A/N: For the timeline on this one I bumped the events of 28 Days Later to 2012. It happens sometime after Baskerville but before "The Reichenbach Fall." Also, since the gas station explosion was filmed way far away from Piccadilly Circus I fudged the distances a bit. Then I got impatient and fudged them some more. So if you notice telescoping distances and it bothers you, I apologise and recommend you ignore it.
Not mine, not profiting, don't sue.
It started at Baskerville. A leaky pipe, a faulty experiment left to seed by an absent scientist; in the end, it didn't matter. What mattered was that an epidemic spilled through the medical halls of Baskerville, and no one knew the cause—or how to treat it.
It was slow-acting, at first. The initial exposure was an accident, an isolated incident, but once the alcove was removed from quarantine the gas spread. No one thought much of it. Several pipes were leaky in the lower levels, spilling harmless water vapour into the atmosphere. It was an old facility, after all. Nor was the increased paranoia and belligerence of its victims remarked upon. It was a top-secret military installation that dealt in dubious moral practices. Such qualities were to be expected.
It wasn't until the chimpanzee specimens started tearing each other apart that the researchers began to connect the dots. They showed behaviours much like their stricken handlers—but with the chimps, something changed. Within a matter of hours symptoms began to manifest, and within a day previously docile and intelligent animals were reduced to mindless raging.
The remaining researchers were lost for an explanation. The handlers were quarantined, and a small number of chimps were shipped to Cambridge for closer research.
The initial findings were inconclusive. Like AIDS and Ebola it seemed to be primarily a blood- and fluid-borne disease, but it didn't behave like a virus. It was more like venom, poisoning the blood upon contact. Nothing stopped its spread once it entered the body, and nothing slowed it until it consumed the higher brain functions of its host and left little more than furious instinct.
Researchers were baffled but unafraid. To them, it was no more than a fascinating case, a new development, possibly the seeds of papers published in prestigious journals. They felt little concern either for the chimpanzees they studied or the subjects in Devon they ostensibly sought to aid. It was but a mental exercise.
That is, until a group of militant animal activists broke into the labs one night and opened the cages.
Twenty-eight days later, the rest of the story vanished with history into blood and fire.
OOO
Water. Of all things, it was water that drove them beyond the dubious safety of 221b's walls. The bathtub had finally emptied, as had the sinks, the kettle, all the pots and pans and Sherlock's (carefully cleaned) lab equipment. A body used a great a deal of water in a month, it turned out, and it hadn't rained in too long.
John tightened his grip around the poker, conscious of the weight of his SIG against the curve of his spine. Behind him, Sherlock hefted a talwar, flipping it back and forth in his grip with unsettling ease. Any other time and John would've pegged it for showing off—but John felt the same nervous tension in his muscles, too.
"Put it up, already," he muttered over his shoulder. He thrust the poker through the straps in his rucksack and opened the window in Sherlock's room, the one with access to the fire escape. The muffled slip of steel into felted sheath was his only reply. John rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands. Rock-steady. He glanced to Sherlock, shared a brief nod, then hopped out into the August sunlight.
They had torn apart the inside staircase weeks ago, using the scavenged treads and risers to barricade the downstairs windows. All that remained was a gutted shaft, useless in all ways but as a defense. John moved over the fire escape platform as lightly as he was able and reached out to steady Sherlock. His flatmate shimmied out the window, long limbs contorting to allow for his pack, and the tap of his shoes against the escape was deafening in the silent alley. Neither said a word; they had distilled the greater range of mundane conversation into the flutter of an eyebrow or the incline of a shoulder.
Really, Sherlock?
No use whinging over it, John.
Sound was their enemy, now. Silence and speed, their allies. It was fate's little joke that the two did not easily work hand-in-hand. Especially, John thought, when Sherlock Holmes is involved.
John felt himself slipping back into old habits, the low-level awareness and muted tension of Afghanistan seeping back into his bones as though it had never left. He motioned Sherlock to stillness. Ears pricked for the slightest sound; eyes scanning the corners and shadows; knees bent to move him in any direction. He drew the SIG and listened.
Silence. No shuffling, none of the grunts or bellows that indicated their refuge had been found. John nodded, and they started down the stairs. John's grip on the railing was white-knuckled as he lowered himself from step to step. Sherlock's breath behind him was steady.
There was a Tesco's around the corner, about a mile away. It was the one they (or rather, John) had used a bare three and a half weeks earlier, when Sherlock had told him to fetch supplies in that tone of voice. They should be able to find some bottled water there. If not, they could try the petrol station on Marylebone. Sherlock had also requested something to alleviate the boredom, but John knew he meant specimens and had put his foot down. Bad enough the infected were everywhere else; they didn't need to be in the flat, too. Sherlock's sulk had been showy, but he hadn't argued.
They walked. The sun overhead was shining, the day growing hot. John was sweating beneath the heavy wool of his jumper, and Sherlock must have been sweltering beneath his greatcoat—but neither removed their layers. The infected had a tendency to bite.
The supermarket was dark. Power had given out weeks ago along with the water, and the beams of their torches swung wildly across the stacked shelves. "Twenty minutes, we meet at the checkout," John murmured, keeping his voice above the carrying hiss of a whisper. Sherlock nodded, tilting his torch up into a sloppy salute. It illuminated his crooked smile, bouncing shadows across his cheekbones helter-skelter.
They parted ways, Sherlock after the water and John for the food. Tinned veg and fruit first, lining the bottom of his ruck, then whatever caught his eye. Fish for protein, hard cheese for calories, tea and biscuits on principle. Anything that didn't need cooking, that would last, that would keep them alive. Over the shelves he caught flickers of light against the ceiling, reflecting off the security mirrors and sending the top shelves into brief, stark chiaroscuro. In the back of his mind John kept track of Sherlock's scuffling movements. Once, he caught a pleased noise, rising before falling into a baritone mutter. He couldn't stop his indulgent grin.
His own pleasant discovery happened two aisles over. He sighed as he stared at the liquor selection, glad for the first time that the world had ended. He reached for the finest Scotch he could never have justified and nestled it up against a bag of crisps. He considered another—but shrugged and turned away. A single bottle would take him a while, longer than their water would hold out. He'd be back.
He navigated around the spills of merchandise on the floor, heading to the doors and the cheerful promise of sunlight beyond.
Sherlock was waiting at the check-out, fair bouncing with restrained excitement. "Look, John." He motioned behind him, appearing for all the world like a five-year-old proud of a captured frog.
It wasn't a frog, but a crate of apples, untouched by mould. "Irradiated," he pronounced.
That same, affectionate smile spread across John's face. "And here I thought you didn't care for food."
Sherlock scoffed. "This isn't food, John, this is stimulation. Four weeks on tinned slop? My kingdom for fresh produce."
