Smoke burning his eyes, making them water.
Smoke searing his throat, making him gasp and cough.
Smell of singed hair and scorched cloth.
Ears muffled like cotton wool. Roar and crackle of huge flames. Crashing of collapsing stone and wood. Wail of approaching sirens.
Stumbling forward. Falling back.
Too hot. Can't see. Can't think.
He tries to shout, but chokes instead.
One word. One syllable. It should be easy.
Hands on his shoulders, pulling him back.
He fights their grip and fails. No energy to struggle. Falling towards darkness.
A mask over his mouth and nose. Air. Sweet. Clean.
Eyes opening again to see a similarly masked face peering into his. Worried brown eyes reddened from smoke, watering like his.
He lowers the oxygen mask with one hand, reaches another to the soot-streaked face.
He tries to speak but words fail. Voice fails.
John nods in understanding and takes Sherlock's free hand in his.
A relieved smile matches his own.
Safe. We're both safe. He is safe.