Disclaimer: unfortunately, I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters in this fic. Although I wish I did.

John could smell the burning as soon as he opened the door. At first he thought Mrs Hudson had burnt some cakes, but she wasn't home and anyway, it wasn't a baking sort of smell. It was stronger and vomit-inducing, and as it filled his nostrils John realised with a grimace that it had to be one of Sherlock's blasted experiments.

Dropping the shopping bags at the door, he went up the stairs, two at a time, and opened the door to 221b. The smell was worse in the flat, the air was thick with it, and John looked around wildly for the source.

The kitchen table was on fire. Flames leapt from the wooden frame, encasing the various pieces of chemical equipment and human limbs like a blanket around a baby, albeit a very dangerous and hot blanket. The apparatus on the table would soon be melting depending on how long the table had been alight, but Sherlock looked relatively unfazed. He stood against the kitchen counter, watching the calamity unfold right in front of him. His fingers were raised to his mouth, and a stray curl flopped over his forehead …. John shook his head. Now was not the time to be thinking about how pretty his boyfriend was.

Sherlock snapped his head towards John, who was rooted to the spot in utter bewilderment and dismay. He still didn't show any signs of panic, or even acknowledgement that he was standing mere inches away from a blazing fire which, given the amount of chemicals in the room, could cause an explosion at any moment.

"Oh, it's fine, it's under control." Sherlock said placidly, waving his hand. "There's nothing that could cause it to worsen, I made sure of that. Now, where is the fire extinguisher?"

"Downstairs, but what the hell happened?"

"John, now is not the time to lose self-control. Calm down." Sherlock moved over to the door, but he hadn't reached the stairs when a loud boom! resounded from the kitchen, and both men fell to the floor from the force. Smoke billowed out into the living room, thick and grey. John found Sherlock in the midst of it.

"Are you okay?" He asked, finding his hand.

"I'm fine." His voice was slightly raspy. "Don't go near it, I'll get the extinguisher."

"Shouldn't we call the fire brigade?"

"Waste of time. Now, stay."

John felt Sherlock leave, but he didn't obey his orders. He got up, holding onto the door frame for support, and fought his way through the smoke. It fought back against him, but everything John ever knew about safety flew out the window. He could see sporadic glimpses of the room, and the orange flames in the kitchen broke the smoke's grey and dusty hold. It was almost hypnotising, but it was also nauseous and John fell against the wall. His eyes stung and he felt like he was in an oven.

He must have blacked out for a few minutes, because when his eyes opened again the fire was more or less gone, although the smoke still hung heavy in the air. The kitchen table was a mangled, ashy corpse and whatever had been on top of it was no better off. The rest of the kitchen, the counters and appliances, all had a blank tinge to them, and there was evidence of the granite beginning to melt.

Sherlock was standing over him, his eyebrows furrowed. He helped John up from the floor, but the doctor couldn't stand properly and clung onto Sherlock for support. Even when he had caught his balance, he didn't break away from his boyfriend's hold. The two men stood there holding each other, a rare show of affection on Sherlock's part, and John wanted to scold him for what had happened but couldn't find it in him to do so.

"I told you not to go near it." Sherlock said in his bold, but tranquil voice.

"I know." John said. "But what did you say? You've got it all under control?" He scoffed, but fondly.

Sherlock ignored John. "There could have been poisonous gases."

"Probably." Then: "Were there?"

"Not overly-harmful ones. I save those for Barts."

John found himself smiling into Sherlock's shoulder. "You're an idiot."

"It's science." Sherlock persisted. John would never understand the strange and bizarre things he investigated to pass the time, nor would he get used to the sometimes disastrous consequences.

"Well, no harm done, I don't think. That's for us, mind. As for the kitchen … we should probably start clearing it up before Mrs Hudson sees."

"Yes, we should." Sherlock murmured, but made no attempt to separate himself from John. He liked the way he felt, and he wasn't ready to let go quite yet.