John

The ride was long, and his eyes were fluttering shut by the time he drove onto the highway. He heard Sherlock's whimpers, and brushed curls off his sweaty head. He remembered Sherlock saying, "Not the hospital."

"You need medical attention," John had replied.

"No," Sherlock slurred. "They'll know. They'll know about the... the things. You... you do it. When we get to the hotel, I... I brought a credit... card, John, just... just do it."

John couldn't figure why Sherlock didn't want to get medical treatment. His arm was dislocated, swollen and red, and his curls were sticky with blood. Words were slurring because of the concussion he'd gotten, and he was whimpering quietly; fidgeting. Every once in a while he'd yelp.

"Sherlock, I'm here," John said, struggling to keep his eyes ahead. "Sherlock, wake up, you're here, with me." (That must have not been much of a comfort.)

He was shaking like a leaf, and his lips were parting to let in small, broken breaths. "I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered, and John couldn't help but drive to the side of the road, even though the hotel was only an exit away.

"Sherlock," John whispered, and Sherlock opened his eyes. They were wild, still hazed over, but concentrated. "Love, what's happened?"

"John... drive," Sherlock said. "Drive."

"I can't. I bloody can't."

"Drive, John. Please, drive."

"Just..." John said. "Please. Just tell me who did this."

Sherlock was holding in all his emotion. "Can't," he said, like if he formed full sentences the feelings would come pouring out with them.

The rain was louder than ever. Sherlock smelled like sweat and tears and blood and fear, so John pulled him up and rested his body in the crook of his arm, and Sherlock buried his face into John's chest.

"Shh, love," John whispered, shushing him. "I'm here. I'll always be here. Don't worry." John wiped Sherlock's curls away from his forehead as he quietly whispered promises.

Sherlock fell asleep in John's arms, still whispering. Every once in a while, he'd tremble, but John just steadied him with the one hand that wasn't on the steering wheel. 

They were at the hotel ten minutes later, and they registered for a room that was cheap and smelly. The manager said he didn't want any trouble from the police. John said that he could pay in full from the damage that he may cause, but he promised that there would be no subsequent trouble.

Sherlock was limping into the elevator, head high and chin up, refusing to show weakness. "You okay?" John said when Sherlock nearly fell. He put an arm under Sherlock's good one, but Sherlock shoved it away, giving John a stiff nod. 

"You sure?"

Sherlock nodded again, still not letting anything come through. 

When they got to their bedroom, Sherlock collapsed. 

"I've got to pop it back in," John said. "Before it heals that way."

"Do it," Sherlock moaned. "There are painkillers in the cabinet."

"I don't want to give you those."

"Why?"

"Because they're painkillers, that's why."

Sherlock held out his arm, wincing. "Alright, then, John. Count of three?"

"Yeah," John agreed, taking Sherlock's hand, and putting his foot on Sherlock's shoulder. "Won't hurt a bit."

"Okay. On my count. One-"

John yanked it into place. Sherlock let out a bloodcurdling yell, and John shivered. In his brain numbing pain, he'd yelled, "Dad!" and John sort of shied away from him and into the bathroom, gathering supplies to make an ersatz sling for his shoulder.

"It just needs some rest," John said heatedly, as he came out. He was holding toilet paper, and a bath towel, and Sherlock looked away from his swollen arm as John peeled off his dress shirt. There was a great deal of pained grunting, and then the shirt was off and John was wrapping the toilet paper angrily around Sherlock's arm. "You need some rest. Go to bed."

"I'm not tired." John tied a towel around Sherlock with an annoyed tug.

"Hungry?"

"No."

"Are you anything?"

"No."

"Well," John said, getting up and turning off all the lights, "I just drove for three hours, it's two in the morning, and I'm tired, so please, for me, go to bed. We'll wash you up tomorrow."

John climbed into the bed opposite Sherlock, savoring the softness, despite the cold.

"Okay," Sherlock said, cradling his cast, and laying on his back. John could hear the covers move whenever Sherlock fidgeted, moaning quietly. It took about thirty minutes of John trying to sleep before he huffed, "Want me to sleep in that bed?"

"With... me...?" Sherlock whispered.

"That was rather the plan," John said curtly, sitting up and throwing off his covers. 

"Well, I suppose it couldn't really hurt."

