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Summary: When Mycroft tells them there has been an "incident", Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow. When Mycroft tells them to stock up on weapons and pack emergency bags, Sherlock snorts. When Mycroft loses his temper and tells them to prepare for the zombie apocalypse, Sherlock laughs out loud. When Mycroft doesn't join in, Sherlock sobers up.
A Johnlock Zombie Apocalypse AU
WARNINGS: graphic depiction of violence, a bit of blood, a few zombies and Angst with capital A
Author's Notes: Written for leonardbonesy who won my first tumblr giveaway and won a prompt fill. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :)
Million thanks to Iriya for being a wonderful beta!
Headcanon: This is post Season 4, the Moriarty/Mary situation has been resolved (no baby, I'm sorry) and John and Sherlock have just started a relationship. Cue for the End of the World As We Know It, obviously.
Equally obvious: This has been heavily influenced by the Sherlock and Johnlock meta circling the internet (and yes, Sherlock has a military kink). And "The Zombie Survival Guide". And "World War Z" (both book and film). And every other zombie film which I have ever watched^^
xXx
When Mycroft tells them there has been an "incident", Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow. When Mycroft tells them to stock up on weapons and pack emergency bags, Sherlock snorts. When Mycroft loses his temper and tells them to prepare for the zombie apocalypse, Sherlock laughs out loud. When Mycroft doesn't join in, Sherlock sobers up.
"So, zombies?"
xXx
Sherlock's head falls back as he releases a low moan and feels John's erection twitch where it presses against his hip. John's right hand is wrapped around Sherlock, movements eased by the water in the shower, wanking him fast while the other hand presses Sherlock's body against the tile.
They have come a long way since that first kiss after John saved Sherlock's life, ending Moriarty's once and for all. Shower sex never even crossed Sherlock's mind and he can only fault himself for lack of imagination.
John, however.
"John," he whimpers as a rough thumb brushes over his slit, sending sparks of pleasure through Sherlock's body.
Yes, John has a vivid imagination.
"Come for me," he growls in Sherlock's ear and he has no choice but to obey, spilling all over John's hand. The fluid disappears in the jet of water.
Sherlock's brain is peacefully silent, a sensation he hasn't experienced since the last time he was high and it is glorious. John is rutting against him, pinning Sherlock to the wall. Sherlock would lend a hand but it never takes long for John to finish after he brought Sherlock to orgasm – the former soldier enjoys bringing pleasure to his partners, he literally gets off on it and it made Sherlock's head spin in the beginning.
Now, it is one more reason to love this man.
John kisses him thoroughly once he has caught his breath again and they wash up quickly.
"Breakfast?" John asks predictably. Sherlock smiles, fully aware that John won't take no for an answer.
Their breakfast plans are somewhat derailed when they find Mycroft in their living room, sitting in John's chair with one hand on his umbrella.
"That was a long shower," Mycroft points out, face blank; yet Sherlock sees the well-hidden tension around his mouth. Brother dear is annoyed, it would seem.
"Not too long, considering we managed to fit in two orgasms," Sherlock replies, watching the colour rise in John's cheeks. For such a dominant sexual partner, John is surprisingly shy about it.
Mycroft – predictably - doesn't comment.
"There has been an incident," he tells them instead. "It might cause problems or it might not."
Sherlock raises an eyebrow.
"What kind of incident?" John asks, returning from the kitchen where Sherlock hears the kettle starting to boil.
"I'm afraid that information is confidential."
"Then why tell us?"
"You need to be vigilant, John. Like I said, it might cause problems."
A few years ago, John would have argued, enquired further, insisted on Mycroft telling them more but by now, Sherlock's boyfriend knows better.
As expected, Mycroft declines John's offer to stay for breakfast, disappearing through their door instead.
Sherlock has deleted the encounter even before he sits down for tea.
xXx
The time Mycroft tells them to stock up on firearms, he catches them mid-shag. Post-case sex has become a thing and if Sherlock solves most cases faster than he usually would, he doubts anyone will complain.
"Next time, we'll have to lock the door," John grouses after Mycroft leaves, still flushed with embarrassment.
"I don't know; I rather enjoyed the expression of utter shock on his face." Sherlock smirks and reclaims his place in John's lap. "Now where were we?"
xXx
"So, zombies?" John looks mildly dubious yet his posture has straightened and his stance widened, Sherlock notes.
"I'm afraid so."
"That's utter rubbish," Sherlock say, flinging himself into his chair. "There's no such thing as zombies."
