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 touches her, and comes, pulsing inside her. She moans, rocking hard against him, against his fingers, twice before gasping out his name as she comes.

She releases his hair, and tilts his face to hers, kissing him deeply.

He returns the kiss fully, holding onto her tightly. He loves her. He does. Painfully, desperately. He'll die before he lets anything happen to her.

He moves his hand up to take hers, his fingers clinging to hers. When he breaks the kiss, he brings them up to kiss her fingertips.

When their lips part, she keep close, keeps her forehead pressed to his, her arm tight around him. He kisses her fingertips, and she presses her lips to his hand.

He was so close. So close to saying the words, he might as well have.

"I love you," she whispers against his skin.

He wants to tell her she shouldn't. She shouldn't love him. Loving him will get her killed. He won't have her die for him.

"My dear Watson," he murmurs against her fingers, kissing them again. He lifts his chin to kiss her mouth again.

If he had tried to argue, she would have made sure his mouth was too busy to get very far. As it is, she kisses him, slowly, lovingly.

"My Sherlock," she whispers against his lips, and touches his cheek.

He lets out a good-natured sigh.

"Now, though," he says. "Why now? Couldn't we have worked out our mutual affection back when we had the whole Brownstone and time to spare?"

"Time to spare," she answers quietly. "We thought we could afford not to act because we had time to spare. We don't know if we have that anymore. Might as well be together if we might not have much time. Do what we've wanted to."

She finds his hand, threads her fingers through his.

"Say what we've needed to."

"Be with you," he says. "Watson, I never imagined I'd be anywhere else."

He holds her hand and looks up at her adoringly.

"I imagined...we'd grow old together."

"Me too." She smiles back at him, her love so clear in her eyes. "Solving cases and arguing like an old married couple the whole time. You know what I mean, though. People hold off, never doing or saying what they want to, because they think they can always do it tomorrow. That there will always be a tomorrow."

She tightens her hand on his.

"If I have anything to say about it, we will survive this. We will grow old together, Sherlock. Because I never want to be anywhere else but right here, by your side. I belong with you. And you belong with me."

His present plan to leave her in his father's home in London is probably going to infuriate her to no end, then. Perhaps he won't mention it.

He traces his fingertips down her arm, across where the bandage has bled through. She has to live. Everything else is secondary.

"We should get going," he says. "Not much time before the ones with the questions arrive."

"Right."

She leans in and kisses him, then eases herself off his lap to make her way uneasily toward the bathroom.

"How much time do we have?"

"Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty."

He pulls off the rubber, ties it off, and follows to flush it.

"Don't mind the scorch mark in the tub," he says.

"What?"

She opens the door and raises her eyebrows as the smell hits her, burnt cloth and alcohol. She sees the empty bottle of vodka from the mini bar.

"Well, at least I would have tasted the alcohol on you if you'd drunk it."

"Removing physical evidence of our presence, in case any sort of forensics are called," he says, tossing the condom into the toilet. "I doubt they would be, but I don't want to risk it."

He presses a kiss to her shoulder before retreating back to the main room.

She runs a hand down his back as he walks away, then closes the door behind him. After using the toilet, she takes a washcloth, wets it, and quickly washes herself as best she can.

His mind works best immediately after sex. Neurochemical rush, adrenaline coursing through his system, it's all the same as taking a hit from cocaine, only without any come-down symptoms. He dresses quickly, scans the outside for transport, and curls up on the chair by the door, punching in information to his phone.

Before she returns, he has a costuming shop found, cards ordered, and passports ready for them in Dulles.

She takes a minute to change her bandage and check the wound. As much as Sherlock beats himself up over it, he didn't do too bad. She returns to the bed and dresses quickly.

"I'm going to call Gregson."

He looks back over at her in some surprise.

"Not planning on letting him know of our future criminal plans?" he asks, only half-serious.

She gives him a look, because how stupid does he think she is?

She takes one of the burners, turns it on, and dials the number for the station.

"Hi, I need to talk to Captain Gregson, please. "

Sherlock stands and begins to pace. It's not so much Watson he's concerned about. It's Gregson. What if something's happened to him in their time apart? He hasn't responded to texts or any sort of communication.

Joan listens, and becomes very, very still.

"When?"

Sherlock's eyes go wide, and then he moves to sit. He needs to sit down before she speaks, because he already knows what she's going to say. Her body language is everything, her voice.

"Get his name," he says, suddenly. "The person who tells you. Get his name."

She mechanically reaches for the hotel issue pen and pad of paper on the night table.

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Mr. ... I'm sorry, what's your name?"

She listens, writes it down.

"Thank you."

She hands up, puts her hands in her lap, and turns her head away from Sherlock, staring at the wall.

Sherlock clenches and unclenches his hands. Thinks about the alcohol in the mini-fridge. Thinks about the street corner and the tiny spoon. Thinks about anything but the man he respected and left alone to die.

"How?" he asks. "I assume the 'when' is last week."

"Car accident," she says, her voice quiet and level as she deals with this by pulling in tight and shutting down her emotions. "I didn't get details."

Of course it's very unlikely that it was an accident. Too convenient a coincidence.

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