Johnlock, Mystrade and Zombies.
The weirdest crossover AU I ever wrote... Based on the ongoing dreams I have – almost every night - since I started to watch the BBC Series
Not yet betaread!
BRAINS
I
As always it takes me some seconds to focus on where and – much more important – who I am.
Usually I've about thirty seconds to get into the flow.
This time I've gotten ten.
Ten seconds before blood, goo and other rather nasty things sticks to my bare hands, with I pulled out the unbeating hearts of the attacking undeads, sending them to ground, smashing their heads under my heavy army boots.
Not yet sure, if zombies or not, but there's apparently no time to investigate this further, as there more of those dirty crawlers.
I grip the first thing suitable as a weapon – hockey stick – and start to methodically clean their rows.
"This. Is. Not. My. Division." I think, quoting D.I. Lestrade.
Then there's a shudder rippling through the undead rows and a sturdy voice barks some commands: "Greg, Anthea, left side. John, Sherlock, right side. I take the straight way!"
I know the names and recognize the voice.
Three more strikes, some more kicks and then he appears in front of me: Well tailored suit covered in blood, tie around his head, brain mass dripping from the brollies tip, mad smirk plastered to his face.
"Bloody hell," he grunts accusingly, still smirking, "Iris, what the fuck got into you to stroll out all alone?"
His sight brings back the lost memories, tells me how to act and I offer a crooked smile of my own: "Sorry, Myc, I just needed some "fresh" air..." scratching the back of my head, smearing blood and goo all over me.
"Are you okay there?"
Johns wet slur of a voice reminds me of the fact, that in this world are more than one sort of "zombies": the good, the bad and the "turned" ones...
Mycroft Holmes and me nods at the same time, turning to where the former army doctor stands, perched against his back is Sherlock, holding a big sledgehammer, covered from tip to toe in rusty blood.
I dare say, we all are drenched in the icky stuff.
Anthea who's followed by a ratty looking, crowbar armed Greg – did he ever appear other than this since he's bitten? – and looking down on the device in her bloody hands states in a cool voice: "Area cleared within a radius of two miles. Better we get what we need and take a leave."
The elder Holmes and me nods, sharing a quick look, silently debating who gets the car and who goes after the chemicals we need.
Sherlock takes the decision out of our charge as he turns, shouldering the hammer, John on his heels: "We get the stuff, go get the Rover!"
I drive, fast and careless, all what can be heard in the car is the engine and the wet, lapping sounds of John cleaning up Sherlock.
It was a long day after all, and he is probably starving.
And I still sorts of struggles with my little "minds-black-out"...
Just as I'm thinking of what exactly leaded to my "short-time-memory-loss" Mycroft, for once sitting in the front and not in the back with Lestrade, asks in hushed voice: "Black out you did?"
I just serve him a nod and he mirrors the motion, whispering: "You saved you well, Iris."
This will stay between us, never spoken of it again and he finally crawls in the back, switching places with Anthea.
Only instants later there more slurping, licking sounds. Seems Gregory 's hungry too.