John wakes up when the sun touches the horizon and rays prick at his closed eyes. Three things are immediately evident: he is outside, he is naked, and there is something sniffing him in a very private place. He made a vow when he is eighteen, and it needs repeating now:
"I am never drinking again."
Wait. He wasn't drinking last night. He'd been running through London with Sherlock; they had been after a suspect when it had started to rain. Luckily one of Mycroft's cars was nearby. He had wrestled Sherlock inside, determined to keep them both dry, and then…nothing.
Well, this is clichéd, even for Mycroft.
"Your brother drugged us," he says to Sherlock. He's not entirely positive that Sherlock is there, but the law of averages says that a good 50% of the time John is kidnapped Sherlock shows up one way or another, so he is willing to bet he is.
"Nothing of the sort," a bleary voice says to John's right. John opens his eyes and meets the blankly curious gaze of a large black and white cow. It is not the one that has recently stopped sniffing his nethers, but apparently having let one do so is an invitation to all the others, because his new companion puts a very wet nose in a place it most definitely doesn't belong.
"Fuck," John says, loudly and clearly. He's not often one to swear so blatantly, but as the cow is very large and much heavier than himself, he thinks it's warranted. As the cow won't move, he will have to do so himself.
He rolls on to his back; the cold grass is not much better than the cow's nose, but at least he doesn't feel vaguely violated by it touching him. A quick look to the right shows that Mycroft is in fact the one who spoke to him; he is also naked, and without his umbrella, something that strikes John as odder than the lack of clothes.
"If this is revenge for refusing to deduce Nairobi," Sherlock says blearily from John's left. He is the only one of them who has been able to pull himself upright, although the expression on his face indicates that he clearly wishes he hasn't. "I will kill you, Mycroft, and feed you to one of the things that just tried to eat John."
"It's a cow," John says vaguely, shaking his head. All the movies and literature he can recall have told him that doing so is an excellent way to get rid of the cobwebs, but all it has done is make a dull ache settle around his forehead. "And it wasn't eating me, it was smelling-"
John cuts himself off. What he was about to say isn't much better.
He's not sure who is responsible for their current predicament, although it is one of his two companions. Neither of them deserve John's skills, but if he breaks his oath now he will be able to excuse doing so every time one of his patients annoys him, so he makes himself crawl over to the worse looking Holmes and take his pulse.
It shows nothing other than a healthy heartbeat, so John rolls Mycroft on to his back and almost gags. There is nothing particularly wrong with Mycroft's physique, but John would happily have gone his entire life without being able to mentally play 'compare the pecker'. It seems rude, but as there are no signs of injury or concussion, he rolls Mycroft back on to his stomach and vows that when he finds his way home he will drink himself into oblivion; a three or four day bender should do it.
Sherlock has pulled himself to his feet, so John thinks he might be safe enough keeping his eyes to himself and refusing to dispense medical treatment. It is a vow that lasts until he hears rather an incensed moo. When he looks up, he finds that Sherlock has gotten into a staring contest with yet another cow, and both look mutinous.
"I will let her trample you," John threatens. He has seen Sherlock naked before: it is one of the risks that comes with living with a man who has no sense of boundaries. Somehow it's easier to forget when you're not confronted with the evidence jiggling in front of you as the man threatens to get into a fistfight with a bovine.
He revokes his vow and makes another in its place: I will drink again, repeatedly and with great determination.
"Right," he mutters. He is unsteady when he pulls himself to his feet but he manages to remain upright, and when he puts one foot in front of the other it continues to take his weight. "Right. First: where are we?"
"Canada," Mycroft mumbles. He is looking more aware, and showing definite signs of wanting to get up. John sincerely hopes he doesn't.
"New Zealand," Sherlock says at the same time. He appears to have made temporary peace with the cow, if 'peace' refers to 'gotten out of its way and stopped trying to antagonize it'.
The Holmes brothers look at each other irritably before turning identical faces to John. The family resemblance has never looked so marked; he'd had no idea you could have a family resemblance in the penis before, and if he ever has that thought again he will have to kill himself.
