the_new_sexy | for womanwhobeatyou: Waking up in Vegas---again.

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[verse] death takes a holiday

for womanwhobeatyou: Waking up in Vegas---again.

Follows this.

It's surprising when morning comes. Sherlock rarely sleeps when he's on a case, and this entire excursion is really just a case in and of itself. Even more than that, he rarely sleeps an entire night. However, when he looks at the blinds in the motel room, he can see the faint hints of pink streaming through. Dawn, then. In the part of the world he used to live in, it would be nearly noon, if not very early afternoon.

He turns his head to look at the Woman, still sleeping next to him. She stayed.

She's different when she sleeps. He remarked on it to John when he found her sleeping in his bed so long ago. Not like an angel, of course, no one would ever think of the Woman as an angel. Instead, she looks like all of the things she's holding tightly together are relaxed, and she's comfortable. It's a strange thing, but beautiful in its own way.

He lets his hand rest on her shoulder. Are there people that find this sort of thing normal? Waking up next to a lover, watching the light stream in? Sherlock imagines there must be people who are accustomed to it.

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"Sunlight reflecting off the hood," she answers idly as she finds the button that unlocks the car's trunk and climbs out.

She hides a wince as she moves, and walks around the car carefully. "My arm can wait, I'm not the one leaving bloody footprints."

"Mine's not nearly as deep," he says, wincing as he puts on his shoes. They're damaged beyond repair, now, but that's hardly important.

Nor is it as worrisome. And he finds her injuries worrisome. More dangerous, deeper.

"Stop arguing, let's take care of you, and then you're welcome to work on my feet," he says.

Maybe it was a symptom of the steady blood loss, or shock, or her own razor focus in not thinking about the car bomb, but Irene merely sighed in response and pulled up the trunk's hood. She wasn't particularly in the mood to be contrary. And perhaps that more than anything was a sign she was worse off than she'd initially thought.

"She learned English from a Briton," she muses, lifting up the floorboard in the trunk and picking up a tire iron. She glances over at the boarded up building. A few minutes out of the sand would be welcome, no matter what. "The woman. That narrows things down a bit."

"How did you meet her?" he asks. It's a sign of how much pain he's in that he doesn't try to simply deduce. There's also so little information, he tells himself. Asking is sometimes the better way.

"She wasn't a client?"

From the simple question, she should have realized just how poorly they were both doing, but Irene is too busy focusing on one thing at a time to recognize it, at least immediately. The tire iron is not as good as a crowbar, but it gives her some leverage, and shoving it between the building's facade and the plywood, she begins prying the wood away from the door.

"Who, the diplomat?" She applies more pressure, ignoring the way that it makes the wound bleed just a little more. "She was a client, but an interesting one."

He reaches out a hand to take the tire iron from her. HIs grip is firm.

"You're bleeding too much," he says. "You know that, Woman."

He can't deduce why she's ignoring it. He can act like a brat when he's in pain, and he can ignore his body when he's hurt. But she's too intelligent for that. She knows when to push, and she knows when a safe word is necessary.

"Your masthead said it best, and I think if you try any more, I'll have to carry you."

"You're barely in any condition to be walking," she points out before caving and leaning against the structure, against another piece of plywood, this one covering a window. She rests her weight against it a little more than she'd like to admit, but Irene forces her mind to stay on her words, rather than on the bleeding or the pain or the thought of the car bomb again. If she dwells too much on it, she would start shaking, and that is far more human weakness than she'd like to admit for the moment.

"Much less making any threats to carry anyone."

He looks at her leaning, and he looks at her arm. His mind begins to splay out small, white words over her face and body. Pale, weak. Signs of heavy blood loss. Her body weight, the amount of food they haven't consumed in the last day or so---

He's got to get her to a hospital.

"On second thought, this place isn't such a good idea, I've got a better one. Give me the keys."

His sudden change gets her attention, and Irene turns to look at him, her eyes keen and penetrating now that she suddenly has a new focus and isn't simply trying not to think about things.

"You're starting to act erratic, Mr. Holmes. Are you sure you haven't had too much sun?"

"We'll be getting far more if we get to the tropics," he says. "And as of right now, until we find somewhere safer, it's all still an if, so if you please."

He holds out his hand again.

She makes no move to give him the keys in her pocket.

"You're not in any shape to drive, and I'd rather pick a few shards of china out of my arm before I actually go into shock," she says irritably. She loathed that uncontrolled feeling. "This is our best bet for both."

"Hardly," he says, his voice bored and disinterested. "And you can't even get the window open, so let's save our strength for a quick drive."

He's rather pleased with how bored he does sound. It completely contrasts the raising body temperature and the way his heart seems to thrum. She's being so very herself, and this must be what it's like for John when Sherlock refuses to eat for three days.

"I was doing quite well for myself until you interrupted," she points out.

She lowers herself gingerly to a seat on the concrete slab and begins examining the cut on her arm, picking out small, pea-sized flecks of ceramic from around the wound. The bleeding has slowed some, but that might have something to do with the position of her arm, raised slightly above her heart, than anything else.

