Sherlock

John was going crazy from it all, rubbing his eyelids, trying to gather what sanity he had left. It wasn't working, and Sherlock could see that as easily as the nose on his face. "I have to go," John said. "Sorry, Sherlock..."

Sherlock could feel his stomach close. Then his throat, then his lungs, then his mouth. He didn't want to speak, because then he'd say something utterly stupid, like, "Why?"

It was obvious why. "You could... talk to your mum tomorrow. It'll look all different in the morning."

"No..." John whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. "It won't. You saw what he wrote on my books. There were other things he wrote... worse things..."

Sherlock felt his lips tighten. "I... I don't want you to leave."

"I..." John looked at his hands. "Still so sorry."

"Where will you go?"

John said, "My dad's. I don't know. He said I could come down whenever... And I can't stay at the Dilane's. So I was thinking... my dad's. In Cornwall."

"Cornwall. That's eight hours away."

John nodded.

"John..." Sherlock whispered, looking into John's dark blue eyes.

"I know," he said. "I know."

There was no way to sit in the seat next to him, so Sherlock dropped to his knees and let himself pull John to the dusty linoleum floor.

John

"When are you leaving?" Sherlock was running his fingers through John's thick, blonde hair, trying to pretend his mind was quiet.

"Tonight," John whispered. "Can't go back. Even if I wanted to... which I don't."

"How are you going to get there?"

"I don't know. Think I'll take the bus," John lied. He was going to hitchhike.

"You're going to hitchhike, aren't you?"

"Yep." John could walk as far as the Interstate, and then he'd thumb any and all trucks that had families in them. If he didn't get stolen or killed, he'd call Rory when he was close. "How'd you know?"

"You're doing your tell."

"I am?"

"Yeah."

"Right now?"

"Yep. And you can't hitchhike."

"I can."

"You can't and I won't let you."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. I'm going to drive you."

"To a bus station?"

"To Cornwall."

John frowned. "Your arm, Sherlock. It hasn't fully healed. And... and your dad."

"I don't care, John."

"But he'll... hurt you."

Sherlock took his hand, and then put his other hand on his face. "Do you think I care about that, John?" he asked, looking into John's eyes. "Do you really, truly think that I matter more than you?"

"You should," John whispered.

"I don't."

Sherlock said he'd be back later, after his dad went to bed, and after everything was quiet. Then he'd get the keys, and drive up in the Mustang.

"Don't do anything stupid," he said.

"I'll try, but knowing me..." John joked. Sherlock didn't even crack a smile. He looked more serious he'd ever looked. More serious than than the day John kicked Steve's arse. More serious than the day John left Sherlock for Jeanette.

"And I'll be there. Soon."

Sherlock leaned into the RV and touched John's arm.

"Be careful," John said.

And then Sherlock was gone.

John sat back in the seat, and laid his head on it - he suddenly felt so tired. Would it matter if John closed his eyes a while? He was sleepy, and plus, Sherlock might not come back for a bit...

Should he have left a note?

Was his mum okay? Was his sister okay? Was his sanity?

Rory would probably send him back once he found out that he'd run away, anyway. God. Once he began to think this through, it all fell apart, but John didn't care - he needed to leave, to run, to hide. He needed to be somewhere other than with him.

A pedophile. The things he'd written on those books... John's books... God.

Maybe he'd get away, and figure it out later.

Maybe he wouldn't...

John had never thought about committing suicide - ever - (he thought it did more harm than good; in fact, he thought it didn't do any good at all) but he did think a lot about stopping.

Getting away until he couldn't get away any more.

Running until running was white noise and he wasn't even running, just moving his legs, just going through the motions, pounding through any thoughts that gave him a semblance to feelings.

Jumping off of a building so high, he'd never hit bottom.

Maybe that's how Sherlock felt. Always.

Was Pickard out looking for them now?

Harry would tell Pickard about Sherlock. Not because she liked him, although, sometimes, it seemed like she would tell him anything... but because he had her on a leash. Like when he'd walked in on them laying next to each other by the telly.

Fuck. Just... fuck.

He should go back for her - find a way to put Harry in his pocket and run with her... and then Rory would send them both right back home.

His mum would definitely call the police if she woke up and both of them had disappeared. Bringing Harry, in accordance to most things that Harry was involved in, would fuck everything up more fucked than it was.

If John was the hero of some book, if he was Atticus Finch, or one of the Boxcar Children, or maybe Harry Potter or Nancy Drew, he would do what was right. He would go back and save his sister.

He'd be brave and noble and strong, and he'd find a way.

But, alas, John was just a seventeen year old boy. He wasn't any of those things; in fact, he was trying to get through the night.

Sherlock

Sherlock took a shower quickly after slipping in through the empty garage and up the stairs into the kitchen. He probably smelled like all the things Siger would be attentive to.

The telly was still on in Siger's room.

When he came out of the shower, he came out of his bedroom and grumbled, "What're you doing, Sherlock?"

"Just going to bed," Sherlock said stiffly, walking past him as briskly as possible, and then into his room.

He threw all his dirty clothes into the bottom of his hamper, and then he threw on some sweatpants and a T-shirt. He didn't bother to put his sling on; he didn't need it anymore, and with the amount of driving they'd have to do, it would be rather hard with his arm held to his side. It was going to be really sore after a couple of hours... Sherlock didn't care.

Sherlock got out a debit card with two hundred pounds on it, praying that it'd be enough for gas. He could to a simple maths problem to figure it out, but that'd be way too hard.

If they could just get to Cornwall, and figure it out. He wasn't even sure if John's dad would let him stay, but he might help. John said he was a good person, and that "Amy's a nurse at a local hospital."

Sherlock wrote his dad a note:

Hello, Dad.

I've got to go again. It'll be a day or two, but you know my number. You can call. I'm sorry, Father. I had to help a friend.

Sherlock

Sherlock lay on his bed and closed his eyes. He couldn't fall asleep, so he wasn't in danger of leaving John all alone in an RV. The picture of John was still glowing in his mind. Fresh and lovely.

He looked so beautiful. So peaceful... no, that wasn't right. More... at peace. Like he didn't care that he stole his shirt from a Salvation Army drop-off. Like he was more comfortable out of his tee then in it. Like he was happy inside out.

When he opened his eyes, he saw John the way he'd looked that first day, when he got on the bus. A tiger in the midst of poachers, broken and sharp. So far gone that the only glint in his eye was a shadow.

So far gone, he wasn't even thinking about Sherlock anymore.

Sherlock waited until it was quiet. Then he gathered all the comics he'd collected from John, all the compositions he'd never given, and neatly packed them into a backpack.

Then he ran out his room, and then out the back door. Then he went into the garage, and looked around for the Mustang... it wasn't there. Siger must have put it in the shop. There was only the manual transmission 1998 Audi. Sherlock stared at it a while, before puffing out his chest and getting inside.

It smelled like sage and roses. Sherlock smiled into the chilly air, shoved the key inside the ignition.

Time to drive a stick.

Sherlock closed his eyes. John was still there, looking down at him.

John.

He started the engine and smoothly shifted into reverse, backing out of the garage and into the road. Then he pushed into first gear, and pulled forward without a stutter.

Because he knew how to drive a stick. For God's sake.

A/N: Oh god their last days together i am going to jump into a sun I WILL JUMP INTO A SUN