"You mean Mycroft's kingdom. You haven't one of your—" John cut himself off, silently cursing himself. Sherlock's expression didn't change, but his hands tightened on the crate. They hadn't been able to contact Mycroft Holmes since hell had broken loose twenty days previous.
John cleared his throat. "Right. Well, we'd best be getting back, then." He tucked the poker away and drew his gun. Sherlock's hands would be full; best to be more lethally armed. They set out.
The sun was settling down into late afternoon, the shadows of abandoned cars and solitary light posts reaching along the pavement. John stepped quickly, checking alleys and blind spots as they passed. All was silent; all was still. Behind him, Sherlock's breathing, the swish of his coat, and the creak of the apple crate were loud in his ears. John held his guard.
The silence was shattered by a distant car alarm. John froze and Sherlock spun about, scattering apples. They landed with meaty thuds on the pavement. Two pairs of eyes, one grey, the other muddy blue, cast about the street. John's muscles were solid with tension, his knuckles white around the SIG.
"Sherlock?" he muttered.
"Mercedes," he replied. "Early noughts, most likely 2002. Doubtful an infected would bother with a car, probably uninfected." His voice was ragged, strained.
John sucked in a breath. "Won't be that way for long." His stomach cramped at the thought. He fought the urge to go find them.
"No," Sherlock said.
They stood there a while longer, listening to the first proof of humanity they had in a week. We've got to look out for ourselves, first, John reminded himself. We'd be dead in two shakes if we helped out every sad case.
It didn't stop the gnawing guilt as they turned their backs.
Baker Street was as silent and empty as they had left it. Their pace picked up, sacrificing stealth in favour of speed. The fire escape hove into view around the corner, closer, closer, so close now, almost there—
And they were upon it, easing their way up and negotiating full packs, crates and narrow windows to barricade themselves back into the flat. Together they carted the shopping to the kitchen and unloaded it on the table.
Sherlock's pack first. He had gone straight for the litre and gallon jugs, packing in as many as could fit before filling in the edges with the smaller bottles. John cracked one open and passed it to Sherlock before cracking open his own. They clinked them together in a parody of a toast before drinking long and deep.
"Next time, we're hotwiring a cab," John said, rubbing his aching shoulder.
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but a massive explosion shook the walls, juddering the mirror over the mantle and sending the skull print crashing onto the couch. "The roof," Sherlock barked, and John lunged after him to the bedroom, abandoning caution in their mad dash up the fire escape to the roof. Sherlock skittered and slipped his way over the edge, out onto the flat expanse beyond. John scrambled after.
Panting, the two of them scanned the horizon until they saw it—a black cloud shot with orange, unfurling against the deepening twilight of the southeastern skyline.
"Jesus Christ," John breathed. It was enthralling to watch. He hoped no one had died.
"Petrol station," Sherlock murmured, his voice low and intimate in John's ear. He, too, was watching the column of smoke rise.
"Huh. How do you figure?"
"The smoke. It matches fires with fossil fuels as the accelerant. Also the quantity of it."
"Ah." John swallowed, spared the column a last, lingering glance, then slid his way back down the fire escape to the slim protection of 221b's walls.
Sherlock followed a while later.
OOO
It was a familiar, worn-out argument, though with a new twist. John snatched the wind-up radio and threw it on the sofa, muffling the patchy transmission it relayed.
"John, we have to go," Sherlock said. "We're wasting time, the evidence is disappearing even as we speak!"
"It's too far and too dangerous. The evidence can hang itself."
"Argh, you tiny-minded idiot. I can feel my brain atrophying to your level."
"Go bake something, then. Experiment."
"I haven't an oven anymore, and flatbread is boring. It's just to look around! What's the danger in that?"
"We're not going, Sherlock, and that's final!"
OOO
"If you'd just agree to what I say then all that fuss could have been avoided," Sherlock muttered as they marched down Marylebone. "Why you had to take it out on the kitchen chair—"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
Sherlock sniffed and hefted his pack higher on his shoulders. "I estimate the explosion occurred towards Picadilly Circus. We should start there and work our way outward."
"I know, you said last night. Repeatedly."
"How should I know what you do or don't hear? Only half of what I say seems to penetrate your thick skull as it is."
"That's because half of it's said when I'm not there!"
"And I said it's hardly my fault you're not listening. Why are you still going on about this?"
John swallowed his scream of frustration. It was too bloody early to bash Sherlock Holmes' head in.
OOO
The petrol station was a blasted wasteland, the kiosk little more than a ravaged husk and the pumps vanished into a charred, gaping crater. Haze hung thick in the afternoon air, shrouding the sun; it stank of burnt petrol and flesh. John pulled his jumper over his nose and tightened his grip on the poker.
Sherlock grunted and tossed aside the twisted scrap of metal he was inspecting. It landed with a tinny clatter on the cracked and buckled pavement. "Tank valve."
"D'you think foul play?"
Sherlock offered him a speaking look.
John blew out his cheeks. "Right. Obviously."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This," he said, crunching over a carpet of broken glass to the remains of the kiosk, "was clearly intentional. That valve?" He pointed to the discarded scrap. "Opened. The others are distorted and torn, but that one is intact." Something caught his eye, and he leapt over to snatch up a singed bit of cloth. He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose. "All they needed was a spark."
John's gaze flicked between the cloth and Sherlock's face. "Cloth—as a fuse? Petrol bomb?"
"Yes, John, don't be obtuse. It reeks of petrol and cheap alcohol, what else could it be." He leapt across the scattered remains, searching, until— "Here! A trail." He bent for a closer look. "Blood. But also..." He dropped to the ground, sniffed, then licked the pavement.
"Oh, come on, that can't be—"
Sherlock bounced upright, a manic grin on his face. "Coca-Cola. Possibly Pepsi, I can't quite tell." He glared at the pavement as though it had personally wronged him. "Quite obvious what happened, though."
John ran his hand down his face. "Care to share with the class."
Sherlock huffed prissily. "Honestly, John."
"Tell me anyway. I'm obtuse, remember?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Someone, most likely a recent coma patient, came this way at a run—see, the blood spatter pattern." He followed the trail, marking an irregular, zig-zagging path and pausing to every so often examine minutiae as he did. "There's a smear on the pavement here—he stumbled, caught himself. Looked back, then. Chased by the infected, why else would anyone run while looking behind him?" He followed the trail back to the petrol station, settling into his laser-focused deductive mindset. "At least two others intersected his path, threw the Molotovs at his pursuers." He traced the trajectory through the air and pointed to shoe prints melted into asphalt. "Idiots. The infected don't respond to pain. Setting them on fire would only turn them into ambulatory infernos with intent to tear off your face." He spun around, regarding the pumps. "One of them opened the valve, slipped in a bomb. They ran..." he scanned the buildings, then pointed. "There. Given the momentum of the one being chased, he would run in that direction, and that building is the most protected from the blast." He ran over, John trailing behind, and pulled out his magnifier to examine the brickwork. "Yesss," he hissed. "Blood. Careless. His companions were cannier, though. See, the blood trail ends." He rose, tucking the magnifier back in its pocket. His face was contemplative.
