Chapter 1: John
John should have suspected from the beginning when he saw the slight scratch on Sherlock's thigh that looked so very infected but looking back probably wasn't. He had just assumed that Sherlock was lying to him about the age of the injury. One more thing they didn't talk about. What did it matter? But then the changes began and somehow John managed to remain oblivious while, at the same time, taking notes of the strange things that were about to happen.
Japan might have been an interesting place to spend a holiday at but, as it was, Sherlock and John didn't see anything else than Shikoku Airport and a close by water reservoir where the detective assumed to find a corpse. Sherlock had insisted that they only had to stay there for a few hours before they could depart and, again, he did turn out to be right. What he hadn't accounted for were the old rotten steps by the lake side that, if john hadn't grabbed his wrist and held him in an iron grip, would have cost his life. Dangling between the fourth and fifth step, a thick darkness beneath him, the detective managed to be rather annoyed than actually worried. As the initial shock wore down, John thought he saw a glimpse of something… shapeless moving in the darkness but before he could think about it Sherlock demanded to be pulled out of the hole and John did what he always did. He followed his order and waited for the next one to come.
The flight back was spent sleeping and trying to ignore the tremendous tantrum the detective was throwing after not even having found "a decayed finger". Throughout their 15 hours of flying including two stops, one in Tokyo and one somewhere called Doua, John kept quiet and friendly with Sherlock, not punching him once which cost him an immense amount of self control. (Just like every other person who had the fortune to spend time with Sherlock during their journey.) Just before the plane initiated the landing maneuver at Heathrow, John noticed the tiny crevice in the Detective's tight Jeans and a cab ride later John decided that he had to check on that to actually be able to get some sleep.
"Sherlock! Let me have a look at your thigh." John yelled from the bathroom fetching his overly used first aid kit.
"I am too tired to indulge in your explorations of not being gay." Sherlock had already taken his usual position on the couch and closed his eyes. He didn't move a muscle or even have the decency to look at John.
"As you wish." The blogger muttered and, taking a torch from underneath the sink, made his way through the parlour.
"Shit. How long have you been walking around with that?" He asked accusingly when he saw the angry red and purple around the wound in the artificial light of the torch. He sat on the table bending low over the Detective's leg.
"I don't know what you mean." Sherlock said, contorting his face in pain when John pressed on the edges of the scratch.
"If you had told me right away this wouldn't have to hurt." The disinfectant made Sherlock hiss in pain before he sat up to take a closer look himself. A surprised expression crossed his face that was quickly replaced by a faint display of interest.
"Can you patch that up yourself or is that too much to ask?" john drawled, placing gauze on one the corner of the table.
"You know very well that I…." Sherlock began but didn't bother to finish when John just got up and went to bed.
On the 2nd of March, 3 days after their trip to Japan, John found himself in Sherlock's room. The Detective was lying curled up in the middle of his ridiculously large bed, his head pushed back with sweat running down his chest before oozing into the sheets, dressing gown pants sticky and rumpled. The doctor regarded the feverish body, considering his weight and the clarity of bones underneath the flushed skin. Sherlock groaned in his sleep, discomfort showing on his face. A few hours before, John had already taken his temperature but doing it again was a very tempting idea at the sight of a suffering Consulting Detective. At first, he had thought that Sherlock was exaggerating, still frustrated by visiting Shikoku to no avail. But when the genius had stopped complaining and slept the better part of the day, John remembered the incision. And if he was honest with himself, john didn't feel very well either but his own indisposition blurred in the face of the Detective's ailment. Sherlock didn't even wake up when the doctor pushed the dressing gown aside to take a look at the wound. There were no signs of blood poisoning. The skin around it was looking healthy, almost more so then the rest of Sherlock's thigh. So John just dragged him into a sitting position and slowly managed to move him over to his room. Every now and then, the Doctor sat at Sherlock's bedside and took his pulse or instilled some water into him. This time, he had only come out of a sense of wrongness. The constant ringing of the phone and voice messages of their client, the apparent widow, was only an annoying background noise. He couldn't quite pinpoint what it was that made him uneasy but watching Sherlock somehow managed to calm his worry. Deliberately, he sat down and put his hand on Sherlock's forehead. The skin felt cold and moist under his fingers. Cautiously, he slid his hand into sticky curls. He hadn't planned to do that when he entered the room but seeing Sherlock in this weak state caused a strong wave of affection to bloom inside his chest. He felt oddly protective. Unlike other times when he very well knew that Sherlock could stand up for himself but protected him anyway. The Detective pushed his head into the touch, turning on his back and trying to sooth some kind of itch by moving restlessly on the sheets.
