and just as he stepped through, a huge support beam collapsed and blocked the opening.
John moved swiftly away from the building. The man in his arms still fought, and his knee caught John right in the sternum. When John felt they were a proper distance from the burning building, he dropped the struggling man, who hit the wet pavement with a painful-sounding thump. John whipped his helmet off and stared down at the man, who glared back with a scowl oddly fitting on his aristocratic face.
“Are you fucking insane?” John ground out through gritted teeth.
The man sat up, leaned back on one elbow, and swiped a hand through his disarrayed inky curls. “Determined.”
Without his helmet, John was better able to see the man’s pale, silvery eyes, and damned if they didn’t look determined. As well as completely fucking mad. The look he sent John was loaded—anger and stubbornness warred with curiosity and something John couldn’t quite name, something that made him shiver a little even under the heft of his uniform. It was like being x-rayed, and John didn’t know if he liked it or hated it. Or both.
John shook his head. “Mad,” he muttered. He pointed at the man with the hand that still grasped his helmet. “You could have died in there. Surely nothing’s that important.”
The insufferable man actually rolled his eyes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about—”
“I’m talking about fucking dying,” John cut in viciously. “You’ve got a lot of nerve getting stroppy with me for saving your fucking life.”
The man shot to his feet in one smooth movement and loomed over John, but John didn’t give an inch. He blanked his expression and gazed at the man with a calm he didn’t feel; his heart thrummed, blood pumping adrenaline through him, but he planted his feet firmly and leaned in as threateningly as he could despite the five inch height difference. He opened his mouth, and the man’s eyes dropped to his lips.
“Watson, there you are! Everything ok over here?” Morrison strode toward them, flipping up his helmet’s visor.
John sighed and stepped back. “Fine, yeah. This idio—” He cleared his throat. “This gentleman wasn’t quite keen on getting out of the building.”
Morrison looked at the man with surprise. “Prefer being flambéed, do you?”
The man hissed like an angry cat and whirled away, long coat flapping behind him. He paced for a moment then turned back to face Morrison. “Are you lot going to do your jobs and put this fire out any time soon? I need to get back insi—” The man’s words were cut off by a loud, echoing boom, and the building suddenly erupted in a series of explosions that sent flames and debris shooting upward.
John dove without thinking, knocking the man to the ground. He used his body as a shield and slung his arms up to cover both their heads as the heat from the blaze intensified and rubble rained down around them. Over the shouts of his colleagues, he heard Morrison swear and take off in the direction of the fire engines; another engine’s siren sounded not too far off.
John raised his head and looked at the man beneath him. “Alright? Are you alright?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” the man groaned. “Can you?” He gestured for John to move off him.
“Sorry, yeah, sorry.” John stood and reached a hand to help the man to his feet, but he ignored it and pushed himself up.
The man brushed long-fingered hands along his coat. He eyed John a moment before speaking. “I suppose this means I won’t be getting back inside.”
John almost laughed. “Good deduction, that.”
The man’s strange, quicksilver eyes widened then narrowed. “I needed a sample of the mud on the bottom of the barrels. You really should have let me—”
“Die? Because that’s what would’ve happened. Fifteen, twenty more seconds in there, and you’d have been crushed if you hadn’t already succumbed to smoke inhalation.”
“Yes, well.” The man cleared his throat. “The lack of that particular evidence will make this case more difficult.”
John shook his head. “Wait. Are you a copper? Because you don’t look familiar.”
“No,” the man scoffed. “Please. I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world, actually. I invented the job.” His tone was smug.
“What the hell is a consulting detective?”
The man looked annoyed that John didn’t sound impressed. “When the police are out of their depth—which is always—they come to me.”
John rubbed his chin. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“And you do what then?”
“I solve their cases for them.”
“How?” John couldn’t help the honest curiosity in his voice.
“By observing.”
“Observing?” John laughed.
The man’s eyes narrowed even further. “Yes, observing. Just as I’ve observed you’re former military recently invalided home from either Iraq or Afghanistan. You have at least one younger sibling, possibly more, and while you were growing up your parents weren’t in good health.” At the look on John’s face, he smirked. “How am I doing so far?”
“How did you—”
“Sherlock!” a gruff voice called. “Should have known I’d find you here.”
John and the man turned at the same time to see another man walking toward them. Even in the darkness, John could see silver hair and an oatmeal-colored trench coat; John recognized the man immediately as D. I. Lestrade.
“Morrison says you were nearly barbequed, Sherlock,” Lestrade said as he approached them. “What the hell were you doing refusing to leave a burning building?”
Sherlock straightened his shoulders. “I was looking for evidence, Lestrade. As unfamiliar as you and your team might be with the concept—”
Lestrade held up a hand. “Stop right there. I’m not in the mood for it tonight. Just tell me what you’ve got.”
Sherlock scowled. “Nothing.” He shot a withering glance at John. “I was unable to complete my investigation.”
Lestrade glanced at John, as well. “Ah, John. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks, Greg. You?”
“Alright, yeah. Have to put up with this maniac.” He nodded toward Sherlock.
John chuckled. “You poor sod.”
“Your friend,” Sherlock interrupted acidly, “prevented me from collecting the necessary evidence.”
“I see,” said Lestrade. “So, you’re saying he saved your arse.”
Sherlock’s lips thinned. “That depends on your perspective.”
“Perspective, hell,” Lestrade said. “If he hadn’t pulled you out of there, we’d be looking for pieces of you right now.” Lestrade reached out and clapped John on the shoulder. “Thanks, John. He’s a right pain, but, God help us, we need him.”
John waved at the insignia inscribed on his uniform. “That’s what I’m here for. Fire and Rescue, right? We even rescue poncy gits with a death wish.”
Lestrade laughed. John looked at Sherlock, who stared back, his eyes unreadable. Again John felt as though he was being x-rayed, but he never let his gaze falter. Finally, Sherlock held out his hand. When John failed to take it, Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and shook it.
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said.
John’s grip tightened at the shot of electricity through his fingers. “You’re welcome, ah, Sherlock.”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Holmes,” he said.
“What?” John asked.
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh, right.”
Lestrade shot a disbelieving look at Sherlock and cleared his throat. “Now that you two have been properly introduced, Sherlock, I need you to come back to the station with me. We’ve got some new information you need to look over.” He nodded at John. “Good to see you. Take care.”
“You, too, Greg.”
Sherlock dropped John’s hand and stuffed his own hands in his pockets. He moved to follow Lestrade, and John couldn’t stop his next words. “Do try to stay out of any more burning buildings, Sherlock.”
Sherlock turned back to John and smiled.