Sherlock had allowed him to sleep on the couch of his work office overnight, despite the fact that worry lit up in his eyes whenever John winced at his bruises. It'd only been a couple of days since it happened. And the riches that Moriarty had promised? Nowhere to be seen.

Whenever he was with Sherlock, he ended up ignoring all that extra stuff anyway. Forgetting about Claire was easy - unless he was spying for Moriarty, and then it was anything but. Everything Sherlock did in private was monitored by John closely. Sometimes, he'd say he needed to go to the bathroom and disappear for an hour, and John was left sitting in the music room, plucking absentmindedly as some strings. (Once, when he got really bored, he attempted to play some of Sherlock's easier sheet music. Needless to say, he nearly broke the violin.) And regardless of where they were at the time, John's morality would always begin to bug him when he began listening in on Sherlock's private conversations.

He'd extrapolated a few things: "The Document," as Sherlock always referred to it as, was related to the current war. It had great political and military sway, especially among the Austrians. The name Schuschnigg was thrown around quite a bit, as well as Manhattan. "Manhattan is safe," he kept telling the rotary phone. John had eventually lost track of who Sherlock was speaking to. It was hard to be discreet when the man you were spying on was a master of deduction. And when John was foolish enough to ask, Sherlock ignored him outright.

They were both getting bitter and caustic - the sun set much too quickly in the evening, and then Sherlock always insisted that he had to go home, even though it was only six. John snapped at him, usually. He hated this. Being alone.

To make up for it, Sherlock promised they'd go out the next day. To where, John didn't know - what John tried to glean from Sherlock was immediately shot down.

Maybe shopping for some suits. The Guy Fawkes Day party that all the elites were invited to was in two days, and he knew that if he didn't appear, everything would seem very out of the ordinary. People would start to talk.

He didn't have any clothes, though - he was mostly just borrowing Sherlock's closet, from when he was younger and shorter. He missed his sweaters; for the past few days all he'd been wearing were hand-me-down, starchy dress shirts and slacks. All of his things were at Claire's. All of his things were Claire's.

He just wanted to forget about the fact that he had no place, anymore. Maybe if he drank enough at this party, he would.

***

Tomorrow began earlier than John had expected. Sherlock came around to the academy at seven, while it was still dark, looking crisp and stern. Of what John could see, his hair was slicked neatly to the side, and he was carrying a thin, white box in one of his hands, a coat in another. He immediately shoved the white box into his large coat pocket, and raked his eyes over John's body, which was a misshapen lump on the couch. "Get up," Sherlock said, tossing a suitable coat onto John's resting figure.

Groggily, John drew his body into a sitting position, although his ribs screamed. He palmed at the coat, and his gaze drifted outside, squinting. It was a dark blue; still half night. It was snowing.

"It's only going to get worse," Sherlock said, referring to the weather, "so best hurry yourself."

John was still asleep, but he stood up to get ready without complaint.

***

They rode on the bus with the hints of sunlight still poking viciously through the barren trees, through the houses, through the bus windows. Every once in a while, they'd see a dirty, lumpy snowman in a tiny front yard, and John would have to bite back the memories of he and Harriet, when they were children, when they didn't have skin hanging off of them.

"Where're we going?" John whispered, because the man who was sleeping across from them looked too restless and too worn. Sherlock, on the flip side, didn't care as much.

"Home," he answered, shortly. "Have to make a quick stop."

***

They arrived at the manor and they didn't go inside. Instead, Sherlock walked down the long driveway in the back of his home, and John followed until he passed the curb of Sherlock's far wall. It opened into a field, so wide and long, it seemed to go on forever. Dead grass faded into snow as oak woods cropped up, but it was hardly noticeable. John was transfixed on the sight. The entire sky was white, like Sherlock's bed sheets. Sometimes, he missed the sun.

The sound of a garage door opening brought John out of his reverie. He backed up a few steps so he could see where Sherlock was, what he was doing - only to find that Sherlock had disappeared into a gaping hole inside the house.

His footsteps were muffled in the crunch of the snow, but somehow loud, because it was so deathly quiet. As he walked over, the quiet was violently interrupted by the revving of an engine.

And then - a gorgeous, scarlet automobile pulled out the garage without a stutter, looking practically godly. The juxtaposition between the completely white backdrop and the car was stunning. It rolled forward as if it knew, as if it was bragging, and stopped in front of John like a statement.

