Hi guys Dana here I'll try not to have too many authors notes! I've loved Sherlock for a long time now and I was dying to try out this fic. Hope you like it.
I'm trying to include the perspective of John and Sherlock, their thoughts and such, hope it works! The story starts a few months into the Apocalypse. Zombie apocalypse in case you're wondering. Hopefully I stick to their character but remember people change when trying to survive so please don't kill me if I change them slightly! Any flaws please feel free to point them out to me so I can make the story better, you opinion always helps! Please be kind though I have feelings! :)
Moriarty will appear soon dont worry ;) and there will be Johnlock I promise!

Comic version will come out soon, hopefully!

I redid the entire story as far as Chapter 8, the plot is the same just added a few extra parts!
Please feel free to review! :D

There was a consuming darkness resting outside the windows. A dark shadow was slumped in the center a large well-kept bed. The small shadow was the only life in the house. This shadow was John Watson. John laid in his bed, eyes shut but the rest of his senses alert, just waiting for the next intruder to come pounding through his doors. Four stubby fingers were loosely wrapped around the hilt of his knife. At the end of the bed laid his medic kit, gathering dust also missing a few bandages with a dried blood stain in the corner. On the bedside table rested his loaded Colt M1911 with a few bullets scattered along the table. It was a quiet night for John, the first one in weeks, no undead pounding against the door, no survivors, just the resting doctor. The only noise came from his soft breathing, his chest rising and falling slowly as he enjoyed the rare peace, but with silence came another enemy. Peace in this world never lasted, John's eyebrows begins to furrow as the memories of the outbreak flood his mind, blood, screams, death, Mary.. CRASH!

John bolted upright. The entire house was shrouded in complete darkness but a small trickle of moonlight seeps through the window. Pulling himself out of a stupor his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

"Shit!" John thought. "Raiders, great."

He replaced the knife in his hand with the gun, pulled back the slide and silently opened the door. Wearing only a t-shirt and a loose pair of pajama pants he tiptoes down the stairs. The noise emitting near the end of the hall led John to discover the intruder is in the kitchen. There was frequent muttering and the creak of doors opening. John approached the doorway to the kitchen in deadly silence. The raider, obviously just scavenging for food, seemed to be in a hurry. To John he seemed only a hungry man looking for some food but nonetheless he had to be cautious. A dark shadow was frantically searching through the cupboards throwing the contents into a bag, it glanced around the room. Suddenly its head froze towards the spot where John was standing, it lowered its bag and backed away from the cupboards, hands slightly raised. John swallowed hard before taking a long step into the room. Walkers were much easier to deal with. They weren't people anymore, they weren't able to feel, love, care and dead. People, now in this world, were smart, cunning and dangerous. People were harder to kill because, well they were human, they were just doing the same as John, fighting for tomorrow. John only killed when he was left without a choice. Now he had a choice, but even then he rose his gun and aimed at the figure in front of him.

"Stop." came a deep voice.

He was a man. From the small bit of moonlight John could make out that he was a tall man, a good few inches taller than John but John had the only weapon. This mysterious man turned and took a step towards him, hands still slightly mid air. John didn't move, just adjusted the aim on his weapon slightly.

"One more step and you'll be as dead as those walkers." John warned, his hands steady.

He had no fear of killing a man, he'd done it plenty of times before. In the army, it was all in defense, and now was no different.

"I'm hungry." replied the shadow. "I don't mean any harm, I was just..." He trailed off leaving the pair in silence.

John raised an eyebrow at the strange response.

"We're all hungry now-a-days."

"Not you, you have plenty of food."

"Exactly. I have food you don't. It's mine."

"We could share."

John wavered the gun slightly while he considered the idea, he haven't had a chance to talk to anyone in weeks by now. The last time he met someone she tried to shoot his head off and rob him, she wasn't the only one either. Everyone, who was still capable of breathing that is, changed since the beginning of the pandemic. Friends turned on each other for that last can of beans. Civilization, laws, society had collapsed withing a fortnight. What chance had John trying to calm down a hysterical woman demanding to give him everything he had, but now this man was willing to talk, which was much more than what most people were willing to do now. The stranger noticed John's consideration and lowered his hands until they rested calmly by his side. John shook his head not believing what he was about to do and lowered his weapon.

