We'll Keep Running For Our Lives
Rating: T (for now, subject to change).
Pairings: None!
Warnings: Language, explicit violence, mentions of drug use.
A/N: Hello again! So I've decided to do shorter chapters this time, and will be making an effort to avoid being quite so obsessive about keeping consistent wordcount. This should improve my dismal update speed. Speaking of, though, I'm also not going to apologise for delays. I may take a month to finish up the next part, or a week, or maybe I'll post in a day. It's all dependent on my motivation levels and work schedule. Have patience.
As always I would be thrilled to hear what you think! Good, bad, constructive or not - leaving a review is by far the best way to get me excited to write more. When no one comments on my work I tend to feel like I'm posting into the void and lose interest quickly.
But enough of me nattering. Hope you all enjoy the next leg of Sherlock's angst-ridden adventures!
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It was far too bloody hot for this nonsense.
Sherlock scowled to himself as he crashed headlong into a thicket of damp shrubbery, nearly stumbling over the roots therein, and grabbed the thin trunk of some sort of fern-looking tree to swing himself round in the other direction. Here he was, quite possibly running for his life, and all he could concentrate on was how disgustingly warm the weather was. Excellent focussing abilities, brain. Very helpful.
After a short pause to get his bearings he took off once more through the tangled leaves. Behind him he could clearly hear the sounds of his pursuers tearing through the foliage as well; to be honest this really hadn't been a well thought-out escape plan. In his defence, however, it did have the advantage of being in the fucking shade, which was a stark improvement over his previous path across bare city pavement. Not that the lack of direct sunlight was providing much relief from the sweltering humidity... ugh, bloody horrendous swampland. Why in hell had he ever thought venturing this far south would be a good idea?
"Heeeeere, faggot! Here boy! Come on out, ya faggot-ass cracka!"
Another deep scowl - when had he even hinted that he might be gay? Or were they simply using it as an all-purpose insult? Morons. Under more favourable circumstances he might have been tempted to stop short and treat them all to a lecture on proper heckling techniques whilst dodging blows. That would have to wait for a day when he wasn't feeling so perilously close to passing out with the heat, though. Also preferably when he wasn't being chased by a half dozen steroidal behemoths erroneously labelled members of the human species.
Displaying an uncanny knack for fucking him over his mind of course took that opportunity to focus on entirely the wrong aspect of his surroundings. Running through mud and scrub-brush under a canopy of unfamiliar leaves, the crash of a half dozen angry Americans behind him, and the one thing he found most interesting to look at was a goddamned abandoned tyre off to his right. What was it doing there? Twenty metres from the nearest roadway at least, how on earth did a car tyre end up in the middle of a swamp thicket? Someone must have-
His frustratingly off-topic thoughts were cut short as, having not been watching his feet, he stepped squarely in a patch of slick mud and went sprawling arse over tea kettle into the dirt.
"Shit, nigga, white boy fuckin' caught his own damn self!"
A chorus of laughter above him signalled in no uncertain terms that Sherlock was about to have an extremely unpleasant experience. Likely one which would end in either death or permanent disfigurement. He took a moment to wonder what in hell's name had ever possessed him to bother with these idiots in the first place before reluctantly propping himself up on his elbows and lifting his head to regard his adversaries. Above him an over-muscled young black man had crouched down to Sherlock's undignified level; too-white teeth flashed between dark lips as the man grinned smugly down at his cornered prey.
"You gonna regret fuckin' with us, white boy."
Well he already did regret that quite a lot, to be honest, but Sherlock couldn't exactly voice such sentiments aloud. Instead he canted his head slightly to the side and raised an eyebrow in a condescending look.
"Perhaps if you didn't make yourself such an obvious target for ridicule you'd have escaped our little confrontation with your fragile ego intact."
The gang member barked out an amused laugh and turned toward one of his cronies standing at his side. "You fuckin' hear this shit? All a sudden fucker's talking like the goddamn Queen of England."
Sherlock glared as the two bulkiest of the group grabbed him by the biceps and hauled him to his feet. Their apparent ringleader took a step forward and smacked him not-quite-gently on the chest.
"You puttin' on a show for us now, cracka? Wanna go out sounding fancy?"