He sets his jaw. She's as stubborn as he is, and that makes for a very solid wall when he's just trying to save her life.

"Keys," he says again, extending his hand once more. "Unless you're comfortable with me hot-wiring the car back there, which I have no problem with, though it might make it more difficult for you to run."

She ignores his outstretched hand and instead keeps her attention on her arm, hissing involuntarily in pain when she gets a particularly well-lodged shard of porcelain out of the wound. That one she flicks at him with a carefully blasé look.

"Go ahead. I'm not leaving until I've cleaned myself up."

"You're removing shards that are probably preventing you from bleeding too much," he says, pointedly. "Not to mention leaving a spectacular trail for those who are following us."

The irritation in his voice is still steady, and he's just about managed to keep the panic in check.

She gives him a flat look, then levers herself back onto her feet with a wince and returns to the boot of the car, picking up the first aid kit that had been within. She'd ignored it earlier for the tire iron simply for the fact that ducking inside the abandoned gas station before cleaning herself up had seemed a better choice.

Of course, she hadn't expected his sudden stubbornness.

She fumbles, one-handed, with the latch on the first aid kit. "You realize this would go far quicker if you weren't quite so contrary."

"And you, if you'd learn to take my word as gospel," he replies, irritably. No, being angry isn't going to work.

He steps behind her, putting a hand on her hip, while the other slides down her arm, to where she's injured. It's an intimate gesture, one that suggests concern and caring.

If she's very good, the Woman might even recognize its similarity to when she jabbed him with the needle back in her flat in Belgravia.

He slips the keys from her pocket and steps away from her instantly, moving towards the drivers' side.

"And, unless you want to be left in the desert, you're going to have to learn how to."

She doesn't notice the similarity, not until he's taken a step towards the car and she realizes the keys are no longer in her pocket. Her eyes narrow and she pointedly sits back down on the concrete.

"Easier to do if your word isn't utterly rooted in being contrary," she points out as she pulls a roll of gauze out of the first aid kit. Not that she would, ever, but that isn't the point, now is it?

The kit is well stocked, but then she shouldn't be surprised, given whose car they had taken. Short of paramedics, killers were the best at preserving lives, namely their own. "I'm not going anywhere until I've stopped, what did you call it, 'leaving a spectacular trail for those who are following us.'"

He turns back to her after unlocking the door. She doesn't have to be this way, but she is, and it's infuriating. She's doing it on purpose. She's going to bleed to death on purpose, to prove something.

"In the car, then," he says. "There's nothing you can do down there that you can't do in a vehicle."

"I disagree." Calmly said as she uses some gauze and an antiseptic wipe to mop up the last of the blood that had dried on her arm. She's having some trouble gauging how deep and just how clean the cut is, but the pain is manageable, which means it is probably not too bad.

It stings. Another good sign. Likely there's no nerve damage. She takes the bandage again and begins slowly wrapping it around her arm, though she is doing an abysmal job applying pressure one handed. "You're practically leaving bloody footprints and neither of us can take care of that while you're trying to drive a car."

"I'll be fine," he says at the door. He's in pain. A not inconsiderable amount, but it's not that bad. Not really.

"Woman, I do not want to have to have to carry you. Get up."

She's bleeding badly. Part of him wants to go over there and help her staunch the wound, to help get it reasonable before he takes her to the hospital. This isn't a terrible idea, she might even accept it more readily. Of course, that means that she wins.

The other part of him wants to have her faint already so he can carry her into the car and get to the hospital. This is also fairly likely, though potentially more dangerous. Of course, that also means she wins.

She's winning in both cases. This is very irritating.

He gets into the car and starts it. Revs the engine.

She stares at him through the the windshield as he revs the engine, and for a moment Irene is tempted to let him leave, to see how far he will get down the desert road before he turns back. But another part of her recognizes that it'd make things worse, for both of them, for both their far too battered bodies at the moment, to keep pushing.

But to let him drive would be to let him win, and she hates that.

She purses her lips and glares at him before picking up the first aid supplies and standing up. Instead of making her way to either the passenger seat or the back, she walks over to the driver's side and drops the first aid supplies into his lap.

"I'll drive while you wrap up my arm."

"No," he says. She won't go to the hospital. He knows this, because she's thinking logically. Hospitals are far too dangerous. He should be thinking this way, too, but the danger of a hospital is far less than the danger of losing the Woman to blood loss.

"Fine," she grinds out. "If you're going to be stubborn about this."

She honestly isn't sure if he's being stubborn or irrational. Her response to both is the same. Namely, to turn back around and stalk back to the shelter of the gas station rather than the car.

Fortunately, she hadn't added the roll of gauze to the supplies she'd dumped in his lap, so as she sits down, Irene continues rewinding the gauze around her arm, pointedly ignoring him.

for womanwhobeatyou: Waking up in Vegas---again.

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