Hello, everyone! How are you? I hope you're doing well! :)

So this little story is based on a line in the movie Leap Year, which goes, "If your house was on fire and you had 60 seconds, what would you take?"

I heard it and for some reason, my mind immediately jumped to Sherlock (it seems to be doing that a lot lately). Of course it's also inspired by the line in Scandal in Belgravia, "Amazing how fire exposes our priorities." I'm actually rather happy with how this turned out, so I hope you like it!

Also, I don't live in England (sadness...), so if I get some terms wrong, or use American slang by accident, I'm sorry. I did my best.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, or any of that. And trust me, if I did, we would have series three already. And maybe series four as well.

Priorities

It had been an agonizingly long two days, and John was immensely relieved to finally be home and done with the case. It had been a nasty one, a double homicide that eventually led to him, Lestrade and Sherlock chasing the criminal down an escalator and onto the Tube, where John almost got shoved out of the moving train. And it would have happened, too, had it not been for Sherlock putting a chokehold on the murderer and Lestrade pulling a gun on him, forcing the man's surrender. Afterwards, John was so tired, he fell asleep in the cab and Sherlock had to practically drag him upstairs to the flat. Sherlock had been just as tired, amazingly, and had immediately retreated into his bedroom to sleep. John, not possessing the energy to go upstairs to his own room, laid down on the sofa to sleep.

A winter storm had blown through the day before, and the power had gone out on the whole street. Mrs. Hudson had lit candles around the room, obviously not wanting to risk her boys to wake at night and do something idiotic. John laid down and was asleep in moments.

Though the action didn't register as he drifted off, his hand pushed a candle off the table. It landed with a soft thud onto the rug, the flames licking gently at it. Soon, however, the small fire spread, fueled by a stain of oil Sherlock had unknowingly spilled weeks ago during an experiment.

But John slept on, oblivious to the danger, as the fire grew in strength and size. It crawled across the room, and soon was roaring away, tendrils grasping like contorted fingers at everything they could reach.

The fire alarm finally began to scream, and John woke, coughing. He looked around, disoriented and choking, his eyes widening at the sight of the flames that surrounded him. They had climbed the walls by now and were crawling across the ceiling, eating away at everything. John leaped up, then cried out as a chunk of burning wood fell, catching on his hand.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, moving cautiously down the hall toward the detective's room. He coughed, pressing his unburned hand over his mouth to try to keep from breathing the suffocating air. "Sherlock!"

A beam from the ceiling landed on the floor with a crash behind him, and he jumped, realizing that, Sherlock or no Sherlock, he had to get out before it became impossible. He started backing up, trying to navigate around the worst of the flames to reach the stairs. He tried one more time to call for his friend.

"Sherlock!"

"John, where are you?"

But the unexpectedly panicked reply came from behind him, instead of in front. He turned to find Sherlock staggering down the stairs from John's bedroom, coughing, burns searing several places of his body. When the fire had reached so far into the flat, John wasn't sure, but he was instantly afraid Sherlock was seriously wounded. He went toward him as fast as he dared, afraid that the fire had made the floor unstable. He jumped as part of a floorboard fractured beneath his feet.

Finally, he got close enough to grab Sherlock's arm, and his flatmate looked up, still gasping for air, relief shining in his eyes. Together, they stumbled down the stairs and out the door.

Mrs. Hudson stood outside already, and upon seeing them, she rushed over.

"Oh, my boys! Are you alright?" she flung her arms around them both. When she let go, Sherlock took her hand gently smiling to intimate to her they were relatively unharmed.

"Did you phone the police?" he asked her. "My phone's inside."

"Mrs. Turner did," she replied, looking them up and down, concerned. "Oh dears, you're both hurt."

She fussed over them, making them sit on the curb across the street. A small crowd of curious neighbors was starting to form.

"Why did you two not get out sooner?" Mrs. Hudson asked, peeling back John's sleeve as gently as she could to inspect his burn. "You could have gotten yourselves killed!"