"Remember that time I dropped by and told you about that 'incident', brother?"
"No."
"Well, I was referring to a small scale outbreak in China that originated in a research facility. The infection has spread since then and it will only be a matter of time before Britain is in serious danger."
"What's the plan?" John's jaw is set, his shoulders squared. If the situation weren't extremely ridiculous, Sherlock would be extremely turned on right now.
"We will run emergency protocols immediately. I will leave coordinates with you where you are to head immediately once I tell you to."
Sherlock's interest peaks. "Where to? A safe house? A bunker? A camp? Has the government built a fort since your last visit?" he adds, somewhat sardonically.
"The government is prepared for any form of outbreak; surely this shouldn't surprise a man of your intellect, dear brother."
Mycroft produces an envelope from his jacket pocket, handing it to John.
"I don't know if I will be in touch other than to signal you it is time to evacuate. Don't die."
Sherlock blinks at his brother's retreating form.
Such an open display of affection and worry – the threat is real, Sherlock realises with a start and is out of his chair immediately.
They have an apocalypse to prepare for, after all.
xXx
John lives his days in a constant state of alertness. He relishes the adrenaline Sherlock's cases add to his life but even he has to admit that an apocalypse is a tad too much.
They inform their friends, give a copy of the coordinates and safety protocols necessary to gain access to Greg as well as to Molly and her new boyfriend.
The problem, though, is Mrs Hudson, who refuses to leave the house.
"I'm an old lady, dear. I'll only slow you down."
Eventually, she agrees to let John make her house safe, stocks up on gasoline, buys her a flame thrower and firearms while Sherlock builds explosives.
Sherlock's and his emergency bags have been ready for a week and never leave their side when Mycroft's text arrives.
John is at the hospital at the moment – they can't live on love and sex alone, he soon realised – and he spends five minutes contemplating if he really should just up and go. He's a bloody doctor, for Christ's sake. He should be helping people.
At that moment, another beep alerts John to a second text.
Keep him safe. – MH
John is on his feet immediately.
xXx
"Yes, I got his text, John, I'm heading out right now; Mrs Hudson knows, too."
"Will you tell Lestrade and Molly?"
"Gavin's your friend, why don't –"
"It's Greg. And I'm about to drive, I can't call them while I'm driving."
"You mean you won't. You are fully capable of multitasking."
He hears John's sigh even through the phone. "Just do it, okay?"
"Fine," Sherlock grumbles. "I'm almost on the street. I'm heading your way. We should meet at the corner of Marylebone and Yorkshire -" but he doesn't finish his sentence.
An explosion rattles the city and when Sherlock looks for the source of it, he finds himself looking at a point somewhere between St Paul's Cathedral and the hospital.
xXx
John is about to ask what the hell is going on when his phone beeps, signalling another call. He checks the ID – and almost drops it while he is rushing down the hospital staircase.
"Yes?"
"There is a slight problem," Mycroft informs him. He sounds strained and John doesn't blame him – a slight problem for him would probably tear down smaller economies.
"What?"
"Someone leaked important information; the news is making its way through online blogs. It's only a matter of time before the networks pick up on it and we won't be able to hinder them."
John's shoulders sag in relief, yet as he pushes his way into the underground parking garage, he feels his blood run cold.
"That's not too pressing, Mycroft; what's really going on? Why are -"
"If you stopped talking, I could tell you," the older Holmes snaps in an uncharacteristic loss of control.
John wonders if this is the moment to panic.
"Our scientists have taken in one specimen to study and maybe find a cure –"
"You brought one to London?!"
"We don't have time to debate the justification of this decision, John. You need to hurry. London won't be safe for much longer."
He can imagine it – mass hysteria, people raiding shops, zombies at large…
"Anything helpful you can tell me?"
"Once bitten, people turn within 30 seconds. Shots to the head and incineration have proven effective against them."
"Understood." John finally locates his car (curtsey of Mycroft, to ensure their mobility), unlocks it and pulls the emergency duffel out of the trunk. "I'm on my way to Sherlock now."
"You're not with him?" John can't remember Mycroft ever sounding this concerned.
"I'm at the hospital, I'm practically in my car."
"Get Sherlock. Make your way to the coordinates. I have a crisis to manage."
The call ends and he returns to the call with Sherlock.
xXx
John punches the steering wheel repeatedly as his second alternate route fails, blocked by traffic and accidents. There have been several explosions already but he has Sherlock on the other line, his deductions about passer-byes soothing in John's ear.