"Brilliant as usual," John said. He looked about, played the scene as Sherlock described it, then paused. "Only, how do you figure it was a coma patient?"
Sherlock smirked. He practically skipped back to the beginning of the blood trail. John followed, scanning the empty streets. Sherlock paid no mind, his attention devoted to unrolling his deductions. "Who would wander about with dehydrating fizzy drinks when pure water is a far more precious commodity? Who would have a bleeding wound, but not bother to tend it properly? Who," he bent to snatch up a loose £10 note, crispy and browned from said fizzy drinks, "would carry around money these days?" He tossed the note away, then pulled a torn scrap of cotton from the jagged edge of a car door. "Hospital green, wouldn't you say, John? Scrubs. So, he came from a hospital, but wasn't a medical professional, or else he wouldn't have left a bleeding wound unattended. The blood isn't in large quantity, though; not a large wound. Most likely an IV inexpertly taken out, and the scab wrenched off in the excitement. He was unaware of the crisis; why else would he collect money, or be so foolish as to attract the attention of the infected? Combine that with his inappropriate attire and provisions and you inevitably reach the conclusion that he has, for the last 28 days, been in a coma, and thus is either exceptionally lucky or remarkably unfortunate."
John let out a low whistle. "Hope the people who found him broke it gently."
Sherlock waved it aside. "Irrelevant. He's probably dead or infected by now."
John felt his expression tighten. He looked away. Much as Sherlock's disregard angered him, he was also right. The odds of survival in London these days were slim. He glanced skyward. Nearing mid-afternoon. Time to go.
"We'll not make it back to Baker Street," he muttered. "Best find somewhere we can kip for the night."
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise, engrossed in his mental raptures. John sighed, offered a prayer for strength, then grabbed Sherlock's elbow to drag him along. "Come on. We're going."
"What? No, I'm not done—"
"Yes, you are."
"I need to—"
"No, you don't."
Sherlock wrested his arm from John's grip, rounding to face him. His eyes were slitted with anger. "I realise you haven't the mental capacity of a grapefruit, but try to understand one tiny, miniscule fact. My brain requires stimulation lest it disintegrate, and I will not be impeded by your infantile fear of the dark!"
That was more than enough. Seizing Sherlock's lapels, John dragged him down to meet his gaze directly. "When that sun goes down, our ability to see the infected and to negotiate the terrain will be severely hampered, do you understand me, Sherlock? It is not infantile to seek shelter when you are vulnerable, especially in a war zone. I have compromised by letting you out of the flat. I have followed you and watched your idiot back, and I will be damned," he punctuated his words by shaking Sherlock ever so slightly, "if your stubbornness and death wish get us killed, or worse. Is that clear?"
Sherlock's eyes were wide.
"Is that clear!"
Sherlock pulled himself free from John's grasp, straightening and smoothing down his rumpled lapels. "Quite clear," he said, but his manner was too subdued to give his words the snap they aspired to.
John gave a curt nod. "Good. Move." He led the way down the street, choosing westerly routes while the sun was still high enough not to shine in their eyes. Behind him, Sherlock was pensive, but at least not surly.
John felt his skin crawling in nervous anticipation. Two days in the open, and aside from the carnage at the petrol station they'd seen neither hide nor hair of infected. He could feel Afghanistan pressing close in the corners of his vision, wheeling hawks and squat, mountain scrub overlaying the pigeons and pavement of infected London. He forced the memories back and picked up the pace, scanning for potential shelter.
"There." Sherlock's hushed baritone cut through the silence even as his long fingers snagged John's elbow. "That church. It's open; no need to break in."
John threw him incredulous glance. "Do you want me to make a list of reasons why that is an incredibly bad idea?"
Sherlock squinted at him, indignation warring with confusion and curiosity. John wondered how he could squeeze all those feelings into one expression. John wondered how he, himself could recognise them.
He sighed, cast a glance about the deserted street. "Never seen a zombie movie, utterly ignores current events. Probably never gave a second thought to panicked crowd dynamics. Right. Okay, people go to places of security when threatened, churches included. The virus would have torn through them, that densely packed. If that church is anything but a charnel house I'll eat your violin."
Sherlock scowled at him, but lodged no further protest. They carried on.
OOO
They found shelter in an abandoned used bookstore. Unlike the other shops on the street, its windows were still intact, protected by lowered security gates, and the door was primly locked.
"What if there's an alarm?" John asked, watching Sherlock pull out his lockpicking kit.
"Of course there's not an alarm," Sherlock replied, kneeling before the deadbolt. "The 'security' measures are laughable as it is." A minute's fiddling and he had all the locks open, and the scent of newsprint and dust wafted out to mingle with the smell of hot asphalt. They pushed inside.
Whoever Simmons and his Sons had been, they had not been tidy. Bookcases lined the walls and stood in neat rows, but there ended any semblance of organisation. Books were everywhere: crammed onto overstuffed shelves, piled on the floor to lean against the bookcases, and stacked so high against the counter that the till was almost entirely obscured. The only thing more prevalent than books was dust, and John had a feeling it predated the outbreak. He shucked his pack, leaning it against the pulp paperbacks skirting the bottom of the window.
Together he and Sherlock searched the poky little shop, slipping between the shelves to clear each pile and book-filled cranny. John was unpleasantly reminded of ousting Afghanis from their homes so his squad could search for insurgents. He felt the heat of the Afghan summer, his pack heavy and hot against his back, and the harsh sunlight peculiar to Afghanistan was blinding in his eyes—then Sherlock turned away, sweeping the beam of his torch from John's face. John shook himself and eased his grip on his pistol.
The shop, while crammed with a bibliophile's wildest fantasy, was empty of infected. John felt the anxious knot in his gut release. "We'll need to barricade the door," he said, eyeing a bookcase that looked small enough to move. There was no answer. John turned around, panic rearing. "Sherlock? Sherlock!"
An annoyed bellow of "What!" nearly stopped John's heart with relief, and he stumbled over messy stacks to peer down the aisle. Sherlock was standing halfway down, bent over an open book and reading by the light of his torch.
"You... you great, sodding arse," John wheezed. "Answer me when I call your name! I thought something had happened to you!"
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Patently, I'm fine. Now go away, I'm busy."
He had clearly put John out of his mind, and rather than fight John cut his losses. The bookcase couldn't be that heavy.