John and Sherlock looked at each other. What exactly had happened, John wondered, and why had Sherlock come from John's room?

"I was looking for John," the detective said suddenly, glancing away from him and up at their landlady.

John felt surprised but oddly touched by this response. It explained the terror he had seen in Sherlock's eyes before John had reached him, and why he had come from John's room instead of his own. He must have woken to the flames and run straight upstairs to find John, then panicked when he was nowhere to be found.

John looked at Sherlock, who met his gaze again, and smiled. "Sorry I made myself hard to find," he said with a smirk.

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked softly.

"On the sofa. You must not have seen me."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, we're alright now."

He shivered, and John realized he didn't even have a dressing gown on. The man was going to freeze.

"Sherlock, we need to get you a blanket," John said, pulling his own robe a bit tighter around himself. "If only we had thought to grab your coat."

"Oh, boys, don't worry," Mrs. Hudson said, having watched the whole exchange. "You were too busy to save anything except what's most important. Now you two stay here, I'll get you some blankets from Mrs. Turner's."

They sat there in silence, watching as the fire engine pulled up, uncoiling its hosepipes and dousing the burning building. The flames were out in a under ten minutes, during which the paramedics patched up Sherlock and John. Some of Sherlock's burns would take a while to heal, but none were life-threatening. However, both refused to be taken to the hospital. John insisted that, as a doctor, he could take care of himself. Sherlock, on the other hand, drove away the medic eventually by calling him an idiot and in other ways insulted his intelligence repeatedly. He did look sheepish, though, as John gave him the "bit not good" glare.

John, though shaken by what had happened, still managed to laugh at Sherlock's expression when that same paramedic returned and laid a shock blanket across the detective's shoulders.

The next morning, the two flatmates were allowed inside 221B to see what could be salvaged. Most of the place was ruined and would have to be rebuilt, but there was a chance some small items had escaped the devastation. Mycroft had been in touch, and for once, Sherlock accepted his help without complaint. John suspected it was as much for him than as for Sherlock himself. They made their way carefully up the steps, which had luckily escaped the blaze in nearly one piece, and began to sift through the rubble.

"God, Sherlock," John said abruptly after several minutes. Sherlock looked up to find John pulling a ragged, half-burned, blue scarf from under a pile of bricks. The doctor looked up and their gazes met. Sherlock saw sadness in his expression he wasn't prepared for.

"What's wrong, John?" he asked, stepping lightly over the wreckage to stand next to his blogger.

"All your things..." John said ruefully. "They're destroyed, or lost, or gone. Your chemistry equipment, your skull, your coat, your phone... And it's all my fault! I knocked over that candle!"

He looked anguished, and Sherlock reached out and gripped his shoulder. "It's not your fault, it could have happened to anyone. Besides, all those things were just... well, things. They can be replaced."

He let go of John, wincing as a twinge of pain shot up his arm where the worst burn was. He looked guiltily at John, hoping he hadn't noticed.

He had, of course. Shaking his head, he stepped toward the kitchen. "Why didn't you just get out, Sherlock? Why did you have to go upstairs?"

"Why did you stay?" Sherlock retorted, knowing the answer perfectly.

"The same reason you did, I suppose," John murmured. "I had to make sure you got out."

Sherlock looked over at his only friend, seeing his regret and sadness.

"Well, aren't we a pair of fools?" he said, a genuine smile suddenly on his face. "Staggering through a burning building looking for each other in all the wrong places, and then we go out with no coats!"

John smiled reluctantly. "Why did you stay, though? You didn't give me a real answer."

Sherlock hesitated. "I wanted to make sure you were safe," he admitted after a beat of silence.

And John saw his sincerity, saw how he really was Sherlock's only friend. He remembered then what Mrs. Hudson had said last night, such a casual remark, but one that held much more weight than John had realized at the time.

"You were too busy to save anything except what's most important."

John smiled. He could tell Sherlock was thinking the same thing. They had found what was most important in each other, and it would take a lot more than fire to change that.

There you have it! Read and be merry, my friends :) And if you have time, please drop a review!