This has been sat in my drafts for well over a month now.

I finally had time to look at it properly with four days off work.

It's a lot darker than anything I've written previously, which I wanted to push myself to do.

I originally intended it to be a one-shot like all of my pieces. But I feel that this has scope to potentially develop into something more.

Summary: North. You must go North to Whitehaven. I made sure I saved you a space little brother. London is burning. Society as we know it has fallen. Sherlock leaves the only place he has ever called home, with only the dying words of his brother for guidance. Although, he is not undertaking the journey alone.

The slow, rhythmic sound of the horses hooves echoed off of the churned tarmac through the stillness of the night. A stillness full of doubt, isolation and fear. It was not a sound one would wish to be companions with for fear of being driven mad. The fires that had haunted the skies were no longer, darkness had descended now. The London skyline was full of skeletons of buildings that once stood tall and proud. London was now a rotting corpse, it had nothing left to give or take. It was a sorry metaphor for the grim reality of the bodies of men, women and children littered in the streets.

With a gentle squeeze from his calves he encouraged the horse forwards towards the gate of Primrose Hill. The terrain softened underfoot and the cold, dull sound of concrete disappeared as the horse trudged through what was once green fields.

"North. You must go North to Whitehaven. The Government have ships in the Irish Sea. They will relocate you to the Scottish Isles. I made sure I saved you a space little brother."

The dying last words of his elder sibling on the other end of the line. He was too late when the first bombs dropped. The elite were the first to be targeted. And of course Mycroft had known about the end. He had always known. Sherlock wondered that Mycroft had probably known his own fate too.

The woman that rested against his chest stretched lightly against him, pulling him from his thoughts. He moved the reigns into one hand as he gestured softly with his free left hand onto her left arm. Her petite frame drowned in his Belstaff. She winced slightly but understood the meaning and pulled back the sleeve of the coat. He gently pulled her wrist up to examine her bandages, which were heavily soiled.

"We need to change your dressing." He spoke hoarsely. The effects of the inhaled smoke and ash resonated in his voice.

"Not until we are out of London." She croaked and pushed the sleeve of the coat back down over her arm. He held onto her wrist a little to longer than he should have.

"That will take most of the night with the route we are taking. It will get infected if we leave it much longer." He spoke firmer, despite her valid reasoning.

"We don't have a choice." She declared abruptly.

I can't lose you too.

Those were the words that threatened to burst from his lips. They were the last. The last of what felt like the entire of humanity. A city with a population of over eight and a half million reduced to single digits in one day.

She had been in the morgue when the end of civilisation began. She was his first priority. His only priority. Sherlock felt like he was living the entire age of the earth in those few moments when the chaos started. He knew. He had always known that he would put the woman in his arms before any other person on the earth. Before Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, John, Rosie. He shook his head. He couldn't let the guilt consume him now. He didn't know John's fate, but he was too rational to hold onto any sort of hope for him.

He had found her under a small mound of debris when he arrived at the remains of the morgue. Barely conscious, but alive and his heart skipped a beat in that moment. Her arm mangled from the impact of a collapsed ceiling tile. He had dressed it as best he could with supplies they had found in the shell of what was Bart's hospital. He remained calm enough to collect as much as they could carry on horse back, and flung her over his shoulder and through the rapidly decaying structure of the hospital.

Why?

Why did he bother to run and save her. He already had little hope towards survival. What has he holding out for? He realised he had acted on instinct when he went to find her. Rationality didn't get a chance for a look in. He couldn't help but think that if he hadn't started fucking her, she would be a rotting corpse in Bart's morgue right now.

Oh the irony.

He allowed himself to revel in his memories. His teeth grazing the mole on her pubis, nestled in the valley of her left thigh. How her small breasts would pop rhythmically as he fucked her into the sideboard. The feel of her finger nails tearing the flesh across his shoulders as he rammed into her. The sound she would make as she inhaled when she was close to release. God the sound of her taking in a minutes worth of breaths in just one second, like the beating of a hummingbirds wings. It was enough to undo him every single time.

Stop.

He repressed the memory. The unsettling thoughts. That particular feeling he felt when she was in his arms and their bodies unionised. Maybe it would have been easier if he had left her. Made the journey North alone.

He looked down at the woman in his arms again. Fuck she still looked beautiful. Her bright yellow summer dress peeped through from under his coat. How ironic that the day England went up in flames was the hottest day of the year. Her shoulder length hair covered in ash and streaked with blood. She had cut it short the day after their first encounter. A symbolic gesture he hadn't quite figured out. Yet, still enough there for him to reach over and fist in his palms as he pounded into her from behind, over her breakfast bar.