John had to pause so he could breathe it in.

Sherlock opened the car door and gave John a look. "Well? Are you just going to stand there?"

John practically jogged to the passenger side, sliding in next to Sherlock. He was met with comforting heat blowing in through the venting, and the promising feeling of a smooth reverse back into the garage, and then out into the street. Unlike on the bus, John couldn't hear the rumbling of the engine. Everything was muffled, intimately quiet in the car. It didn't feel real.

"Of course you have a fucking Bugatti," John muttered, putting on his seat belt.

Sherlock smirked, but didn't reply, blasting the heat. He pulled out of the driveway and onto the country road, eventually pulling onto a sparsely populated motorway. With the snow falling, coating the expanse of flat, empty plain, it almost looked as if they weren't moving. If it weren't for the slow and easy g-force of the car curving along the road, John would've forgotten about being alive. He felt still. Neither of them spoke.

The subtle hum of the radio slyly convinced John to fall asleep in the passenger seat. It was the best sleep he'd had in a long while.

***

"We're here."

John's ears picked up the sounds of buses and AM radio static. He ignored Sherlock in attempt to get more sleep.

The car door opened and shut, and the hard cold blew in. John fell back asleep for what felt like hours.

***

The second time he woke was paired with the violent assault of his senses. It smelled strongly of tea and the crinkling of a paper bag brought John to the surface. Sherlock started eating immediately - he bit into something that smelled savory.

"What time is it?" John asked, lifting his head up.

"Ten," Sherlock said. "It stopped snowing when we passed Swindon."

"Wait" - John sat up completely - "where are we?"

"Oxford, southern side."

John stilled, not entirely sure of how to respond.

"Got brunch, though," Sherlock said, holding up a paper bag. John reached inside and took out a bagel.

"Hell..." he trailed, turning it over in his hands. It was hot. Cheese and egg was folded inside, and John had no idea how Sherlock got a food of such rarity. "A bagel with egg? Where'd you find this?"

Sherlock took another bite of his food, chasing it down with tea. "The restaurant owner owes me a favor," he explained.

"Why?"

"I saved his sister from becoming a Russian invalid - long story, and we don't have time."

"What do you mean?" John asked, readjusting in his seat.

"I mean," Sherlock clarified, the familiar bite in his voice, "you should eat up, because we have a long day ahead of us."

***

Sherlock dragged him from the south side to the north, and John still didn't care. If he was being honest with himself (which he hardly ever was), he probably would have let Sherlock drag him to hell and he wouldn't have minded. From a music shop on the other side of Oxford to the university itself, John walked the hallowed halls with reverence in his steps. Every once in a while, an undergraduate would say hello to Sherlock, and he'd outright ignore them.

"Who's that?" John kept asking.

Sherlock always gave him a short, terse answer, obviously uncomfortable. He was walking purposefully towards something, obviously - and John wanted to reach out his hand and stop Sherlock by the shoulder, by the waist. Just so he could find out what was wrong with this place. Despite the echoing, gorgeous, tall ceilings, there was definitely something wrong.

"Hurry up," Sherlock said, when John stalled to stare at the back of his head. His curls were bouncing like rubber bands.

Eventually, they came to the auditorium, which Sherlock diverted from by darting into a dimly lit hallway alongside it. No one was there except for them, and John stopped under one of the lights. Sherlock's body was nothing but a silhouette against the dark.

"Sherlock," John mustered. He paused in the hallway, and spun around.

"Well?" he said, "Aren't you coming?"

"Of course, but" - John set his tongue on his lip - "are you okay?"

Sherlock snorted. "Fine."

"Are you s-"

"Fine," Sherlock reiterated. He turned back around and continued walking, and John had to choice but to follow. He disappeared behind a red, metal door.

It led to an expanse of backstage lighting and rope and pulleys; instruments were pressed up in the back on shelves, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John slowly made his way through the back stage, maneuvering around chairs and stands. He could hear the tinny voices of raucous university kids in the back - until they stilled. And then, one voice murmured: "Sherlock fucking Holmes."

John jogged to the voices; they'd picked up again. They were talking to Sherlock, trying to size him up, trying to understand him. He crept up behind them all and finally moved in beside Sherlock, tipping his head up.

