i_favour_you

Entry tags:

AU

Follows this.

It wasn't until he found the beach that he realized they had made it to Cape May. Of all of New Jersey, this was possibly his least favorite place. It was so nice here. Cosy shops, happy people, and homes that cost far too much money.

Also, art supply stores. Sherlock purchases the needle, thread, alcohol, and some glue. Can't look too obvious, even with the blood under his fingernails and the tears in his tee-shirt. Not long after, he parks the stolen car in front of a chain hotel and goes in as calmly as possible to book them a room. His body is vibrating with panic. He can't remain this calm for much longer. Watson is bleeding. She's injured. He has to smile and wait in line and be bloody calm.

He pulls a coat out of the bag of clothes to put over Watson's shoulders once he gets back to the car.

"There's a vending machine and room service," he tells her. "We can get you orange juice and water for the blood loss."

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He leans forward, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"I promise," he says, his voice just above a whisper.

She nods slightly, closing her eyes. It isn't long at all before she falls asleep, her body taking advantage of her stillness and relative safety to take the rest and recuperation it desperately needs.

He is not tired. He might've liked the endorphin rush of an orgasm to put him to sleep, but this is for the best. Once he's certain she's sleeping, he goes into the bathroom, pours the vodka over her scraps of clothes, and sets them on fire. He changes his outfit, calculates the amount of money they have left, and turns the television on mute.

It's around 4am when he moves to wake her.

"Watson," he says. "Watson."

She sleeps the deep sleep of the exhausted and the pained, her dreams hazy and half-formed. When Sherlock comes to wake her, it takes a moment for her to swim up for those depths. She opens her eyes before she's quite awake, her expression almost puzzled. Then she blinks, the haze clearing.

"Sherlock. Is everything okay?"

"We need to get going," he says. "Before the police arrive."

He moves a lock of hair from her forehead. This early in the morning he feels somewhat daring in how tactile he's being with her. After all, they've been everything apart from strictly intimate thus far.

"Right."

She wants to return that affectionate touch, and reciprocates by lifting her hand to brush her fingertips down the side of his face.

"How are we going to do this?"

"Head down the boardwalk, steal another car," he says. "Get to another town as quickly as we can. You can sleep while I drive."

He turns his head to press his lips against her fingertips. He makes no real move to get up from how he's lying next to her on the bed. He has no need to.

He kisses her fingers, and she brushes them lightly over his lips. He's not making any move to get up; things must not be terribly urgent for the moment.

"Kiss me," she whispers.

They should be leaving. They have a lot of running to do. But she instructs, and he doesn't hesitate to follow, leaning down to press his mouth to hers.

He shouldn't need her this much. It makes things dangerous for her. She will be the target of everything they do, everywhere they go. But he can't stop wanting her, and he can't leave her.

He obeys, as she knew he would, and she kisses him back, slow and lingering and loving. She wants him to feel loved, feel how much she loves him. She knows he fears for her, feels guilty for what he thinks he's putting her through. She knows that her words and reassurances can only go so far, that there are wounds there that run deeper than she can yet reach. So she wants to give him this. The knowledge of her love, and her loyalty, that unlike those he's known before she won't abandon him, turn on him, push him away. That he can count on her to be by his side.

When he breaks the kiss, he keeps close, brushing her nose with his.

"Please," he murmurs. "Let me send you somewhere safe."

As he speaks, he traces his hand down her torso, words asking her to go while his hands keeping her firmly with him.

She moves her head, side to side, brushing her nose against his and answering, all at once.

"I go where you go," she murmurs. "Always. This is where I belong."

His hand moves down to her thigh, tracing up the warm skin there.

"We could run together," he says, moving to press his lips against her jaw. "Until they give up."

She sighs, shivering slightly at the touch of his fingers along her thigh, and caresses his side.

"Do you want to run?"

She's not sure they will give up. That they won't have the means and determination to run them to ground. They've been running so long already, and they've been one step behind, the whole way. Someday Joan and Sherlock would slip up, be unlucky.

"No," he admits, moving his mouth to her throat. "But I don't want you to die."

Gregson is still alive. Ms. Hudson is still alive. If they run, perhaps he can save Watson, too.

He moves to lean over her, to look down at her. "I'm going to get you killed, Watson."

She gazes up a him, eyes determined and unafraid.

"I have no intention of dying. And I have no intention of leaving you. If you want to run, we run together. But I think we should finish this."

"If Bell were still here to help protect Gregson, I'd suggest we run," he says. "But you're right. If we don't finish this, we'll stay running."

"Then we'll finish it together."

She slips her hand beneath his shirt, and caresses the bare skin of his side with her fingertips.

He lets out a quiet sigh at her cool fingers against his skin. They should leave. He shouldn't stay here, letting her run her hands over his skin and telling her that he wants her.

Then again, he rarely does what he should.

"I want you."

"Yes."

Not the smartest thing, perhaps. But they've been yearning toward each other all this time, returning to touching and kissing every time they get the opportunity. She wants this, so badly.

"I want you."

Apart from a guarantee of her safety and the promise of an old age, there's very little Watson could say right now that he'd want to hear more than that. He moves back to peel off his shirt again before moving forward to kiss her.

She watches him take off his shirt, how his muscles flex in the action, and she reaches out to touch his chest. He's beautiful.

He kisses her, and she returns the kiss, runs her fingertips up and down his back, then curls her fingers to draw her nails along his skin.

He makes a small keening noise as he kisses her. The sharpness of her nails versus the softness of her mouth is incredibly arousing. If only he could shut off the part of his brain that reminds him over and over that wanting her is dangerous. Loving her.

"How's the arm?" he murmurs, moving back enough to try to take off her shirt.

She moves to help him, wincing as she moves the arm in question.

"It hurts, but not as much. Still stiff, though."

Once they manage to take the shirt off, she glances at the gauze, sees the thin line of blood that has seeped through. Not terrible.

He traces his hand above the gauze and leans down to press his lips gently to where the blood marks it. He'll protect her, he decides. Always protect her.

"They'll pay for it," he says.

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