A/N: Thursdays are just no good. No good at all.
Disclaimer:None of the things you recognize belong to me. If they're yours, though, you should give them to me, because that would make you a fantastic person.
It all happens on a Thursday- which, frankly, is absolutely, one hundred percent predictable because John has never managed to get the hang of Thursdays. Something's always wrong. The milk's run out, or Mycroft's actually sticking to his diet, or his alarm's rung three hours earlier than necessary. There are Thursdays when Molly Hooper is in a bad mood, belligerently sighing at each request put to her; Thursdays when Anderson is more tired than irritating; and Thursdays when Sally smiles at a comment Sherlock makes, rather than being her regular, catty self.
And then, of course, there are Thursdays like this one- those involving John gritting his teeth, holding a (ridiculously) heavy tray above his head (seriously, what the hell is this made of?) as he backs slowly into a corner and away from the muffled moaning, scratching sounds coming from the door.
He should have known, really, he thinks. Sherlock had agreed to get the milk, which is a spectacular event in itself. He should have known that the universe would try to balance itself on a normal day- and that it would overcompensate horribly on such a day as today: Thursday.
He'd been drinking tea. The cup is probably still sitting out on the table, cooling rapidly in the winter air. Despite Mrs. Hudson's valiant efforts (and one haughty attempt by Sherlock), the radiator remains as broken as ever. For a short second, he considers making a run for it. But no- he's one (depressingly) short man. Fighting them without a weapon would be idiotic. That's what Sherlock would say.
Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? Mycroft would agree. It's the only thing those two would agree on. He can imagine them exchanging a grudging look over his dead body, unmoved by anything other than his irrationality.
Oh, god. There's an actual possibility that he might die here. A soldier, eaten by the undead. It's sad, to say the least. He winces and shakes his head. God, he's gone a bit soft.
The scratching gets louder and more insistent. Thumping sounds from downstairs, and John looks out his bedroom window to the building across the street. Smoke is billowing through the curtains there, which are suddenly yanked apart to make room for another one. Eyes staring, flesh rotting, she smiles at him from the flat as she gnaws on a human limb (a leg, it seems), and he nods politely and tries not to throw up, because while his mum never specified anything quite so bizarre as to fit into the current situation, it's clear to him that that would be quite rude. Living with Sherlock has led him to compromise on several of his moral principles, but his manners are (thankfully) (mostly) intact.
Ah, Sherlock. He says the name out loud a few times for good measure, on the offchance that his idiot roommate has actually made it home. (He ponders idly the possibility that Sherlock will have returned with milk, but quickly disabuses himself of this exciting notion).
"Sherlock?" he calls again, somewhat frantically.
"Afternoon." John whirls around to find his flatmate emerging from the closet, phone in hand and certain smile in place, and watches as the brunette turns and shuts the door behind him.
"Have you been there the entire time?"
"Given you've been staring at the door quite insistently for the past ten minutes or so and that that's the only entrance, I think it would be a safe assumption to make," Sherlock says indifferently, typing on his infernal mobile with one hand.
John starts to speak, closes his mouth, and swallows, watching Sherlock gaze at the tiny screen. The taller man breathes out, leaning comfortably against the dresser. "But this is... this is my bedroom."
"Is it?" Sherlock asks mildly. "I don't really pay attention to those kinds of things. If I've failed to make appearances in here before, it's probably because I subconsciously recognized your presence, or simply had other tasks to complete. I do somewhat recall happening on you mid-sleep, now that I think on it." John gapes at him. "Put that tray down. You look like an idiot. Shall we?"
"No-!"
"Yes?" Sherlock asks, with all the patience of a two year old, hand resting on the doorknob.
"Hang on, you can't just run in there like a bloody warrior on his horse, just... charging in there." Sherlock rolls his eyes and John persists. "Listen, you're not even armed- if that were me about to do that, you'd laugh your bloody arse off about it-"
Sherlock frowns over his shoulder and opens the door, completely ignoring John's splutters. He steps back, allowing the zombies to spill into the room as he surveys them distastefully. "They're going to halt my vinegar experiment. Three and a half weeks... no matter. I can hardly call this a controlled environment."
John frowns, too, tray still in hand. "Vinegar- hang on. Is that what I've been smelling the last month or so? You prat, I thought something was wrong with the wash-"
"Bored," Sherlock calls, pausing to choose a broomstick from against the wall and sweeping down the stairs with it in hand. One of them (long, stringy hair, and large (dead) doe eyes) catches hold of his sleeve (John shouts in warning), and he backhands her with the handle in one swift motion, watching her bend backward at the waist and tumble away . Sniffing, he inspects the wood and continues. "Are you coming, John?"
A/N: Leave a review, if you could! Merci!