Sizing it up and examining how best to place it, John spared a moment to think back to his unit. He had been a surgeon, yes—the only one who had insisted on deploying as a field medic rather than suffer being squirrelled away on a base or outpost, and his unit had all consisted of tall, strapping lads for whom moving a bookcase would be a trifle. Sighing, John planted his feet, dug in his good shoulder and shoved. His bad shoulder protested, but there was nothing for it. He gritted his teeth and walked the bookcase toward the door until he had it wedged against the door post. Between that and the locks it should give an infected pause. He looked back down the aisle; Sherlock was still entranced in the science section. John sighed and fetched their bags.
It was a hot, muggy night in the middle of a hot, muggy summer and the heat was even worse in the back office, but John wasn't taking the slightest chance that an infected would get them. They would sleep in a windowless room behind two barricades or not at all. He did, however, take advantage of the opportunity to strip off the layers of protective clothing. He sighed, shrugging his shoulders and rubbing out the aches the pack straps had pressed into them.
Dark had fallen by the time he re-emerged into the shop proper, stripped to his shirtsleeves and bearing food. Sherlock had likewise doffed his coat and relocated to the floor, the heaps of books around him shifted into a makeshift fort. "You know you're going to have to leave them, eventually," John said, tossing an apple at Sherlock's head.
Sherlock caught it and started tearing off bites without bothering to stop reading. He said nothing to John.
"Like that, is it. Fine by me." John grunted, easing himself to the floor beside the outer bulwark. The top title read Standards for Data Collection from Human Skeletal Remains. "Riveting," John said. Sherlock didn't react. "Oh, no, don't mind me. Keep calm and all that. I'll just be over here eating my oranges." He popped a hole in the lid with his pocket knife, sawing away until there was a big enough hole to stick a fork through. He dug in.
He stifled a groan at the first bite. "God, you can practically taste the vitamin C. I tell you, Sherlock, whatever else it's done the end of the world has made keeping a healthy diet bloody difficult."
Sherlock finally tore himself from his book to level a blank stare at him. "John. Kindly shut up."
"Only if you do. Sweet Mary and Joseph, the racket you've made all evening."
Sherlock glared. "Religious oaths don't become you," he said before pointedly returning to his book. John smirked and finished his oranges.
OOO
"I want to go to Mycroft's."
John heaved a tired sigh and rolled over. "What was that?"
He couldn't see Sherlock through the pitch black of the back office, but he could feel his reproach like a wet blanket. A smelly, wool blanket that itched. He looked over to where he knew Sherlock was lying. All he could make out was a shadowy lump of approximately Sherlock's dimensions. The lump huffed. "I said, I want to go to Mycroft's."
"Oh," John said, suddenly glad for the darkness. "Um. Well, we're out and about anyway, can't hurt to extend the trip."
"Tomorrow."
"Right."
Silence fell once again between them, and John gradually felt his tension ease away. Just before he fell back to sleep he thought he heard Sherlock say something, but in the morning he decided it must have been a dream.
It sounded as though he had said "Thank you."
OOO
Mycroft's townhouse was a block over from Hyde Park. It was close enough to the centre of things to keep and eye on them, but far enough back to maintain the fiction of his being a mere minor official in Her Majesty's Government.
Of course, that had been back when there was a government to officiate in.
The manicured hedgerows and topiaries that lined the elegantly understated drive had had grown quite awry, and the illusion of normalcy offered by the gardens and parked cars was entirely shattered by the bloody smears and broken windows.
Sherlock walked point this time, familiar with the neighbourhood as John wasn't, and John could see the tension boiling across his broad shoulders. He scanned the blank windows and untamed landscaping and spared a moment to marvel at the luxury, however tarnished, that surrounded them.
It made it all the stranger when he recognised the infected that leapt out them, scrambling from between the tidily arrayed rubbish bins and the overgrown azaleas with a gurgling shriek. John felt his eyes widen in shock, and only just remembered his poker in time to bat their local MP's hands away from grabbing his jacket.
Sherlock made quick work of the man after that, cleaving through the tender gap between neck and shoulder.
"I voted for him," John said, running a trembling palm down his face.
"I didn't," Sherlock replied, then wiped his blade on the man's ragged designer suit. He turned on his heel and marched down the street.
They found Mycroft's home immaculate, untouched by either looters or infected. The living room ("front parlour," Sherlock corrected in a flat voice) struck the perfect balance between comfortable and polished—just right to recommend the owner's taste without flaunting it. Cream brocade sofas lounged on thick oriental rugs, and on the damask-covered walls modern art mingled with landscapes John was certain exceeded his yearly income by an absurd degree. He couldn't help an involuntary shiver. Inside: the perfect picture of urban wealth. A show home, a trophy home; one hundred percent mundane. Outside: hell. He looked out a side window to see bloody scraps of clothes and bone jumbled against a fence post. He swallowed and turned to Sherlock.
The younger Holmes stood in the door to the formal dining room, and it was only his discerning gaze where Sherlock was concerned that let John see he was deeply unsettled. It was in his eyes, John decided. They were a touch too wide.
"That's it, we're leaving," he said, and hauled Sherlock back out to the street.
"There was nothing," Sherlock said, stumbling down the steps. "No scuff marks, no pens on the wrong side, not even a note."
"Funny how you put a note last," John muttered, steadying Sherlock when he wobbled.
"I couldn't—there was nothing."
John looked back to the imposing limestone façade. "D'you want to go back? We only checked the one floor."
"No," Sherlock choked out. He barrelled into the middle of the street, distancing himself from his brother's home. "Then I might see something."
To be burdened with the curse of knowledge, John thought, catching up to Sherlock and grimly leading him away. The only thing worse than not knowing is knowing. "I wouldn't worry about your brother," John said. "He's probably safe and sipping some poncey cocktail on a beach in France. In his three-piece suit and umbrella."
Sherlock's breath shuddered out of him. "Brandy. Not a cocktail."
John stifled a sigh of relief. "Whatever. Trust Mycroft to be late to the end of the world."
Sherlock huffed something that might have been a laugh.
They walked.
OOO
They spent the night in a properly looted townhouse two blocks over. They barricaded themselves in the butler's pantry, and John forced himself not to give in to the urge to wrap himself around Sherlock's huddled form.
Sleep did not come easily.
OOO
He'd lost the poker three zombies back—fuck the virus, dead or living, these were zombies—and he drew the SIG. It was a calculated risk. The noise of the gun would draw more, but it'd get them clear for a short while. At his side, Sherlock was hacking off limbs, his movements artless but his grip on the talwar sure.
