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It was too dark to see, so Sherlock listened instead. The impatient drumming of fingers against the steering wheel and the splash of rain on the windshield bore into his mind and he wished desperately he could do something too soothe either problem. He had already tried the obvious, reaching one hand out to rub the tension out of the driver's shoulders, but that hadn't seemed to help. Instead, he was shaken off and left to wonder if John was angry at the weather or at his companion. With the moon peaking high in the sky, Sherlock knew John must be getting tired. Certainly the man's schedule usually required him to stay up late anyway, but the hours of driving no doubt made his weary eyes feel even heavier.
"Do you want me to drive?" Sherlock ventured timidly, keeping his eyes forward to avoid the flash of John's when they inevitably sought his face in the dark. "You must be getting tired."
"No. We're going to find a hotel. I'm going to find us a place to stay and it'll be fine." His fingers stopped drumming and Sherlock wondered how much of his attention had been on the rhythm of it.
"But we don't know how far that will be. Might as well let you rest."
"Might as well not have taken this bloody case at all! This always happens when we get out of London and at this rate we'll be driving most of tomorrow, too. I'm fine, Sherlock. I just want to get us to someplace decent for the night." When he finished and Sherlock didn't immediately respond, his fingers picked up their pounding again and the night seemed to stretch on.
Sherlock tried to keep his attention focused on helping John find someplace to stop. He peered outside, searching through the impenetrable night to find something--anything--with lights. At this point, he'd settle for some friendly farmers with an available barn. He doubted whether John would be entirely agreeable to that but had no doubt that once the man got to close his eyes, they wouldn't open for several hours. John never did anything as well when he was hungry or tired. Truly, the man was more susceptible to the needs of his body than almost anyone else Sherlock had met. Of course, he was also one of the most capable of suppressing those feelings. We're soldiers today, he remembered, and breathed deeply.
He glanced towards where John's face probably was and wished he could see his expression. All the signs of extreme exhaustion were surely mingling there and then he'd have proof positive to make him pull over. As it was, he settled on small talk. Conversation would keep him awake, right?
"So remind me," Sherlock began, rolling his shoulders and resigning himself to putting more effort into this than it was worth on the surface.
"Nope," John interrupted before Sherlock could continue. "You're Sherlock bloody Holmes, you don't need reminded of anything of any importance, so either this isn't important or you don't actually forget."
Sherlock's expression twisted into an indignant pout and he crosses his arms over his chest. "Fine, then," he responded haughtily. "You pick what we talk about."
"Why do we have to talk about anything?" John demanded. His eyes must've remained on the road because he very neatly avoided a pothole and would've certainly hit it if he'd glanced towards Sherlock. The fact that he saw it at all was amazing, considering the haze of heavy rain lingering over rural England.
"Because we've driven halfway back from Scotland in a day and you're tired," Sherlock admitted, a teasing smirk playing at his lips. "Wouldn't it be better to talk than not?"
Knowing the doctor as well as he did, Sherlock could sense the scowl that formed on his face. He would, as he always did, scowl for a moment, think about it, and then concede the logic and accept conversation. The problem was the thinking part. With a groggy brain, thinking was likely not to happen.
"Can't we just--" a ginormous yawn interrupted John's speech and the car swerved dangerously towards the outside line. Sherlock gripped the door handle instinctively, a moment's panic fluttering in his throat. "Can't we just go on in silence? I really don't feel up to much conversation."
Desperate to get his point across, Sherlock reached his hand out again, this time wrapping his pale fingers around John's closest forearms. The army doctor had gone soft since the war but hadn't quite lost it all, and Sherlock couldn't quite wrap all the way around the widest point. His touch startled John, who jumped as if he was being woken suddenly. Sherlock had the horrible feeling he just might've been. "John, please?"
John's sigh was heavy and audible, although likely not exaggerated. It seemed as though he was trying to stifle another yawn, but he did manage to find a safe place to pull over. Sherlock climbed out into the rain and turned back to help John struggle through the cab. "I can get out," the doctor mumbled, sleep grogging his voice.