John slid in with Sherlock. The blood had clotted on his forehead, and his nose had ceased to bleed. "Your arm sore?" John whispered. "I could get you some ice from the fridge."

"No..." Sherlock sighed, turning to John, who was lying on his back. John tilted his head to Sherlock.

"I'm mad at you," John whispered in the dark.

"I know."

"No, you don't."

"Yes. I'm keeping secrets, again, and you find that to be annoying."

"Well, if you didn't keep secrets," John whisper-yelled, "I wouldn't be annoyed."

"Well, what do you want me to tell you?"

"I want-"

"That was rhetorical," Sherlock drawled. 

"I don't care. Please tell me what happened."

"I'm keeping secrets to keep you safe, which you obviously don't see."

"Secrets are what got us into this mess in the first place."

"The secret got us into the mess, not the keeping of the secret."

"You," John yawned, "are so lucky I'm tired. When I wake up, we're having a talk."

"About what?" Sherlock whispered.

John rolled onto his side, and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's. His breath caught in his throat as John held his good hand under the covers. "We are going to talk about you," John whispered. "I don't care," he continued, "if it's painful. Because I need to know. Because I'm not just some boy. You love me, okay, I'm not just some boy."

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

John felt Sherlock's pulse slow, and his bloodied lips open and let in air. Sherlock was asleep.

Then John was, too.

Sherlock

Sherlock woke up to breakfast. His head was pounding, his limbs were on fire, and he knew he was running an awful fever - he was hot and cold at the same time. And there was a breakfast in front of him that he couldn't eat without throwing it all up, which he would certainly do.

"Rise and shine," John said, from the corner of the room. "It's two-thirty."

Sherlock looked over to John, who was casually watching Sherlock sleep. 

"How long have you been here?"

"I've been here the entire time." John stood up, sighing. "After you eat your breakfast, get into the tub. I'll help you wash up, and, uh, then I can help with laundry. Then we'll get going." John walked over, and said, "Eat."

Sherlock took two bites of his pancakes.

"Another, please."

And another. He felt the bile rise. I'm holding this down, he said determinedly. This is good for me. Eating is good. Vitamins. Calcium. Nutrients.

"Now, drink some milk. You aren't lactose intolerant, right? I would have to go back downstairs and get you apple juice."

Sherlock smiled slightly and drank the milk. His stomach rumbled, and closed. That was all he could fit, and John didn't realize that.

"Drink a little more?"

"I can't. My window's closed."

"Your window?" John asked. 

"Yes. The window for which I eat my food."

"You ate three bites," John said.

"I ate more than I usually do," Sherlock shot back. He was going to feel the consequences in a few more seconds. It usually took a minute or so for his stomach to reject whatever food had been placed in there.

"I just want you to be full when we get back on the highway."

"I can't eat anymore, John, please realize-" Sherlock was cut off by a sudden bout of sickness, and he shot out of bed and into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. He knelt down, and then it was all coming up, all at once. The pancakes were watery, and he could see not fully digested chunks of apple inside. He wondered mid-vomit what John was thinking as he did this, choking on what should've been his meal.

"Sherlock, you alright?" John called.

He vomited up the last of what was in his stomach, and he lazily flushed it, watching the water spin down the porcelain bowl. He rested his head on the lid as John spoke, trying to wipe away the remains of what he'd regurgitated. "Apologies," he muttered.

"It's... uh..." John slowly walked in, and touched Sherlock's shoulder. "It's fine. Just get into the bath, okay? Call me when the water has filled up, and I'll collect the clothes."

John left Sherlock alone in the bathroom, and scalding water poured into the tub as Sherlock shed his clothes. Gingerly, Sherlock stepped inside; he could feel the dirt caking his body leave him when he sunk down. "Ready," Sherlock called, closing his eyes. "Clothes are on the towel rack."

John came in, and took the clothes. "Be right back," he said.

Sherlock stirred his good hand in the water, taking a sponge and pouring almond soap into it. He lathered it into his curls, and the suds were a dark red when they fell into the tub. The water was cloudy and pink, raw with blood and dirt. Sherlock couldn't look at it anymore, so he let the sponge fall out of his hands and he laid his sore head on the edge of the tub. He wanted to drain the water down, down, down, and go down with it.

