Sherlock sprinted through the wet grass, stumbling over mounds of snow that hadn't melted yet and kicking up dirt as he sprinted through the dusty, unpaved road. The heat from the ever growing wall of flame was already burning his face, the thick black smoke making breathing difficult and making his eyes water. Planes flew overhead, planes sporting the Nazi Swastika, their enormous engines roaring. Why would anyone want to bomb such an innocent British Village? No soldiers lived here, no army reserves were here, unless they thought Victor's father would be here. Maybe they thought they were going to kill one of Churchill's best generals. As Sherlock got closer and closer it got easier to tell the buildings that were on fire and the ones that were simply rubble. The flames seemed to be on every roof, and where dark shapes should've been in the horizon it was empty, their previous occupants merely brick and rubble in a massive burning heap. There were dark humanoid figures rushing around, some looking like men, frantically searching for survivors, others smaller, children, women, all rushing for their lives. Sherlock watched as a dark object was dropped from one of the low flying planes, landing on what should be the post office, and bursting into another explosion, the figures ran for cover, falling onto the ground, some never to get up again. Sherlock ran faster than he ever believed possible, barely able to hear the screams of desperate people over the whirring of the planes. Finally Sherlock made it to town, or what used to be town. He searched the crowds frantically; all people with soot filled faces, some with tattered, burned clothing, others with blood gushing from wounds, some with make shift handkerchiefs tied around their mouths and noses to keep the smoke from getting into their lungs. Most were familiar, fleeing the rubble that used to be their homes, the husbands leading their wives and children to the nearest public bomb shelter, other soldiers and men that wanted to help. Women were filling buckets with water, with which the men were throwing on the flames.
"EVERYONE DOWN!" someone screamed, and Sherlock hit the dirt as soon as another explosion rocked the ground, so loud that his ears rang and his head throbbed. Debris and dirt flew everywhere, chunks of wood and brick rained down on Sherlock as if it were some massive, destructive thunderstorm. But he got to his feet, holding his shirt over his nose and scanning the smoke for any sign of Victor, hoping with his raving heart that his soldier was still alive. A man rushed past, carrying an older man that seemed to be missing a leg, screaming in agony, a woman hobbled past, clutching a chunk of her dress to a wound on her arm, a lost child clutching a teddy bear and screaming in the middle of the destroyed park. That was something Sherlock could help with. He rushed over to the child, a small girl with her air in pigtails, sprinkled in ash and her face covered with soot, tears carving lines of grief in her face.
"Hey, hey, it's alright." Sherlock insisted.
"Where's mommy?" she shrieked, crying even harder.
"I'm not sure, what does she look like?" Sherlock asked, squatting down so that he was eye level with the hysterical child.
"I WANT MOMMY!" she screamed ever louder.
"Alright, let's go to a shelter alright; can you be brave for me?" Sherlock asked. She only cried harder, and Sherlock scanned the area, surely her mother must be coming, right?
"Alright, can you follow me?" he asked, taking one of her small hands, the other clutching her bear, who seemed to be missing an ear and sprouting a fountain of stuffing. One arm was also badly burned.
"WHO ARE YOU?" she screamed.
"I'm someone that's here to help." He insisted.
"DOWN!" someone yelled, and Sherlock dove over top of the child, covering her as another bomb exploded, not twenty feet from them. His ears rang and he felt partially deaf, but as soon as the debris stopped raining down he jumped to his feet, hoisting the ever crying toddler onto his shoulder and running as fast as he could to the public shelter. It looked like a sob fest honestly, he only had to knock once before one of the people opened the door, and Sherlock rushed down the stairs, letting the girl down as he got into the concrete bunker. The wooden benches were overflowing with people, some on the floor, the injured lying sprawled in the dirt, moaning in pain. All of the people were weeping as they listened to their homes and lively hoods getting destroyed above them.