They'd gone down an alley, a shortcut, Sherlock had said, to try and race the sunset home to Baker Street. Instead, they found themselves trapped between an overflowing skip and a horde of rabid infected. John fired. An eye, one infected down. Shoulder. Neck. Forehead. Chest. Five shots, five infected down, and just like that the horde was reduced to mere corpses.
Sherlock stared at him across the charnel, the sudden silence deafening. John hazarded a smile, adrenaline warring with sweet relief in his veins, and he turned away for a single moment, an insignificant, meaningless moment, to scan the end of the alley. No sooner had he turned his head than behind him he heard the frantic scuffle of trainers on asphalt, a harsh cry and a growl, and a wet, tearing sound followed by a meaty thud. He spun back to see Sherlock wavering, a twitching body at his feet and his hand to his throat, dark blood seeping out between his fingers. John took in Sherlock's wide, scared eyes, the outline of teeth bloody against his pale skin, and all John thought, all he could think, was thank god it didn't puncture the carotid.
"John," Sherlock said, and his voice was ragged. The sword slipped from his fingers to clatter on the pavement.
Goose flesh raised across John's skin. "Let me see the wound," he said, and his own voice was unrecognisable. He pulled off his jacket, tucked away his gun. Wiped the blood off his hands.
"John, I've only a few moments, you need to—"
"Let. Me. See it." He tugged at Sherlock's scarf, unwinding it from his neck and bunching it into a makeshift bandage. Sherlock pulled his hand away. His fingers were trembling. Carefully, oh-so-carefully, John wiped away the excess blood until the b— the wound was clear. John packed the wadded scarf against it.
"Hold that in place," he ordered. His hands were shaking, both of them. He wouldn't be able to doctor anything here. They'd have to get somewhere safer. Baker Street was preferable, but—
"John."
—that was too far. Maybe if they went to St. Bart's. They could do that.
"John."
John looked at Sherlock. His flatmate's face was white as Dover's cliffs and his breathing uneven. "You need to leave now."
"Go to Hell," John snapped, unthinking.
"I am," Sherlock bit back, and John's heart leapt to his throat, lodged there like a pulsating, bloody stone. He tried to swallow it down.
"Sherlock..."
"Go, John. Please."
John sucked in a harsh breath. "I can't," he said. "I won't leave you."
"Then..." Sherlock pulled up the sword, otherwise forgotten. He presented it hilt-first.
John knocked it aside, the anger roaring up inside to turn his vision bleeding, infected red. "You idiot," he hissed, seizing Sherlock's lapels and slamming him back into the brickwork. "you absolute, fucking moron. You think I can kill you?"
Sherlock's eyes were bright, the blood stark against his skin. "Better than my killing you," he whispered.
John blinked, then growled and seized Sherlock's face, dragging him down to mash their lips together. He prised his lips apart and gave a swipe of his tongue for good measure, the metallic tang of blood sharp to the taste. "Now put pressure on the Goddamned wound," he hissed.
Sherlock stared at him for a bare moment, eyes wide and lips red, and then he started to laugh, sinking down the wall until he was sitting on the grubby pavement and laughing his idiot, moronic head off. Lacking anything better to do, John sat down beside him. His chest was too tight for laughter.
"It been a pleasure knowing you, John Watson," Sherlock said when his laughter eased. He held out his hand, waiting.
"Wish I could say the same," John muttered, but he took the hand, twining their fingers until their knuckles turned white. The sound of their ragged breathing mingled, loud in the narrow alley. John waited—he wasn't sure what for, perhaps anger, or hunger. Increased heart-rate and temperature at the least. He waited for his thoughts to spiral inward to a singular, insane purpose. Sherlock's hand was clammy in his, and he waited.
And waited.
He shifted on the pavement, twitching as a crow squawked in the distance. "Nothing's happened," he said. "We should—it's been more than long enough, why haven't we...?" He turned to Sherlock. His flatmate's eyes had that sharp, piercing look they got when he was fitting the pieces together.
"Baskerville," he murmured.
"Sorry?" John said. Every muscle in his body was strung tight, his shoulder aching at the tension.
"Baskerville," Sherlock repeated. "They say the virus originated at Baskerville. We must have been inoculated when we were there."
John scoffed in sheer incredulity. "That's a stretch, even for you."
"What—no, it's not! Honestly, it's like explaining titration to a three-year-old. Think, John. Dr. Frankland's compound, the H.O.U.N.D. compound. It provoked paranoia, uncontrollable rage, and violent tendencies in the original test subjects, and was proven once more to do the same in the case of Henry Knight. With Frankland killed, his research would have been unattended, unmonitored and uncontrolled. What if it were to infect the animal population of Baskerville? What if they sent those infected animals to Cambridge—"
"Where activists let them loose," John finished, ice slipping down his spine. "So, what? You're saying that since we were exposed to it we're immune?"
"More or less," Sherlock said, and his attention was already turning inward, puzzling out this new problem. "I imagine there are a number of researchers from Baskerville wandering about, distressingly sane. To say nothing of Lestrade and Henry Knight."
John felt an odd twinge go through him at Lestrade's name. He'd assumed the inspector had died or turned with the rest of England's population, and barely spared him a thought since. Mrs. Hudson, rest her soul, had taught him better than to wonder about the fates of those he knew. The twining guilt and hope in his chest made for strange bedfellows.
"I've got to get to St. Bart's," Sherlock declared, pulling himself to his feet and retrieving his sword. He tossed the sodden scarf aside. "They'll have generators and the equipment I need." He strode down the alley, not bothering to wait for John.
John growled and hauled himself to his feet, pausing only to fetch his forgotten poker before running after his idiot of a flatmate.
Someone had to make sure he didn't get himself killed.
OOO
John rolled onto his back to stare at the ceiling. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that sprang from solid walls and a distinct lack of people. It was unnaturally quiet, even for a hospital call-room. The vending machines in the next room were dark, and the hum of ventilation noticeable in its absence. The telly should have been blaring tinned laughter through the thin bunk-room door, muffling the tired conversation of night-shift workers on break. There should have been the squeak of rubber soles against the tiles in the hall, the clatter of the janitor pushing his cart. Above all, beyond the shelter of St. Bart's walls there should have been the insistent pulse of London herself, her revving engines and shouts and rude, strident horns.
John had grown accustomed to the quiet at Baker Street. He had come to appreciate it as an early-warning system, but here at Bart's the lack of sound was jarring all over again. It, like everything else in this newly-minted hellhole, put him in mind of Afghanistan, of that breathless moment just before a mortar hit.
Sherlock was two doors down, in the largest of several chemistry labs in this particular wing. Three days previous they had blocked off either end of the hall and cleared out both infected and corpses, kicked the back-up generator back into working order and raided the entire research building for supplies not yet spoiled past use. Sherlock had sat still long enough for John to clean and suture the bite, squirming and scowling the whole way through, before scampering off to play with his chemistry set. It had been the last time John had seen him away from that lab by choice in three days.
