"John," he called "wake up, you're past the limit."
Sherlock sat against the bathroom door across from his KO'd flat mate, nervous. The door was barricaded by the tub (which had taken a great effort to move without help) and a bag complete with clothing and supplies nestled itself under John's head while Sherlocks' lay undone. Clothing had been impatiently tossed out in search for the first-aid box. The first-aid lay next to John, open and messy from long fingers pushing undesired medicines out of the way for bandages.
Standing up, Sherlock moved to inspect his partner's head wound. There was quite a bump on the doctor's frontal and he had made sure to give it a fixing but now Sherlock was worried with the perimeter of time his mate was taking up sleeping. The scratching and moaning at the door had been constant and unsettling since the consulting detective had dragged John into the bathroom. It wasn't safe to stay in their position for much too long. Sherlock knew the door wouldn't last.
After a moment of no response, Sherlock pursed his lips, moved closer and gently shook John by the shoulder. "This isn't the time to be passed out in the bathroom, John."
The poor doctor stirred for a moment before opening his eyes. The light was intense to his corneas and he grimaced with pain. Sherlock quickly flipped the light off. "Sorry, light sensitivity." He said, sitting against the bathroom sink. John groaned, sitting up with a sore head.
"What happened?"
"The telly fell on your head."
John lightly touched the bump and winced. "That's what I get for putting it on top of a bloody pile of wobbly furniture." He grimaced, recalling the barricade that they built infront of the front door.
The whole morning had not been good. He remembered waking up to screams in the street. Public carnage swept over London. Sherlock watched from the window with a pair of binoculars while John watched the television, both of them itching for information. So far, they had been told not to leave their home and to barricade until help arrived, which cued a scoff from Sherlock. If the consulting detective didn't agree with this, John wasn't sure of what to do now. A suspicious sort of infection had spread so vastly, they barley had enough time to prepare.
"Sherlock don't wear that!" he nagged while slipping his jacket on.
Sherlock inspected his long dark coat. "Why not?"
"I saw one of those zombies snatch a woman by her hair," John explained. The time he'd taken to looking out the window had been a gory one. The girl being chased by a zombie had had very long hair. It didn't take long for the zombie to grab and yank her by the hair. The rest of the scene was gruesomely spent on the monster eating the poor girl, "You're coat could be the end of you."
Sherlock nearly pouted. "They won't catch me." he tried to assure the flat-mate while throwing bottled water into the bag.
"A lot of them are fast, Sherlock. I won't have you being killed because of a coat," he persisted. He hurried to the closet and pulled out a large desert camo jacket. "Here," he tossed it to Sherlock. "It was mine in Afghanistan. It's lighter and will keep you warm."
Sherlock scrutinized it, stubborn to keep his own clothing. After a moment, he nodded and slipped off his own to put on Johns'. It wasn't too small for Sherlock's slender figure. The coat still had the scent of desert and smoke on it. Sherlock studied the bullet hole that had torn itself at the shoulder and looked back at John. "I'll stitch that up for you later." John said apologetically.
"Thank you." he said and John, happy with his completed goal, walked off to his room.
John searched his room for his old dog tags and slipped them on for sentimental reasons. Then, he pulled on his old combat boots from the war and replaced his jumper with light gray shirt. He'd need to be light on his feet and have sturdy footwear for running. John was nervous for that segment and tightened the boot laces.
John walked down the stairs to find Sherlock stock-still with an expression of powerful curiosity and slight alarm. The doctor froze in response to Sherlock lifting his hand at him. "What is it?"
Sherlock quickly hushed him with a finger to the lips. He was staring intently at the front door. It was wide open. When had they opened it? John made small quiet steps toward Sherlock and his line of vision. Once he was nearly beside the consulting detective, he chocked back a gasp. A lone bloodied figure stood in the hallway, staring at the ceiling. It wasn't anyone John or Sherlock knew. John examined the appearance of the stranger without moving.
Her eyes were a mustard yellow hue. It stood out against her pasty colored skin along with the glistening red blood on her face and hands. Her clothes were slightly torn like she'd been attacked by a vicious being and she had apparently lost a shoe.
Sherlock motioned his arm across John's chest to move him back. The two of them jumped, as two other zombies ran up the stairs. The zombie woman turned her attention from the ceiling to the two men. She gave a blood curdling scream and the trio of death ran at the door. Sherlock ran at them and John exclaimed.
The door was slammed and a fast pile of furniture was placed against it by John while Sherlock hurried with packing and texts.
"Sherlock will you get off your phone and help me?" John shouted while shoving the chair roughly against the door. The zombies banged against the door with frightening force. He heard other shrilled voices. "Shit, I think there's another!"