He really thought he would be able to take Prince Albert Road, passing through the space between Regent's Park and Primerose Hill but no such luck – car pile up.
"Turn around, take smaller roads until you reach the A41," Sherlock orders, slightly out of breath.
John maneuverers his car around, eternally grateful that Sherlock is better than any navigational device and he is about to take a left when an explosion rocks the ground beneath him and everything goes black.
xXx
"John? JOHN!" The line is dead.
Sherlock blinks at the phone, uncomprehending. There was an explosion – yes, Sherlock can see the smoke and his brain provides him with calculations, John's speed on Prince Albert Road, where the accident happened, the possible reasons behind it. Larger vehicles crashing into one another, he presumes, marginally less worried.
However, if John is injured –
- suddenly Sherlock finds himself on the ground, tackled by a solid wall of muscle. Sherlock reacts instinctively, throwing the assailant off, taking in the dead eyes, pale skin and ripped clothing, before drawing the gun hidden underneath his jacket but the zombie doesn't fear death and isn't deterred.
It all happens staggeringly fast yet in the end, the creature is lying on the pavement, brain matter scattered on the stone, and Sherlock can breathe again.
He looks around for his mobile and finds it a few feet away – broken and in pieces.
For God's sake.
The chances of finding John on his own without a vehicle or working phone are too slim to risk. Really, there is only one possible way out of this situation that won't result in serious injury or death.
Grudgingly, Sherlock works open the sole of his shoe and activates the tracker, grateful that his brother is a meddling bastard who insists on keeping tabs on him at all times.
xXx
John spins around, not breaking his run, fires three well-aimed shots at the zombies at his heels and disappears into a side street.
He has no idea where he is – his phone was lost when another car crashed into his – or how to ever make it out of here.
The running, the shooting, the general chaos in the streets is all very reminiscent of Afghanistan, but now John is fifteen years older and his joints aren't too happy about it.
Add to that the constant worry about Sherlock and it is a truly shitty day.
He rounds a corner and sees a woman on the ground, wresting with a zombie who is trying to bite her but the tyre iron she is wielding is keeping it off so far.
John aims, releases his breath, shoots. The impact careens the zombie off the woman who looks up at him with wild eyes until recognition flickers across her face.
"John Watson?"
John has no idea where to place. Tall, dark skinned, ladies' suit… She does look familiar, though.
"DI Proudfoot. From the Met."
John nods; dimly remembering a Christmas Party Greg made him attend at Scotland Yard the year after Sherlock faked his death.
"Where's your other half?"
"I'm not so sure," he says slowly and her face falls in worry.
"Oh. But you do know what's going on?"
"Zombie apocalypse."
"Huh. So I wasn't imagining those monsters biting people and turning them after all."
"No, that really happened."
"So what's the plan?"
John considers her. She is a police officer, was fit enough to fight a zombie twice her size and a friend of Greg's. He wishes Sherlock were here to deduce if she might stab him in the back later but he isn't, so John has to trust his gut.
"Head to a secure location. We need to get out of the city, proceed north-west."
She nods briefly, tightens the grip on the tyre iron and falls into step with John.
xXx
Four and a half hours later, John and Debbie have reached Barnet. They had to take detours, evade hoards of zombies or human gangs that looked like they would have killed John for his emergency duffel filled with ammunition, first aid supplies and food.
"How far?" Debbie asks as they engage in the by now well-practiced dance of peering around corners and signalling to each other if the road is clear. The town is ghostly silent with glass, debris, discarded weapons and blood scattered across the streets.
"Not sure; at least six hours." If nothing happens, John adds mentally.
Of course that is the moment when a zombie attacks them from above.
Debbie slams it against the wall and the second she steps back, John pulls the trigger. Then his eyes follow Debbie's line of sight to a wound on her left hand.
Bite marks.
John reacts immediately – he saw an axe a few feet away, picks it up and swings it with surgical precision to sever the infected hand, already counting down from thirty in his head.
24, 23, 22…
Then he trains his Sig at Debbie who has dropped her weapon and tries to staunch the bleeding with a tail of her jacket.
20, 19,18…
Her eyes are wide and focussed on him, waiting for his decision.
14, 13, 12…
Her skin is flushed, not pale, but her body is trembling.
9, 8, 7…
John doesn't dare relax, he can't let his guard down – she draws in a breath and he almost shoots but it's just the pain in her arm –
4, 3, 2, 1.