"Mommy!" the little girl shrieked, rushing to a sobbing woman who was clutching a large burn on her neck. She flung herself into the desperate woman's arms, and Sherlock felt like he had finally done something good, but it was not enough. He still didn't know where Victor was. Sherlock scanned the bunker briefly for Mrs. Turner, hoping the house keeper had made it out of the house safely. Sherlock didn't even know if the house had survived the bombings or not, if not he would be heartbroken. Would Mrs. Turner and Victor have to stay in a homeless shelter, or would the Holmes family be nice enough to adopt them into the family? That would be ideal; Sherlock couldn't even imagine a life with Victor in the same house. His small fantasy was blown up, quite literally, when an explosion rocked the surface above them, making everyone shriek and cry louder. Dust and dirt rained threateningly down from the roof, and everyone ducked, as if the shelter were going to collapse in. When nothing happened, Sherlock opened the doors and ran back into the town, which looked, if possible, even worse from when he had gone in. The small patch of undamaged land that the child had been standing was ripped apart, dirt, chunks of cement, and fragments of trees and buildings decorated a gaping hole in the earth, with wires sparking and pipes leaking and fires roaring. Alarms were going off, barely heard over the engines and the propellers of the planes over head. Sherlock ran into the center of what used to be town, this time not scanning the people standing, but the ones that were on the ground, clutching wounds or simply not moving at all. This was the group that Sherlock really didn't want to find Victor in. He clutched his shirt to his mouth, trying to filter out whatever ash he could from his lungs. He was already feeling the need to cough violently, but he suppressed it, scanning through the thick smoke. A plane flew overheard, not ten feet from Sherlock, and he watched, dumbfounded, as a bomb was dropped, so close he could've caught it. His legs didn't want to work, he didn't know what to do, suddenly he saw his death, he saw it so close...A dark figure ran into him, dragging Sherlock behind a ruined brick wall as flames erupted with a gigantic bang, the man shielding Sherlock with his body. Sherlock was only able to clutch to his shoulders, the ash too thick to see through, but he could smell, underneath the smell of smoke and ash, the familiar scent of Victor.
"Sherlock, are you crazy?" Victor hissed, sitting up a little bit so that they could see each other.
"You were going to die." Sherlock muttered.
"Does it look like I'm dead?" Victor growled.
"I'm here to help." Sherlock insisted.
"No, you're here to die; I'm not going to let that happen!" Victor insisted.
"Where were you, I was here for about ten minutes, I didn't see you, I thought maybe you..." he let his words trail off, not brave enough to end his sentence.
"I was with Mrs. Turner; she's in our shelter, shaken up but alright." Victor assured.
"Is the house standing?" Sherlock asked.
"For now." Victor agreed. Another blast and Victor dropped once more on top of Sherlock. The boy could feel the heat of the flames even through his human shield, wincing as he heard the dust and rubble fall to the ground.
"You need to get out of here!" Victor insisted, sitting up once again.
"Not without you!" Sherlock debated.
"Don't be stupid, this is no time to be a hero!" Victor insisted.
"I can say the same to you." Sherlock protested.
"You'll die, Sherlock, you don't know what you're doing, please; get to the shelter with Mrs. Turner." Victor pleaded.
"If you stay, I stay, if I go, you're coming too." Sherlock decided.
"Don't be difficult!" Victor pleaded. Sherlock looked up into the face of his love, Victor's face coated with a fine layer of ash, his hat missing and his usually neat hair loose on top of his head. He looked desperate, he looked exasperated, but more than anything he looked downright depressed.
"Victor, please." Sherlock begged. "I value your life just as much as you value mine."
"People are dying, I can help them!" Victor insisted.
"So can I!" Sherlock growled. Another bomb and Victor shielded Sherlock once more.
"Fine, come on!" Victor decided, dragging Sherlock to his feet with a heave and leading him to the shelter. Sherlock dared not look behind him; he didn't want to see what else the Germans had so ruthlessly destroyed. Victor was holding onto Sherlock's hand desperately, running like only a trained soldier could, Sherlock was falling behind, being dragged through the rubble, coughing up ash as he ran. Finally they got to the house, going around back into the once beautiful garden, where there was a large bomb shelter. Victor knocked on the door furiously, and it was soon opened by a tear streaked Mrs. Turner.
"Oh, Victor, thank god!" she exclaimed, making way for the two of them to get inside. There was an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, but that was the only source of light. For being so rich, Sherlock was surprised they didn't have cable down here, but it was just the same as anyone else's bomb shelter, made entirely out of concrete with wooden benches, woolen blankets scattered around. Mrs. Turner closed the shelter doors just in time, because another bomb exploded.
