Sorry I missed a rotation but hopefully these little snippets will make up for it yea

(If anything is confusing let me know I'll clarify)

(Continue telling me how you feel I absolutely adore hearing all your theories. And yes, I do pay attention when I'm writing in those little details, so believe me when I say I glow when someone notices them.)

Enjoy

I nursed my leg, stretching it out gently as the train continued to rock. Sholto watched the landscape drag by through the little corner of light with a deep-set frown. He was unhappy; he had been unhappy since the train started rolling, but it was showing particularly well now.

"Are you sure you're alright?" He asked, for possibly the twelfth time.

"I'll live. I don't think I've torn anything." I brushed against my thigh. It throbbed rhythmically, but as exhausted as I was, it was hard for me to differentiate between the pain from a possible muscular injury from the pain during a psychomatic episode. So I kept massaging it and tried my best to relax. Of course, relaxing wasn't an easy thing to do at the moment. I was still reeling with the train station explosions, the grenades, the firearms, and those odd men hiding between the train cars. There was something cold in the pit of my stomach that made me think that I had waded far deeper than I had meant, but the pain reminded me that I was still here, still breathing air, still pumping blood, and still stuck in the middle in some grand shitty mess.

Sholto flexed his jaw; I could see it shift in the pale light, and he moved toward me. Without him securing the window-flap, the light cut down to a minimum. I could only see a little bit of sunlight from underneath the door and a bit through the cracks in the glass panes. Before I realized where he was, James crouched down in front of where I was seated on the floor, gazing down at my leg.

"When I was injured, several of my muscles were overexerted," He told me. "I know some massages that may help."

"I'm fine," I replied.

"It's been hours and you're still pawing at it like a limp fish."

He reached out to touch me, but I batted him away.

"That's not necessary."

"Just let me show you."

"I'm quite alright, thank-you."

He made a sound in-between a sigh and a huff, settling back against a wooden crate. He said nothing, and I said nothing, dipping back down into silence.

The jostling of the train was at first nauseating, but now seemed a bit therapeutic, like a physical white noise to keep me from mentally straying too far. I adjusted myself against my own crate, forcing myself to stop messing with my leg, resting my arms across my stomach and folding up the good leg against them. My cane rested beside me, just in case I wanted to stand, but somehow I figured I would be staying on the ground for as long as I could come up with good excuses. Your duffel was crumbled in the corner, near the back window, with the fragments of my cell phone inside. Technology, as lovely as it was, didn't hold up very well when it gets smashed against the side of a train car.

"Blackpool isn't as far as London, right?" I said, trying to think optimistically. "So we shouldn't be in here for much longer."

"This isn't a passenger train, it's freight," Sholto replied. "Freight trains are slower than passengers. At least, that's what I assume. I know next to nothing about trains."

"Neither do I."

"I think it's safe to assume that once the train stops, we'll be in Blackpool." He continued. "But if not, we should still be able to contact someone who will be able to get us back to London."

"If we don't stop in Blackpool, though, would it still be safe?"

He quirked his brow. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"The woman said that Blackpool was out of the 'danger zone', but that even there we would probably have trouble after about five hours." I recounted. "Or, did she mean something else?"

"All I remember is that she said this train was bound for Blackpool, and that we were out of the danger zone." He paused to think. "It could be either. The best would be to aim for Blackpool and hope for the best."

"Sounds good." I shifted, gritting my teeth at the jolt of pain in my thigh. Maybe this was a muscular injury, after all. "I can't get up."

Sholto looked at me again, softly this time, and stood. He took my hand and helped me start up, then slipped his arm around my waist to get me the rest of the way. I scrunched my eyes closed, physically shaking with effort to keep myself from whimpering. He moved one of the boxes from off the stack so that I could sit down, setting me down easy and stretching my leg into a new, less formidable position. He then sat down on the box opposite mine, my knee in-between his.

"I asked you not to," I said, squirming.

He put his hands on his elbows. "If you can't even stand up, how do you expect to make it through Blackpool? I'm sure you'd rather have me touch your leg than carry you in public."

I pursed my lips.

"Just let me try. You can have a pound of my flesh if it doesn't work. But at least let me try."

I braced my hands against the edge of the crate and bit the inside of my cheek. My eyes had adjusted, and I could now see his hands in his lap, wide with thin thumbs, scarred and calloused around the knuckles. The last thing I wanted was for his hands to be on me in the dark confines of the carriage, but if any reconciliation at least he couldn't see how white my skin had gone. "Fine."

"Twist your leg a little outward."

I obeyed, fixing myself to open toward him, biting both cheeks and momentarily forgetting how to breathe. He laid his hands down at about the midpoint of my thigh, his thumbs pressing into the muscle until I grunted, my own hands gripping the crate as hard as I could. It burned, horrifically. He rotated his wrists with the prod of his fingers, and it grated on my nerves. I leaned my head back and tried not to shriek. But, past the discomfort and true to his word, as his hands worked up toward my hip, the pain behind them began to fizzle, just slightly. Just slightly.