"What?" He asks defiantly, starting to feel a little self-conscious. He hasn't felt this uncomfortable about what he keeps in his pants since school. The thirteen year old in him is begging him to bring out a ruler and say 'so, chaps, look what I've got here', but of course there's no ruler, John has no reason to feel inferior and he's glad it isn't colder. "God knows how long we'll be here. I'm not covering my dick while I prance around looking for my clothes. It's pointless. You've both seen everything anyway."
The field is large, and uniformly covered with long, thick grass. He cringes when he realises he is making innuendo in his head, and damnit that'senough. He will concentrate.
There is no evidence of his clothes, but John doesn't know if that means they were never there, they are just hiding somewhere, or whether they have been eaten by livestock. He is not about to spend hours combing a field for a missing shirt. He will find a house, a phone and hopefully a farmer without a gun to beg some clothing off.
"I don't know which one of you is responsible for this," John says when he realises that his temporary lapse in attention has given Sherlock and Mycroft he opportunity to start arguing over whether the abundance of flora and fauna indicate North America or the north island of New Zealand. "But it's one of you, and I don't care which."
John makes his point very clear when his fieldmates show signs of turning their bickering to him. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his face feels much like it did right before he'd knocked out the charming idiot who'd shot him during a friendly fire exercise. (He still pretends it was an unknown assailant who invalided him back to England; it wouldn't do to destroy faith in the British army by mentioning it was a new recruit who got startled by a camel spider.)
"I'm going looking for a house. You can go or stay, I don't much care which."
He picks a direction at random – it is only coincidental that it contains the least cows – and begins to walk.
It turns out the lack of cows is a sign. John has walked at least a mile across a never-ending field in bare feet. His legs are covered in mud, which is good for a little protection now, but will do little for the blisters that have already formed. He was pathetically excited to find a fence at one point, but an hour after climbing it he has found no further signs of life.
To make things more interesting, Mycroft and Sherlock have elected to come with him. So far they have argued over the location, the exact temperature, whether Mycroft is solely responsible for the political situation in Syria, if ABBA was just a musical travesty or a plot to destroy taste entirely, and which of them had been Mummy's favourite.
"Well it wasn't the damn milkman," John mutters to himself. If he could find a rock he would throw it at the nearest head, but so far all he has seen is dirt, grass and more cows. Half an hour ago one of them put its nose against John's arse when he wasn't paying attention; if this is anything like a rimjob, he is glad that he's never indulged in one. When he gets home, he promises he will buy the biggest steak he can find and eat it rare, just to spite the stupid creatures. And he will enjoy it, too.
"Perhaps if you'd opted for something other than pharmacy brand perfume she would have been more appreciative," Mycroft snarks. John has counted to three thousand and eleven in his head and he still wants to throttle the both of them. His blood pressure at this moment can't be healthy.
"If you hadn't put a lien on my pocket money to replace your broken radio, it wouldn't have been an issue, Mycroft," Sherlock fires back. John begins to massage his temples; his headache has grown exponentially, and if it continues to do so he thinks he will give up, throw himself to the ground and let himself die in whichever God-forsaken country this is.
"You broke it!" Mycroft snaps and John whirls round on the both of them. He has gotten used to his cock bobbing as he strides along, but his sudden movement makes it smack against his thigh; he thinks the ridiculousness of it might have lost him a little of his authority.
"Enough," he snarls. Both Holmes' look as though they are about to protest, and John raises one hand and points a finger in their general direction. "Enough. I've listened to you fighting for long enough. If I never have to hear either of you speak again, I will be happy. You will both shut up and stop talking to each other, and you will do it now, or I will show you exactly what Mycroft's army's close-combat training can accomplish. You wouldn't be the first men I left dead in a field somewhere."
A desert would be more accurate, John admits, but the intent is the same. Sherlock and Mycroft exchange mutinous looks, but when John begins to walk again the next few minutes are blessedly silent.
"John?" Sherlock asks from behind him.
