Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Contains spoilers for The Great Game.

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Ain't Seen Nothing Yet

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The blast was unexpected. It was like being hit by something solid, and at the same moment, Sherlock found himself on the floor; there was no actual order to it, everything seemed to happen completely simultaneously.

Noise assaulted him, though it was oddly muted and almost drowned out by a shrill ringing sound. The ground had been shaking for a moment, and Sherlock could feel the impact of small pieces of debris on his body; he had instinctively closed his eyes and, without noticing it, was holding his breath as well: too much dust in the air, too much disturbance altogether.

It only lasted a few seconds, but when the pandemonium around him seemed to calm down as abruptly as it had begun, Sherlock felt as though hours had gone by.

He opened his eyes to havoc.

Mrs Hudson had only just closed the door to her flat behind her when all of a sudden all hell broke loose. With a small scream, she dropped the bags she was carrying and covered her ears, such was the noise the bomb produced; apart from that, the blast was palpable even through the closed door, causing the house to shudder awkwardly, and the door produced a noise like a groan. There was the rattle of glass somewhere, and a lot of noise from upstairs; then silence.

Mrs Hudson feebly reached out and supported herself against the wall.

"My goodness," she whispered. She had only been a young child during the second World War, and she had been sent to stay with her aunt in the country after the first air raids had hit London, but she could still remember those nights. The noise, the breathless fear. For a moment, she wanted her mum to be there, for her knees felt weak and she didn´t know what had happened.

She needed to sit down, maybe Sherlock would- Sherlock. He had been standing by the window when she had left him. For an endless moment, Martha Hudson did not move at all, couldn´t breathe, didn´t feel her weak knees anymore because her body seemed to have disappeared altogether. But then she moved, unthinkingly, fumbled the door open with trembling fingers, afraid what she might find.

There was dust everywhere. She narrowed her eyes and covered her face with her sleeve; carefully, she climbed up the stairs, which were also littered with debris. Orange light was flickering outside, penetrating the murk; the house on the other side of the street seemed to be burning.

"Sherlock?" she called, because she could hardly see anything, the dust in the air hadn´t settled yet. She counted her steps until she had reached the landing, then stretched out her arm and slowly felt her way towards 221B. "Sherlock!"

There was no response. She could feel her eyes prickle; please, God, not him, she intoned silently, don´t let him be dead.

She stopped by the open door because there was an obstruction of some kind, effectively blocking her path. She squinted and bent down a little to have a better look, then she gave a choked cry of dismay: it was Sherlock lying there. She hadn´t recognized him at first because he was covered in dust, rendering him a pale spectre. Mrs Hudson gasped with relief when she saw that he was moving, obviously trying to get his arms under him.

She wanted to kneel down next to him, but there were shards of glass on the floor, the remains of the window panes; she also wasn´t sure whether her hip would allow it.

"Sherlock!" She bent lower and touched his head, which was the only part of him she could reach. He flinched, then looked up at her, blinking: "Mrs Hudson?" he all but shouted, coughing in between words, "Are you all right?"

"Am I all right-" Mrs Hudson straightened, almost indignant about the irrelevance of her own welfare. "Sherlock, can you get up?"

He didn´t answer but finally managed to push himself up, a little shakily, and slowly got to his feet. Mrs Hudson quickly offered her hand, and he was grateful for the support while he waited for the world to stop spinning.

He seemed a little confused: "What happened?"

"I don´t know. Are you all right, dear?" She eyed him worriedly, frowning.

"What?"

"Are you all right!"

"Yes, fine!" He coughed again, shaking his head as though to clear it, and began to work his jaw, pressing his fingers to one ear, then the other: "I´m a little deaf right now!"

Ah. That explained why everything Sherlock said came out as a shout. Mrs Hudson tugged on his hand: "Come on, we´ll get you sorted out downstairs."

"What?"

"Never mind..."

Sherlock worked his jaw again, but his hearing didn´t improve, nor did the tinnitus abate. He hoped it would eventually do so, because otherwise he´d certainly go mad, and he had no desire to imitate Beethoven.

He could hardly hear Mrs Hudson, but he allowed her to pull him along, away from the worst of the chaos. They didn´t go into her kitchen though; Mrs Hudson led him into her bathroom instead.

"What are we doing in here?"

Instead of an answer, she turned him towards the mirror.

"Oh. I see!" He was completely grey with dust, and there were bits of paper and wood and whatnot sticking out from his hair. He began to pick at it, but Mrs Hudson stopped him: "Careful, dear, there might be glass splinters. My poor windows are all over the place."

