"Wake up, Sherlock," John said quietly, rocking the boy back and forth gently. Something in his tone was urgent, but soft nonetheless. "C'mon you can't sleep anymore. Not now," he whispered, cradling Sherlock's cheek with one hand, rubbing his thumb over a single mountainous cheekbone until the other awoke. Sherlock opened his exhausted eyes, blinking the brightness of his bedside lamp away. Startled at first, he batted the hand away, frantically trying his best to get up and defend himself. He threw his arms around his body, flinching despite the blows that never came. His eyes adjusted and a sudden realisation came over Sherlock, tears starting to form fast in his eyes. John was there, in his room, with him. Safe and sound and just /there/. "Oh my God, I'm s-sorry. I thought you were him," Sherlock apologised, fumbling to stand up, throwing his arms around John and holding him tightly as he sobbed uncontrollably. And /that/ is why John is there. He's taking Sherlock away from the battery and taking him somewhere he can call home without cringing at the thought. John pulled away just so, looking at his boyfriend directly in the eyes, drying the tears that had fallen. "We're escaping this place today. We're going to escape," John assured Sherlock, smiling as best as he could. Seeing Sherlock in this state; bruised, beaten, broken- it destroyed John. "Pack and get dressed. I'll make sure your father doesn't hear us. If he does, all Hell is going to break loose. But I'm determined to keep you safe. Whatever it takes, Sherlock." Before Sherlock could answer, his father was on the other side of the locked door, laughing maniacally. "I'm going to kill your little boyfriend, Sherly. Torture him until the gayness subsides. And I plan on doing the same thing to you after I make you watch John die. Maybe that'll teach you not to be a faggot." His tone was dark and bitter, dripping with terror and promise and alcohol. Sherlock's eyes darted from the door to John, the obvious anger and desperation to hurt the man already making an appearance on the blonde's face. White knuckles, veins protruding, heavy breathing. "I'm killing him. I don't care what you say Sherlock, I'm killing him. And now," John reached for the doorknob, snaking a hand into the waistband of his trousers searching for his gun, but Sherlock stopped him by grabbing his wrist. The taller dark-haired boy whipped John around, taking him by the sides of the face and rubbing his cheeks comfortingly. "Breathe, keep breathing. Don't lose your nerve over this, alright?" Sherlock cooed softly, pulling John into an embrace that sent waves of warmth rushing over the other boy. He was so hung up on trying to keep Sherlock safe that he didn't know what exactly he was doing. Didn't know the consequences. But Sherlock did. It would've resulted in at least one death. Most likely two. "Just breathe for me, John. Breathe. If he comes in here, he'll get you. And I can't do this alone."
A sudden rush of panic flooded over John; a life without Sherlock wouldn't be a life at all. John would be sitting around, killing time and doing nothing else. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his blood pressure. A few deep breaths did the trick, and he opened up his eyes to look at Sherlock. Two diamonds shined brightly in the dimly-lit bedroom; two pools of silver and black and blue and green and gold all forming to make one colour John couldn't quite put a name to. But he knew they were looking directly into him. Capturing him and sending him off into a world that was just Sherlock and John. Nobody else to disturb their togetherness. Nobody else left to judge them. "Yes, okay. You're right, you're always right. He just..," John took another thoughtful breath and continued. "He makes me physically sick to my stomach."
The two boys looked towards the door at the same time, loud banging and crashes coming from down the stairs. Sherlock had heard those same noises so many times before. His father was looking for his gun. The man always lost it in different places every time he tried to go after his son, so it was more than likely possible that he wouldn't be able to find it. But they weren't going to take any chances. John grabbed two duffle bags out from under Sherlock's bed, hurriedly throwing clothes into them, stuffing as much as possible into the bags. Once Sherlock's closet was pretty much empty, bare and cold without the fabric, he reached for the boy's violin case. "You need this. I need this. It calms us both when you play," John remarked, throwing both of the heavier bags over his shoulders and handing Sherlock the smaller case which held the delicate instrument. He flashed Sherlock a look that was a cross between fear and optimism and love, eyes wide and jaw clenched with a touch of softness to his eyebrows, ready to jump out the window and escape. "Are you ready to leave? For good?" The younger grabbed his violin case, rubbing the seams of it nervously. Sherlock had wanted to leave for months now, years even. But something was bubbling up inside of him. Doubt? Guilt? He was pulling John away from his family and friends and school and rugby team. It wasn't necessary. Sherlock thought it was more logical for his lover to dump his arse, move on, and lead a normal life. A life without the responsibility of taking care of a battered Sherlock Holmes. Something in his chest tightened, his beautiful irises disappearing behind pale eyelids, clenching tightly. His body was trembling, trying to hold back more tears but failing miserably. He broke down, breathing heavily in and out of his nose as tears washed over him. "John, I can't. It doesn't make any sense for you to be doing this. I'm not worth it," Sherlock cried, voice higher than his usual youthful baritone. He looked up at the boy near the window, shaking his head. "You need to leave me and continue on living normally. I'm pulling you down, taking you away.. I'm destroying you day by day, John." John automatically dropped the duffle bags, walked over to Sherlock's desk, grabbed the chair and stuck it right up under the doorknob to prevent his father from breaking in. He then made his way back over to Sherlock, gingerly taking the instrument from his hands and setting it down atop the window sill, tangling their fingers together and leading Sherlock over to his bed. Fortunately, the bed was on the opposite side of the room, around a corner and out of the way of his bedroom door, just in case his father did find the gun.
