AU. Zombieapocalypse.
(A/N) I don't claim to be an expert at writing these two, but I can't stop imagining them in different situations. There's a chapter story here I know it, now I just have to write it...
(also borrowing from The Walking Dead a little bit, I like their zombie designs)
He never claimed to be the fastest or lightest person in their feet, but John damn well tried to be. Everyone he knew, which unfortunately wasn't a lot of people, he'd lost contact with 3 days ago and he was beginning to have doubts about their safety. Not that he didn't trust them to act rationally, just that, when hoards of zombies are walking the streets it can be hard to defend yourself when you haven't been trained to.
Breathing quietly, lungs straining in the cold air as he made ever inhale and exhale calculated and steady, John gripped the handgun he'd stolen from a crashed police car. He'd even helped himself to the flashlight and bulletproof vest. If he didn't run into zombies, he'd more than likely run into some crazed, panicked citizen with a happy trigger finger. At night seemed the safest time to change locations, at least, he assumed so from watching their broken puppet behavior. He felt somewhat safe in the shadows, but his heart still drummed a steady beat of fear.
The occasional moan emanated from the streets and he waited minutes in forced silence before finally moving forward to get a better look at the situation. He needed to see his family, needed to make sure they were alright and he was the only one who could comfortably move through the city and keep a level head. Reaching the edge of the alleyway he willed himself to become part of the wall as he peered around the street. He hated to admit it, but he'd take any other normal old boring day to what the world was experiencing now.
Green eyes took in every detail; every single thing that moved and he counted at least 5 walkers milling about in the street, as if waiting for a cab or something. Dropping low John crouched next to a parked car, its doors wide open and engine long since cooled. He was heading in the general direction of his sister's house, but detours and scenic routes had to be made. More than once he'd run into a mass of zombies and more than once he'd been deterred by flaming cars set as road blocks.
Peeking over the back of the car he watched the closest zombie shuffle toward an open storefront, apparently the things were curious, maybe just a little morsel of human flesh was laying around. Spotting the other reanimated bodies he knew he had to be fast and most definitely silent. Travelling by moonlight had its pros and cons, it was easier to hid, but it also made spotting friend from foe a lot harder. Stooping he picked his way down the street before finding another alley that looked good and deserted. Going as far as the end he dropped down behind a dumpster and swung his backpack from his shoulders.
Inside held an assortment of provisions, two large water bottles, dried foods, a first aid kit he'd also scavenged from the police car and a few magazines as backup. Taking a moment to breathe and drink he glanced up at the sky, judging but just how the moon was above them, he figured it was somewhere around midnight. He didn't want to sleep, he knew just what happened when he slept, nightmares wreaked havoc and he couldn't stop himself from making a noise in the middle of one if he wanted to. No, best to only nap and then move on as quickly as possible, he had a destination and he'd be damned if he'd let himself get taken by surprise.
Putting the backpack on he repeated what he'd done in the previous alleyway, the zombies were still a ways down the street and he didn't see any in the immediate area, he'd travel a little quicker this time around. Gun still loaded and adrenaline still pumping John ventured back out, eyes ever alert he made it a habit of next to some kind of barrier, waiting a moment before popping back out again, he continued like this late into the night, never tiring, it reminded him too much of his time over in Afghanistan. If anything, John felt right at home, this was just another form of warfare and he'd been trained like any other army dog to perform and fight within warfare conditions. By the time he finally noticed the sky beginning to lighten he knew he'd need somewhere to hole up in for a few hours.
The street he was currently on had numerous cars parked at odd angles, and the houses all had dark front door with gold numbers, it stretched on for quite a ways. Holstering his gun in the back of his pants he didn't spot anything moving, the pale light of dawn was just beginning to hit the tops of the buildings.
He tried not to get his hopes up as he jiggled the handle of the first door he came to, but of course, locked. Peering around John felt the chill of morning creep over him, the street was just so quiet and he didn't want to ram the door open, too much noise, too easy to be spotted that way. Moving on John hated the zigzag pattern he'd adopted, trying a few doors then heading to the other side of the street to see if his luck would be better. It had been a least a two days since he'd slept and the promise of a safe house so close and yet so far was starting to wear on his nerves. By the twentieth door he was more than aggravated and by the thirtieth he was well past calm, cool and collected. The gold numbers on the door mocked him, the dark finish of the doors reflected back a murky image of himself and he growled under his breath when it became too much.
