Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this work...nor this scene, really.

A/N: So I was watching Sherlock Holmes for the fourth time or so, and when it got to the part where the slaughterhouse explodes, I decided to put it into words because it's always very different that way. Also, at one point, Holmes just breaks my heart by trying to pull away from Clarky, attempting to get back to Watson. So I just had to write that too. :3

"Holmes!"

The detective stopped short at the urgency in Watson's voice. His eyes met the doctor's and he took in the terror there, and in that moment he knew something was very, very wrong—

And then the building beside Watson exploded, pink-hued fire bursting into the air. Both were thrown to the ground, and the last Holmes saw of his friend before the flames washed over him was the doctor curling into a ball and flinging his arms over his head in an effort to protect his face from the explosion, from the bits of wood flying every which way, and then the burning shrapnel was shooting towards him.

Holmes scrambled to his feet, numb with shock and barely able to feel the flaming pieces of crate pelting his back. He seized a wooden palette and flung it up to his right, just as the next section of the slaughterhouse exploded. The force nearly flung him off his feet a second time and he cast the smoldering palette aside. At this point Holmes reached Irene, grabbing her and yanking her close. Both sprinted away from the explosions, although every fiber of Holmes's being and every filament of his brain screamed against it, told him to go back to Watson, to Watson.

Then a third burst of flame, catching Holmes completely off guard and throwing him and Irene to the ground again. He lost his hold on her and panicked more—he had just lost Watson, not Irene too, not now, not so soon!

The sleuth didn't even attempt to rise, allowing the shards of wood and cement to crash all around him. He stared blankly at the glowing ember before his face, ears ringing and tears streaming from his eyes in the heat.

Watson, he thought, Watson, what have I done to you?

The tiniest of whimpers came from Holmes's throat.

He was then aware of someone grabbing him, hauling him to his feet. They dragged him to the warehouse and pushed him against the wall, yelling at him, shaking him. Dazed, Holmes looked up into the familiar face of Constable Clark. He was shouting something, saying something, but he couldn't understand, his ears didn't work….

Holmes's legs nearly gave out, and he wanted so desperately to fall, but Clark wouldn't let him. He was explaining something, about Holmes, but he wasn't listening….

Watson.

He had to get to Watson, he had to get to Watson now. Holmes tried to pull away from Clark, going back for Watson, but Clark wouldn't let him. Why wouldn't he let him? Didn't he understand? Watson was dying, Watson was dead, and it was Holmes's fault and he had to get Watson, he had to make it right, he had to fix it, and—

"Watson is alive!" Clark hissed, and suddenly he had Holmes's full attention. Quickly the constable outlined the plan to Holmes, and the sleuth understood. He had to go home.

But first, he had to see Watson.

I finished writing this and loved it, before realizing that there may have been one more explosion I forgot to put in there. xD So pardon the potential accuracy errors, and review! ;)