"Yes, Sherlock?" John says through gritted teeth.
"Tell Mycroft that if he had wanted his radio intact, he shouldn't have left it in my room."
"Is that so? Well, John, tell Sherlock that-"
Mycroft has a black eye. Sherlock has a cut on his cheekbone. John has a slightly receding headache. He considers this a victory. It is his only one so far, and even Afghanistan hadn't make him want to sink to his knees and scream WHY at the uncaring sky so badly. When he gets home he is going to the nearest recruiting office and beating the officer on duty with his now-useless cane until they agree he is physically fit enough to be allowed back into the army Her Majesty believes is her own.
He almost weeps when he sees the top of a chimney in the distance. He considers taking off towards it in a sprint but it seems undignified, and at this point dignity is the only possession John has. He ups his pace to a brisk walk, and pretends he doesn't hear Sherlock muttering something about psychosomatic limps and miraculous danger cures.
The house is small and beaten down, but there is washing on the line and tire tracks that indicate a makeshift driveway. John almost falls on the front door in gratitude, and if his knocking is a little more enthusiastic than is absolutely necessary, he is sure that it is understandable. If it becomes a little desperate when there is no sound of someone coming to the door, then he'll just have to be forgiven.
He stalks towards one of the windows, but the emptiness of the rooms beyond it make it clear that no one is home. There is a layer of dust over everything, including the washing that is flapping on the line, and John realises with a sinking stomach that it has been at least a day since anyone was here at all. He thinks about breaking in through a window, but he doesn't particularly want to be the man who was arrested for a pants-less international incident.
Still, clothes are clothes, and he will find a way to make reparations to the house owner later; he is not about to continue faffing about naked just because his Mum told him it was bad to steal.
There are two pairs of trousers, one man's shirt, a unisex t-shirt, a frilly blouse and a large, floaty skirt. All the underwear is female, and John curses whoever told men that going commando is a good idea. He takes a pair anyway, and steps into them crossly; the lace is tight around his thighs and his bits are squashed uncomfortably, but he is wearing clothing and that is the important thing. Both Sherlock and Mycroft are looking askance at him, and John glares at them both.
"What?" He demands, crossing his arms again. It is easier to be angry when he doesn't have to worry about people making judgements about his penis and John takes thorough advantage of it. "You're welcome to wander around like that, if you like. We'll reach civilization soon enough, you can give everyone a show."
With identical looks of disdain, Sherlock and Mycroft reach pale, manicured hands out to grasp a delicate pair of women's underwear. While they are distracted, John avails himself of one of the pairs of trousers and pulls them on. Evidently the man of the house is not the tallest of men, because they fit John perfectly. He adds the only men's shirt to his ensemble and allows himself a grim smile of relief when he is dressed again.
Sherlock and Mycroft have just discovered the dearth of men's clothing. As it turns out, they are both familiar with some form of self-defence and John has to forcibly pull them away from each other before bones are broken. John is exceptional at trauma surgery, but he is used to having some form of medical kit to perform it.
Sherlock has won the t-shirt and Mycroft retains a death grip on the trousers. To speed things up, John hands Sherlock the floaty skirt and Mycroft the lady's blouse. They don't protest; he is not sure whether that is because they agree it's fair or because the light in John's eyes promises murder, but he accepts it with pleasure.
There is a small pile of boots near the back door, and through some miracle they each find a pair that is not too big for them. Mycroft's appear to pinch a bit, and Sherlock takes them as an excuse to stomp his feet a lot, but John's are nicely cushioned by the socks he found inside them. Sherlock is rather put out that John does, indeed, know how many varieties of foot fungus could be incubating in his boots right now.
"And now?" Mycroft queries, tugging on his blouse. The ruffles are a nice blue that make his eyes look huge. John saves that thought for the next time Mycroft irritates him.
"We follow the road," John cuts off any further protest. It's not exactly a road, but a car has managed to travel on it sometime in the past week and that will do.
