Thanks to Empress of Verace, lostmypen120, and Kudo Shinichi Tanteisan!

I'll post one other chapter this week, probably. Fall break is coming and I'm going home for a few days, and have a lot to take care of at the University first. I haven't made a whole lot of progress with getting ahead with the chapters, but I'm going to try to continue posting three chapters a week.

"Please. You think these guys will listen to him, even if he is practically parliament himself? They're American," Sherlock snorted as another three black vehicles (two fast, angry looking black muscle cars and another SUV) entered the highway.

One of the SUV's was drawing even with their car.

"Sherlock," John said warningly.

"I see him. Under your seat, there are a few water bottles. Pass me one," he said calmly. John did as he said with confusion. "Now steer." He let go of the wheel, leaving John to lunge for it and struggle to keep them on the road. "Keep it steady!" Sherlock scolded.

The pale man rolled down the window and gave the bottle a few shakes. His companion noticed it wasn't water inside, but a milky substance, just as Sherlock leaned out the window and threw it at the SUV's windshield.

The effect was breathtaking. The bottle exploded with impressive force, shattering the windshield and leaving the driver of the SUV to swerve and crash off the road into the woods. John turned around and let Sherlock take the wheel again, but all he saw was smoke and dust roll out from the woods.

"'the HELL was that!?" he exclaimed, eyes wide, picking his feet up and away from the bottles nervously.

"A simple yet explosive mix of toilet cleaner and aluminum foil. Got it at the last gas station," he explained casually. "I couldn't bring any conventional military grade weapons with me on the plane."

"You usually travel with military weapons?"

"When I can. Don't you?"

"No, Sherlock. I don't."

Sherlock opened his mouth, presumably with a snarky reply, when everything seemed to explode. The car blew up.

No, the car didn't blow up. One of the sleek muscle cars had come flying out of the smoke and dust and rammed them at a slight angle.

They fishtailed once, then began spinning completely around. Sherlock was shouting something, but John couldn't hear him. He covered his head and brought up his knees to try to protect his organs, and the car went off the road and began rolling, crashed into something (trees?) and lurched to a stop.

A few moments of silence passed, then John's hearing returned, and he uncurled. He was covered in tiny cuts that stung and burned, caused by the windows imploding. His neck ached something awful from whiplash, his entire torso felt crushed from his seat belt, and then, the worst, his ankle burned like fire from reasons yet unknown.

But he was alive. Somehow.

"John," a voice rasped. Who…? Oh, the other occupant of the car. The person… driving? Sherlock! Right, right.

"Alive," he replied, looking around. The car was bent around a tree. He was glad nobody had been in the back seat- they would've been killed to death. Sherlock looked a bit worse, blood oozing slowly down his forehead and a bruise already forming on his cheekbone, but still functional.

"Your foot."

Yes, that pain. He looked down and wished he hadn't. His door had bent in and was trapping his foot against the seat. He could see a spot where the sharp metal of the door was pressed against his ankle so hard and had cut it down to the bone. At least the skin was shallow there, so even though he could see bone, it wasn't that awful. Or wasn't relatively that awful. Could've been worse- if it had been a few centimeters in either direction, it would've severed major muscles necessary for motion. He needed to stop the blood flowing.

"Yep. Help," he said through gritted teeth as the pain really began pushing through the shock. He heard sirens. "Quick."

Sherlock climbed across the car, scattering bits of glass, and examined the door for a moment. He grabbed a piece of the broken dashboard and braced it against the bent door.

"Take a deep breath," he advised. John had just enough time to suck in a lungful of air before Sherlock threw himself against the homemade lever. The door bent with a screech that matched John's bellow of pain. He found his buckle and released it, and Sherlock helped pull him out through the smashed windshield.

He could put weight on it, but not a lot. It wouldn't stand for long.

"We have to fly," Sherlock said breathlessly, licking a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. He hobbled stiffly back to the car, wrenched the trunk open, and managed to extract the emergency rucksack he'd filled.

"I don't know how," John reminded him, tying a piece of the cloth upholstery around his ankle as a bandage, tight as his battle-steady hands could tie it.

"You'll learn. Come on," Sherlock insisted. He began running through the woods and John charged after him, still running mostly on adrenaline.

They'd only ran a few meters before the terrible sound of people chasing them met their ears.


"Yes, I know," Sherlock said tightly, struggling around his own injuries from the accident. He had at least one fractured rib on his left side, had split his head (no concussion, just a bruise and some blood on his skull) and sprained his elbow. It had been his side that had hit the tree, so he knew he was lucky, even with the injuries he suffered.

He pushed through the pain, running hard, something so familiar, but now so… different. Like when he'd run for the first time after getting his wings, he felt very little fatigue and muscle strain. It was like his body had been working, but slightly out of tune. Not enough to notice until it was finally tuned exactly, and then suddenly everything worked better.

Like running.

He saw John's look of frustration as he sped up, and then surprise when he found he could keep up without difficulty. He'd witnessed Sherlock's increased agility, but it was very different to experience it first hand. Their pursuers didn't stand a chance. Already, they were falling behind at a delightfully rapid rate. His legs felt like steel- he was sprinting, and it was so easy-

A bullet whizzed past his knee and he yelped.

"They aren't looking to kill us," Sherlock said, breathing steadily around his words, "just incapacitate us and take us alive."

"Great," John said in a scathing tone. Another bullet slammed into a tree trunk beside him, and he jumped slightly, wings flaring and pushing against the inside of his shirt.

"John, they are going to take us down. That was a kill shot. They're going to kill us unless we fly. Or kill one of us- they only need to question one," Sherlock said firmly.

"Oh, God," John pushed through his teeth in a sort of whine.

"You have to fly." CRASH, went another tree. They were shooting more quickly now as John and Sherlock got farther out of range. "FLY! NOW!" Sherlock bellowed suddenly.

John didn't need telling twice. Bursting with adrenaline, chased by foreigners with guns, running through a strange land after being nearly killed in a car, he didn't need much more encouragement. Once a soldier, always a soldier, and if there was one thing a soldier knew how to do, it was to use whatever could be used to just. Stay. Alive.

John had a resource most soldiers didn't have- wings. There was one simple thing in his way- he didn't actually know how to fly.

But like hell was something little like that going to be the death of Doctor Captain John Watson.

His wings pushed out of the cuts in the back of his shirt and jacket, tearing the fabric more in his rush. He beat them once, twice, three times, and pushed with his legs, jumping into the air, breathing evenly and with determination.

For a second, he dropped and rose unsteadily, bobbing in the air, but he gained confidence (inspired by shouting and more rapid gunshots) and rose above the trees, Sherlock close behind.

Within moments, the gunmen were far behind, and had no doubt that they'd found the ones they'd been tipped off about.

The game was on.