For his part, John spent the time foraging for supplies, scouting the perimeter he had set up around their impromptu redoubt, and forcing away thoughts of That Day.
They had no business lingering the way they did. It hadn't even been a fatal wound, barely puncturing the skin. The worst concern should have been ordinary infection. Instead, every time John tried to sleep he saw Sherlock's stricken expression drawn across his eyelids, and felt the ghost of that leaden drop of horror in the pit of his stomach. It tore him awake more frequently than his old dreams, replacing sand and armour and blood with cold brick and wool and infinitely more precious blood spilling over his panicked fingers.
John drove the heels of his palms into his eyes, forcing the memories away. He went through the breathing exercises his therapist had taught him. His lips tingled with sense memory, undimmed despite three days' distance, and he flushed in schoolyard embarrassment.
He'd kissed Sherlock Holmes. He wondered if he'd gone mad with the rest of the world.
Eventually his heart rate lowered. He sat up. Clearly sleep was a lost cause. Tugging on a jumper and his trousers and slipping bare feet into his trainers, he abandoned the call-room in favour of the dimly-lit corridor beyond. He didn't want to be alone tonight.
The only light spilled through the window of Sherlock's new headquarters, illuminating in jagged shadows the scattered debris left in the the chaos of the past month. Overturned lab benches, broken glass, streaks of blood along soothing taupe walls and the odd piece of hideously expensive lab equipment tossed through a window. John picked his way through the mess toward the door.
Sherlock was hunched over the microscope like some overgrown carrion bird, muttering to himself and scribbling down notes in his scrawling, illegible hand. Almost against his will John felt a rush of fond affection. Some things never changed. The sun would rise in the east, Sherlock would obsess over his latest project and John would be there, guarding his back.
Sherlock glanced up as John came through the door. "John. Good. Fetch me sample set 3A."
Lips twisting with an emotion he didn't care to parse out, John "fetched." He laid it at Sherlock's elbow. "Are you at a delicate, time-sentitive or particularly gripping point in your research?"
Sherlock separated himself from the microscope long enough to spare John a puzzled frown. "No. What—"
"Good. I need to check the dressing, and you need to take a break."
Sherlock's puzzlement morphed into irritation, and his fingers actually clenched around the microscope as though to prevent it being taken from him. "Unnecessary. I thank you for your concern, however."
"Nope. You're leaving this lab, you are going to let me change your dressing, and you will eat." Sherlock's expression went mulish. "Don't make me drag you out of here, because you know I will and if you fight me something could break. "
Sherlock looked like he'd sucked on a lemon. "Really, John? Threatening my experiments?"
"Never," John said cheerfully. "Glass makes a frightful mess. I'd know better."
Sherlock huffed and stood, rising only to slump forward over the lab bench. John was at his side almost before he registered moving, supporting his idiot flatmate as he crashed from the adrenaline-fuelled high he'd forced himself into.
"Up you go," he said, propping Sherlock's spindly frame against his own. "Let's get you to bed. Saving the world can wait." He guided Sherlock through the door, snapping off the lights as he went, and negotiated them through the minefield to the deserted call-room.
"Don' wan' t'sleep," Sherlock mumbled into John's neck as John settled him on the bed.
"Yes, you do," John told him. "Trust me. You're halfway there already."
"No'm not. Lemme up, m'almost done isolating the key proteins..."
"The proteins will still be there in the morning."
Sherlock sighed and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow. He promptly began to snore.
John sat on the other bed and watched Sherlock sleep. Ungraceful snores aside, his very presence in the room was a balm. John pressed his fingers against his neck, where the half-asleep brush of Sherlock's lips had raised goose flesh. He curled up on the lumpy hospital mattress and fell asleep to the sound of Sherlock.
OOO
Two days later, the sound of breaking glass shattered the the tense air of the lab. John caught Sherlock's arm before he could throw more glassware.
"What the hell is wrong with you!"
Sherlock gave him a poisonous glare and tore his arm free to throw the beaker the way of the unfortunate erlenmeyer flask. Broken shards showered the tiles. "It's not working!"
John cast his eyes heavenward. "Because clearly breaking lab equipment will help!"
"No, you twit, but it makes me feel better!" Dead silence fell on that pronouncement, and John was sure his eyes were as wide as Sherlock's.
"Do... D'you think you could repeat that?" John eventually said. "I want to record it for posterity."
"Go away."
OOO
It was later, when John found Sherlock with his head in his hands, that he risked laying his own hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The warmth of his skin seeped through layers of fine, tailored cloth to sear John's fingers.
"You'll find it," he said.
Sherlock sighed, slipped his hand over John's. "Always such faith."
John shrugged. "You're Sherlock Holmes. If there's an answer you'll find it out of sheer bloody-mindedness."
Sherlock huffed a soft laugh. "And you'll be there to blog about it."
"Not much call for bloggers, these days." John pulled away, flexing his hand into a fist to try and retain the warmth.
Sherlock turned on his stool, his grey cat-eyes burning. "I will always have need of my blogger."
John said nothing. It was through no choice of his own; he was quite sure his vocal chords had been paralysed with the rest of him.
"John?" Sherlock was uncertain. This stone-cold, dead-certain man was biting his lip with worry. He half rose from his seat. "John, I—"
John broke free from his paralysis and once again grabbed Sherlock's head to drag him down into a kiss. Once again it was more desperation than finesse, their teeth clacking together and noses bumping awkwardly. Then Sherlock tilted his head just so, and suddenly it was perfect. John crowded him back against the workbench and sucked his lower lip into his mouth. The sound he made was sweet to John's ears.
Moments passed, possibly eons; John stopped paying attention, caught in the slip of tongue against tongue and the shocky rasp of stubble on sensitive skin. Eventually Sherlock pulled away, his breath hot on John's cheek. "Perhaps this shift in our relationship will allow you to let me finish my sentences."
"You weren't going to say anything important, anyway."
"Everything I say is important."
"No, it's not."
Sherlock reared back in indignation. "That's—"
John dragged his head back down. "Shut up and kiss me, damn you."
OOO
They lay twined together in that tiny call-room bed, sweat cooling on their skin. The silence was thick and languorous, marked by their slowing breath and the steady thud of their heart beats. John idly trailed his fingers down Sherlock's side.
"I thought this wasn't really your area."
Sherlock grunted. "I might say the same of you. I would say bisexual, you certainly go through enough women, but you've not shown any inclinations toward men."
John shrugged a shoulder. "One thing about the Army, it teaches you discretion."
Silence fell again, but it had changed into something more pensive. "You haven't had a male lover since moving in to Baker Street."
John's hand stilled on Sherlock's skin. "Well, no."