"I'm British. This is my natural accent," Sherlock explained in an irritated deadpan. Gratifying to know his attempts to mimic the American vernacular had apparently fooled a group of natives, but half-dead of heatstroke and about to have the piss kicked out of him he found this minor success really didn't cheer him in the slightest.
"Huh," the other man nodded slowly in understanding, faking a look of intrigue. Half a second later he dropped the false sagacity and grinned again. "I ain't never beat the shit out of a foreigner before."
"First time for everything, Jay!" one of his cohorts yelled.
"Damn straight!"
Next thing Sherlock knew he was bent double, an wave of acute pain spreading flashfire from his abdomen alerting him to the fact that he'd been punched in the stomach. He choked as his suddenly-frozen diaphragm refused to draw air. Almost immediately the first blow was paired with an uppercut to the jaw, where the side of his tongue made unfortunate contact with the space between his teeth. The cloying metallic taste of fresh blood filled his mouth as white stars exploded in his vision.
Grimacing, he lashed out with his foot and managed to catch the shin of one of the thugs holding him upright. The young man yelped in pain but didn't loosen his grip; instead he jerked Sherlock's shoulder roughly to the side, nearly dislocating the joint as his cohort on the other side threw his weight in the opposite direction. Sherlock grit his teeth, careful to avoid his injured tongue, and summoned all the willpower at his disposal to remain as stoic as possible. Idiots might very well kill him, but damned if he was going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.
Next blow was a right hook to the face - far too predictable. He managed to shift his head enough to let the fist glance off his cheekbone, saving himself from a probable fracture, and took advantage of the ringleader's momentary skewed balance to try kicking again. This time he caught the idiot square in the groin; the man let out an agonised screech, followed by a string of rather colourful curses. Raucous laughter and a flurry of goading catcalls erupted from the small group of young thugs gathered around them.
"Hahaaa, holy shit!"
"Faggot's in for it now!"
"Fuckin' shank his ass, Jay!"
"Stick him like a hog!"
Jay seemed to force himself back upright, slowly returning to a standing position. All trace of joviality had vanished from his features as he advanced toward Sherlock with a furious, almost psychotic snarl.
Sherlock made a token attempt to yank himself free of the men holding him in place. They just pulled the near-dislocation trick again, forcing him to stand still or risk having his shoulders popped out of place. Seeing no alternative he did his best to fix an unimpressed expression on his face and tried to ignore the cloying sensation of stagnant blood beginning to pool in his mouth as Jay approached.
"That," the man said, face a mask of pure unadulterated rage, "was not a good idea."
From the back pocket of faded jeans the man produced an ivory-handled switchblade. Sharp steel flashed dangerously in the speckled light filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead.
Sherlock eyed the weapon warily. A sense of irritated resignation began to settle in his chest - so this was how it was all going to end, was it? Not assassinated by some terror group or kidnapped for use as blackmail against his brother; not even graced with the brief giddy thrill and final spectacular flare-out of a massive cocaine overdose. No, he was simply going to be stabbed in the gut by some two-bit criminal in a bloody swamp on the outskirts of Tallahassee. What a poignant fucking legacy.
Jay was within inches of Sherlock's face now. The dark-skinned man's features split into a wicked half-smile as he brought his knife up to Sherlock's throat, pressing the point into the space under his chin. Sherlock forced his expression to remain neutral and met his soon-to-be murderer's gaze in a level stare.
"Any last words, white boy?"
Sherlock sneered. Milliseconds stretched by in static silence.
Then with a sudden jolt he wrenched himself forward and spat a gob of blood straight into Jay's face. The man reared back with an angry yell, swiping at his eyes, but almost immediately lurched back forward with another savage snarl. Quick as lightning he grabbed Sherlock by the right shoulder and rammed a knee solidly into the smaller man's diaphragm.
Sherlock choked again and curled in on himself in pain. Before he could so much as gasp for breath the hand left his shoulder to instead fist in his hair; he grimaced as his skull was yanked upwards by the scalp, cold press of the knife now at his jugular.