"And who's this?" one said, tall and skinny, covered in expensive clothing. He looked down his nose at John. Another boy, shorter and more sturdy, touched Sherlock like he knew him well. He had a cockney accent, and dusty brown hair. "You're not one to hang around old men," he laughed. Sherlock smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

John cleared his throat. "Dr. John Watson," he introduced himself, extending his hand. The shorter boy took it, and shook heartily, a twinkle in his eye. "Rogers," he said, his voice warm, but also incredulous.

"He's practically ancient," a boy whispered under his breath. John had to stop himself from climbing over the chair to strike him down. Sherlock surreptitiously pressed his palm against John's stomach, as if to prevent him from doing just that.

"Why're you here?" the tall one asked. "Thought you were doing a quote-unquote 'field study.'"

Sherlock snapped, "Victor, you should do well to keep out of others' business."

"Be a sport," Victor replied. He sounded like a bitch. A bitch in heat.

John stepped forward. "Hey - Victor, is it?"

Victor recovered their distance by slithering back a couple of inches, tilting his head, saying nothing.

"My colleague is here on business, so unless you're his business..." - John shrugged, but more in a way that bristled - "...I'd suggest you mind your own."

"John," Sherlock hissed, reaching out for his shoulder.

John shrugged him off: "No, Sherlock. I'm fine."

"So's this your fucking lapdog, Sherlock?" Victor bit incredulously. "I'd call it a downgrade from Professor Adams, wouldn't you say?"

"Victor," a boy whispered. "Come on, now."

"Do you want to take this somewhere else?" John asked, sounding more bewildered than angry.

"Maybe," Victor replied to John, but his eyes slid to Sherlock's. Everyone was frozen, waiting for him to reply.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and steadily said, "Victor, I have to go to meet Professor Adams." And then he was pulling at John's arm and they were walking away; away to a door with a sliver of light underneath. The group was left in stunned silence. John didn't know what to ask first. He tried for, "What the fuck just happened?" but Sherlock didn't answer.

"Wait here," he ordered, before disappearing behind the door. John settled for leaning dejectedly against a wall and thinking about the conversation that just took place.

Victor was a plain kid. Muted red hair, cropped short to his head in an attempt to take back the subtle boyishness that still hung of his body in layers. He was expecting a bunch of piss poor excuses for men at Oxford: all rich kids with no experience at actual life. What he hadn't expected was volatility.

Victor had started off with a level of apprehension, but by the end of the conversation he was spitting, and his eyes were watering and filled with unrestrained rage. John wondered what Sherlock had done to make Victor hate him so much. Given, Sherlock wasn't a very likeable person, and maybe he just rubbed Victor the wrong way.

John sincerely doubted that, though. Victor had been too volatile in his anger, too emotional. He'd seen anger like that in himself, directed towards an endless barrage of Harry's boyfriends. Maybe - maybe he was Sherlock's ex. It would make sense. Wouldn't it?

John was startled out of his own thoughts by the slamming of the door Sherlock had disappeared behind ten minutes earlier; he straightened up and backed away from the wall he had been leaning against. Not a single soul was in the auditorium and it made John's voice seem less concrete. "You alright?" John asked, seeing Sherlock's expression. Sherlock looked paler, a bit shaken - although John couldn't tell if he was just reading too much into the way he persistently pressed onward, taking not a second glance to look down at John. John stood up and walked after him, matching their steps with relative difficulty. "Sherlock," he said, like there was something to talk about.

They rounded a corner, only to flinch back as they caught sight of Victor, leaning by the wall with his head in his hands. John paused - but then figured that this was the only way out, save the emergency exit. Victor looked up slowly to see them both, their shoulders pressed into one another. Immediately, his spine straightened up - he shot an accusing glare at Sherlock, ignoring John completely. He leaned onto the wall, practically condensing. "So who's he," he spat at Sherlock, too angry to be afraid, "really?"

John exchanged a quick look with Sherlock, half worried, half hesitant.

"I told you," Sherlock repeated steadily, although his eyes reflected something deeper. "This is Dr. John Watson-"

"Shut up, Holmes," the boy said, his voice becoming a hint more dire. "What does he mean to you?"