"No, there's no need for us both to get wet. Just crawl through." He opened his arms and leaned in, helping John get his legs over the gearshift and settling him into the warm passenger seat. "There. Isn't that better?" Soft snores tumbled out of John's mouth and Sherlock's stomach sank; they were much closer to danger than he'd realized.
Climbing into the driver's seat, Sherlock very quickly discovered exactly how tiring it was to drive at night. Having spent most of his time in London, where cabbies offered rides at all hours, he rarely had any opportunity to discover this before. Now, he could only hope to discover a hotel instead.
Finally, looming in the distance, were the unmistakeable lights of a small town. Smiling slightly, Sherlock took the necessary exit and made his way towards it, hoping desperately it offered accommodations. When he found a place to stay and pulled into the parking lot, he let his head droop against the steering wheel, shutting off the car with a turn of the key. He breathed heavily, wondering how much time had passed since he'd switched seats. It felt like hours, but he was sure it was less than one. The relentless pounding of rain against the roof and its obstruction across the windshield made every second feel like longer, and he was glad to have found a place to stay.
A gentle rustle got his attention and he turned to see John blinking in the sudden light from the street lamps. Sherlock smiled gently at his friend. "Good morning," he chuckled.
"Morning," John replied, peering out the window. "This is a bit frilly, isn't it?"
Sherlock's eyebrows pulled together and he leaned forward to look out the windshield, following John's gaze to the sign on the front of the building. "Little Birdy's Getaway," he read aloud, eyes tracing the logo of two birds with their wings wrapped around each other in some sort of hug. "Honestly, I don't even care. I'm exhausted," he announced, pulling the keys out of the ignition and climbing out of the car before John can have a say.
"Yes, right," John murmured, following his friend out of the vehicle an around to the back. He watched as Sherlock struggles to pull a duffel bag from the trunk of their rented sedan. "Do you really need anything from in there?" he asked, struggling to keep both eyes open all the way.
Sherlock paused, staring at his own hands as if they'd acted without his consent, and shook his head. "No," he grimaced. "S'pose not." Shoving the bag back in the trunk and slamming the lid, he shuffled towards the front of the hotel and grabs the door for John who followed close behind.
"Just the two of you gents?" a young woman asked at the desk. The lobby was covered with soft colors and lacy fabrics and it took the two several moments before they could formulate a response.
"Yes," John finally managed, leaning against the desk and blinking to clear his vision. "How much?"
When their room was paid for and they obtained the key to the door, they began the slow trudge up the stairs to the second floor, where their room would apparently be the the third door on the left. Sherlock stumbled twice on the stairs, uncharacteristically lacking in grace, and John eventually gave up waiting for him and hoisted him up instead. Locking one arm around his friend's waist, John led them to the door.
Aware that he was not the only one dead with exhaustion, Sherlock tried not to put too much of his weight on the doctor, but couldn't help leaning into the musky scent of the man he knew better than anyone in the world. There was something comforting about the way John fought against his fatigue, as if there was a goal within reach now and too much was at stake to risk falling asleep now. Of course, there was certainly more at stake on the freeway, but still.
Aligning themselves with the blue painted door that bore the same number as their keycard, the men sighed. John retrieved the card from his pocket and slid it out of its paper sleeve, inserting it into the lock and opening the door with a gentle chink. It swung open to reveal a room even frillier than the sign might've led them to believe and--
"There's only one bed," John pointed out.
Sherlock tried not to be bothered that it was phrased more as a complaint than anything else. "Do you honestly care at this point, John? I don't fancy the floor but I'll sleep there if it really bothers you. The bed is a Queen anyway." Despite his foggy brain, John managed to catch the bitter note in Sherlock's voice. However, his foggy brain certainly was the deciding factor in his next action.
"Don't be silly, Sherlock," he muttered, leaning his head against the center of Sherlock's chest. "I really truly don't mind." Interlacing his fingers through Sherlock's, he led them to the bed, gently kicking the door shut behind them. "It's cold anyway," he explained, pulling Sherlock down beside him and yawning.
Sherlock waited for him to scoot to one side or the other, leaving the socially mandated space between them, but John didn't move. "Do you want me to lie next to you?" he asked carefully, pointing at the place behind John's back as the doctor rolled onto his side.
"Yes, if you don't mind. It's too cold to sleep alone."