Going to slit my throat, then, not stab me, he found himself thinking in a sort of detached, stress-fogged daze. Jay was saying something - probably a threatening speech of some sort, cement his status as the alpha male of the pack. Meant to intimidate his victim and impress his cohorts. Sherlock was far too busy being distracted by his own brain to bother listening.
... suppose that's really the best option, anyway. Quickest death. Acute blood loss should be interesting to experience firsthand - is it like falling asleep, or more drawn out? Likely won't be conscious for long either way, vasculature probably dilated thanks to elevated temperature. Should speed up the bleeding. And oh good lord speaking of the heat that bastard's wearing a bloody leather jacket, how is he not dead of hyperthermia!? It feels like we're in a damned oven! Who in god's name would choose to live in this atrocious excuse for a habitable climate?
A brief scowl crossed his face as it occurred to him that he was spending his last few precious moments of life being annoyed by the weather. That would be him, then: chronically off-topic right to the bitter end.
From somewhere off to their left came the short, clipped wail of a police siren. Jay's hand jerked away from Sherlock's neck as the man stiffened up and whipped his head toward the tree line like a spooked gopher. All around them his cronies did the same.
"Fuckin' cheese it!" one of the boys in the back of the group shouted, and with a suddenness that felt very much as if the ground had dropped out from under him Sherlock abruptly found himself released from his captors' grips. Startled, he collapsed face-first into the dirt in a graceless heap. Above him he heard the thugs scatter in frantic retreat away into the forest.
Merciful serendipity. Would have been nice to have it arrive a bit sooner, though, Sherlock mused... like perhaps before he'd been kneed in the stomach. He turned his head to the side so as not to be inhaling mud, coughed up a thin trickle of blood - hopefully stemming from his cut tongue rather than an internal injury. Ugh but god, wouldn't that just make this day one perfect fuck-up? A sodding intestinal bleed on top of everything else.
Oh well. At the very least a police officer would likely come through the area within a few minutes, probably pack him off to a medical facility of some sort. That meant an easy meal, proper bed, clean clothes... all alarmingly scarce resources of late. Silver lining to the whole mess, he supposed.
Of course he'd still have to escape the hospital in a day or so to avoid having his forged travel documents scrutinised too carefully, but that wouldn't be difficult. Far preferable to going to the bother of evading detection right now, at any rate. Best just lie here and wait.
Ten seemingly-endless minutes later, however, and Sherlock was forced to come to the conclusion that the police were not in fact headed his way. Evidently they'd chosen to pursue the crowd of fleeing suspects instead of venturing into the small wooded area. Made some level of sense, considering the lot of them had run off toward the city and not gone further into the trees, but it was still rather unfortunate. Meant Sherlock was going to have to pick himself up.
Alright, well... that was fine. He'd manage. Sod the police anyway.
Sore, bloodied, exhausted and covered in mud Sherlock slowly forced his uncooperative body into a standing position. Good start. Next, walking. Stumbled into a tree here or there as he made his way to the pavement, nearly tripped over a rock. Probably looked like a drunken idiot. Not that anyone noticed, of course - no sign of either law enforcement or street gangs anywhere nearby.
Probably for the best, really. Though he'd have appreciated the cops hanging around to check for potential victims at the very least. Wasn't that their job? Protecting citizens? True he wasn't technically a member of their jurisdiction, being a foreign national, but they'd have no knowledge of that. Might have left a true-born patriot to bleed out in the mud for all they knew. Incompetent morons.
Upon reaching the street he staggered sideways and leant heavily on a telephone pole as his knees threatened to give out on him. Dizzy, starting to feel faint. Hadn't eaten in around a day and a half now, likely wasn't doing himself any favours expending so much energy to remain upright. Not much choice in the matter though. Keep moving or die.
Despite the grim finality of this mental ultimatum his legs decided to choose that moment to fold underneath him. He slid down to land in an undignified slouch on the pavement, spine digging painfully into the black-tarred wood of the pole behind him. So much for walking, then. With a slight groan of pain he tilted his head back, stared up into the perfect blue of a clear sunny sky.
Cloudless, empty save a lone passing bird... nothing at all like England. And how could it be that even the atmosphere looked different here? It was the wrong shade of blue. Everything about this place was just so alien and unwelcoming... christ, should have never left New York. At least among the skyscrapers he'd been nearly able to fool himself into thinking he was back in London.