John has started singing army songs to keep himself going. He hasn't had to slog along a deserted road this long since Phase 2 training. Mycroft has given them an interminably long lecture on the socio-political situation in Canada, which he still insists is where they are located. Sherlock whispered a few choice comments in John's ear, and John had reacted with a vicious shove to the chest before realising that Sherlock wasn't another cow.
He now owes Sherlock unlimited use of his laptop until the faint red mark (broken ribs, internal bruising and possible haemorrhage, according to the non-medical professionals) fades.
"Sherlock, get away from that," John yells. He has done one of his routine checks over his shoulder to make sure he is still being trailed by two upper-class idiots, only to find Sherlock face first in a shrub by the side of the road. "It's poisonous!"
"Is it?" Mycroft asks interestedly.
"It could be," John grumbles. He grabs his flatmate by the elastic waist of his skirt and yanks him away from the bush. "Keep up. We're almost there."
"Almost where?" Sherlock calls his bluff and John throws his hands up in frustration. John is optimistic that they are close to somewhere, as there is no place in the discovered world that could be any further from civilization. He is about to impart this thought to Sherlock when Mycroft shrieks and dives for the nearest tree. John sees his knees begin to bleed as he scrambles desperately up it, and he turns around to find the source of the terror.
It is a goat, a small, shaggy white one. It is munching on a piece of blue fabric that John recognizes as coming from Mycroft's blouse. Mycroft himself is hyperventilating on the lowest branch, clutching tightly to the trunk. Sherlock is laughing, and John grabs the waistband from the front, yanking Sherlock to him.
"If I hear you tease your brother about this, even once, I will flush every one of your experiments down the toilet. Every. One," John threatens. Sherlock's breath is hot on John's face as he considers and John refuses to release him until he nods, reluctantly.
"Good," he says, and grabs a branch off the bush that fascinated Sherlock, leading the goat away from the dusty trail. When they are out of sight he leaves it with the branch, which the goat seems to think is adequate payment. Mycroft is still up the tree, and John decides against talking him down while his breathing is still so frantic.
"All right, show me those knees," John says as he climbs up the tree and settles himself on the branch next to Mycroft. He has nothing but his medical knowledge and his dusty clothes to patch him up with, but he is able to make do by tearing up a bit more of Mycroft's shirt. They have time; it can't hurt to allow Mycroft some of it to calm down on his own.
John has pulled Sherlock away from seven separate bits of exciting plant life. He has distracted the goat, who now believes that John is the source of all sorts of interesting food, five times and rescued Mycroft from four trees. He has also learned that the source of this phobia is a former pet, who due to a terrible misunderstanding with their foreign cook, was once served to Mycroft for Christmas dinner. John related a similar story regarding his grandmother and Harry's rabbit Flopsy; it turns out that eating pets is a wonderful bonding experience.
Sherlock is sulking twenty metres behind them, saying something about Mycroft and stealing toys.
"Thank Christ," John mutters. Ahead there are three houses, two of which have cars in front of them. John marches towards the closest one and bangs heavily on the door. A young girl, John estimates at about eleven, opens it and looks very perplexed at his strangely dressed companions. Her mother is not far behind them, and John can see the moment when she decides to close the door on them. He raises his hands in supplication, and just in case moves his foot to block its closing.
Mycroft and Sherlock step up beside him, and John prays to every deity he's ever heard of that just this once, the two of them will remain quiet.
Mycroft barks out a question in French. Sherlock mirrors it in what John assumes is Maori.
Sod religion. And sod Scotland, too, which is apparently where they are. Rural Scotland at that, a long way from any transportation that will get them back to London. John attempts to wrangle a lift out of the nice housewife, apparently a staunch member of a local cult that raises the goat that has terrified Mycroft, but before he can Sherlock attempts his trademark twirl; it doesn't work as well in a skirt as it does in his coat.
When he has finished crying and waving about the fingers that were slammed in the door, John shoots a dark glare at the closed up house. The garage attached to it is unlocked, and inside there is a ride-on mower. His grandfather had a simple model when he owned a small hobby farm, and John learned how to hotwire it when he was eight and his Pop started having chest pains out in the sheep paddock.