"They're bound to be done by now!" she exclaimed.
"It's not normal that they wait this long, what could they possibly want?" Victor agreed.
"I don't know." She muttered.
"Are you alright Sherlock?" he asked, turning to Sherlock who was coughing his lungs out, spitting ash and dust every so often into the corner. His clothes were ripped and dirty, his hair a mess, and his skin coated with whatever was floating in the air.
"I'm fine, how about you?" Sherlock assured.
"Physically unscathed, mentally though..." Victor sighed, not willing to end his own sentence.
"Sherlock, why are you here, you live far from town?" Mrs. Turner asked.
"I went after Victor." Sherlock shrugged, which now seemed like a stupid thing to do. Of course Victor could take care of himself, but then again, if Sherlock hadn't arrived they wouldn't be in a shelter.
"Come on, sit down." Victor insisted, leading Sherlock over to a bench and draping a blanket around his shoulders. Victor sat next to him, but he didn't take a blanket, he couldn't sit still. His feet were tapping, his fingers drumming, his ears perked for the next explosion.
"This is terrible, absolutely terrible." Mrs. Turner insisted. "What are we going to eat?"
"We'll figure that out later, because if they keep it up, there won't be any people left that need food." Victor insisted.
"Don't say that." Sherlock pleaded.
"Where is your family?" Mrs. Turner asked.
"They're in the shelter." Sherlock muttered.
"And you ran after Victor?" she asked. Sherlock nodded, looking at the floor and wondering how his family was. Surely they wouldn't bomb a lonely house would they? Another explosion made the shelter rock, the oil lamp wagging dangerously on its hinge. The last thing they needed was the lamp to fall and a fire to break out in their safe house.
"I was able to save a couple from the ruins of their house, but that was it." Victor admitted.
"I carried a child to the shelter." Sherlock added.
"My two little heroes." Mrs. Turner said with a smile. Victor nodded, but obviously he felt like he needed to be a hero a little bit longer. "Sit still Victor, you're making me nervous." She added.
"You're not nervous already?" he asked.
"Of course I am, I'm bloody terrified, but at least I know my boys are safe." She snapped. Sherlock looked up with shock; she already classified him as family? But he was more touched than disgusted; some random house keeper accepted him better than his own father, which really said something about his home life. Victor sighed, sitting back rather reluctantly and holding Sherlock closer, as if trying to make sure he wouldn't run away.
"We're not going to die." Victor assured, not to anyone but himself.
"No we're not." Sherlock agreed. The night continues on like that, bomb after bomb, siren after siren, tears shed, words exchanged, but no one left the shelter, not until the explosions ceased the sirens were silent. When that happened, both Sherlock and Victor rushed out into the night. It was about two o'clock in the morning, but with the fires lighting the sky, it seemed to be dawn. People were just starting to come out from the shelters, weeping heavily, some screaming, others silent as they examined their lively hoods in rubble. Only a few buildings stood, Victor' s house was miraculously untouched, the school (to Sherlock's disappointment) stood strong, and a couple of stores and restaurants. But whatever was left of the other buildings remained strewn all of the streets, chunks of brick, concrete, wood, all scattered about as if it were an interior design murder scene. Sherlock grabbed Victor's hand in fear as he saw the bodies lying about as well, some still moving and groaning for help, others staring blankly at the sky, others with limbs blown of or massive burns. Sherlock hadn't seen a dead person before in his life, and now there were an overabundance of them in his own town, and he was terrified.
"This is terrible..." Victor muttered, while Mrs. Turner and Sherlock were just at a loss for words. They walked up to a large pile of rubble, the music store, or at least, what used to be the music store.
"Is that, music?" Sherlock asked, hearing a faint noise coming from the inside. Victor listened, and once more there was a small noise every so often, as if it were some record playing trying it's hardest to play the record.
"No, it's a call for help." Victor insisted, letting go of Sherlock's hand and rushing into the runes. Sherlock really wanted to go in and help, even though there wasn't much foundation left to go into, but was stopped by someone strangling him from behind. Actually, it wasn't a strangle, more like a desperate hug, but at the moment Sherlock couldn't tell the difference.
"Sherlock!" his mother cried with relief.
"Mom, I'm fine, come on, I'm fine." He insisted, trying to push her off but in turn just getting another enormous hug.