John nods and grabs her shoulder.
"We need to hide, I have to tend to the wound."
She follows pliantly, doesn't say anything as John pulls her into an abandoned house. He checks the flat that looks like it was left in a hurry, gathers dish towels that have fallen onto the kitchen floor and produces the first aid supplies from his duffel bag.
"Bite down," he tells her, inserting a belt he found between her teeth, then binds off her arm to staunch the bleeding. He doesn't have much disinfectant but is has to be enough. He cleans his hands, tries his best with the wound as Debbie whimpers into the makeshift gag and then readies needle and thread.
She looks at him in horror.
"I'm an army doctor, remember? I've done this before." Well, on legs that have been blown off after an explosion and the blood vessels there are a tad larger but she doesn't need to – she mustn't – know that.
He rearranges their positions to give him better lighting and then starts sewing the Ulnar artery shut.
Debbie screams but the belt muffles the sound.
She manages to stay conscious for two procedures and John is glad when she finally passes out. He concentrates on the other remaining blood vessels, then bandages the stump as good as he can.
If he had had a flame to heat Debbie's tyre iron, he could have cauterized the wound. Debbie would have still lost consciousness but it would have been quicker and less messy.
He cleans up, raids the flat for anything of use (of course no phones or laptops) and flops down into the chair across from where Debbie is lying, trying to enjoy his forced break as best as he can.
xXx
"I said NO, Sherlock." Mycroft is as close to losing his temper as Sherlock has ever seen the man.
"I don't care –"
"I care," Mycroft snaps. "And I forbid you to leave. You have only just got here and it is too dangerous outside –"
"Then track him down! Don't you have –"
"As a matter of fact, I don't."
Sherlock blinks.
"If you haven't noticed, there is an apocalypse occurring and my infrastructure has suffered tremendously. So no, I can't track Dr Watson."
"Then let me go out and –"
"I said no," his brother growls and Sherlock flinches back. Mycroft's control is crumbling – Britain must be worse off than he lets on.
"What's going on?"
They both turn to find Lestrade glancing uneasily back and forth between them. Brilliant.
"Geoff is going to help me. Surely you won't have to fear for my safety with such an able man from the Met at my side, will you?"
The vein in Mycroft's temple is pulsing dangerously but before he can reply, Lestrade groans.
"It's Greg and what're you talking about?"
"John and I were separated and he hasn't reached the camp. I intend to find him," Sherlock explains, straining to keep his voice level even though he knows Lestrade will see right through him. In fact, he is counting on it.
The DI considers him for a moment and Sherlock can practically hear him think, weighing his friendship to John against the possible dangers a rescue mission might entail.
Eventually, his shoulders square and he turns towards the older Holmes.
"I'm going with him."
Mycroft looks like he swallowed a lemon and Sherlock would have laughed if the situation weren't so dire.
"Fine," his brother grits out after a long moment. "But my staff will equip you with safety vests and firearms, both of you will receive a tracker and a radio and if you don't find him before dusk, I will extract you. Are we clear?"
"Yes, sir," Lestrade answers. Sherlock glares.
It will have to do.
xXx
Their progress is incredibly slow. Debbie had some rest at the flat but John couldn't let her sleep for very long. He doesn't want to approach their destination under the cover of darkness, mostly because he has no idea if zombies sleep or see better at night or whatever other bloody powers those creatures have.
They are passing around a smaller village, trying to avoid human as well as supernatural monsters, when someone spots them.
The bloke apparently belongs to a gang and before John knows what is happening, they are surrounded by a group of five, all of them armed.
"What's in your bags?" a woman asks.
"Nothing of concern to you," John answers, hoping his tone is as neutral as he wants it to be.
"Somehow I doubt that."
"Doubt all you want, but let us pass."
The leader laughs, glancing at a man to her left who takes a step forward. John has his Sig out a split second later, aiming it clearly at the man's head.
"Let us pass. I won't ask again."
"Oh, tough little shit, ain't you?" the woman sneers. "I wonder how much more guns you have on you. Why don't we find out?"
The bloke takes another step but John is ready, ducking the blow and striking him with the barrel in return. Then he is on the ground, tackled from behind and he does his best to escape, flip them over, but his skills are rusty and the bastard has about four stone on him.
He struggles as they hold him down, three men now, and work the bag off his shoulder. He turns his head and catches sight of Debbie struggling a few feet away, already stripped of her guns and pressed firmly against the ground. She whimpers in pain.
