Title: Fýrgebræc

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: When she was a little girl, Zoe nearly saw a man burn. Minor character expansion from TEH bonfire scene.

Written: 2/12/14

Notes: I was extremely disappointed with my first viewing of S3, however I was immediately struck by the little girl in the bonfire scene in "The Empty Hearse" and had the idea for this piece in mind by the end of the scene. In the vein of my story "Sunset's Wake", it's a fleshing out of an extremely minor character affected by a piece of John and Sherlock's story. Quoted dialogue from the episode does not belong to me. The title comes from a word learned through a lovely tumblr called 'wordstuck'; highly recommended for those interested in foreign language words without a direct English translation. As always, I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading and for your continued support. I cherish every response.

When she was a little girl, Zoe nearly saw a man burn.

The night was cold and loud, filled with people talking, drums banging, and sparklers crackling. Her father had told her the Guy Fawkes on top of the bonfire was called an 'effigy' and while she knew it wasn't real, Zoe still heard someone calling out from the pyre. She tried to tell someone – "he doesn't like it, Daddy. Guy Fawkes, he doesn't like it" - but Daddy just told her to stay back and be safe.

The fire lit, bright and hot. A cry came from the flames.

Zoe screamed.

But this time, she wasn't the only one who heard.

A motorcycle came roaring in, a frantic man and woman pushing through the shocked, still crowd. Zoe's father held her close as the man and woman ran to the fire, shouting "John" and digging into the flames. They pulled out a man. A real man. John.

He was very quiet.

Her Daddy kept murmuring that John was alive, but she didn't know how he knew. The man and woman still had tears in their eyes.

But soon John was coughing and wheezing and the man and woman helped him turn onto his side, looking scared and happy at the same time. An ambulance came and took them away while police cars surrounded the church and a gray-haired policeman with a gravelly voice said everyone had to go home.

The crowd finally moved.

Later that night, Zoe curled around Red, the bright red stuffed teddy bear her Aunt in America had given her, sandwiched between her mum and dad in their bed while Daddy stroked her hair.

"Why was the man in the fire, Daddy?" she sniffled.

"I don't know, sweetheart."

"I don't care that he was a bad man," she insisted after a long silence, eyes heavy on the edge of emotionally exhausted sleep.

"Who?"

"Guy Fawkes," she said, squeezing her eyes tight and burrowing her face further into Red. "Nobody should burn."

"Oi, Zoe, you coming this year?"

Zoe shook her head and continued reading her book.

"But it's Guy Fawkes Night! Bonfires, fireworks, pubs, and cute blokes to keep you warm!" Rachel grinned, oversized pink scarf tangling with her loose hair as she bounced on her toes.

"I'm not coming," Zoe said.

"You're sixteen and you've never been. Bit weird, don't you think?"

"I have been."

"Really? When? Not since I've known you."

"When I was little."

"So why not come now?" Rachel pushed.

Zoe finally looked up. "Nobody should burn."

At university, Zoe fell in love with the works of J.R.R. Tolkien.

She spent countless hours training her tongue to the languages of Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Ents; even tried her hand at the Black Speech. Using the calligraphy pens her mum bought for her birthday, she filled notebook upon notebook practicing the varied writing systems. Fascinated with Tolkien's process, she delved into his academic history, discovering the gifted professor and philologist behind the mythology.

Courses in obscure languages soon followed, including one on Old English where she read Beowulf to the string music of Peter Jackson's film version of the Rohirrim; the language influences clear, stunning, and perfect.

She excelled in phonology; had a gift for pattern recognition and deciphering unfamiliar languages based on language family threads. She began seeing a future for herself in linguistics.

Then one day, while studying Old English vocabulary, she stumbled across the word 'fýrgebræc': the distinct, sharp, crackling sound made by fire.

That night, she dreamed of Guy Fawkes. Of her childhood self screaming in her father's protective embrace, of dozens of paralyzed onlookers staring in horror as a man potentially burned to death, of a man and woman jumping off a motorcycle and running toward the flames, pulling the man – John – out, of her father's prayerfully repetitive "he's alive, he's alive." Of the dark-haired man and blonde woman with fear written plainly on their faces running toward the danger, toward the person in danger, and saving a life. Two strangers who weren't without fear, but brave in the face of it; who knew what had to be done and did it.

Zoe woke up in tears. Desperately clutching Red, she sneezed against the stuffing poking through the loose stitches in the long-missing left eye and cried like the child she'd been that night back when Red was still bright and whole. Nose running and chest heaving, she cried for years spent trying to forget how nobody had moved, years of hiding away and playing it safe, trying to avoid ever being in a situation like that night ever again - terrified, powerless, and paralyzed while another life was at stake. She buried her face deep into Red's fading fur, the little girl dwarfed by her parents' bed who, on the edge of emotionally depleted sleep, had spoken three simple words; a far too adult statement.

Nobody should burn.

They were words she still said today as a young woman. Words she still believed in with all her heart.

A sense of calm crept in, breathing slowing to stuttered catches and tear tracks stiffening on flushed cheeks. Tucking Red into her shirt with the surety of old childhood comfort, she reached for her laptop. As it booted up, she thought about fear and danger. About two strangers brave in the face of it.

And about a little girl named Zoe, who grew into a young woman who studied language's depths and nuances; whose name, of Greek origin, meant 'life.'

John had been alive.

She was alive.

Zoe typed into the search engine with fingers that were both shaky and certain.

Clicking on the website, she began to read.

One year later, Zoe was surrounded by beaming family, slicing into a thick chocolate cake with the letters 'LFB' and 'congratulations' in several obscure languages in bright red icing; a proud new member of the London Fire Brigade.

When she finished her probation period a year after that, the other firefighters at her station gave her a card with the word for 'fire' in dozens of languages surrounding what they came to call her motto – "nobody should burn."

She began a postgraduate degree in linguistics once settled in her job; pored over research in bed late at night under the watchful eyes of Red on her pillow, a firefighter bear on her desk, and her beloved dog glued to her side. She had rescued the wire-haired mongrel from an abandoned building fire and named him John. He was her first save. She was his first everything.

Fireworks echoed outside the flat. John whined and curled closer to her on the bed, glaring at the walls as if daring the noise to come after his Zoe.

Zoe reached a hand out to scratch John's ears and went back to her Old English text as another Guy Fawkes Night came and went. She still hadn't gone to one with an adult's eyes and had no need to; she had found bravery within the face of fear and wore the uniform proudly.

The only fires she had to attend on the fifth of November were in the line of duty.