It takes five minutes to get it working, and when it does he plonks himself in the driver's seat.
"Hop on," he says sternly. There is enough room for one person to squeeze in behind him and another to cling precariously to the side. Sherlock and Mycroft glare at each other balefully before making a dive for the mower. Before they can cause further injury, John grabs a hold of Sherlock's shirt and holds him upright. "Sherlock, behind me. Mycroft, hold on."
Sherlock climbs on behind John with a satisfied smirk on his face. His arms are long and wiry, and they clasp together around John's waist a little more tightly than John thinks is strictly necessary. Mycroft sets himself up on the small ledge on the side and satisfies himself by leaning over John's head and obscuring Sherlock's vision. There is a small altercation over this, and John solves it by gunning the small engine as fast as it can go and setting off down the road.
As it turns out, they can likely walk faster than this mower moves with three people on it. This is proven when the cult-lady and her daughter sprint after them; they are gaining quickly when the girls falls and skins her knees, howling. Mycroft, with matching, tree-given injuries, gives a hiss of sympathy, but John uses the opportunity to press ahead and get a bit of distance between them.
It's almost picturesque as they putter down the Scottish road; John would enjoy it more if he weren't so bloody sick of fields. They pass more than one cow, and John considers driving them directly into the middle of the herd and making a few steaks of his own, but the desire to get home and drink the image of penis and skirts over hairy legs out of his brain forever is slightly stronger.
Thankfully, they finally outrun the goat, who bleats unhappily as John disappears out of sight.
They drive through three small villages and one rather large town before the mower gives up its valiant struggle for life. It has been running on fumes for the last mile, and John estimates they must have gone at least fifteen on the thing. He pats it affectionately before leaving it on the side of the road, and promises himself that he'll buy one just like it when he retires to the country.
"I do hope she didn't call the police," Mycroft frets. John raises his eyebrows and Mycroft has the grace to look a little ashamed.
"Surely you could take care of it if we were," John says. He has no intention of getting another ASBO for this debacle. He doesn't much care howMycroft gets them out of this, only that he will if John has to hold a handmade knife to his throat and force him.
"My contacts with Scotland aren't the best at the moment, I'm afraid," Mycroft says sadly.
"I told you not to mess about with their currency," Sherlock adds, almost gleefully. John considers this for a moment, and is about to tell Mycroft soundly off when he realises something doesn't quite make sense.
"That was once," Mycroft hisses while John thinks, and he looks more put out than when John had put up a fight against a particularly determined assistant and ended up on a rampage that destroyed all the CCTV cameras on Baker Street. "And it was an emergency."
"They use the pound here," John points out, and Sherlock makes a face at him.
"That's true," Mycroft muses, and flicks imaginary lint off his blouse. "But there is that issue with inflation…"
John purposely doesn't ask, and continues on in the direction he has chosen. At the end of the street he can see what looks like an actual main road, with street signs, and he almost sobs with relief.
"I don't see why you couldn't fill the mower up," Sherlock says, having been quite insistent on that point when they passed a petrol station in the rather large town. "I told you we would run out of fuel in approximately three point-"
"We don't have any money, Sherlock," John repeats for the fourth time. "Unless you're hiding some in a place I don't want to think about, and I'll be honest and say I hope you're not."
Sherlock looks vaguely upset, which John has come to realise is his version of stricken. John is not sure why, as this most certainly isn't the first time he's yelled at his flatmate for some combination of stupidity, stubbornness and the horrible crime of his face being annoying. He stops walking and pats Sherlock's shoulder awkwardly; Sherlock turns his head away, and in an attempt to get Sherlock to look at him, John ends up in a halfway hug that feels particularly uncomfortable.
"You could have stolen it," Sherlock says, after clearing his throat. "Like you did the mower."
"I didn't steal the mower," John protests, and lets him go. "I just…"
"Appropriated it?" Mycroft asks. John thinks of all the supplies his regiment could have used that were 'appropriated' by other units, and of the lovely umbrella that went missing from 221B the last time Mycroft was over and has never had the grace to return.