"Sherlock? Do you need anything?" John whispered in a hushed voice.
A groan was all the answer he got. Without a second thought, John pushed himself up the bed and leant against the wall, one hand still cradling the Detective's skull through thick curls.
It only took two days for Sherlock to become his own insufferable self again. John had invited the client immediately when the Detective pressed the words the case out between his lips. He was trying very hard not to miss the dependant sleepy version of Sherlock while he was waiting anxiously for their client to arrive. He wasn't very keen on telling the young woman that her husband was either dead or had left her for a weird obsession with old gods. Sherlock's restless pacing and contorted maneuvers to scratch his back only served to make him more agitated. It seemed as if the room was filling with an atmosphere of restraint though John wasn't sure why. The moment the door bell rang, John sighed in relief and went to welcome their guest. Her steps were heavy on the stairs while John stood awkwardly in the open door.
"I am sorry we kept you waiting, Mrs. Phillips. Please, sit down." He gestured to the chair, closing the door behind the young woman. She wasn't much taller than John when he'd first meet her but now they seemed to be of equal height. Sherlock watched her intensely while she took the few steps towards the chair. The Consulting Detective nodded at her when their eyes met but kept his face impassive. These things were always John's area of expertise and by the way the woman curled in on herself as soon as she sat down, the Doctor knew that he didn't have to use many words to make her understand.
"Would you like some tea?" He offered in his most sympathetic voice.
"No, I think it would be wasted." She replied bitterly.
"Obviously." Sherlock said taking a seat opposite her. John, too, had noticed her loss of weight since she had come to hire them but there wasn't much else he could offer her. Bracing himself he sat stiffly in the remaining chair.
"So, is he dead?" Mrs. Phillips asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the floor, her voice controlled and even.
Sherlock looked expectantly at John, who cleared his throat uneasily.
"We..um..We don't know. But it's highly likely. I…We are very sorry." He said, taking her hand.
"He might be alive. He probably left you for another woman or…"
"Sherlock! I am sorry. Again."
"No, it's ok. I don't think anyone of us actually believes that."
"Of course not!" John assured her. Sherlock had the tendency to state all other possibilities just for the sake of giving the client hope, even though he knew they were a) not true and b) often worse than the truth.
A muscle underneath that purple silk shirt flexed restlessly in a sign of agitation.
"Howard is obsessive and often forgets the time when we have appointments but he would never leave me." She said to Sherlock, her black hair hiding most of her face. John never understood why some women straightened their hair but on their client it made him reconsider the aesthetic behind the procedure. When she realized what she'd just said, her full lips began to tremble.
"I mean he was…" John watched helplessly as tears started filling her eyes.
She pulled a crumpled pack of tissues from her leather purse in a vain attempt to wipe them away. Her wedding ring sparkled in the evening light that fell through the closest window.
"I…I am very grateful for your help. How much….?"
"Nothing. We didn't find him, did we?" Sherlock said standing up. He buttoned his jacket and walked over to the door, prompting their client to leave. John smiled to himself thinking how very close together empathy and rudeness occurred in Sherlock's behavior.
Nodding, Mrs. Phillips got up and shook John's hand. "Thank you. If you couldn't find him…" She said by a way of goodbye. Sherlock's face twitched in annoyance at the words and John knew that the case wasn't over at all. As soon as the door fell into its frame the Consulting Detective produced a laptop out of thin air and began typing furiously. John settled for the 3 day old London times and the last box of biscuits, instead.
Sherlock was writhing on the sheets. His pale skin glistening in the sparse light falling through the curtains. The faint rustle of skin on silk guided John's eyes to the moving appendixes that were meandering all around the Detectives back. Their grayish blue appeared almost black against the white satin sheets as two of them wound themselves around each of Sherlock's wrists. The naked mans breath hitched when they tightened their hold and pulled his arms up above his head.
With a start John sat up in his bed and tried to blink the images away.
Although Sherlock was still obsessed with The Husband Vanishes, they had taken the next case that Lestrade offered them.
The Yard was as crowded as ever. People hurried from one office to another while browsing through a stack of paper. Others just watching the fuzz from a comfortable distance. Sherlock and John were probably more familiar with the office than some of the newbies that were so very easy to detect. Panic in their eyes, sweat on their brows and always a coffee in hand that they certainly never drank themselves but had to bring some superior.
When Sherlock opened the door to Lestrade's office, the Detective Inspector didn't even spare his arriving guests a glance. The man sitting on the other side of his desk held all of the DI's attention even though his posture clearly said that he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.
"Where is your son, Mr. Mullins?" He boomed at the slumped figure.