When John came back, he was holding dry clothes. Hoodies, and tees, and sweats.

"Bought them at the Goodwill, down the road," he explained. "They're ugly, but I think they'll fit."

Sherlock nodded once. "Did you eat anything?"

"A bagel, yeah," John mumbled guiltily, putting the bags down. His gaze shifted to Sherlock, who, even though his eyes were closed, could feel his eyes burning into him. 

"Wish you would stop staring."

"I stare at you all the time."

"I know. Wish you'd stop."

John sighed through his nose, and walked to Sherlock, who was languidly running his fingertips down his wet legs. "Need help," John asked.

"Mmph."

John walked over, got down on his knees, and picked up the soap. Sherlock felt a cool glob pour down his neck. "Shit," John muttered every once in a while. John was rubbing the soap into Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock was stifling utterances of pain as blood trickled from the open wound in his forehead, sticky and wet. It felt so okay again, with him here, and even though Sherlock was sick and wounded, it was fine. John began to talk, and it was alright, because he never let Sherlock get a word in edgewise, and Sherlock didn't have to tediously answer annoying questions, until, unavoidably, John began to quietly transition into talk of "What Had Happened."

Sherlock never said anything, and John soon realized that trying to coax it out of him would be useless. They spent another hour in silence, staring at each other, even though Sherlock's fingers were pruning and they had long since cleaned Sherlock.

"I'm sorry," John said, later, much, much later, when Sherlock was certain he had lost consciousness from just blankly staring. Sherlock looked away, and then, "I've got to get dressed."

"Okay." John stood up, and walked away. "We'll be heading out, soon. I gave you some of the clothes, and I moved my money to a safer savings account. There should be at least two thousand in there," John called from a different room.

Sherlock drained the bath, and it glugg glugg glugged, like what a snail would sound like if snails could talk. Then he dried himself off without looking in the mirror, because it was too excruciating, and he threw on a hoodie with one hand, wincing at the pain. 

"Ready?" John called.

Sherlock pretended he was.

John

John liked to think how good their life would be when they arrived. He'd only dreamed of 221B Baker Street, but he imagined that it was soft and warm and homely, like he was. John loved to imagine Sherlock laying in white sheets, made more beautiful from the sun shining in through the windows.

Sherlock asleep was something else. It was night again, and John had been driving for six hours straight. Every once in a while, Sherlock would stir and whisper something, fidgeting in Pickard's truck. It smelled awful, and Sherlock no longer smelled like mint; more like almond shampoo and tears. Even though he hadn't been crying.

John wanted to apologize for taking him away.

They arrived at ten o'clock, and John shook Sherlock awake once. "Sherlock," he said. "Sherlock, we're here."

Sherlock stirred, rubbing his eyes with one hand. John got out, and opened the door on Sherlock's side. It had just rained, and the ground was slick when John pulled away.

Sherlock stumbled out painfully, and John steadied him. 

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asked.

John knew he was.

Sherlock

John knocked, hard, and when no one answered, he rapped again. People passed by casually as he yelled at the door. "Open up!" he yelled. "We need help!"

A fifty-ish year old lady came out, wearing pajamas and curlers in her hair. "Ooh! Come in, come in, before you catch the flu," she said, bustling them into the building, and then up the stairs.

"221B," Sherlock gasped, "that's the one... the one we're getting..." John dragged Sherlock up the stairs as the woman behind them made sure Sherlock didn't fall. She kept on asking if he was alright, if they needed some tea, if their beds didn't have enough blankets. Her name was Mrs. Hudson - the landlady, Sherlock soon learned - and she gave them heaps and heaps of chocolate, like it would help. (It did.) 

Later, at about midnight, when John was laying in bed and Sherlock was sitting beside him, Sherlock buried his head into John's neck, breathing in the warmth his scent provided. He said, "It's been a good first night, hasn't it?"

John smiled, and nodded. He looked like he was on Cloud Nine; his face, although sunken and tired, looked a bit brighter, a bit softer. "Yeah. Yeah, it has," John whispered, and he nuzzled his nose likewise into Sherlock's hair.

A/N: Finalllllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyy. But would it be in my nature to have a happy ending? No. It wouldn't. Have fun while it lasts. ;) Leave a vote or a comment (and tell me what you think will happen (unless you've read Eleanor and Park, then don't.))