"No." John says and pretends that he's talking to a newly enlisted teenager who needs whipping into shape. "Now march."
"My feet hurt," Mycroft mutters.
"This is why you should exercise rather than fad dieting," Sherlock decides to be helpful again, and John really misses his umbrella. He has two people he would urgently love to hit with it right now.
"Child," Mycroft snaps, his eyes narrowing.
"Fat arse," Sherlock replies, which is the first time John has ever heard him swear.
"Not one more word," John says, grasping at the both of them and yanking them down the road. "I don't want to hear one more word out ofeither of you."
"There's a roundabout at the end," Mycroft notes. This pleases him, and John is very concerned about why that is.
"Roundabouts are not the answer to everything," Sherlock says darkly.
The street sign at the roundabout says Edinburgh 57 miles, and John's sigh of relief holds more than one repressed sob.
True to his threat, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock have said a single word to each other. As Mycroft so kindly pointed out, random syllables are notwords, and contain no meaning on their own.
"Hirrung stepslo windon," Sherlock speculates, looking at John out of the corner of his eye.
"Minda hirrung flopsten," Mycroft answers, also looking at John. They both start to laugh, repeating hirrung more than once. John suspects the random syllables are not quite as random as he is meant to believe.
Still, it's better than petty bickering and name calling. John is giving serious thought to mugging the next person he sees for their car keys, and Sherlock has started to limp slightly. They are walking down a road that is occasionally parallel to the carriageway that leads to Edinburgh, although it is taking too many twists and turns for John's liking. Worse, the sun has passed the middle of the sky and John estimates that it must be heading on 1500; if they don't find transportation to the airport soon they will be forced to camp in another blasted field.
He stops to lean against a fence, considering his options. There is a nibble at his hair, and he lets out a strangled cow as he leaps away from the wire. Sherlock and Mycroft double over laughing and John leans down to pick up some pebbles, chucking them wildly at his companions.
"All right," John yells, clenching his fists in frustration and screaming at the sky. "I have developed a fear of cows. I get kidnapped by Mycroft fucking Holmes and get left in field, where I am molested by cows. I now have a phobia of sodding cows, and if we get home I'm going to make you pass a law that executes every one of them. We will be a country of poultry eaters."
He turns around to catch his breath, and so that he can wipe away the moisture in his eye. It's not a tear, not anything close, but frustration plays havoc with his body and he doesn't give a flying fig whether technically it might, in a strange parallel universe, be called crying. Sherlock and Mycroft have stopped laughing, which means that John is not allowed to kill them and feed them to the horse at the fence, who is alternating between watching them with interest and looking offended at potentially being mistaken for a cow.
"I didn't say a word to you about that goat," he addresses Mycroft. He appeases the horse with a pat to its soft snout, and he feels a little better that there is someone in this country who likes him. "Nor you with that Great Dane, Sherlock, and don't think I've forgotten."
Neither of them answer, although Mycroft clears his throat meaningfully. There is a pause, and then Sherlock's arms wrap around him from behind and John is baffled when he turns his head to see. A mop of dark, curly hair obstructs his nasal passages, and there is a moment of panic when it is assumed that he is allergic to horses and can now not breathe, while John tries to take back the offense he causes when he points out it was just Sherlock's hair.
The horse, to its immense relief, is not needed to transport the three strange men down the street. They reach the small set of shops half a mile down without incident.
The young couple with a baby that picked up the hitchhiking trio are going most of the way to Edinburgh. The father is happy because the baby has just said its first word, Dada. The mother is happy because she thinks this means the father will get up sometimes in the middle of the night to feed it. The baby is more bewildered than happy, because the tall man who is seated on the short man's lap keeps trying to sniff its hair and deduce things about its diet.
"My first word was doggy," John confides cheerfully. His words are a little muffled by Sherlock's hair, which is in his nose again, but he knows not to choke on it this time and manages to avoid causing offense. "Mum was a bit upset."