"I don't….I can't!" The man's voice was small and pleading.
Annoyed, Lestrade got up from his chair and crossed the room towards the dark corner where John and Sherlock had taken an observing position. When he had called and told them that he needed help finding a missing child, John hadn't expected Sherlock to actually be interested but surprisingly the Consulting Detective had merely taken his coat from the hook and said "Coming.".
"So, what do you think?" Lestrade whispered enquiringly.
But Sherlock didn't bother answering, he just stepped forward towering over the suspect and staring at him intensely.
"Your parents are very fond of their grandson, aren't they?" Sherlock asked conversationally. With wide eyes, the suspect nodded at him before averting his gaze.
"Lestrade! The Grandmother has him. Mr. Mullins here is a mere instrument for her. She wanted her grandson to live with her and not the despised daughter in law. He followed her order, being too weak to stand up against his overly dominant mother. If you go to his parents house in… Where is it Mr. Mullins?"
"Leicester." He mumbled in defeat.
"Leicester, obviously. Well, if you go there you will find the son of the poor Mrs. Mullins well fed but homesick."
"Thank you, Sherlock." The DI said, watching Sherlock stride from the room. John shook his hand in a friendly gesture and followed his flat mate out the door. A slight tingle made Lestrade rub his palm while he turned back to the suspect. "Address?"
While John didn't have the pressure of having to keep Sherlock occupied he still called the Yard a few days later. The Consulting Detective's ongoing obsession with Howard Phillips and his whereabouts worried John more than one of his moods would have done. 221B was constantly filled with Sherlock's restless typing. Every now and then John tried to bring some kind of order into the various stacks of papers that were scattered over every surface of their flat but he had long lost any idea of what Sherlock meant to do with them or what information they actually held for him. When, after three days, Sherlock had obviously not come to any conclusion but didn't snap either, john decided to get them another case. But it was a lost cause. Right after the Mullin's case Lestrade had called in sick and, with Sherlock having the sunny personality he did, every other DI in London refused to work with them.
So John had to just sit there and watch Sherlock working himself into frenzy, developing the nervous habit of flexing the muscles in his back when he was especially agitated and appearing to the rest of the world like the madman he was. John was just glad that the Consulting Detective actually remembered to eat every day. And that was something, wasn't it?
Sherlock was writhing on the sheets. His pale skin glistening in the sparse light falling through the curtains. The faint rustle of skin on silk guided John's eyes to the moving appendixes that were meandering all around the Detectives back. Their grayish blue appeared almost black against the white satin sheets as two of them wound themselves around each of Sherlock's wrists. The naked mans breath hitched when they tightened their hold and pulled his arms up above his head.
Two thicker, stronger ones, wound around his outstretched legs and just held them where they were. John could see the tension in Sherlock's legs and arms when he tested his restrains. Two of the appendixes were just moving restlessly on the sheets on both sides of Sherlock's hips while the remaining one, the one that seemed to come right out Sherlock's spine, slowly wandered up and down his left thigh. Now the remaining two started to move, caressing the naked man's arms and upper back but that wasn't what made John's breath catch. It was that spine tentacle slowly making it's way to Sherlock's middle. The very tip descending into the crease of his arse, sometimes vanishing right between his cheeks and…pushing right there. Sherlock moaned, pushing back and panting. John couldn't do anything else than imagine himself between the man's legs. Would he be writhing and moaning like this when it was John's tongue pushing into him?
"Oh god, yes, John!"
This time John wasn't able to erase the images from his head. Before he had made a conscious decision he had taken himself in hand and was so very, very close to orgasm that he just had to finish. Had to take the edge off.
Oh god, yes, John!
It was earth shattering. John lay trembling on his back, seeing hearing and thinking nothing at all. His whole body tingling with the sensation of want…
Sherlock was sitting in the quiet living room. Staring off into the distance he didn't acknowledge John as he entered the living room. While the doctor fought to keep his embarrassment to a minimum, he noticed that the flat had become a disaster. Sherlock's chaos had overtaken most of the kitchen and actually all of the living room.
"Where is Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, suddenly worried.
"Ill. Don't worry. She's going to be alright just like everybody else."
"Like every…?" John started but suddenly he realized how quiet everything was. There were barely any sounds from outside. He could hear few cars in the distance. The usual chatter from the café below was completely missing and even the ever present pigeons had fallen silent. When John cautiously stepped closer to the window and took a look outside there were no passersby.
"Sherlock…." John whispered now. "What is going on out there?"
"The same thing that is happening in here." He answered cooly.
John turned around facing Sherlock's now intense gaze. "In here?" He asked, irritation making his brows rise.
