A/N: A bit of a heads up...

Lots of Swearing. Lots of Violence. Lots of Emotion. Lots of Plot. Lots of Sherlock. Lots of John. Lots of Johnlock! So... ENJOY!

Picture is the runner up in the cover contest thingy I had for this story. Thanks to @magic_has_prices for that. It's beautiful, right?

© 2014. All Rights Reserved by weirdpurplepanda

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He's really fucking beautiful.

And even though that shouldn't be the thought going through my head right now, it is. I'm standing here, leaning against the car with my left ankle folded over the top of my right, my arms crossed in the same manner, looking like I couldn't give a shit about anything and I'm watching him.

He's standing in front of what looks like a boarded up building. He's facing a small window that has a gap at the bottom, just big enough for someone to put their hand through. To his side is a faded blue door that has multiple wooden planks nailed across it, preventing entry. There's a cat flap at the bottom and I watch as an unknown hand pushes a plastic container holding a few litres of fuel for the car.

This is what passes for a shop now a days.

He lifts his large, pale hand and places something on the counter. Most likely a packet of cigarettes. Money's useless now. People want goods, not paper.

Picking up the container, he pivots and makes his way back towards me. As he does, the wind toys with the mess of brown curls that sit upon his head. The top two buttons on his ruined purple shirt are undone and the jeans that most likely weren't originally his cling to his legs, showing his muscles as he briskly passed me and popped the cap to pour the fuel in.

I still don't know his name.

I imagine it'd be something odd and beautiful, like him. Something that I can't think of or guess because it's so amazingly unique.

When every drop of the gasoline has been poured into the car, he moves quickly to place the container by the cat flap. By the time that unknown hand has reached out to retrieve the item, we're back in the Jeep and driving off again.

As he keeps his eyes straight ahead and focuses on the road, I take the chance to observe my travelling companion once again. I'm certain he's aware of my staring but he doesn't say a word about it if it irritates him. Not that he talks a whole lot anyway. From the ranch, we drove in silence for almost three hours and passed being told I was coming with him, he hasn't said anything to me.

The sun's up now, high in the sky and I guess it must be approaching noon. It reflects off of the other's skin perfectly. Makes him look like an angel or protector of some kind. That's half true, I guess. He did save my skin, that's also when he dragged me to this Jeep and informed me I was coming with him. Despite the violent way he did it, and the fact it has some kind gain for him, I'm grateful he prevented what would have been my evitable death.

"Thank you" The words force themselves from my lips. "For saving my arse back at that ranch"

No answer. Or even any sign that he's heard me.

Clearing my throat, I speak again. "I'm John, by the way. Do I get your name?"

Again, I get no answer or acknowledgment.

Deciding it was best not to waste my breath, I look ahead and out of the windshield. The stretch of road before us looks unbelievably long, the sign of an end no where in sight. Either side of the road, dry grass lays in a tangled dead mess. It makes my throat prickle with dryness just looking at it.

I have no idea where we're going - or even why I'm going. This was pretty much forced upon me but at the time I was more focused on the fact this man was saving me from being shot rather than the fact he sort of kidnapped me.

"Since I don't get your name" I say, looking away from the plant that hurt my throat. "Do I get an explanation as to why I'm coming with you to where ever the fuck it is you're going?"

That earns me a quick sideways glance and then a smooth, rich voice answers "You're a doctor"

After taking a moment (probably a few moments) to adjust to that voice that sounded like it belonged solely in the bedroom, I collect myself enough to reply.

"So?" I question. "And how do you even know that?"

The man's hands tighten on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning even whiter than they are. "I have a patient for you"

I nod, immediately alerted by the mention of someone needing my help. "Will I get any more information than that?"

He doesn't reply.

I slump in the seat. "Thought as much"

Bored of the scenery and too awake to even consider sleeping, I go back to observing the man driving.

He really is fucking beautiful.

Briefly, I find myself wondering if he knows what happened to the world and way things were now this way. But I don't ask. Those that know, never tell you and those that don't know, well, they don't know.

I came back from Afghanistan, ready to settle down into a quiet life somewhere in London and instead of finding that, I found a wasteland. At first, I thought I was having some kind of dream - a nightmare. Now, with everyone struggling to survive and killing without the bat of an eyelash in order to achieve simple things.. Well, it kinda feels like I never left the war.

Don't ask me how or why life is like this now, because I don't know. Maybe no one does.

All I know is that, out here, it's survival of the fittest.