The train whistled its way through the stormy clouds of Blackpool, cutting through the fog to land in what looked like a freight station. The tracks seemed to get rougher as the train slowed, each individual bump pumping the car vigorously back and forth. Sholto and I stood beside the corner of light, him studying the surroundings through the opening, and I trying not to lean too heavily on his as I regained my composure, gripping the handle of my cane tight.

We pulled to a stop, the stillness vibrating through us uneasily. Separate cars and walls blocked most of the view, but that also meant we were pretty well sheltered, too. Once he was satisfied that the coast was clear, Sholto stepped up to pry the door open, barely managing to pull it far enough to fit his chest through, stepping and then hopping down with favor to his bad side.

"C'mon, John, it's not too far down." He turned and extended his hand to me. "Just drop."

I kneaded my wrists. "You're much bigger than I am," I replied. In fact, I had never quite felt so puny and thin as I did looking down at the gravel from the door of the train-car, with my leg thundering in the back of my mind.

"You'll be fine," He insisted. "Hand me your cane."

I did so, carefully shuffling toward the open doorway to jut a shoulder out, holding to the handle of the door. And although my grip was firm, the train's final whistle spooked me. It jolted forward and began a slow crawl, and I panicked, watching the ground move beneath me and Sholto start to walk along beside the train.

"Hurry, before it speeds up, John." He said, firmly. "Jump, John."

I hesitated, my hands starting to shake.

"Fuck it, jump!" He shouted.

With a brief muttered curse, I reached out for Sholto's hand, leaning dangerously out of the car. With only one leg capable of holding myself up, I tried to hop down onto the ground, but it ended up feeling a bit more like a desperate dive, and my footing didn't hold. I landed, quickly sticking my bad leg to steady me, but it crumbled underneath me and down I went, pulling Sholto to his knees along with me.

I fluttered between the lines of laughing and crying, my thigh burning and my head reeling. "Jesus Christ."

"Don't look now," Sholto said, "But your duffel's on the train."

"Jesus Christ," I said again.

We both glanced up toward the train, slowly picking up speed, and all-of-a-sudden the duffel was the very last thing on my mind.

Somehow we managed to get ourselves out of the station without attracting too much attention, and although we were both a bit sweaty and smelled like rusted metal, we dodged the public eye. I limped along, my leg straining even with the cane, although I tried to cover it up best I could. Sholto still noticed. He directed me toward back roads, and when there was no-one around to see us, slipped his arm underneath mine and helped take some weight off. Close enough to carrying me, I figured.

"We just need to find a pay phone, somewhere." I said, gritting my teeth. My leg was starting to feel stiff, and I wasn't sure if I liked it. "There's a hardware store over there, why don't you ask if they have a landline."

He looked up at the store I was motioning to. "Only a landline?"

"Satellite signals are easily tracked and easily hacked. I have learned some things living with a detective." I panted. "There's a bench outside."

Sholto helped me sit down, leaning my cane against my knee. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah." I breathed through my nose. Being out in the open was making me nervous, and I had no panic pills (they had all been in my duffel), which also made me nervous. Asphyxiating under Sholto's watch would not be good for either of us. "Hurry, please, James."

He turned and went into the store, walking as quickly and yet as nonchalantly as he could manage, and I clawed at the collar of my jumper.

You had instructed me to memorize Mycroft's number almost immediately after we first started living together for exactly this reason. Our vigilante had given us five hours before there was trouble. Mycroft got to us in fifteen minutes. Two men in pressed blue suits approached the store to meet us in the shop before I even got off the phone with him, and that was impressive, even in my opinion. Sholto was just happy that the weight was taken off his shoulders, but he knew that he still had a bit of a responsibility, in a sense. Regardless of Mycroft's people, he had to look out for me until he could get me back to you, and there was no arguing with him. He stayed close beside me, at all times, taking due stock of the unfamiliar men.

The men escorted us to a private air strip about ten minutes out of town, where a helicopter, prepped and ready to fly, stood humming. On-board was one of Mycroft's personal assistants and a private nurse who took her own liberty to examine my leg mid-flight. She gave me a pain-reliever and a pack of ice to help get more comfortable. When the nurse asked if Sholto needed anything, he insisted he was fine, but she gave him some pain-relief anyway, and a few minutes afterward he seemed a bit less irritable than before. I sat with him to my right and the PA to my left, but preferred to be as far away from her as I could muster, to the point that I let wrist rest just barely brushing against Sholto's. He didn't seem to notice.