"What are you dreaming lately?" Sherlock asked, his tone implying that he knew all too well about the explicitness of John's dreams.
"I… It's no use denying it, right?" John said, somehow managing to sound defeated and annoyed at the same time.
A small smile graced Sherlock's face but it was quickly replaced by a pained expression. "No."
"Sherlock, I…I am definitely not able to have such a conversation with an empty stomach. Do I even want to know how you… Oh, don't answer that." John said, pulling his jacket on and making a dismissive gesture with his right hand at the same time." I am going to do some shopping. Need anything?"
Sherlock just watched him as he put his shoes on and got ready to leave.
"We are going to talk when you are back. You better eat on the way."
All John managed was a nod before he all but fled the room.
Tesco was the only shop that wasn't closed down due to a shortage of staff but it was vastly deserted. John entertained the idea that he might have woken up in a post-apocalyptic alternate universe while he made his way through the aisles. His stomach was growling angrily, making him wonder when he'd eaten last. While he had been watching over Sherlock's eating habits like a hawk, he himself had probably not eaten for days. He didn't know. Everything seemed like a haze when he looked back now.
It was probably caused by the depressing silence and feeling of loneliness that John bought an amount of food that would last a minimum of 2 weeks and had to take one of the rare cabs but it at least gave him the possibility to have a hasty breakfast on his way home. He tried to talk to the cabby about the strange situation but the man only made a cross in front his chest and, fighting back tears, refused to talk to him. The rest of the short ride was spent in silence while John ate some meat pies.
Sherlock didn't seem to have moved during John's absence but as soon as John was starting to put away most of the groceries he began to watch him with interest.
"This is not the end of the world, you know?" He stated dryly, observing the state of their fridge from his usual position on the chair. "Humanity, though." He added thoughtfully.
John turned around, his arms full of convenience food and an apple in his mouth. Throwing an angry look at Sherlock, he carefully made his way to the couch where he sat down and began to eat the apple after placing all the food in close proximity around himself. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with eating he probably would have laughed at the offended look Sherlock gave him because of his choice of place. After a rather ridiculous attempt at turning inside his chair to face John, Sherlock got up and sat down beside his flat mate.
"John?"
"Hmmm."
"John. I told you to… Did you eat on the way here?" Sherlock said with now wide eyes.
"Hm-hm." John nodded while chewing on a thick slice of bacon.
"OK. That's enough now!" Sherlock said determinately pushing 2 boxes of biscuits and the can of energy drink to the other end of the table.
"Hey!" John protested loudly.
"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, shaking John from his apparent fixation and earning a look of surprise.
"Oh, right yes. Talking."
Sherlock rolled his eyes but began to talk none the less. "What do you think is happening out there and in here?"
John took a few seconds to think about a logical answer. "An epidemic, most likely. Probably flu or something absolutely new."
"A very educated guess, considering that you are a doctor. Symptoms?"
"I don't know." John said, creasing his brows.
"Come on, John. You watched it and you felt it. You probably still feel it." Sherlock said impatiently.
"OK. Assuming that it's the same what has been going on with you it is probably just a strong flu going around." Sherlock didn't even try to hide his irritation this time.
"A flu? Really?" He turned his head away in a display of disappointment before he threw his hands dramatically over his head and let himself fall back against the backrest.
"And what about the dreams?" He asked with closed eyes.
"What about them? I don't see any connection between my dreams and this disease."
"Our dreams."Sherlock corrected him.
Before he could reply, the weight of Sherlock's words sank in and John couldn't stop himself from gaping at the consulting detective.
"Very eloquent, John." Sherlock muttered while turning fully towards him.
The doctor just blinked at him, still unable to form any sort of reply.
"I hope you know…" Sherlock whispered conversationally as he leant closer to John's ear. " …They are doing what you want them too. They may be attached to me but you are the one making them do these..things."
"Attached to…" John managed to splutter.
"It takes a lot of energy, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked, leaning back and indicating a hand at all the foot on their coffee table.
"I was just…What are you telling me?" John narrowed his eyes, trying to determine if this was some kind of sick joke. He felt anger surge through him and, clenching his hands in agitation, got up to put the food away. He was still hungry but the conversation had destroyed his appetite.
"I see." Sherlock nodded to himself. "You probably need a few hours to yourself." He said in a false attempt at empathy. John didn't fall for it for a second. Arrogant prick, he thought to himself.
He didn't look up when he heard the front door fall close. Supported by his hands on the worktop, John tried to calm his whirling thoughts. The unnatural silence outside of their flat made it all the harder to fight the panic inside of him.