A/N: Delayed yet again, sorry. Meanwhile, Sherlock and John were going on a road trip. -csf


II.

'What was that?' I ask quickly, glancing over my shoulder as if the answer could be lying in the tarmac road behind us. The van comes to a brisk halt, still marked by that thumping, lopsided rhythm, pounding.

John is rolling his eyes at me, as if I had just missed something easy.

'Flat tyre, genius. Got "how to change a tyre" somewhere up in your hardware noggin?'

He chuckles at the expression he picks off my face, but there's no malice there. The soldier is already getting off his seat. I think he's planning to change the tyre. Good. Maybe I can help. Where's the van's instructions manual? One can't be too careful on the road...

John's high pitched voice complains from somewhere outside the van. 'Not giving me a hand, then? Content to just scavenge through my sister's glove compartment, then?'

There's exasperation and defiance, short-temper and fondness in my friend's soothingly familiar voice.

'I'll be right out, just looking for something!'

He grunts in disbelief; or it could be the effort he's putting behind unscrewing those contraptions to release the tyre.

If only I could find the instructions manual I'd might find out what they're called and how to best tackle them efficiently.

'Any time now, Sherlock...'

'Hmm hmm.'

He huffs, indignant for some reason, but keeps to his diligent work.

I glance at him through my rear-view mirror. All strong muscles pumped under the stretched fabric of a frankly ugly plaid shirt. Strong crisscross pattern lines contrasting with lean protruding muscles. He's a natural.

'Hmm. You're doing a fine job, John!'

He releases an eloquent string of expletives an insecure detective would have thought directed at him, but I can tell it's the tyre, giving him a spot of trouble.

I'm having no luck finding written protocols, but I find an old Polaroid picture on the driver's door pocket, a lost treasure from the past. I recognise the red eyed, too exposed by the camera's flash, form in front. John. A younger looking John, seemingly carefree and bearing his "mischief in progress" smirk. I store that picture carefully away in my wallet's deepest recesses. Finders keepers. 'John, how long on that tyre?' I below over my shoulder with a theatrical sigh.

.

'How did you manage to pierce two tyres?' John asks me, aggravated. We're only a few hundred yards further down, stopped at the curb, as we restarted and soon heard the same paced clunking sound.

'How's it my fault your sister's old van is falling apart?' I retort, brusquely.

'It was fine before you started driving it, Sherlock.'

'Oh no, this isn't once again about who drives and who co-pilots, is it? Because I already told you, John, your role is paramount in this enterprise—'

'There's sat nav in the van', he clips, curtly.

'Didn't stop me from driving over the left over shards of metal debris on the road, did it?'

'How did you expect me to see that coming?'

'It's alright, John', I concede. 'Just get the second spare tyre on and let's get going. We must be late for Nowhere by now.' I glare at the short soldier and cross my arms in front of me, effectively mirroring his stance.

Except he opens his blue eyes wide. 'There's no second spare tyre, Sherlock', he hisses through gritted teeth. As if I would know that. It's very remiss of Harry Watson.

When he sees nothing but blank confusion in my face, John sighs and relents. 'Right. Night's falling soon and it's getting chilly. No sight of civilization around and no cars in these back roads either. Fat chance we'll get passers-by's help. There's still very little traffic on the roads. I say it's safer to stick with the van for the night and go look for a mechanic in the morning.'

I finally have a better look around at the landscaping encroaching on us. Dark evergreen trees looming on the other side of the road, like marching soldiers in a rank. Spiky shrubs and dishevelled tufts of chlorophylled stunted entities on the other side. Birds chirping away as the nightfall lifts clouds of insects hovering on the cooler stale air layers above the hot ground.

John is already opening the back doors to the compact van. In true Watson style, Harry's wheeled treasure trove does not disappoint. There's a blanket, tinned food, water bottles (plastic, what about the environment?), several empty alcohol bottles – John looks all sheepish at that, but he is not to blame for his sister's sins – even a small camping gas container. We might be alright yet, thanks to the Watson's indulgent need to worry about all possible contingency scenarios...

'Here', John hands me a clutch of fabric without even looking at me. He's upset with me, then. Or more worried than he wants to let on. I unfold the ungrateful garment. A light grey hoodie, I believe it's called.

'I'm not wearing this', I hand it back, he won't take it. 'It's hideous and unfashionable, John! No, I insist there must be civilization nearby. We can ask for help from a kind innkeeper or knock at the presbytery door and find shelter for the night.'

'Should we follow the North Star?'