Sherlock continued his work: Clothes were shoved into two duffel bags along with compact food and toiletries. All the while, his long fingers had been madly dashing across the buttons of his phone and he strode across the flat, dodging every piece of furniture.
"How long do you suppose we'll be gone, John?" he asked. John rushed over to the television, pulled the cord out, and placed it on top of the table that had been stacked against the door along with chairs and a small book shelf.
"I don't know!" John replied. Sherlock pursed his lips, before heading to his chair propped against the door. John looked bewildered as Sherlock pulled off the cushion and brandished two sheathed stain-steeled blades.
"Why do you have that?" John asked.
He threw the sash attached to the sheath around his shoulder. "For out of the blue occasions such as this," he replied, grabbing the bags and throwing them into the bathroom. They had planned that as an escape room if the front door was inaccessible. "You have your gun, yes?"
John replied with a nod. The gun was in his possession and he'd secured bullets in his pocket for an easy access. As he ran up to the wobbly furniture pile to add the microwave, one of the zombie's must have thrown itself at the door because it shuddered. The furniture tried it's best to hold in place but the television flew off by the impact and made direct contact with John's skull.
The snarling intensified as predators gathered at their door. They shoved so violently that most of the furniture was sliding now. Sherlock dashed for John, who had collapsed. He dragged him into the bathroom while the infected pushed against the makeshift barricade. There, Sherlock would wait for John to wake up and discuss further plans.
John laid back, slightly drained while Sherlock looked out the window. Car's screeched past the flat, zombies hurrying after them and attacking poor pedestrians. He pursed his lips seeing blood spilt on the sidewalks. "This… could be worse." he said and John just stared.
"I disagree."
Sherlock looked away from the bloody view. "We could be dead." He offered. "Mrs. Hudson could be too. Thankfully, she went hiking with a hunter."
"Well I'm sure she'll be safe. What about us? It's not even one day into the apocalypse and I got hit with the telly!" the doctor said gruffly.
The moans were beginning to die down. Sherlock mused himself and gave the tub a kick. With anticipation, the creatures shrieked in reply and the clawing became more desperate. He hummed thoughtfully and John told him to quit it.
"It's interesting though. The telly was light enough to fly but adequately heavy to give you a concussion." Sherlock said with a chuckle. John got up and examined the wound in the mirror.
The wound wasn't too bad and had a pinkish blue color already. Over the bump was a simple purple band-aid with small grey cats on it. "Sherlock, what is this?" John asked, bewildered. He looked at the detective, who was staring at him, perplexed.
"You were bleeding so I put a band aid on the cut. I cleaned it if that's what you're worried about." He replied, kicking the wall and sending the weak moans and groans into ravenous calls again.
"Quit it, Sherlock. And I get that but why does the band-aid have kittens on it?" he turned to inspect the first-aid box. "That's mine, right?"
"Yes."
"You replaced the better band-aids for ones with kittens?"
Sherlock paused for a moment. "What are you implying?" he asked.
"Sherlock, these band-aids are cheap. They won't stick for long and won't protect me from infection." John explained. "Why did you get rid of the good ones?"
"Why put on a super sticky flab of elastic on a wound when it's going to be ripped off eventually? Those things are absolute torture and constrict my skin. These," he pulled out the box of kitten bandages from his coat pocket ", are easier and better."
John shook his head as Sherlock kicked the wall again.
"Why are you doing that?" he breathed with exasperation. They were stuck in the bathroom with a small window and flimsy door. The last thing John needed was a childish Sherlock angering the blood thirsty zombies.
"Because, John, they're idiots." He answered with a knowing smile. He rolled his eyes at the doctor's puzzled look.
"They're attracted to what their senses are telling them," he knocked on the door, the clawing intensifying so far that a bloody finger managed to puncture through the door. They both backed up as Sherlock continued. "Hear a noise, smell flesh, or see movement and I deduce they'll come running."
"So the good old-fashioned zombie type, then?" John asked, picking his pack up and slinging it over his shoulder. He kept his eyes on the door. A hand splintered through the door.
"Seems accurate." Sherlock replied dryly, gathering his clothes into the duffle bag and backing farther away from the door. Nearly five arms busted through, frantically swiping for a piece to eat. "Do you have enough ammunition for that gun?"
"Yep." John said, wasting no time to open the window and begin climbing out. An escape rope had already been fastened for a safe escape.
Sherlock climbed out as the tub skidded across the bathroom tile. Several of the infected tumbled after them but were too late. The consulting detective and his assistant were already down the street.