Sherlock

"Are you functioning?"

John nodded and entered the Audi.

"Good. Stay down, okay? You're getting out of here."

The first hours were a messy blur.

Sherlock's arm was hurting, and it was hard to shift... but soon, he was good at it. Unfortunately, he'd gone east instead of west, and it took twenty minutes to get back to where they'd started.

John said nothing. He was holding onto his seatbelt like it was the only thing keeping him in the car. Sherlock put his hand on his leg, and it was like he didn't even notice it was there.

They got off the highway again to get a map and some gas. Sherlock went in. He bought John Pepsi Cola and one of those mini cherry pies (his decision was influenced by the frankly alarming song playing on the rest stop's radio), and when Sherlock came back, John was slumped over the passenger door, asleep.

Good, Sherlock told himself, he's exhausted and needs some rest.

He got up behind the wheel and took some rough breaths, then slammed the pie onto the dash. How could he be asleep?

If this went how it was supposed to, Sherlock would be driving home alone tomorrow. If this fucked up shit went how Sherlock prayed it would, John would be gone tomorrow. Never coming back.

How could John sleep through their last hours together?

How could he sleep sitting up like that... how could he look so beautiful, with his lips pried open and his head slick with dried sweat?

His hair was wild and still so blonde and bright, still achingly familiar to touch.

The blonde boy. The bus person. The technicolor mistake. Sherlock tried to remember what he'd thought when he first saw him. He tried to remember how this happened. How he turned from just a boy to the only one who mattered.

And he wondered... what if I just kept on driving? What if Sherlock never stopped? Just took John in the car and drove?

Why couldn't this have waited?

If John's life had caved in a year from now, they could've gone together. He would have run to him. Not away.

For God's sakes, why couldn't he just wake up?

Sherlock stayed awake for another hour or so, fueled by Pepsi and hurt feelings. If only he had an Adderall, then he could drive forever, but the wreck of the night soon caught up with him. There wasn't a rest stop around, so Sherlock pulled off on a county road.

Sherlock unbuckled his seatbelt, unbuckled John's, then pulled him over, his head supported by Sherlock's. John still smelled like last night. Like sweat and vanilla and Violet's shampoo. Sherlock cried into John's hair until he fell asleep.

John

He woke up in Sherlock's arms. It caught him by surprise. He would've thought it was a dream, but his dreams were always awful and stressful. John had never dreamed anything that was as nice as this... Sherlock, so sleepy and warm and breath minty fresh.

Warm through and through. Someday, John thought, I'm going to wake up to this face.

Sherlock asleep was different. His lips were only slightly open, and John kissed him gently while he was still unmoving. "I'm sorry," John whispered. His skin was a soft blue, his eyelashes darker than ever. Lips full and flat, strong, arched cheekbones. He caught John by surprise, and despite his sureness that they would see each other again, he found his heart breaking. Like it didn't have anything better to break over...

Maybe it didn't.

The sun was just below the horizon, and the inside of the truck was still pale blue. John kissed Sherlock's face, just under his eye, a little left of his nose. He stirred, and he felt every single nerve ending explode and stir with him. John ran his all-too-round nose across Sherlock's eyebrow and kissed his lashes.

His lids fluttered. (Only eyelids do that. And butterflies.) And Sherlock's arms came to life around him. "John..." he whispered.

John held Sherlock's face and kissed him like it was the end of the world.

Sherlock

He wouldn't be on the bus anymore.

He wouldn't criticize Sherlock's drug addiction.

He wouldn't say, "I want to punch you in the face," or lay in Sherlock's lap and let him stroke his hair, or call him an arse, or show him stupid rock music.

The entire sky was the color of his skin.

John

There's only one of him, John thought. Only one of him in the entire world.

He knows who I am before I do.

He reads poetry like it's a tangible thing, something you can speak to and touch and feel.

He's rude and annoying and beautiful and infamous.

He pumps himself full of narcotics to stop himself from speaking too loudly, because if he didn't, he'd scream.

And there's this muscle in his chest - it's so broken, but it makes me want to cry and laugh and live.

There's only one of him.

And he's right here.

Sherlock

His parents never said specifically how they met. Only that they'd both been awful people before each other. When Sherlock was younger, he liked to imagine it. How their first shared glance felt.

He loved how much they loved each other. It was the thing that he used to justify Siger's actions. It was what made Sherlock sane when he woke up in the night, screaming. They loved each other. That was a choice - a choice they happily made.