John sniggers openly as he unpacks a fleece blanket. It smells musky as if it had been stored damp. I roll my eyes at the conjured image of Harry Watson. She clearly did not inherit the same neatness gene as her brother.

Must ask her for thoughts on how to survive living with John.

The former soldier – too quick to adjust to adverse circumstances and to thrive in them, I can only respect that – faces me at last.

'I think you're right Sherlock, we should have a nosey at the area. By the way, no phone signal on yours either, is there?'

I follow John's gaze to my pocket, and shake my head minutely. Of course he'd check.

'Let's go, then, before night falls and we are in a B listed horror movie, being hunted down by a serial killer on the lose.'

I smile openly. Ooh, John knows exactly how to cheer me up. The evening can still get better.

.

There's a little stream, not a minute away from the van parked by the side of the road by consecutive mishaps. I won't bother John with statistics on heavy metals pollutant runoffs from the traffic above, as the doctor seems pleased to find the crystal clear flow. He bends down gracefully to wash the tannin stains off his calloused hands on the cool water, just as the sun settles behind a line of artificially planted hedgerow hilltop cypresses, at a distance. Only murky green hilly countryside landscape after that. The stream, and hedges filled with wild blackberries that flank towards it in a respectful bow, are the bigger disturbances on monotone agricultural fields left to rest under hay covers in August. I should suspect there's a farmers house nearby, but John insists it may be far away yet, and that there's no guarantee anyone is staying at the farm at this time. He's probably right and I've long abandoned the wishful hope of sleeping in a comfortable bed tonight. I've got a protective roof in the van's back, and I feel safe by the knowledgeable soldier's side. He's been trained to survive in the wild, and I've trained myself to capture serial killers that stalk the wilderness of agricultural fields at night. We make a good team.

'This puts your road trip on hold, John', I comment.

He smiles softly my way. 'Not at all. This is already part of our trip. It was bound to have some mishaps along the way. The best ones always seemed to.'

Intrigued, I watch as he gets up and dries his hands to the wash-worn fabric of his jeans. 'Let's head back.' I nod.

.

There are gaudy fairy lights hanging above our heads, damn Harry Watson. On the back of the van John has laid out the blanket, and over it he displayed proudly our meagre supply of food. Tinned beans for dinner, berries for dessert. I've got hold of an old notebook and pen, while John went out to brew some coffee in enamel crockery. I find that I'm enjoying the quiet atmosphere of the countryside, as I plump that hoodie as a makeshift cushion behind my back, my legs stretched out and my feet dangling off the van.

An insect buzzes by and I watch it raptly until it flies away.

John returns with two cups of fragrant coffee from the gas stove, and quickly follows my gaze onto the dark night.

'Peaceful, huh?'

I observe the now still forms of trees and shrubs outside, flat against the dark background of night. Finally a perceive the softest hint of swaying movement of branches, and a twitch at a distance as an owl takes flight chasing prey – the dark sterile landscape coming alive like no urban scape can really do with the same gentleness. John clicks off the lights for a moment. My eyes grow accustomed to the night and the stars suspended above us seem impossibly brighter. Quieter. Whispering the secrets of the universe straight at us.

'John, I approve of your flat tyres' location.'

He chuckles and clicks the dim lights back on. 'Drink your coffee while it's hot, it's bound to get a bit chilly tonight. And anyway, what have you been up to?'

I smile proudly at him.

'Periodic Table Elements Scrabble. Want to have a go?'

He chuckles. Amused, calm, relaxed.

That same tranquillity permeating John Watson. Perhaps he too needed the road trip to cleanse the bitter taste of routine. I like seeing my old friend without that tense energy and dark demons fuelled self-deprecation. This freedom suits him. It allures and intoxicates him with life.

'Let's play then, Sherlock. English only. Or at least no languages I don't speak.'

I smirk. He likes to make it tougher on me.

.

'People want to recognise you as an expert in your field. I thought you'd be happy, Sherlock.'

I turn my head to John, lying on the back of a broken van, sharing a blanket with me. He looks eager while gentle, trying not to overcrowd me. I can see it pleases him, me taking this occupation of expertise full time, there's a sense of pride emanating from his trust in me.

'I can appreciate the recognition', I venture. John's expression is surely making my heart lighter. I could almost see it. The steady inflow of cases on my inbox, free access to more labs, and Molly would still grant me access to her resources at the morgue. Then, what?

'I don't want to be like Mycroft', I say, in a soft sigh. John's brows crinkle, and I remind him: 'High and mighty on the mind work front, but what would you do?'

He looks the more puzzled. Oh, John.