"Oh dear, I thought you were dead, I was so scared!" she exclaimed.
"Why would you do something so stupid?" Mr. Holmes growled, walking up through the cracked remains of the street.
"I was coming back for Victor, he ran off..." Sherlock insisted.
"Tell me he's dead?" Mr. Holmes asked hopefully.
"He's..." Sherlock started.
"Sorry to disappoint." Victor said hotly, stumbling over rubble with a man in his arm. It had to be the owner of the shop, but he didn't look too good. His leg seemed to be crushed, and he was coughing up blood. Victor set him down next to a medical station, where the town doctors were already converging to take care of the wounded. As soon as he set the body down Mrs. Holmes trapped him in an unavoidable motherly hug, which obviously caught Victor off guard. Surprisingly though, he seemed to accept the hug a lot better than Sherlock had.
"Don't you go running into the fire either, you both could've died!" she insisted.
"We were in the shelter, we were fine!" Sherlock insisted.
"You ran all the way to town just to sit in a different shelter?" Mr. Holmes growled. Victor was finally released by Mrs. Holmes, and was migrating towards Sherlock with a very defensive look in his eyes, as if challenging Mr. Holmes to fight him again.
"No, I saved a little girl." Sherlock insisted.
"From herself, maybe." Mr. Holmes snapped doubtfully. 
"From a bomb! She was in the middle of the park, she would've died!" Sherlock insisted.
"Well that's great, now soldier boy's blind heroism is rubbing off on you." Mr. Holmes snapped.
"Your son just saved a life." Victor pointed out.
"Oh my goodness, when did I ever say you could join the family conversation?" Mr. Holmes growled.
"You never did, but I thought it necessary to step in and defend Sherlock." Victor shrugged. The two stared at each other, a male dominance glare, Sherlock almost expected the two of them to grow antlers and bash each other around for a while.
"Victor!" Mrs. Turner cried, bustling into the mix and tearing Victor's eyes away.
"Yes?" he asked.
"I couldn't find you, I thought you had went into some building!" she exclaimed.
"Just got out of one, actually." He admitted.
"Is that..." Mrs. Turner took a step back after seeing Mr. Holmes, who was looking quite terrifying with soot on his face, silhouetted by the roaring flames.
"It's fine." Sherlock assured, but honestly he wasn't so sure.
"This is Sherlock's mother, Mrs. Holmes, and this is Sherlock's father, Mr. Holmes. You've met him." Victor pointed out, as if trying to remind the man that he had attacked their entire family in his murderous rage.
"Nice to meet you, you must be Mrs. Turner." Mrs. Holmes said, shaking Mrs. Turner's hand kind of reluctantly. The housekeeper was giving Sherlock's mother the weirdest look, as if asking her what the motive was to marry such an alcoholic jerk.
"You have a lovely son." Mrs. Turner decided.
"As do you." She agreed.
"Oh, I'm not his mother, I'm his housekeeper." Mrs. Turner insisted.
"You might as well be my mother." Victor pointed out, making Mrs. Turner smile.
"His parents are away at war." Mrs. Turner explained, and Mrs. Holmes nodded.
"We have a son away as well." She agreed. It was forced conversation, not really easy with the ruins of their town around them.
"So, what happened here?" Mr. Holmes asked.
"Firework display got out of hand." Sherlock snapped, feeling a bit braver with Victor here to protect him. Mr. Holmes made a growling noise in his throat, but obviously he wasn't daring enough to oppose Victor, not when he was all territorial.
"Sherlock, we're leaving." He decided.
"But there's still people out there, fires to put out, I need to help!" Sherlock insisted.
"You don't need to help, you're not a hero, and this town is not your problem." Mr. Holmes insisted.
"He's right Sherlock, you need to get to bed, it's late." Victor agreed.
"Oh don't tell me you're on his side?" Sherlock groaned, but Victor shrugged guiltily.
"I have your best interests in mind. Go to bed, get some rest, and tomorrow you can come help. I'm sure school will be canceled anyway." Victor insisted.
"I don't know, that school board is pretty determined." Sherlock admitted with a smile.
"Goodnight Sherlock." Victor laughed, tilted his hat to Mrs. Holmes, and walked off to help some men drag over buckets of water onto, ironically, the burning fire station.