The door in front of him was about to get a rude awakening as he took a step back and lined up to get a good shot at it. Taking a steady breath he braced his muscles and with a large effort he landed a kick right near the door handle. It had never occurred to his sleep addled brain to try and pick the lock, or continue on and be patient and thorough, no, he wanted in and now. Another good hard kick sent the door flying swinging open; it bounced off the wall behind it loudly and creaked to a stop. Breathing through his nose John gave a nod and mentally congratulated himself for being able to physically kick a door in. Gun out, he crept into the empty home, one sweep of it and it was all clear. Using a chair he closed the door and shoved it under the handle, he also barricaded the door with a large trunk that took a considerable effort to move, but anything to keep himself safe.
By the time he'd locked and shoved another chair under the handle of the bedroom door he was exhausted, the bed looked more than inviting. He didn't think about the people who lived there before, or if they had family or about the fact he was going to sleep in their bed, all he wanted was at least an hour of sleep. Leaving his backpack on the floor and gun on the night table he simple laid down to sleep for a little while.
A little while turned into all day and into part of the night. Now John was good at getting his timing right, he had to when over in Afghanistan, he had to be ready for anything. His mind knew all of this, his body refused to cooperate though, when the soft folds of an actual bed eased the tension on his joints and surrounded him in warmth, sleep turned into halfway coma. He hadn't been dreaming at all, just floating in darkness, but when the world started to shake and some thing was physically grabbing him all his instincts shifted into overdrive and his eyes were snapped open.
The darkness of the room threw him off, how many hours, how many days had he been asleep? And what was that smell? What he registered next sent panic lancing into his chest, someone was leaning over him, hands clasped over his shoulders and shaking him. Immediately he lashed out to get the person or thing off of him but the stranger caught his wrists with an almost inhuman ease.
"Get up now, the reanimated dead is going to swarm over this house in minutes."
Low, jarringly soft tones caught his attention and John took that extra second to make out a head of shaggy hair before the person was leaving. Wait, who even called them the 'reanimated dead'? And what was that horrid smell? In the moments he'd taken to try and get his bearings he heard the bone chilling noise of the moans out on the street, he hadn't made that much noise, had he? Slinging his backpack on and grabbing his gun John spotted the stranger next to the open window of the bedroom.
"Hurry!"
Spurred on by this person he noted that they hadn't robbed him blind while he was sleeping and thanked his luck stars hadn't done anything else. Following after his tall savior John exited out the window into a fire escape and watched as the man easily navigated his way over the grates and steps. Again he was confronted with the fact he wasn't as nimble as he used to be, his knee ached with the changing weather and his shoulder could smart is he wasn't careful with his running about. In minutes they were behind the row of buildings heading out onto another street and further away from the danger, he hoped.
"How did you-"
"I live on that street, you made quite a racket, and you didn't even cover your trail."
John' eyebrows drew together in confusion, his trail? He kept pace with the man, he could see they were making a wide circuit back to the street they'd just left.
"Where are we going?"
"My house, it's safe there."
"Safe, if I wasn't safe then-"
"You were being stupid, that's all there is to it."
The clipped tone left no room for argument and he didn't even bother seeing as how he needed every breath of air to count as they sprinted. It wasn't long till they slowed to a jog and the man seemed more cautious than before. They went on like that for John wasn't even sure how long, their breath streamed out in the chilly air and he was working up a sweat. John didn't even recognize where they were anymore, the buildings blurred together and the streets no longer had names, back alleyways all looked the same and finally the man just stopped.
"There," he pointed up to a window and began his assent over a dumpster and jumped to a catwalk that no longer offered a ladder.
He stared for a moment, taking a deep breath before finally having a crack at it, except he barely made it onto the catwalk and had to be pulled up the rest of the way. When they reached the window his nose scrunched, the scent he'd smelled before was strong there; he could see some kind of dark tar smeared the window's frame.
"Careful not to touch it, its infected blood."
John resisted the urge to retch right then and there as the he registered the same smell had been emanating off the man in front of him, just what in the bloody hell was going on? Gingerly he entered the window and found himself in a quaint little kitchen, a candle here and there to give just enough light he could make out a table filled with an assortment of glassware. The man shrugged off the light jacket he'd been wearing and to John's confusion stuffed it into the fridge before striding away.
He stood there for a moment, his brain catching to just what had happened, went to sleep, woken up by some stranger and then made a daring escape to said stranger's home. Yeah that sounded about right to him. Walking further into the flat he spotted the man next to a window, dark fabric had been tacked up over them and he was peering out through a slit.