These thoughts occupied him for about a minute before he closed his eyes and let his head loll to the side. Sod it all, might as well fall asleep where he sat. Maybe the thugs would come back and finish what they'd started. Sherlock doubted he could even muster the energy to flip them off at this point.
Fog drifted in tendrils through his mind as his brain began to lose its grip on consciousness. Still frankly dying of heat, but that was a minor complaint in comparison to the sour taste of blood in his mouth and the dull ache of a million bruised muscles. Perspiration dripping down his chest, too, soaking through the thin cotton of his t-shirt… he wondered vaguely if it were possible to sweat to death. Likely to find out in an hour or so.
He huffed a tired sigh and waited for oblivion.
"Oh good graces, dear! You've had a rough time of it, haven't you?"
Sherlock blinked his way out of the clinging wreaths of lethargic mist and squinted up into the dark shadows of a figure standing haloed by the sun overhead. Above him the person shifted, bent forward slightly. Out of the glare of the sun he could now see it was an elderly woman, perhaps in her late fifties, with brownish-auburn hair and a friendly, care-worn face. She smiled down at him and reached out with the arm not holding a shopping bag to place a cool hand on his forehead.
"Goodness, you're burning up! What on earth are you doing sitting round out in the sun on a day like this?"
Sherlock stared blankly up at her. It took an inordinate handful of seconds for his brain to finally catch up to the fact that the cadence of her voice actually sounded halfway normal to his ears for a change.
"… you're English," he remarked in a bit of a dazed mumble. The woman gave him an odd sort of look and patted him on the shoulder.
"Last I checked, yes. Now, where do you live? Nearby? Is there someone I can call for you? Oh, well, I haven't got a phone on me… but I suppose you must do, hm? Young folks with their technology these days."
Sherlock made a halfhearted effort to push himself into a more upright position but was forced to give up as his bruised stomach protested the movement. He curled an arm around his midsection instead and drug one of his legs up to lean his head on his knee.
"Not from the area, haven't got a mobile," he replied to the woman's semi-rambling inquiries in a faint monotone. Ugh, he was starting to feel sick to his stomach.
"Oh! Bless my stars, but you're a London boy!" the old woman exclaimed - apparently she'd failed to catch his accent in the slurred mumble of his first words. "Well what are the odds of that, I wonder?"
"Doubtless astronomical," Sherlock responded wearily. He grimaced against the pain now radiating up from his abdomen and hugged his arm more tightly round his stomach. Fuck, maybe he'd sustained an internal injury after all.
Regarding him with a concerned look on her face the stranger shifted her hand to briefly grip his shoulder in a sort of comforting gesture. "You are in a right shape, aren't you?" she murmured, seemingly to herself. After a short pause she nodded in a determined sort of way and moved round to hook an arm under Sherlock's armpit.
"What're you-?" he asked, confused, and lifted his head from his knee to blink sidelong at her. She flexed her knees in an ineffectual attempt to lift him up.
"Well come on, then, don't make me do all the work!" she quipped when it became apparent he wasn't going to budge on her strength alone. Sherlock stared at her for a second more, then slowly, obligingly shifted his legs into a better position for standing. Between the two of them they managed to get him mostly upright, though he swayed rather badly and was forced to lean the majority of his bodyweight on her shoulders. Hopefully she was somewhat stronger than her appearance would suggest else they'd both soon find themselves facedown on the pavement.
"Oof! You're a bit heavier than you look, dear," she exclaimed in an amused huff. "My car's just round the corner, then. Off we go."
Sherlock's brain seemed to be spinning itself round in little dizzying circles inside his skull. He tried not to grimace too obviously. Ugh, he was going to have to escape from hospital in this state, wasn't he? Bloody hell.
"I don't need medical attention," he lied, hoping to head off the inevitable debacle of a crowded American emergency room and subsequent deportation over his long-expired travel visa. "If you could just drop me off at a hostel or something…"
"Oh nonsense!" the stranger cut over him. "You're dead on your feet, we're getting you to a doctor."
"I really can't afford a hospital visit," he objected. Not strictly true in a monetary sense (he'd simply refuse to pay – on principle if nothing else) but financial hardship made for a far less damning argument than 'I'd like to avoid being arrested'.