"We'll be keeping that," the woman informs him from above but John doesn't give her the satisfaction of craning his neck to see her.
Instead, he uses the chance when the grip on him loosens marginally and yanks himself free, disarming the bloke who took his gun and promptly shoots him in the foot.
He howls in pain and John spins around, fixing his stare on the woman.
"Give us our supplies back or I swear I will aim to kill next time."
A shot rings out and for a moment, John is confused since he didn't pull the trigger. Then he feels pain in his lower abdomen and realises what happened.
Damn it.
His knees give out and he has to loosen his grip on the gun to be able to brace his body with his hands as he topples forward.
He almost expects another bullet, this time to the head – but it never comes. When he feels a hand on his shoulder, it's Debbie's and the thugs are nowhere to be seen – and neither are their supplies.
What little hope John had an hour ago is seeping out from the wound in his stomach, yet he grits his teeth and stumbles to his feet, desperate for cover and reprieve.
xXx
Sherlock takes in every minute detail of his surroundings, his mind working faster than it ever has before, yet he sees nothing but trees and grass and abandoned cars for the first three hours.
Lestrade is tense next to him, vigilant. He shot three zombies half an hour ago before Sherlock could even aim his gun.
They seem to have an unspoken agreement – Sherlock will find John while Lestrade covers him.
A great plan – in theory. Sherlock glances at the sun's position and his inner countdown continues, the amount of time remaining to find his partner further decreasing with every step they take south-east.
xXx
John can barely keep his eyes open. They are well-hidden inside an abandoned shop in the village they tried to slip by and Debbie is keeping watch while John is resting.
They both know it is a farce. The bullet might not have hit a major artery, but John still has an open wound in less than sanitary circumstances. And with zombies roaming the country, the risk of infection is the least thing they have to worry about, not with both their reflexes being delayed due to injury.
John's thoughts are getting fussy, all jumbled up inside his mind. Every second word in his head seems to be "Sherlock" and that causes a completely different kind of hurt to course through his body.
Mycroft won't let him die, John tries to reassure himself. Mycroft will never abandon his brother in the middle of apocalyptic London.
Death is creeping up on him, John knows it. He feels cold, ice-cold and his vision is darkening around the edges. He will loose consciousness and eventually die of infection with no one around to get him to hospital.
Yes, death is coming. Only this time, John's thoughts aren't, "Please, God, let me live." This time, his last thoughts are on Sherlock.
xXx
"There!"
Sherlock breaks into a sprint into the distance, not caring if Lestrade will follow him or not. He saw something and if he is right –
He reaches the spot and indeed finds a gun lying in the grass.
"Probably empty," the DI comments once he has caught up. "No one in their right mind would leave a working gun behind in times like this."
Sherlock picks it up; inspecting it more closely until he is sure beyond the shadow of a doubt and suddenly, his heart is beating high in his throat.
"It's John's gun."
"What?"
"This is a Sig Sauer P226R, with the British Army designation L106A1, issued to every soldier serving in Afghanistan," Sherlock patters quickly. "This is John's gun."
Lestrade's eyes widen, darting around as if expecting to find John lying on the ground somewhere.
"But when his gun's here, he must be -" He sweeps their surroundings again, yet before he can produce any form of platitude, Sherlock talks over him.
"It doesn't mean anything. There is blood on the ground," Sherlock points at the splatters around them, "there has been a struggle. John would never leave his gun behind unless…"
The words die in his throat. He knows the implications yet he can't bring himself to say any of it.
Lestrade seems to have developed both tact and a few additional brain cells for he remains quiet, merely nods at him and proceeds in the direction of the village. If John is still alive, this is where he would have hidden.
Sherlock feels something clench in his chest and he tightens his grip on the Sig.
They search the streets first, then the houses. The village is eerily quiet, not even a lone zombie lurking around a corner.
The sudden sound of footsteps is all the louder for it and both Sherlock and Lestrade have whipped around and are pointing their weapons at the woman responsible.
"Proudfoot?" Lestrade lowers his gun.
"Don't," Sherlock snaps, "she might be dangerous."
"I'm not."
"What happened to your arm then?" Sherlock asks, eying he bandaged stump. "Are you telling me there was no bite mark on your hand before you chopped it off?"
"There was, but he saved me –"
"He?" Sherlock narrows his eyes at her, looking for any clue that she is lying, that this is a trap but from whom? Moriarty is dead for good, has been long before the dead started rising from their graves.
