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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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.

"Large enough a group to have some here and some out there," Sherlock says.

He gets to his feet and starts to pace again. Gregson. Gregson, with a wife and daughters. Gregson who believed in him. Gregson, his friend---

Sherlock lets out a sharp cry and turns, throwing the hotel television across the room. It hits the mirror by the bathroom, shattering it.

"Fucking hell!" he shouts. He puts his hands on his hips, trying to compose himself.

She springs to her feet, holding back a shout. She watches him, her whole body tense, waiting to see what he does, if she's going to have to stop him from destroying more, or hurting himself. But he's still, and she approaches carefully.

"We need to go."

He's not better. He's thrown temper tantrums before that have made him feel better, but this isn't one of those moments. He turns towards the dresser and pulls out a drawer, throwing it across the room with another shout.

Still not better. Gregson. Not better. Sherlock never got to regain his trust. Not better. Another drawer, right into the bathroom mirror. Not better.

"No...no Sherlock...SHERLOCK!"

She grabs him by the arms, hard, tight, getting right into his face.

"Sherlock, no. NO. This isn't helping, it's not HELPING! Someone's going to call the police!"

She grips his arms and he freezes, face twisted into anger. He doesn't care if they call the police. He doesn't care if they take him and he really, really just doesn't care anymore. He wants to hurt the people who killed Gregson. He wants to cut them up, he wants to kill them.

"Don't stop me from getting revenge, Watson," he says. "Don't stop me."

"You can't get revenge if you're in jail, Sherlock, and you definitely can't get it if you're dead. You need to pull yourself together. This..."

Her voice breaks, and she closes her eyes for a moment, swallows, then looks at him again.

"This isn't going to bring him back," she says, her voice raw. "We need to go."

"You think I don't know that?" he snaps.

No, it isn't going to bring him back. He looks at the destruction and swallows. Their assailants will die. But there's only one person he knows who can get him what he needs.

"Clothes," he says, gesturing.

She lets go of him and backs up, then grabs the bag.

"Clothes. Anything else?"

"No."

He grabs his own phone and starts towards the door. He looks back at the mess he's caused. As always, running away. He pulls he door open roughly and starts towards the carpark.

Joan drops the phone she used to call the precinct in the trash, drops the pad of paper with the officer's name into the bag, and fishes the third phone out of the bag and slips it in her pocket. She hurries to his side, looking around, watching for anyone approaching or sticking their heads out of their doors to see what the hell all the racket was.

Sherlock doesn't care. He doesn't care if everyone sees him leaving the room. He just wants to be out. He wants to be out and away from the thoughts in his head. What he really wants is to be high, to be free of it. It won't help, he tells himself, and he can't handle more of Watson's disappointment. He walks to a car and pulls the door open. Unlocked. Why wouldn't it be? In a small town like this. He begins to hotwire the car.

The car is unlocked. There's a moment when she wonders why. Wonders if they've been directed to this car somehow, if they meant for them to take this particular car. But she can't see how it's anything other than wholly random.

There's a faint whine of a police siren, coming closer. It's going to be this car or none, apparently. She gets in, closes the door, pulls on her seatbelt.

He starts the car and tucks the wires away. His hands go to the wheel and he freezes.

"You should drive," he says, firmly.

She shoots him a look, but she understands. He's clearly not in the best condition to do much of anything that requires even, rational thought.

"Okay." She takes off the belt and climbs out. The sirens are getting louder. "Hurry."

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