Why is that?"
"You might say they had too much to measure up to." He resumed stroking Sherlock's skin. Goose flesh rose beneath his fingers.
Sherlock cleared his throat. "I see."
John felt his lips quirk up. "Do you."
Instead of responding, Sherlock ran a hand over the scar on John's shoulder. He seemed to be marshalling his thoughts. John waited. "I don't find sex unpleasant—to the contrary. The emotional entanglements it requires, however, are more bother than it's worth. With few exceptions."
John felt a lump rise in his throat. "Ah," he murmured, and shifted himself closer, pressing his chest against Sherlock's. "I'd best not bollocks it up, then."
Sherlock snorted. "That would be counter-productive, John."
John slapped him. It was loud in the small room, but it was underscored by muffled giggles.
OOO
A week passed. Two. Sherlock remained fixed to the microscope, swinging between denouncing the end of the world as an annoyance and a positive godsend for having given him unlimited lab access. John rolled his eyes and made extra trips to Baker Street for personal effects. He didn't bother trying to remove Sherlock from St. Bart's; it was miracle enough just getting him to eat and sleep.
The first trip was uneventful, scooping up fresh clothes so Sherlock would stop complaining. They washed what they had at the lab—there was plenty of distilled water on hand for washing and drinking—but Himself protested wearing the same clothes for days on end. John picked his battles. To be honest, he was sick of wearing the same pants, too.
Armed with Sherlock's talwar and his own gun he quick-marched through the streets, eyes up and ears pricked for the slightest sound of life. Nothing came his way, not even a stray cat.
The second trip was for half of Sherlock's library. John had put his foot down on that one. If Sherlock wanted his books he could get them himself. John wasn't his errand boy.
The conversation on the way alternated between lists of John's idiocy and Sherlock's predictions of experimental doom. John didn't much care. Sherlock needed the vitamin D, and he'd be damned if he was carrying all those bloody books alone.
The third trip wasn't to Baker Street at all but around the corner to Sainsbury's, and it was an unmitigated disaster. John stumbled back to the hospital, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, and Sherlock must have deduced his state from something absolutely ridiculous, like how he removed the barricade, because the prat was waiting and frantic with worry.
They retired to one of the other labs, long-since converted to a field hospital at John's insistence, and Sherlock tended to the many cuts, lacerations and bites with every ounce of his singular focus. John sat on the lab bench gazed down at him from above. His grey eyes were hidden behind his wild fringe, and his cheekbones had been brought into clear relief by their less-than-optimal diet. He looked the way he had when John had first met him, half-starved and neglected from impatience. John ran his fingers through the dark curls, stroking, reassuring. Sherlock sighed, resting his forehead on John's shoulder.
"You've—just because you can't..." He straightened, gathering himself. "I trust you'll take better care of yourself in future," he said, clearly working for serenity but falling several yards short. "It would be most inconvenient if you... died."
"I'll be fine," John said, stroking his face. "See? Just scratches."
Sherlock shook his head, his eyes intent. "John. You must not die." His hand tightened where it rested on John's knee, compressing a bruise, and John couldn't help twitching from the pain. Sherlock let go as though he'd been burned, eyes dark with fear and self-recrimination, and he went back to tending John's wounds in silence.
That night he gripped John tighter than usual, digging fingernails into his back as they worked together, whispering apologies and prayers and threats into John's neck before he spilled between them, shuddering.
John was sobered by Sherlock's devotion. It didn't, however, stop him from his forays. They had to eat, after all, and Sherlock was working on... whatever it was he was working on.
It was something to do.
OOO
"John."
John ignored him.
"John."
He turned a page.
"John."
"What, Sherlock."
"I need a specimen."
"You—wait, what?!"
OOO
Only Sherlock bloody Holmes. He caved, of course.
OOO
It had taken both of them, and in the end it had proven almost too easy. John had gone down Newgate, banging a pilfered pot with his poker and bellowing old army cadences as loud as he could.
The hardest part was fending off the swarm of infected that came down on him. Sherlock waded in as soon as they appeared, hacking arms and disembowelling with unnerving élan, and John joined in with no small amount of glee, himself.
He was pretty sure his therapist would have called it cathartic. Either that or borderline-sociopathic.
The last infected standing was a woman in her mid-to-late forties wearing jogging shorts, and infection aside, she was in ghastly condition. Supplies were growing scarce even for flesh-eating maniacs, John supposed. Her movements were uncoordinated and weak, and her attacks frankly pathetic. When she tried to bite Sherlock's arm through his coat, however, John's sympathy tapered off dramatically.
"Right," he said, and dragging her back by her hair, he proceeded to slam her face-first into the closest wall. She collapsed in a groaning heap. "Duct tape," he called out, and Sherlock obediently slapped the roll in his outstretched hand. He wound tape around her wrists like he was wrapping a sprained ankle, and topped it off with a strip across her mouth. Her eyes when he met them were blood-shot and insane. She lunged toward John's face, heedless of the tape sealing her mouth, and he jerked back reflexively.
"What did you want her for, anyway?" He asked. "Specifically."
Sherlock tugged the woman up by her elbow, steadying her and holding her off when she made to attack him. "I plan to inject her with a formula I've derived from our blood," he replied. "If all goes according to plan she'll be cured."
John reached for her other arm, and between them they dragged her back to St. Bart's. "Of course. Kidnap a bloodthirsty, rabid zombie for testing because you think you might have the cure. What was I thinking."
Sherlock frowned at him over her head. "She's not a zombie," he said.
"No?"
"No. She's neither a catatonic soul-slave nor a reanimated corpse. The term in inaccurate."
"She's infected with a virus that turned her into an adrenalised cannibal. Who tried to eat my face. I'll call her whatever I like."
Sherlock pursed his lips. John flipped him the V. Between them, the zombie moaned around the tape.
OOO
They kept her in the infirmary lab, tied to the fume hood. Her moans were unnerving. John didn't bother trying to sleep; instead, he helped Sherlock prepare the formula. It was the faint amber colour of diluted plasma.
The infected lunged at them as soon as she saw them, her mutterings morphing to full-blown shrieks. "Right," John said. "You hold her down, I'll administer the shot. Does it need to be intravenous or in the tissues?"
"Best in the tissues," Sherlock "I modelled it after the rabies vaccine."
"Shot in the arse, then. Flip her over."
Looking back on it, the best John could say was that it went quickly. He injected the shot, the woman shrieked, they backed away to watch. Twenty minutes later she was dead.
Sherlock stared at the corpse, expression unreadable. He whirled and left the room, and across the hall the door to his lab slammed shut. John sighed and began to untie her.
OOO
It took four more dead infected, four different iterations of the formula, for Sherlock to give up. "It was a long shot, anyway," he said.