"Fine hope you like cold soup."

"Delightful." came the sarcastic reply.

John managed to force back a smile as he made his way towards the bag lying on the floor and drew out a can. There was the sound of a chair being pulled out and the figure plonked onto it. John glanced back to catch a glimpse of his strange guests face, but the room was suddenly submerged in darkness as the moon resided behind the clouds. John took out a candle and lit it. The mans face flickered under the little flame. His dark unkempt curls falling over his shallow face, a strong jawline under a dark stubble, with black circles resting under his sunken eyes. It was the face of a man who hadn't eaten or slept in days. He sat there wearing a trench coat with his hands resting on the table twiddling his thumbs as if he'd been there his entire life. John fumbled with the can opener until he finally managed to get it open. He made a mental note to find a more decent can opener the next day. Pouring the contents into a bowl he noticed the stranger was staring intensely right at him. Even in the candle light John couldn't help but notice the attractiveness of the man, he had to remind himself that this man he had never seen in his life and the potential danger he was in. Even still he kept returning the stare. After a few seconds John decided to break the longing silence.

"Who are you?" he said lowering his gaze towards the preserved meal.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes. Ex - consulting detective." His voice broke as if reminding himself of his profession was painful.

"John. John Watson." Sherlock stood up and stretched out his arm, attempting to give him a warm smile but John noticed the smile played only on his lips. His eyes remained cold, calculating.

"Pleasure."

John placed the bowl onto the table and half heartily shook it. It almost felt weird, common courtesy was no longer common but it was still a pleasant feeling. The mans hand were strong, tough as he gave a firm handshake but also freezing. John wondered how long he was out alone for. Sherlock quickly released his hand in order to start his meal. John sat himself at the other end of the table, his gun ready just in-case. He had grabbed a packet of stale biscuits for himself and began to nibble on them not taking his sight off the man across from him.

"Dinner and a candle, how.. romantic."

"Funny.." John muttered.

He smiled. He actually smiled. It felt strange. John hadn't smiled in months and yet this stranger appears in his life and within ten minutes in the company of him, John's smiling. Sherlock gave him a swift tight-lipped smile in return before devouring his meal. When Sherlock scooped the last of the soup into his mouth, he picked up the bowl and placed it in the sink. His hand wavered over the tap for a moment then it fell direfully by his side. His mouth opened, before pausing as if he was pondering on the right words to say.

"Thank you, John."

"Well you didn't try to kill me so, no problem."

Sherlock looked out the window to the blackness outside. It was dangerous out there during the day, even worse at night. It was a miracle that Sherlock even made it to this house, it would be suicide going out there again. John knew what he was thinking, his fingers tightened around his weapon again. John was willing to fight and die for this place, he was kind enough to let him have his meal and then move on. Kindness was view as weak now. Sherlock bent down to retrieve his bag causing John to nervously stand up and re-aim his weapon at Sherlock. Instead of taking out a weapon Sherlock simply threw the bag onto his back, ready to take his leave. Giving John a small nod he took a few steps towards the door. John then made a sudden decision.

"You can spend the night here. I mean as long as you don't do anything rash. You can stay in one of the spare rooms."

His own outburst stunned himself, in his grieving he pushed away anyone who offered to help. Sherlock just looked at him with his head slightly tilted. John couldn't help but feel like he was being examined.

"Okay." came the reply.

He pulled his scarf from around his neck and took off his coat. John leaned over the table and blew out the little flame. When he looked up the man was gone. John could hear a small creak from upstairs telling him that Sherlock was staying in the room across from his. A strange feeling began to form in John, was it hope, happiness or even affection, processing these thoughts John trudged upstairs and fell into his bed. A light snore assured him that his housemate was already asleep.

"What's the point of living if there's nobody to live it with anyway." thought John. "Even if he kills me tonight I couldn't care less." John doubted it. He already began to trust the stranger with the dark curls and deep voice. And with these thoughts he drifted into a dreamless sleep, for the first time in months.