Enough.

He pulled sharply on the reigns, bringing the horse to a sudden stop. He dismounted as his leather brogues landed in the churned and wet mud.

"Sherlock." She spoke sharply, but he ignored her.

He rummaged through one of the backpacks mounted on the side of the saddle and withdrew a roll of bandage and a bottle of saline solution.

"Give me your hand." He ordered as he gestured with his free hand.

"Sherlock, please we need to get out of the city." She protested as she shrugged further into his coat.

"Yes, which we will commence with once you have given me your arm." He spoke agitatedly.

Molly sighed, turned her head and reluctantly held out her arm. Even on horse back his height still offered him a good view of her wound. He watched as she quickly glanced back towards him as he placed the bandage roll and bottle into the pocket of the Belstaff.

"Hold the sleeve up, please." He ordered, as he pushed the sleeve up and tried to not get distracted when her fingers lightly traced over his own as she obeyed his instruction.

He started to undress the soiled bandage, with one hand as he cupped the back of her hand with the other. He sighed slightly as he assessed the wound. The bleeding had reduced slightly but he knew she needed stitches. His first priority was getting the wound cleaned and bandaged again.

He set to work and took a pocket knife from his trouser pocket and made an incision into the fabric of his once white blouse. Her attention became focused on him at the sound of tearing fabric. He doused the wound with the solution, and he noticed Molly's arm twitched as it stung her skin. With the scrap of material in his hands he gently patted the skin dry. Red bled into white as he repeatedly dapped the improvised cloth on her tender skin. He caught her eye as he dressed the wound with a clean bandage, she seemed mesmerised in the way he wound the roll around her skin. He tried to focus on the task but couldn't help but notice how dainty her wrists were as his fingers enclosed around them. He hadn't observed them enough that time he had her pressed hard and flat into the shower tiles as he pinned her arms above her head.

"Sherlock."

He blinked as she roused him from his thoughts. Her dark brown eyes boring into his own.

"You're running out of bandage. Just finish it off and lets get going." He nodded once and quickly finished his task.

He placed the remaining roll and the saline solution back into the rucksack and promptly mounted himself back into the saddle. Just before he picked up the reigns he felt Molly's hand rest on his own.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She spoke softly.

He squeezed the horse on as it set back off in a steady rhythm. He felt Molly settle herself back into his chest after a few minutes. Through the thick cloud above, the briefest of moonlight fought through illuminating the darkened wasteland. He couldn't help but look down at her pale complexion in the dim light. God despite every fibre of his body screaming at him to focus he couldn't help but indulge. He needed to indulge. So he turned his head and let his lips ghost against her temple. Before he knew it his lips and nose were pressed against her and he squeezed her a little tighter between his arms. He saw the smallest of twitches at the corner of her mouth and he swiftly withdrew. He lamented at the coolness of the night as it replaced the warmth of her body on his lips.

He pushed the horse onwards into the darkening night, to their aim of reaching the North Circular, before continuing their journey North on the M1. He turned back one last time to gaze upon the city he loved. The only place he had ever called home. London had always been enough. The hustle and bustle. The sinners and the saints. How terrifying that two thousand years of history and culture had crumbled and evaporated in just one day.

He couldn't bare to even think of the word future. A future without London. It was almost enough to retrieve his gun from his waistband and end place the barrel against the back of his throat and pull the trigger. He felt Molly adjust herself in his arms and Sherlock closed his eyes and looked up to the blackened clouds. Yet, he would heed his brother's last words. He didn't believe in hope, but bloody hell it was all he had to hold onto now. A hope that they would make it to Whitehaven alive.

And then what?

A life living out the rest of his days on some God forsaken Scottish Island. Was it really worth it? Maybe he would just have to hope that one day in his lifetime they would be able to return to home one day. To some reborn and new London. God, he could hardly believe how pathetic he felt. That it had really come down to hope. A hope for survival. A hope for a new life.

What about Her?

He froze as his conscience interrupted his thoughts. In all honesty he truly had no idea. But he knew that he was glad that in this moment he was not alone. That she was still alive. Whether at the end of it all she would be grateful to him for saving her life or resent him for making her live through such misery and despair. He just did not know. For now he was going to take it one day at a time. Tomorrow is a new day, so they say. And if after all of this she can find some peace and a slice of happiness, then it might just be worth it after all.

As mentioned before, I am 70% certain I will continue this story.

I still have a lot of work to do with fleshing out the plot, but it's a challenge I think I am ready for.

Thank you for reading.

As always your thoughts and comments are always appreciated.