John saw the emptiness in his friend's gaze, however, and thought perhaps that even for Sherlock Holmes it was getting too painful to hope. He said nothing when they moved out of St. Bart's and back into Baker Street, but instead of taking to his own bed he climbed into Sherlock's and wrapped himself around as much of him as possible. Sherlock clung to him and together they drifted to sleep.
He woke in the middle of the night to the sound of the violin. He swallowed and listened, and waited for Sherlock to come back to bed.
He fell asleep waiting.
OOO
The next day, John reached for the wind-up radio, still buried in the sofa cushions despite three weeks' absence. He cranked it up and scanned through the frequencies, searching for the broken transmission from a military base up north. There was nothing.
"Looks like they've gone under, too," he said, and ignored the sinking feeling in his chest. He set aside the radio. Sherlock was standing at the window, staring out onto the deserted street. He said nothing.
"Well. Tea, then." John rose from his chair and bustled about the kitchen, heating the kettle on a pilfered bunsen burner from Sherlock's lab. He looked for some biscuits to eat with the tea, but they were all gone. John sighed and stared out the kitchen window, waiting for the kettle to boil. He suddenly felt very old.
OOO
Three days later, a jet screamed over London, the first in over two months. It drew Sherlock from his torpor. "John!" He bellowed. "The flares!"
"On it!" John yelled back, snatching the flare gun from the desk and following Sherlock through the bedroom and out onto the fire escape. Together they thundered up to the roof. There, circling back to fly over a second time, was a military jet, stark and beautiful against the cloudless sky.
John fired the flare, and he and Sherlock both howled like madmen as the plane roared by.
OOO
The helicopter made for Regent's Park, the churn of its rotors like thunder over the empty rooftops. They were ready. Sherlock opened the bedroom window; John tossed him his pack before shrugging on his own and shimmying through. Outside, they threw caution to the wind, the clatter of their shoes echoing across the blank façades. It had been four days since they'd last seen an infected, and it had been a wasted, pathetic creature. John had shot it less for safety than mercy.
They rounded Allsop just in time to watch a Caracal bearing French colours touch down on the greensward beyond the lake. Abandoning all pretence at covertcy, they raced toward the craft, their footsteps clattering across the footbridge and around the Inner Circle to meet the tiny figures even now peeling away from the fuselage.
"Wait, Sherlock—" John's arm pressed across Sherlock's chest, forcing him to a halt. "Slowly. They're wary, in enemy territory."
"Prove we're not infected," he nodded, realisation warring with hope in his eyes. "Hands up?"
John raised his hands, keeping his expression serious despite the hope and mad glee filling his chest. "Right."
They walked the rest of the way toward the helicopter, the morning dew from the uncut lawn soaking their trousers to the knee. The soldiers stood at the ready, their weapons drawn but not raised.
"We're not infected," John called, in his most carrying parade ground voice.
"Nous ne sommes pas infectés!"
The soldiers visibly relaxed, and one turned to look behind, addressing someone still in the helicopter. Beside him, John felt Sherlock perk up, felt the flare of his curiosity and impatience and, above all, his hope, as clearly as though he was watching his face.
The soldier nodded and turned back to face forward, muttering a command to the others. They lowered their weapons. As if cued, a tall, suit-clad figure unfolded itself from the cargo bay. Sherlock's breath shuddered out of his chest, and he pushed forward, almost running the rest of the distance.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said, stepping past the line of wary soldiers. His face was a study in restrained happiness and relief. He held out a hand, fingers trembling.
Sherlock disregarded it entirely in favour of wrapping his brother in a crushing hug.
They parted a moment later, primly rearranging their mussed clothing, but neither could stifle their idiot smiles nor the dampness at the corners of their eyes. John walked up, smirking.
"Fancy meeting you here, Mycroft."
"I am pleased to see you survived, Dr. Watson," the great berk said.
John couldn't stop his smile. "Are we to expect tastefully understated threats, now? The helicopter is new, but it's dramatic enough."
"If you are set on that course I'm sure I could provide amply," Mycroft replied.
"Mycroft," Sherlock cut in. "You're late." He glanced to John, and together the both of them dissolved into slightly hysterical giggles that refused to stop.
"Yes, if you could step aboard please," Mycroft said, ushering them aboard the helicopter. "We do have somewhat of a flight ahead of us."
Leaning on each other for support, John and Sherlock staggered into the cargo bay and strapped themselves in. The escort followed them, and the roar of the rotors surged.
John watched as London shrank below them, its vibrancy reduced to little more than a ghost city. His heart rose into the sky with the helicopter, and he twined his fingers with Sherlock's. Sherlock squeezed his hand gently, in reassurance, in promise.
It was over.
OOO
Epilogue
They opened the Scotch that evening, while under quarantine in Calais. There were others in containment, other survivors plucked from the wreckage of civilisation. John dragged Sherlock over to meet them, curious, and poured whisky into the plastic cups provided by the guards.
The girl stared at the bottle, and tears were thick in her voice. "It was Dad's favourite," she mumbled, and the woman, Selena, wrapped an arm about her shoulders.
"Drink it to remember him by," she said, and took a healthy swig of her own.
"Pity it's not proper Irish whiskey," Jim said, feigning jocularity, and John paused to consider the odds of their meeting another dark-haired Irishman named Jim. He snorted.
"Irish whiskey's all well and good, but Scotch puts the fire in your belly."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ridiculous."
John jabbed a finger at him. "Agar."
"That's entirely different."
"No, it's not, otherwise you wouldn't have put up a fuss about getting the wrong kind."
Sherlock sniffed and sipped his whisky.
Jim watched them, then swallowed. John braced himself for the Question. "So... how did you get out?"
John huffed a sigh. "Luck, mostly. Sheer dumb luck." Sherlock stared into his cup. John didn't need to see his expression; they all shared the same haunted look.
Jim laughed a jarring, humourless laugh. "Yeah, tell me about it. I woke up from a coma a month ago. It's a miracle I'm still here."
Sherlock's head jerked up, and John felt his jaw drop. "You're the coma patient?"
Jim's gaze grew wary. "You've heard of me?"
It was John's turn to laugh. "We tracked down your handiwork at the petrol station."
"That was me, actually," Selena interjected. "How did you know he'd been in a coma?"
Sherlock straightened, and a familiar smirk, one John had feared crushed beneath the horror of London, kindled in his eyes. "The same way I know you worked as a chemist, are an able if unremarkable seamstress and have spent at least three weeks in Cumbria. No, four." He turned to John, full of that Look. "Pollen. It never lies."
"Obviously," John replied, stifling his grin at Selena's discomposure. "Amazing, of course." Sherlock preened, and John went about the business of introducing sane people to the genius of Sherlock Holmes.
It almost felt normal.
END