"What-"
The man's hand flew up, hand raised for silence before he finally turned around and John could see his features better in the candle light.
"We must whisper."
"Right, um, who are you?"
Pale eyes made one large sweep over him and John felt just a little self-conscious in his bullet proof vest and jumper.
"I am Sherlock Holmes, and you're welcome."
"Oh, yeah thanks for that, only meant to sleep for a wink. I'm John, John Watson."
He felt a little silly for having to whisper so much, but the man obviously had his reasons. Sherlock motioned for the man to come over, moving to the side to let him look out the window. John had his reservations about being so close to this stranger, who knew what he wanted? Crossing through the small living room he felt something like fear or anxiety shoot through his body. There was a swarm of zombies, milling about the house he'd apparently broken into.
"How did-"
"They have exceptional hearing and their sense of smell is very acute. Those zombies came from the street over. I didn't see you leave and you looked so promising, couldn't let the chance slip by."
John shot the man an incredulous look and spoke low, "Promising?"
"Yes, military training no doubt, the way you hold yourself and experienced with a gun seeing as how you move with it like it isn't even there. You've been traveling quite a ways, lack of sleep, you're going somewhere important or, to someone important. No visible marks or injuries so you're very careful, no infection I'm positive. The backpack tells me you don't have a material obsession, traveling light. You, John Watson, are a survivor."
He stared into bright opaque eyes and took a steadying breath, "That was…. fantastic."
The briefest of smiles lit onto Sherlock's face, but it was soon dashed and a firm calculating gaze now scrutinized the man before him.
"So, where are you going?"
"My sister's, power's been spotty, haven't talked to her in days."
"Ah, loved ones, yes that is quiet a trifle. You're welcome to sleep here before you move on. My landlady unfortunately succumbed to the infection…"
John listened to the man trail off and then move away, finding something else of greater importance to occupy his attention. He stared down at the street, his stomach gave a lurch whenever he saw groups of zombies together, wasn't natural in the least bit. Letting the curtain close he turned to see Sherlock sitting in the kitchen at the table, scribbling in a notebook as he looked into various containers.
Moving toward the man he noted just how tall and lanky he was, the candles did nothing for his complexion, washing him out like a ghost .Though that wasn't to say he didn't have a pleasing facial structure and intriguing eyes.
"How long have you been here," John asked while wandering around the table. His eyes picked out disturbingly familiar specimens, an assortment of fingers and plenty jars of blood.
"Since the first news reports."
"All by yourself?"
"Yes."
"You must be a survivor too."
"No, just smart. I've been studying the infected for quiet sometime now and I've found some very interesting results."
John was going to ask what but the man, with his dark curls and knowing eyes simply held a notebook out to him. What he read in side astounded him. Apparently Sherlock had been watching very closely. There was a list of tagged zombies, apparently an experiment to see how long they milled around a place for. Sherlock seemed to be very hands on as well, the notes included that he'd marked their backs with varying colors depending on the date. Not only that but he'd also record tons of notes on the looks and behaviors of various zombies. No matter if it was a full body or missing limbs, they felt no fear or pain. Exceptional hearing and sense of smell, but can't tell the difference between a person and a person covered in infected blood. The bare minimum of survival instincts it would seem survived the need to feed and the means in which to help the zombies achieve that.
"Remarkable," John whispered.
"Do you do that often?"
"Wha- oh sorry."
"No, no, it's quiet alright."
Leaning against the small counter John continued to pour over the notes, he'd never seen any data to this extent on the news. This was what he needed, to know his enemy, understand and study its weaknesses. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there before Sherlock finally spoke.
"Tell me John, what did you do before all of this?"
"I was an army doctor, got wounded in the shoulder and knee, they smart a bit-"
"Are you hungry John?"
"Uhm, I suppose."
The evening continued with short conversation and a cold dinner. John took to the couch, a mound of blankets to keep him warm and 'safe', as safe as he could be with zombies milling about outside. It didn't stop Sherlock from wandering the flat though he noted. Stripped of his vest and jacket John found it strange, the feeling of finally having the weight off his chest, and how comforting just the sound of another human being could be. He watched quietly, the candles flickered on the walls and Sherlock mumbled occasionally, or searched the kitchen for something. John fell asleep to the quiet lull of moaning undead and his aching body.