"Mine was asinine," Mycroft says in a tone of fond reminiscence. "Apparently Nanny was a bit irritating."
John and the new parents look at him blankly for a moment; John because he is not terrified of hearing what Sherlock's first words were, while the parents are wondering whether they should believe him, and if so whether it was perhaps not the best idea to be good Samaritans today.
"What was yours, er…Sherlock," the mother asks cautiously.
"My memory doesn't go back that far," Sherlock says stiffly. A smile starts to wind its way over Mycroft's mouth, and John is too busy brushing Sherlock's hair away from his face to be able to reach over the baby's seat and smack him in time.
"It was a first sentence, actually," Mycroft answers proudly, turning an almost soppy look on his baby brother. "It was 'I want Mycroft'. I was ever so proud."
Sherlock shudders. John is not a detective, but he can deduce that Sherlock's memory does, indeed, go back that far. It is obvious in the stiffness of his shoulders, and the way his breath catches; John begins to knead his lower back gently, realising just after everyone else that it's not the sort of thing a person does for a completely platonic friend sitting on their lap.
It's a good thing they've never been in 221B Baker Street after squash night; Sherlock's massages are the only things that allow him to get up the next morning. Entirely innocent massages, John thinks quickly to himself, before realising that correcting himself isn't helping. He drops his head to Sherlock's shoulders in shame, which doesn't make things any better.
"That's right, you're Mycroft," the mother says, forcedly cheerful, and John considers how many methods of suicide are available from a moving car. He would ask Sherlock, but then Sherlock would tell him and he would have to go through with one of them to escape the shame. "How sweet."
"It was, rather," Mycroft says happily, and they are all treated to the beginning of a well-rehearsed discourse on the wonders of Sherlock Holmes as a child. Sherlock kicks his brother as he mentions school plays and costumes, and the baby laughs. He also mentions that Sherlock's favourite thing as a child was dissections, which isn't quite as nice, and an awkward silence falls over the car.
"It wasn't, actually," Sherlock says, so quietly that John can barely hear him. "It was you reading to me. I liked your Agatha Christie phase."
This doesn't make the awkwardness go away, and now there is an air of soppiness that makes even the sentimental mother cringe.
"Think this one might be an only child," its father mumbles.
"I don't blame you," John says with a sigh.
They are nine miles from Edinburgh, including the distance to the airport. Sherlock's feet are blistered, and Mycroft is panting a little more with each step they take. They are still going to walk, because their most recent attempt at hitchhiking ended half a mile afterwards when Sherlock informed a miserable woman that her son was gay and sleeping with the 'best friend' they were currently transporting across country, and the best friend had attempted to stab Sherlock with a coat hanger.
They had also tried to sneak a ride in a lorry, but Mycroft's loud exclamation at finding an umbrella had given that game away. Mycroft still hasn't forgiven John for making him promise a verbal IOU to return John's umbrella; it's not that John was overly fond of the umbrella, it was the principle of the thing, but it did keep him very dry and fold up nicely to fit by the front door.
Mycroft has also been forced to return the lorry owner's umbrella, and is rather put out.
"Always with the phallic symbols," Sherlock says as Mycroft attempts to redirect the conversation to their favourite Agatha Christie books. John moans quietly, and wonders how much the government would crush him if he left it alone with its brother, map-and-moneyless, in Scotland.
"No talking," John declares roughly.
"You're hardly in charge here," Mycroft realises abruptly, and John turns on him with one fist raised. "This isn't a dictatorship."
"It's not a democracy either," John says, and he feels so much like he is an argument with a young Harry that he momentarily forgets that he is an adult. "Now shut up, or I'll shut you up."
"Fine," Mycroft mutters mutinously.
"Fine," John repeats and adds 'find a new flatmate' to his list of promises.
Sherlock sidles up beside him. Their hands brush and John's fingers curl instinctively. He decides that it is fine to hold hands with your best mate if you think it is the only thing keeping him on his feet. The fading sun is not casting enough light to make it immediately obvious, and Mycroft is too busy muttering to himself to pay much attention.