The PA was taking notes and asking questions and getting in contact with the train company to get their records and find the things that Sholto and I didn't know – what yard the train was in, why the train departed so soon after emergency protocol. But other things we could help with. "Approximately what time did you realize you had a tail, and what time did you hear the explosions? Could you determine what the men following you looked like? Could you determine what kinds of weapons they used?"

I answered the best I could, letting Sholto get a little bit of time to unwind, but while he unwound, he listened, too.

"Could you describe the woman who helped you?" The PA asked.

I opened my mouth to answer, but James set his hand on my arm. I glanced at him.

"Maybe we should talk to Sherlock, first," He offered, giving me a difficult sort of look.

"Why?"

"You remember what she said about the police."

I hesitated. Sholto usually wasn't the one to undercut the use of government authority, but something about his demeanor made me second-guess it myself.

"We're not the police," The PA said, trying her best to sound reassuring.

"No, you're the British government." I replied, turning back. "I'm sorry. I think we're done for now."

"I'll have to tell Mycroft you won't comply."

"Then tell him." Sholto said. "John's finished."

After the PA was busy doing other things, I started drifting in and out of focus, my eyes drooping with sleep. Here, surrounded by suited guards and women in modest dresses and Sholto, the sense of danger dissipated and the fatigue trickled in. My eyes got dry and my head began sagging, my neck finally exhausted from being pushed all directions both on the plane and now on the helicopter. Near the end of the ride, I felt my temple resting snugly against James' shoulder. There was a small, foggy memory of Sholto easing my head down onto him, but I wasn't quite sure. There were plenty of other memories drifting around, and they might've gotten mixed up. Memories of the desert, helicopter rides like this one, the wind whipping through my clothes, Sholto's eyes stinging my throat, James' fingers brushing my palms.

You and your brother were waiting for us at the end of the runway, your hands hidden within your coat, his glossy with black leather. You two looked solemn, but not necessarily stressed; angry, but not necessarily pissed. A bit like a scene from a spy film, Mycroft tapping the handle of his umbrella, and you standing with your coat collar flipped up against the wind. Except, in the movies, the returning spies probably didn't feel like several horses had trampled over their limbs as they stepped from the aircraft.

Sholto went down first, now steady of foot and careful to keep close to me in case I needed anything. He offered a hand, but I waved him away. The painkiller had made it easier to walk and I was getting along fine with the cane. Plus, you would've been even less happy with me if the first thing you saw of us was Sholto helping me off the helicopter like some sort of medieval maiden.

"Only away for a day, and you're already starting wars," Mycroft tsked, swinging his umbrella.

"Not appreciated," I grunted back, looking at you.

I guess we both were expecting more of an emotional reaction out of you, or more of any kind of reaction, but you remained cold and distant, as if I had done something offensive by disappearing. Your cheeks looked sunken and your lips were dry, but your eyes strung bright and alert, narrow. Not even your breath lifted your chest.

"They were bombers," Sholto said. "Like the ones we dealt with in Afghanistan."

"Are you positive they were Afghan?" Mycroft asked.

"I wouldn't forget."

He nodded. "Then, with that, I would assume you are Major Sholto."

"I am." James answered.

"A pleasure. Definitely." He shot you a look, then turned on his heel. "If neither of you are in further need of medical attention, I'll escort you back to your flat. We can have the rest of our discussion there."

Mycroft began a slow pace toward the idling car, waiting at the juncture between the airstrip and the road. Sholto glanced at me, then at you, then back at me; he sensed the underlying buzz between us and although he at first hesitated, he then excused himself to follow your brother, his way of passing off my baton to you. Mycroft himself opened the door for him, and he was grateful. He ducked carefully into the car, and Mycroft crossed over to the other side of the car, leaving you and I alone.

We shared a few moments of silence, gazing at each other. You were a stone wall. I have no idea what I was, but by the look in your eye, it wasn't anything important.

"Are you hurt?" You asked, but you already knew I wasn't. You had already looked across me and came back up empty. I didn't know why you bothered to ask.

"No," I answered.

"Good." You removed your hands from your pockets, quiet for another few moments. "And the major?"

"He's a bit sore, but fine." I said.

"Good."

You continued to study me. I tried to match your indifference, but it felt like my chest was overflowing, trembling. The baton had been out of Sholto's hands for mere seconds and already I felt incredibly vulnerable, ready to give out at any secon. I needed you to brush my fingers, to tell me you were worried, pretend to at least be half interested in me. But your coolness made me angry. Such a thick-headed bastard, Sholto and I almost got killed and yet the most you could do is play the part of detached detective. I didn't want the detached detective..

"John?" You said.

I shook my head and brushed past you. "We have work to do, Sherlock. Let's not waste time."

You turned as I passed, watching me for a few extra moments before following behind.

When it's over, and my heart breaks, and the review begin to show.

Next update Sunday.