Mycroft Holmes rolled his eyes when his phone rang. He had just arrived at the Diogenes Club and longed for some peace and quiet; the past days had been hectic enough, and now the top secret plans for a missile defence project christened the Bruce-Partington-Programme had been abstracted, which required immediate action. He was seriously considering asking Sherlock to investigate, but he was certainly going to ponder the matter thoroughly before doing so. Said pondering was what he wanted the peace and quiet for, but it seemed that none was to be had yet.

He accepted the call and listened to the speaker, slightly irritated at first, then increasingly tense. He was out of his chair and the room even before they had hung up again.

Baker Street was a chaos of flashing lights from all kinds of utility vehicles- police, fire brigade, ambulances- and swarming with people. Debris was littering the ground, and the level of destruction reminded Mycroft of war pictures.

A gas leak, an officer informed him. Mycroft was relieved, mildly put, to see that 221B was relatively intact, apart from the broken windows and minor damage to the facade.

The officers on duty didn´t want to let Mycroft through, something he quickly remedied by producing his ID. Always a marvel how such a small thing could open any door, he thought. Irrelevant, he then decided, mildly surprised at himself; obviously, he was a little... nervous about what he might find.

When he entered the house, some firemen where just leaving, having made sure that there was no immediate danger of a structural collapse or similar unforeseen hazards, like other gaspipes having suffered from the blast. They had only done a superficial survey, obviously, but Mycroft was reassured that he wasn´t going to have to force Sherlock to relocate.

He found his brother in Mrs Hudson´s kitchen, where the old lady was making tea; he was still looking a little dirty and dishevelled, but the worst of the dust and debris had been removed both from his hair and the rest of his appearance, and he seemed unscathed. Mycroft´s hands were shaking ever so slightly at the discovery, further proof of his relief.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow when he saw his sibling: "Don´t tell me you have come here just because you were worried about me." He was still talking rather loudly, though the tinnitus was beginning to lessen a little, and his hearing was improving steadily. The firemen had offered to take him to one of the ambulances outside to get checked up, but he had refused- he was fine. He didn´t even sustain any cuts from the broken glass.

"Oh no," Mycroft replied, careful to keep his tone neutral; he was good at this game, he had played it for years now, after all. Adding some sarcasm, he continued:"I have come because I was worried about Mrs Hudson and Dr Watson, of course." He looked around, as though expecting to see John peeking out from behind a piece of furniture.

Sherlock smirked: "He´s at Sarah´s, presumably. And Mrs Hudson and I are both fine. You can go."

"Sherlock," his landlady reprimanded him in an undertone, then turned towards the older Holmes: "Would you like a cup of tea?"

Mycroft smiled politely: "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but I will indeed be leaving, now that I have ascertained that none of you has come to any harm." His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at his brother again: "I expect you will have some tidying up to do." With that, he turned to go.

Mrs Hudson watched his retreating back with a sorrowful expression: "You shouldn´t have put him off like that, Sherlock," she said, disapproval audible in her voice. "He needn´t have come here himself, you know, he could have sent someone instead."

Sherlock huffed into his cup, but chose not to reply; it was none of her business, and he didn´t appreciate being guilt-tripped.

After the dust had settled, he spent a good deal of the evening clearing away the debris, shards, splinters and other things which littered the floor and every other surface, while Mrs Hudson hoovered the hall, the stairs and the living room.

Sherlock then indeed tidied up a little; had it only been a few hours earlier that he had complained about boredom? He glanced at the wall; the holes and the smiley face certainly weren´t on top of Mrs Hudson´s list of worries anymore.

Carefully, he wiped the dust from John´s closed laptop, wondering what his friend was going to say. He briefly considered calling him, but in the end refrained from it; no need to unnecessarily trouble him, and besides, he possibly wasn´t done blowing off steam yet.

Another fireman came to inform them that the destroyed windows were going to be boarded up for the time being; a hastily located carpenter had already set to work for improvisations. It was well after midnight when Mrs Hudson excused herself to go to bed, but Sherlock was far too agitated to lie down yet, pacing around in the flat for a while.

He paused in front of a former window, rubbing his neck which admittedly was a little sore from having been hurtled to the floor with such force; absent-mindedly, he stared at the largely destroyed house on the opposite side of the street.

The fire had almost been extinguished, but he could still smell the smoke and the scents of different burnt substances. The quiet street had turned into something which resembled a fairground, full of people, noise and lights: a controlled chaos.

Gas leak. Huh.

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The End

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