Sherlock Holmes- A Study in Blood

Chapter 27

He gave a nod, which was returned before Watson turned on his heel to come down to the stage. For himself, Holmes turned to his adversary. He moved him onto his back, eliciting a groan from the other man that soon turned to laughter with blood staining his teeth and bubbling at his lips. "Where is Irene?" Holmes demanded, but Moriarty continued to laugh. Holmes grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. "Damn you, where is my wife!"

A sick grin pulled at thin lips. "You will burn, Mr. Holmes."

And then, he breathed his last.

A crackling sound was heard above his head. In morbid fascination, Holmes watched as, above him, flames sparked to life and raced across the old roof. What was left of the balcony curtains had already caught fire, and the impending inferno slithered down the walls toward the seats and stage.

"Holmes!" A strong arm pulled him away as a flaming beam from the rafters landed right where he had been kneeling beside the crazed former professor. Dark eyes met blue. "We have to go, Holmes! The whole place is coming down."

Holmes looked past Watson to the roof above them, flames dancing their way across the old wood, dropping burning embers in their path. Panic flashed across his face as he once again met Watson's gaze. "Irene. We have to find Irene."

Watson nodded, both ducking out of the way of more blazing debris. "Come, there's no time to lose."

~*~*~

Irene felt the sweat that lined her brow trickle down the sides of her face and down her nose as she watched the flames burn higher and hotter. Gagged and bound to a chair in the basement prop room of the old theater, she racked her brain to come up with a plan to escape. There was no way of knowing how much time had passed. It had been early morning when she was ambushed by Moran, with help of the fishmonger at the market near the docks. What time was it now? Surely Sherlock had realized something was wrong when she had not returned home, and had likely gone out to investigate. Though truly, she hoped he was still at Baker Street. When Moran had gagged her and tied her up, he had promised to look in on her niece for her. At the mention of Mary, Irene drove her heeled boot into the vile man's shin, a favor which was returned by knocking her out cold. But now that she was awake, she'd be damned if she allowed him to touch a single hair on her sweet girl's head.

She watched as one by one the costumes, set pieces, and props around her were swallowed by flames. Whatever she decided to do, she knew she needed to do it quickly. Her eyes landed on a nearby coat rack, and an idea began to take shape. Pushing her feet against the floor, she scooted her chair close enough so that when the flames began to lick at the old wood, she thrust her arms back, allowing the rope binding her to catch. She screamed when the flames touched her skin, the searing pain a brief and sickening jolt. She yanked her wrists apart and threw herself from the chair as it too was engulfed in the blaze. On her knees, she untied the gag and eyed the door that had nearly been swallowed by the fire. She rose to her feet and quickly shimmied out of her skirts and removed her singed jacket, offering them as a sacrifice to the flames. With as much of a running start as she could manage, she leapt through the narrow opening, sure she could feel the fire brushing its burning fingers past her arms and through her hair, trying to keep her within its grasp.

Now in the smoke filled hall, she glanced around to get her bearings. She had counted the turns they'd taken when Moran had first dragged her down to the basement and could only hope she would be able to retrace her steps now that she could scarcely see. The roar and crackle of the flames was deafening, and her eyes and throat burned with a ferocity she had never felt before, and still she pressed on. One foot in front of the other, she turned down one hallway and then the next, praying she would soon find the stairs and that they had not yet been claimed by the inferno.

"Irene!"

She would know that voice anywhere, even muffled as it was by the thick smoke. "Sherlock!" she tried to shout, but the smoke filled her lungs and choked her too so that she could barely manage the word. Even still, she tried again. "Sherlock!"

Somewhere above her, a door opened, and two shadowy figures were silhouetted against the smokey haze. The shorter of the two appeared to move closer. "Irene? Darling, can you hear me?"

"I'm here!" she called, her throat raw and aching as she did so. She coughed and struggled to regain her breath as the figure moved toward her.

Just when her legs felt ready to collapse beneath her, she felt herself being lifted and held securely against a solid chest with a heartbeat so blessedly familiar. "I have you, my dear," her husband's voice soothed her gently in spite of the hell surrounding them.

"Sherlock," she began, clutching fistfuls of his shirt in her desperate attempt to explain. They had to get back to Baker Street! "Moran, he-"

"Holmes!" Watson's voice shouted from the floor above them. "The stairs! Quickly, they're giving way!"

With little time to spare, Holmes bounded back up the stairs with Watson grabbing them both and pulling them to safety just as the narrow staircase at their feet went up in flames.

Holmes led them out the back way just as the building collapsed around them, all but tumbling out onto the street in their haste. Watson was beyond relieved to see Inspector Lestrade and all of Scotland Yard out in full force surrounding the building. Already they could hear the pounding of hooves against the street as the Fire Brigade raced toward the scorching building.

"Constable Clark!" Watson called out to the closest police officer he could find, his chest seizing from the action, a violent string of coughs stealing his breath. He sank to his knees beside Holmes, who had gently lowered Irene to the ground, still with his arms around her shoulders, allowing her to lean on him.

Luckily, the constable took one look at the nearly unconscious Irene and understood. He summoned another officer, but when they moved to help her, Irene shook her head and roused herself enough to push herself up to grab Watson's arm. Her throat felt as though she had swallowed shards of glass, but she held his gaze and whispered, "Moran... after Mary..."

His eyes darted from her to Holmes who met his panicked stare with one of his own before the detective began barking orders at the officers, for once getting no argument from Lestrade.

The entirety of Scotland Yard was headed to Baker Street with all due haste.