John took this opportunity to present his own opinion: "Sir, that's a highly inappropriate question to ask Mr. Holmes."

"'Mister Holmes,'" the boy snorted, eyes wet with tears, "like you two are actually colleagues. Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock. I knew you were a psychopath but I didn't think you were spineless, too."

"Victor," Sherlock placated, eyes softening.

"We don't need to listen to this," John hissed, pulling at Sherlock's arm. Sherlock hesitated as Victor actually began crying, defiantly tilting his chin up.

"Tell me, Sherlock," the boy demanded, "what does he have that I don't?"

John didn't have the time of day for this. He would've been angry at Sherlock if he wasn't incredulous, looking at this boy like he had three too many heads. "Well," John started steadily, his voice borderline condescending, "first of all, I have some level of prudence. Do you do this to everyone Sherlock comes around with?" John spat, watching the boy's face redden. "Or do you just dislike me, personally?"

"So you are sleeping together," the boy whispered deliriously.

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "No," John enunciated, "but Sherlock is my friend."

Sherlock startled under his touch. With a hurried goodbye of "Victor," he sped out of the room via an emergency exit. John gave Victor one last look before taking off behind Sherlock. They erupted into a parking lot, where Sherlock's car was waiting. Sherlock got to it first and slid inside, but didn't start the car.

"You were really helpful out there," John hissed breathlessly, climbing into Sherlock's Bugatti. The radio was on. "Seriously, you're a fucking charmer."

Sherlock stared through the windshield while a man spoke of political strain in the Middle East.

"You could have ripped him apart, Sherlock," John continued, voice picking up. "Why didn't you?"

"His father died," Sherlock said, evenly.

"That's not your issue."

"He was my friend and his father died and I left him to deal with it alone."

"You never seemed to have a problem with hurting people before!" John said, thinking about sitting alone at a card table, waiting for Sherlock to come over and buy him a scotch.

Sherlock's voice escalated impossibly fast. "That's the point!" He slammed his palm onto the steering wheel, and shouted, "I'm supposed to be getting better!"

John's face relaxed, the emotions dissipating in his mouth. "Sherlock," he almost said, but it faded. "How old is he?"

"Eighteen in five weeks," Sherlock replied without hesitation.

John put his hands to his brow and inhaled, slow enough to feel the air fill his lungs. "Jesus," he breathed out.

"I'm sorry I took you here," Sherlock said hastily, "I didn't - I didn't think-"

"Sherlock." John shook his head at him, because he didn't know what else to do. "He's not of age."

"I know."

"Jesus," John said again, looking from Sherlock to the dashboard. "Bloody hell."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Does that mean that..."

"It was wrong," Sherlock whispered. "We had sex a couple of times but he was too young. I ended it right after his dad died. I didn't know it at the time, but if I had, it wouldn't have changed anything." Sherlock paused. "I'm not a good person, John."

John didn't really have anything to say to that. Because under the drug problem, and the queer thing, and the fact that Sherlock was empty like a bullet casing - the fact that they were both filled with hollow anger - it was recognized almost unanimously that Sherlock wasn't a good person.

He just started the vehicle and they drove off the campus, going through traffic empty streets. There were kids playing on the sidewalks, in the road, and they looked surprised to see a car, like they'd never seen anything like that before. They'd probably never seen a cherry red Bugatti before.

And it occurred to him, looking at the children tracing their car with innocent eyes as they rolled down the road: neither was John. The notion that he could be a good father to Claire's children; the notion that they were supposed to be together (for what? Peace of mind?); every second he spent with Sherlock was a reminder of everything that was gravely wrong with him. Being unscrupulous - a state of being that John rarely indulged in, but now could not stop indulging - it made everything easier.

Sherlock turned off the main road to a vein of small cafés. To break the heavy, loaded silence, John asked, "Where'd you get the petrol? I thought they rationed it for military use."

Sherlock slowed down, looking out the window to see a row of storefronts. He seemed to be looking for something; John sat back, confident that his question would be left unanswered.

But then: "This is military use," was all he definitively replied, parallel parking by a small restaurant.

John looked to him, then outside. "Really? How?" he asked, looking for something conspicuous.

Sherlock turned off the car, removed the key from the ignition and pocketed it. As he opened the car door, he told John, "Well, we're about to go meet the queen."