John leaves Sherlock beside the bench where the bus is due to stop, and goes alone to the pub to see about a bath and a room. The pub has a horse theme with leather saddles and carved wooden horse heads. They have a room free upstairs, bath at the end of the hall, pay in advance, breakfast included in the price. John tosses his bag on the floor by the bed and digs out his toiletries before going to take a shower.
It's been a long time since he's been out of the city. He's missed the raw justice of the countryside. He rolls his shoulder under the warm water and pokes at his bullet scar. The Afghan plains were even starker than the highland heaths, the sky bare and bright when the bullet had torn through his shoulder knocking him to the ground and into nothingness. He shakes his head to clear out the sound of screams, the sight of blood pooling. He closes his eyes thinking of nothing but the barren desert sands until the water turns cold against his skin, and he steps out of the tub.
He brushes his teeth and slicks back his hair, wrapping his towel around him and covering himself with his robe before stepping out of the bathroom to walk down the hall to his room. He should have expected that it wouldn't be that easy.
"John," Sherlock says standing in the narrow hallway before his door. "I didn't mean to offend you. Please tell me how I can make amends."
"Sherlock, get out of my way."
"John."
"I told you to go home. Now, we don't want to make a scene, do we? Me in my towel and all. What will people say?"
"Only what they've always said," Sherlock replies.
"And they've always been wrong. Now, Sherlock , I told you to leave town. Move out from in front of my door, or God help me, I will move you."
Sherlock stares at John, eyes green like the Aral sea. He reaches out a hand toward him, and John grabs him by the wrist, turning him and pushing him hard up against the door. He presses up against his back, holding his arms firmly in his grip as his other hand reaches around Sherlock and unlocks the door. John squeezes his wrist hard enough to bruise before pushing him aside.
"Go Away!" John says storming into his room, turning, and slamming the door between himself and Sherlock's heartbroken face. He clicks the bolt and leans against the door breathing heavily, listening until he finally hears the sound of those posh shoes padding down the stairs.
Mary stands in the corner of the room. 'That won't be the end of it, John. He's not that easily put off.'
"I don't care, as long as he doesn't come back tonight. You aren't planning to watch, are you?" John says unwrapping the towel from his waist and laying it flat on the bed, before lifting one knee to rest on top of it while his hand reaches down to cover his crotch."
'Why shouldn't I watch', Mary says with a smirk. 'I am your wife aren't I. It's not like it's anything new, and I know you aren't thinking of me.'
"Shut up!" he says squeezing his eyes shut and listening to the rapid, rhythmic squeaking of the springs so that he can't hear the sound of her high-pitched laughter.
The next morning he gets his things and sits down to a large English breakfast before setting out for the edge of town to start on the trail again. His goal is a highland bothy with a good view of a loch. He's bringing some coal and a log or two to start the fire, and is pleased when the sky starts to clear just as he reaches the head of the trail. He's barely started on the path, when he sees someone coming up behind him. It's Sherlock in hiking gear without his coat and wearing proper boots.
"What the Hell, Sherlock!" John says. "What are you doing?"
"I thought I'd do this properly, since I'm already here."
"But how could you possibly get all of this stuff? This place doesn't even have a proper grocery."
"It does, however, have phone access. One of Mycroft's minions brought it. He wanted me to tell you 'Although he has gone through the crucible with you, and he does trust you with his life, what kind of man you are is to be determined by your actions.' That's all rubbish, really, but he made me promise to say that to you before he'd agree to give me all of this gear on such short notice. Hurry up, or we won't make it to the peak by sunset."
Sherlock walks up the path, as eager as a puppy, and John follows. He's angry at Sherlock for coming, and angry at himself for talking to him. He should have kept quiet, let him see what it feels like to not have someone to talk to. But there he is, smiling away like a kid at Christmas as he strides down the trail, the bastard, the fuckin' beautiful bastard.
Sherlock's legs give him an advantage in length, but he lacks endurance. He's a sprinter. He'll run and leap, and travel great distances at a rapid pace, but then he has to rest, to get back his wind.
John, on the other hand, can go the distance. He sets a rapid pace and keeps at it. Before long, he's left Sherlock behind. He stretches his legs and measures his breath using all of his military training and discipline. He takes a step and then another, enjoying the way he pushes past the pain, enjoying the way that his lungs tug at the air reminding him that he's alive, allowing him to put all his other worries out of his head. He comes up short at the edge of a stream, the water lapping at his boots. And the pain hits him. He doubles over, hands on thighs as he breathes and breathes.
She doesn't haunt him here, in the wilderness. Mary never was one for the countryside. A city girl she was although she never bothered to say where she was born.
The road goes through the stream. Tire tracks go right up to the water and come out the other side. Seasonal then. Once he gets his breath, he walks a bit off the path to where some rocks make it capable for him to leap across. When he reaches the other side, he starts up the hill at a more natural pace, still feeling the tug in his thighs. Oh, he will feel the burn tonight.
As he approaches the top, the gravel road begins to zigzag up the side of the mountain. At the edge of a wide turn, he sees, Sherlock catching up to him. He probably didn't have any trouble fording that stream, just stretched out his impossibly long legs, the wanker.
John picks up his pace only to stop at the edge of a rocky deer path that climbs up the hill at a steep angle cutting maybe a half-hour off the time it would take to reach the top. He looks back once to see that Sherlock is not in sight, and then he starts up the deer trail walking carefully and grabbing at the stony ground to steady himself when it gets too steep. He stops at a cluster of rocks looking for passage up to the shelf which forms the base of the higher roadway. He looks in the shadows for snakes before pulling himself up onto a rocky ledge. He turns then, looking out to see the countryside spread before him. In the distance, he can see the ridge of trees near the stream where he had hopped across the flat stones that forded the water. He can see the slow winding path that brought him here. He can also see Sherlock slowly trudging up toward him. Sherlock looks up at him and stops.
John remembers when he was the one watching Sherlock scramble over rocks so long ago: His coat, the sky, Henry knight, the lovely inn, his stupid cheekbones, the rooftop at Barts, his bloody face, the crushing pain.
John turns away and reaches up to the next ledge only to have the rock crumble under his feet.
He falls.