Chapter 11: Go with the flow
19 days 14 hours and 13 minutes
John ran faster than he could remember ever having run before. Legs pumping madly below him, muscles strained to the breaking point, heart pounding so loud in his ears that he wasn't sure he heard steps behind them anymore. Before him Sherlock ran, smooth and unhindered, long limbs flowing over the cobbled streets, constantly changing direction. John had no idea how he did it, he seemed to know every street, every intersection and every passageway in London. John dared a quick glance over his shoulder only to realize that they were still chased.
Behind them ran the men clad in dark, any other features was lost in the speed and the sparse lightning. It was as if they shifted to and fro existence as they reached and moved on from the pools of light cast by the yellow street lights.
Somewhere John found an energy reserve, something his body had been saving for matters of life and death, which surely this was. The distance to Sherlock shrunk as he forced his body onwards, they were running shoulder to shoulder now, he looked over at Sherlock who was smiling a wild, wicked smile as he ran and he realized a similarly mad smile was plastered on his own face.
They ran on, bodies in total sync, minds blank except for the thrill of the moment, both revelling in the adrenalin; the wet streets disappearing behind them as they ran. They where invincible and they could do this forever and ever.
John dared another look behind him and realized they were getting away when Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him through some winding narrow alleys, dark two storied brick buildings surrounding them on all sides. Finally he pulled him in behind a dumpster, the corner was small and the light was out clouding them in darkness. The moment they stopped, John realized he was exhausted, his legs almost wouldn't keep him up, felling like jelly and he was desperately pulling air into his burning lungs. Sherlock motioned at him to be quiet.
For once Sherlock looked as tired as him, a flush on his otherwise white cheeks and he was holding on to John's arm in a mutual attempt at staying upright. John leaned back and let the rough brick wall take his weight, running a hand through his hair as he did. He closed his eyes as he tried to slow his breathing.
A sudden noise in the ally they had come from forced his eyes open in a micro second as a new dosage of adrenalin was pumped into his system. Sherlock flattened himself against John, making them both as small as possible; his head was turned so that he could see in the small crack between the dumpster and the wall.
John willed himself into becoming part of the wall, disappearing into the bricks and the fear from earlier, forgotten in the rush, came crushing back. His breathing seemed thunderous enough to overpower a jet engine. He closed his eyes again and tried a calming technique his therapist had shown him. Slowly breathe in and slowly out again through your nose, focus on your breathing. Slowly in and then out.
He opened his eyes as thought he had succeeded, muscles relaxing slightly, when he became acutely aware of Sherlock's body pressed up against his. He was looking at the side of the pale curve of Sherlock's neck whose hands were up on the brick wall on each side of John's head. Sherlock's body pushed flush against his, not an inch of air between them. He could feel his friend's heart beat against his, chest pressing against his every time any of them breathed in. His head started to spin as the warmth from Sherlock's body slowly seeped through his clothing.
The memories of a similar situation weeks ago, of Sherlock's body pressed against his, mouth meeting his came back, flooding his mind in vivid flashes.
John frantically forced his fists to close, fingernails digging little half-moons of pain into his palms as he tried to fight what his body was doing to him. His heart was beating frantically in a mixture of dread and excitement as his starved body drowned in Sherlock's.
He stood there on the verge of panic as his former resolve melted into nothingness. He longed to reach out and pull Sherlock against him, to feel his lips on his. There was no way he could escape this, why had he tried to fool himself? He was lost in something he could never have.
As he realized that he was fighting a losing battle Sherlock straightened up.
"It seems they have moved on, we are safe for the moment," John slapped back into reality, him and Sherlock hiding in a tiny alley, trying for cover from the people chasing them. People that had it in for him personally and he snapped.
It was too much. Being in the army, there you were someone among many, always in danger just because you were a part of something. Maybe you had no control over what was happening but you tried to survive and do your best and hoped others knew what they were doing. Here someone was after him personally and Sherlock was pressing his body against his, unaware of what the contact was doing to him. It was basic military tactics; don't fight a war on two fronts at the same time.
He pushed Sherlock away, much more forcefully than he should have to.
"Move."
"What is it, are you hurt," Sherlock looked at him, concern shoving on his face but how could John explain what was ailing him.
"Just move, move Sherlock," and Sherlock did move away. He took several steps backwards as he looked at John as if expecting him to suddenly grow horns. John couldn't handle it, all the dread and despair suddenly bubbled up and he just panicked.
"Just get away from me, get away," His voice was high pitched at the end as he pushed himself of the wall and walked away. He had to get away and get away fast or he had no idea what would happen. He walked, or practically ran out of the ally, hands showed deep down into his pockets, his shoulders tense and pulled up under his ears. He had to get somewhere, anywhere away from Sherlock and the crazy things he was doing to him.
He walked in blind, the dark city spinning around him, streetlights and cars illuminating his way.