'I don't get it', he admits.

I growl inwards and look away to the stars in the sky. 'University professors and world experts are not expected to do much legwork, chasing criminals and finding leads. I suppose you'll say I should retire the field and give way to the newbies, John.'

'Like hell I will', John snaps at once, loyally. He shuffles on the hard surface before turning sideways, towards me. 'Sherlock, you were never a textbook consulting detective. It's fair to say you create your own rules. Who would stop you from doing the same now?'

I glance at him, intrigued. I still don't think he's seen the whole picture. I'd have to decamp most of Baker Street onto campus. I'd see John way less, being away. The way we have it now, doctor John works weird schedules and usually finds me home upon his return. How would John cope with returning more and more from gruelling long hospital shifts to an empty flat?'

How would I feel at home in a stuffy campus office without John? Unless he wants to be my assistant? He would do it if I asked, but he'd get terribly bored. I'm not the only one prone to boredom. I may have to stretch out onto murder and kidnap of colleagues and students to provide him with necessary distractions quota. John wouldn't be too pleased if he ever found out. Nor the directors board, but I don't really care about them. I could make them top of the hit list...

'Sherlock, are you getting lost in that big brain of yours?' John gently snaps me back. I nod, frankly. He rounds his eyes in deep understanding. 'No need for snap decisions. We're on the road, Sherlock. You don't have to decide while we're on the road.'

He says that as if it's a universally accepted rule.

'Is there comfort in adjourning a big decision, John?'

He huffs. 'Probably not. But sometimes there's a bit of relief in holding onto the status quo before possible big change. Just remember', he adds turning again, 'I'm supportive, whichever way you decide. Just don't stay awake all night plotting University campus murders, Sherlock. It's not nice, and I suppose you'd be terribly busy as staff.'

I turn away too, mechanically. My heart lurching at that word; staff?

Is this what Mycroft feels like everyday? I start to understand his need for a petty streak.

Rolling tighter into the blanket I try to will my mind cogs to stop and initiate sleep protocol.

'Goodnight, Sherlock. And stop hogging the blanket.'

'Goodnight, John.'

.

Sherlock paces back up the slight hill energetically. The morning is still brisk cold, but with that stale heavy atmosphere clinging to the ground, typical of days that are about to heat up drastically.

I hand Sherlock fresh coffee – shame, no tea, Harry was clearly adopted – as soon as he passes me the camping cups.

'I could spot a construction over two miles over the fields, John. We could go explore... unless you prefer the sterile academic investigation from afar', he adds.

Don't know why he thinks I'm trying to push him to take the job. I'm trying hard not to press him into any of the two possible decisions. Keep his options open until he has fully considered them. Sherlock, for all his impulsive moods and snap decisions, has a tendency to a certain comfort zone. He found Home at Baker Street, and loves his Work as it was, before the pandemic hit. Slowly he regained some perks with the Yard, yet all seems drastic and irreparably changed now.

If there's a second lockdown and Sherlock's Work dries up again, I'm not entirely sure he can take it again.

Maybe it's time for a more stable job, a respectful, leadership role over the newer generations.

Or are we making decisions too close to a difficult event, still tainted by the after-effects of uncertainty and constrained liberties?

I glance again at my friend. In the quiet morning light he looks more rested. He always sleeps better with me. His curls are artistically disarrayed, his eyes are clear and reflecting some of the greenery at the landscape around us, his broad shoulders powering through Harry's misshaped dull hoodie. The lines oh his jaw are still a bit tense as he looks up towards the hills, back straight over relaxed hips, and the coffee cup is poised on long fingertips, a classy image right out of a man's clothes catalogue. Even the rugged smudge of facial hair suits in this morning. He looks well. Sherlock's looks here, now.

Then he turns with an amused smirk. He knows I've been watching him. He allowed it. He now collects in my face result of my observation, just like using a mirror to his own mind.

I finish lacing my boots, roll my shoulders in anticipation of a long wall, bang shut the van doors and pocket the keys.

'Lead the way, mate.'

'Is this still part of a road trip, John?'

'If you want to, yeah.'

'Even if we technically leave the marked road behind and go across the fields?'

I grin. 'Still being technical? You can't find Scrabble words with the Zinc tile, Sherlock, no matter how much you mumbled the word "zinc" it still has an "I" in there. We agreed on the English language, Sherlock, and no other.'

He huffs. 'If I ever become a boring academic I shall compile a Science Language Scrabble dictionary, John. I shall send you an autographed copy once it's out on print.'

'You do that, Sherlock, you do that.'

.

TBC