"John."
Sherlock's stomach lurches.
"Where is he?" Lestrade takes a step towards her, his gun pointing at the ground by now.
"In a building; he – he isn't well."
She leads them to another abandoned house with thick walls and intact windows and inside, in a corner, passed out and pale, is John.
Sherlock takes in the scene and he sees it but he can't observe, his mind is blank as he is staring at the bloodied stain on John's shirt, covered by gauze bandages that are soaked in crimson.
He becomes aware, distantly, that someone is saying his name and with shocking immediacy, the world snaps back into focus, impressions flooding Sherlock's mind once more.
"He needs a hospital, now!"
"I'll tell Mycroft," is all Lestrade replies, one hand already going for the gadget in his pocket.
"Tell him to hurry, for God's sake!" Sherlock shouts after him while peeling the bandages from John's wound. It isn't bleeding anymore but it is a far cry from sterile or even clean – dirt from the shirt must have found its way into the wound.
His mind disconnects again as Sherlock closes his fingers around one of John's hands (so cold, too cold) and all he can do is look at John, his John, his after years of waiting and it can't end like this, Sherlock won't stand for it.
A hand on his shoulder jerks him violently back to the present.
"Sherlock, the medics are here." Lestrade's voice. His tone is relieved.
He makes room as two doctors crouch down next to John and look him over and soon after that, Lestrade pulls him further away so that John can be lifted onto a stretcher.
Mycroft sent a helicopter. It doesn't even come as a surprise, nor do the armed men in black uniforms that are warding the area until everyone is safe on the bird and they rise into the air.
When they rush John into surgery at the camp, there is nothing Sherlock can do and he feels like crawling out of his skin.
xXx
John comes to slowly.
He knows the sound of hospitals, is almost too familiar with them so it takes him a few seconds to remember why he would be in one.
Suddenly, he is wide awake, taking in his surroundings while a hand snaps to the gun he -
The gun he doesn't have on him because he isn't in Afghanistan anymore and he dropped it in a field north-west of London.
His eyes fall on the chair next to the bed where Sherlock is blinking awake and for a moment, John's heart stutters (one of the machines makes the adequate sound, even) because Sherlock is alive and well and John is alive and relatively well and the relief flooding John's system is better than any drug he might be receiving.
"John," Sherlock croaks, at his side in an instant.
"Hello." John tries to smile, hoping his muscles will comply, but judging by Sherlock's soft chuckle, he succeeded.
They look at each other for a long moment, the silence stretching between them. As usual, neither of them can put their feelings into words – John wouldn't even know where to start.
Maybe he doesn't have to speak up. Maybe Sherlock understands, just as John understands what the look in his partner's eyes means.
It has to be enough for now, John decides, clearing his throat.
"How long was I out?"
"About twelve hours."
"We're at the camp?"
Sherlock nods, his lips curling in amusement.
"What now?"
"Well," Sherlock sighs, sitting down on the mattress next to John's hip, "you recover as fast as you can. I'm bored out of my mind, John."
"Yes, and I'm the only one who can entertain you," he drawls in response.
"Gavin has joined a rescue mission, Molly and her boyfriend are helping out here in the hospital; Mycroft is in meetings all day so I can't annoy him either… Security is so tight that no murderers have found their way in yet, which means no crimes to solve…" Sherlock trails of when John finally succumbs to the laughing fit he has been suppressing.
The detective looks irritated, though only for the second it takes him to realise that John is seeing right through his faked outrage.
"Why don't you help with research? I'm sure Mycroft has a team on trying to figure out how to counteract the virus."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "That's simple biochemistry; nothing worth my time."
"You're an arrogant git, you know that?"
"Well, I'm your arrogant git," he shoots back instantly.
Their eyes meet and John both hears and feels his heart rate spike.
"Yes, you are."
It is Sherlock who leans in for the kiss eventually, right hand taking a gentle hold of John's face. John melts into the kiss, feeling the tension of the past days leaving him, if only for a few minutes until Sherlock pulls away and they lock eyes once more.
It might be the end of the world as they know it, but at least John still has Sherlock.
xXx
End Notes: I live for comments and kudos, so let me know what you think! Or drop by on my tumblr and say hi or just ask me stuff :) (multifandom-madnesss or jayez-fics)
Special thanks to My Sister MD for advice on the severed arm. Our conversation went something like this: post/79386785108/conversations-with-fanfic-writers