John should've shoved Sherlock through the window, he should've shoved him into the back of the cab that was waiting for them down the street, and he should've told the boy to shut up and just go with it. But he couldn't. Sherlock was obviously experiencing guilt, and that was the last thing John wanted to happen. He never intended to make things so difficult. In fact, he thought this would make things a lot easier. And he was determined to keep his promise to Sherlock; to keep him safe and away from his sodding so-called 'father'.
John sat the pair of them down onto the large mattress, still grasping firmly at Sherlock's hands. "I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't feel like it was important. For the both of us," he smiled weakly at the being in front of him, lifting one of his hands to kiss each of the bony knuckles. This was John's biggest fear; Sherlock not consenting. An ache deep within John resided at the thought of Sherlock insisting on staying in the home, only to be beaten to a pulp once John left. The older absolutely refused to let that happen. John sighed and licked his dry lips, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "I've never told you this, but my father used to beat me too. Every once in awhile, he still does," John scrunched up his jumper's left sleeve, revealing bruises in the shape of a massive hand. He glanced up to meet Sherlock's eyes, obvious shock on his face. He straightened out the sleeve and grabbed Sherlock's hands again. "Not only am I doing this for you, but I'm doing this for me too. I found a flat in Central London," John said quieter this time, not wanting Sherlock's father to overhear where he was planning on taking off to. "Cheap rent, a beautiful sitting room and a small, lovely kitchen. It's perfect. And the bedroom, god, the bedroom," John's eyes lit up at the thought of both of their possessions filling the empty shelves, the thought of their clothes in one closet, the thought of them sharing one bed. "It's extraordinary. Lots of bookshelves and lots of space for your studies. And we'll both be free from the shackles of our youth and of the bad memories. You and I can finally live the life we both deserve if we leave tonight. And don't say that you're taking me away from my life here. Nothing in this city could keep me grounded if I had the chance to runaway with you. And look at that, I do."
Sherlock listened intently to John, opening his mouth every once in awhile to protest, only to result in not being able to form any valid arguments. And then John lifted his sleeve and Sherlock's world did a one-hundred and eighty degree turn for the worst. Heat engulfed Sherlock's cheeks, anger and a sudden burst of violence rushing through his veins and crawling up his neck. He let two of his digits glide over the purple bruises tenderly, vessels broken and bloody underneath the tanned skin. A shaky breath emitted into the air as Sherlock looked back up to meet John's gaze. He wasn't about to make a big deal of John's injuries, at least not yet. It'd be in both of their best interests if Sherlock didn't become erratic and go on a major killing-spree. "You've already found a place?" Sherlock asked dumbly. Clearly John had said that, but Sherlock was stunned. Nobody he knew would ever do such a thing for him, and who was he to let his own worries get in the way? Like John said, if he didn't find it necessary, he wouldn't do it. John wasn't the kind of person to do things just for shits and giggles. He was a serious, well thought out man and Sherlock was going to let him have whatever he wanted. Sherlock scooted closer to John, resting their foreheads together. He was silent for a few moments, relishing in the words his boyfriend had just spoken despite the noise being made downstairs. His father obviously hadn't found the weapon yet. Sherlock untangled his fingers from John's and brought them up to the back of the boy's head, knitting his digits in the short hair at the nape of John's neck. "I'd live in a cardboard box under Bishop's Bridge if it meant spending the rest of my life with you," he murmured, closing the bit of space between their mouths and placing a gentle kiss to John's lips. Pulling back from the warm contact, Sherlock smiled for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. "Can't keep London waiting then, can we?"
With the bags reclaiming their spot on John's shoulders and the violin case back in the hands of Sherlock, they were ready to leave the house and never look back again. John had already left Harry a note, and with Sherlock's mother being deceased and Mycroft already moved out, there was nothing for him to do. Other than build up enough courage to finally take the small leap off of the soil surrounding the Holmes' estate, that is. And he did. The pair were quickly out the window, down the drainpipe, feet hitting pavement, running toward the taxi-cab in a dead-on sprint. Once they reached it, John threw Sherlock's clothes and other necessities into the boot of the car while gently placing the violin on top. With one final glance at their past, the two of them turned around, hand in hand and shoulder to shoulder in back of the cab, peering into their future of love and happiness. No more violence, screaming, cries for help or tears. Just the company of one another and nothing else. As they entered the outskirts of London, the sun began to rise. John and Sherlock were most definitely not morning persons, but they had a strange feeling that that little fact about them had quickly changed.