Sherlock's parents loved each other, present tense. They'd kissed on the mouth, no matter who was watching.

What are the chances that you'd meet someone like that? Sherlock asked himself. Someone that you love till death did you part? And what if that person was an alcoholic?

The math seemed impossible. How did his parents get so lucky?

They must have not felt lucky at the time; they were fucked up people that had an abuse problem. But he made her better.

Maybe Siger sat next to her in their support group, and touched her hand. Maybe she'd spoken to them all about her brother, about how she was trying to recover, but couldn't. Maybe Siger saw her crying after class, and their eyes locked.

He wondered how they both knew...

This kiss had to last Sherlock forever.

It had to get him home.

It had to make him sane when he woke up in the night, screaming.

John

The first time Sherlock touched his hand, it crowded out all the bad things. It felt better than anything had ever hurt.

Sherlock

John's hair caught fire at dawn. His eyes were the darkest blue, his skin the warmest peach, his lips the pinkest pink.

The first time he touched his hand, he'd known.

John

He could have sworn this kiss felt like the last.

Sherlock

"Sherlock, no, we have to stop..."

"No."

"We can't do this..."

"Don't stop, John."

"I don't... I can't..."

"It doesn't matter."

"I won't be able to..."

"I don't care."

"I care, Sherlock, like always, I care..."

"It's our last chance."

"No, Sherlock, no, no, I'm... No. Just no. This isn't our last chance, I need to believe this isn't our last anything... Sherlock? Can you hear me? I need you to believe it, too."

Sherlock

John got out of the truck, and Sherlock wandered into a cornfield to pee. John wasn't even sure what to do with himself, so he sat on the truck and tried not to look at Sherlock, who was confusedly wandering around, trying to find a good place to... do business. When he came back, he climbed up on the hood, along with.

"Hey, John."

"Don't," John said, chuckling. "I'll punch you in the face."

John put his head down into Sherlock's lap, swinging his legs left and putting his hands across his chest. He nearly wept when Sherlock buried his fingers into John's hair. Weeping again today seemed inevitable, but it was weird, all the same.

"Do you really believe that?"

"What?"

"That there will be more chances. For us," Sherlock clarified.

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, I do. Truly. Even if I'm not coming back, you'll call. It's better than losing this."

Sherlock turned. He whispered. "No matter what, don't come back."

John was silent.

"I need you to never come back. Because I don't want him to hurt you, and I don't want you to find me like I imagine myself looking after you leave."

John squinted. "How do you imagine yourself looking?"

"It doesn't matter, John, just... no matter what."

"I can't keep that promise. Because, you know... no matter what, I love you."

Sherlock kicked a rock with the leg hanging from the hood. "Stupid idiot," he said, gripping onto John tighter. "Just do what I say."

John propped himself up on his elbows, looking Sherlock in the eyes. "But, Sherlock..." John said, "it's up to us. It's up to us not to lose this."

John sat next to Sherlock the entire trip, even though there wasn't a seatbelt and he had to seat with the stick shift in between his legs. It must have been way safer than the back of Pickard's Isuzu.

They stopped at another rest and Sherlock bought John a soda and beef jerky.

"I smell like Anderson's garage," John said. "My dad's going to think I'm a drug addict."

Sherlock smiled and looked at the road. "Maybe he'll just think you're an alcoholic. You spilled beer on your shirt."

John looked down at his jumper. It was all crusted and awful smelling and sad-looking.

Sherlock then began to take off his sweatshirt, then his tee. He handed the T-shirt to John, and then slipped his hoodie back on.

John smiled thankfully, then slipped it on over his head, taking off the dirty one underneath. That's how he changed in gym class.

Sherlock looked at him. His smile changed.

"Keep it," he murmured.

Later, John asked how close they were.

Sherlock said smoothly, calmly, "Very close."

"How close is very close?"

"Too close for comfort."

"How close is that?"

Sherlock looked up from the road and prayed that he'd miss a turn. He said, "Mere minutes."

John nodded and looked out of the window, watching picket fence houses fly past. He wondered how many houses had a garden in them, and then, how many gardens were growing mint.

In the summer, he'd have to buy some.

A/N: god hold me bc like ugh I dread this part just imagining them driving through suburbia complacent and distant it physically hurts me to write so leave me a vote to compensate for my pain thank you

thank you

i'm so sorry