"Good job we're not headed to one, then, isn't it? Now mind your head, roof's a tad low."
Without giving Sherlock a chance to ask what on earth she was on about the woman reached out and unlocked the small hatchback they'd come upon. Opening the passenger door she all but shoved him into the seat. He complied with a slightly startled noise of complaint as the door slammed shut beside him.
There was a thump as the old woman stowed her shopping in the backseat, then a tick later she came round to the driver's side. With a friendly smile in his direction (which was met by a confused half-glare) she deftly started up the vehicle.
"Mrs. Hudson, by the way," she informed him in a chipper, genial tone.
Sherlock quirked a brow - no mention of a first name? - but was distracted from any of a million possible responses by the road they'd pulled onto. Passing cars from the wrong side, entire street completely backwards, everything looking just distressingly off-kilter. No matter how many bus rides he took in this blasted country he still always found himself expecting to crash headlong into oncoming traffic at any moment.
"It does take a little getting used to, driving on this side," Mrs. Hudson spoke up. Apparently he'd been obvious enough for her to catch on to the source of his discomfort. "Comes well enough with practise, though, just like anything." She smiled sidelong at him again, then raised her eyebrows in slight disapproval as she turned back to the road. "You know it's polite to introduce yourself back, dear."
"Huh? Oh," Sherlock looked away from the traffic, tried to remember what his current alias was. It had been so long since he'd had a non-confrontational conversation with anyone, let alone been asked for his name… he'd quite forgotten his pseudonym. What had it started with…? An R, maybe, or…
"Not a fake name, if you please," Mrs. Hudson said, cutting into his thoughts. She flicked the turn signal and calmly checked her wing mirror as she changed lanes. "Not that I mind, of course, but it's in case you pass out. You'll not answer to whatever silly thing you're thinking up now and it'll be a dreadful hassle."
Sherlock frowned at her. How did she even know what he'd been-? A guess, had to be. He wasn't that easy to read.
"I wasn't-"
"You clearly were, dear."
He scowled and shifted his head to look out the window. Well… maybe the injuries had undermined his usual façade. Didn't mean he had to admit to it, though. Give her a pseudonym anyway, just out of spite. Glaring irritably at a passing lorry he supplied the first name off the top of his head.
"Frank."
Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue in disapproval. "No, try again."
Sherlock turned back to fix her with an affronted look. "That's my name."
"It isn't, though."
"How would you know?" he snapped with a slight huff. Mrs. Hudson quirked a wry smile.
"I've been a schoolteacher for a very long time, dear. I know when a young man's lying to me."
He turned back to the window with a glower. Keep trying random names until she gave up, then, or… he caught sight of her vaguely bemused, expectant brow raise out of the reflection off the glass. No, she'd be waiting for that tactic now. What would be the least obvious…? Ugh, fuck's sake. How was he being predicted so easily?
After an interminable pause Sherlock finally crossed an arm over his still-aching stomach and slouched down grumpily in his seat.
"It's Sherlock," he supplied, voice gone flat and vaguely petulant. Well… whatever. Not like she could get much information on him with just a first name anyway. Even a unique one like his still required a surname to pinpoint family connections.
Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Much better, thank you." A second passed, then she smirked to herself. "Fair enough, though… with a name like that I suppose I'd make up an alias too."
"Pleased to meet you as well," Sherlock growled back at her, insulted tone making it clear he'd taken offence to the jab. Mrs. Hudson just chuckled.
"Best see if you can rest, it's a bit of a drive yet."
With that she turned her attention back to the road. Sherlock glared at her for a moment, but dropped the expression in favour of wincing at the twinges of pain flashing through his nervous system. He slouched down lower in his seat and blinked away a sudden wave of fatigue. Shouldn't sleep, not trapped alone with a stranger. Focus on breathing instead. In, out, in… out…
Consciousness began to slip from his mind like so much water. Couldn't quite force himself to sit up straighter to ward off the drowsiness - too much work, too painful. He rested his head on the cool glass of the car window instead.
Without really meaning to he closed his eyes. Awareness soon scattered away amid the steady hum of a car engine.
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