They spend the night in an abandoned car rather than walk the last miles. Mycroft falls asleep sitting up in the front seat, and John pushes the two back seats down to create enough room for Sherlock to sprawl across. John lies next to him rather than taking the other front seat; Sherlock has told him that Mycroft is a flailer, and John is currently the only one without obvious injuries. He would like to keep it that way.
They curl up together during the night, which is all right because there is no room and because it get so cold that they need the heat. Mycroft doesn't flail once, and that is all right too.
The airport coming into view is so beautiful that John does a little dance and trips over his own feet. Sherlock catches him, and if the spontaneous, boisterous kiss John plants on his cheek is a little too close to his mouth, he is able to live with that. Mycroft asks how they will get home without money, and John grins; he has been planning this since last night.
When they enter the airport John stands on a baggage cart and describes, in great detail, the sort of bomb he could make from objects that are currently in the airport. When the three of them are dragged off by security he instructs Mycroft to tell the guards exactly what he knows about them, the airport, and what will happen if Mycroft is not back in his office by tomorrow morning.
They make the next flight out to London. Mycroft and Sherlock have an argument in the aisle regarding who will get the window seat. John settles the argument by plonking himself in it, doing up the seatbelt and refusing to move. The flight attendant, sensing impending disaster, gives them all free pairs of headphones and Mycroft immediately begins taking his armrest apart in an attempt to hack into the government communication channels he has been so cruelly cut off from.
John waits until the plane is in the air to avail himself of the toilet. While he was willing to drop trou and take a piss behind a tree, there were some things he refused to do in company and he is quite busting. He manages to take his shit in peace, and has just flushed when the door bursts open and Sherlock crams in next to him.
"Sherlock, what-" John begins, and cuts himself off. There are a great many things he wants to say to Sherlock right now. The part of himself that can still be cautious reminds him that if he says them he is likely to end up trying to flush Sherlock down the toilet, and that would do terrible things to London's crime rates.
"Mycroft's face is annoying me," Sherlock says. John is so startled that he has started saying YOUR face is annoying me before he remembers that he is the grown up and one of the responsibilities that comes with being able to have sex whenever he likes is not decking people who make stupid comments like that.
He leaves Sherlock alone, looking forlorn, in the plane bathroom and tucks himself in his seat. Mycroft is apparently too busy to notice he is gone, and he takes advantage of the silence by turning the rock station on his arm rest as high as it will go and closing his eyes.
They land uneventfully. The three of them clump down the stairs towards the exit unhappily, Sherlock's skirt dancing a little with every step he takes. Mycroft's agents are waiting for them and John is ecstatic to find they have brought money, food and a change of clothing for all of them. Mycroft gets his umbrella back, which cheers him up immediately, and Sherlock is rendered happy by the sight of Mycroft changing in the middle of the terminal and forgetting he is wearing ladies underwear.
When they are all set to rights, have eaten the proffered food and washed in the airport bathroom, John stalks up to Mycroft with his hand out.
"Credit card," he orders, and Mycroft's eyebrows knit in confusion.
"You have your own back," Mycroft offers, and John shakes his head.
"No. I need a holiday, and since either you or your brother are responsible for that disaster I just got us out of, you're paying for it."
This statement doesn't seem unusual to Mycroft's people. One, a man about John's age who clearly has no idea what has happened or where they have been, steps forward with a shy smile. He hands John a credit card that appears to have come out of nowhere, and John vindictively plans to clean out the minibar in every hotel he stays in.
"Scotland's lovely this time of year," he says, his accent heavy. One of the men who clearly does know what's happened makes the mistake of laughing.
John doesn't remember much of what happens after that, but when he returns from his holiday he hears that the man has been released from hospital. Sherlock claims the window seat on the way, and holds John's hand 'to prevent further violence'. John books a hotel with one bed, and enjoys the thought of Sherlock curling up on a lumpy couch.
It doesn't quite end up like that, but at least he has a map this time.
There are no cows, either, which is the nicest part.