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Outsiders of London, about 2016
He didn't know how long he had been there, nor did he know for how much long he had to be there. Time, when you're an undead monster chained to a wall, it's something that you hardly notice passing. Though there wasn't anything interesting outside his cell, given that London and the rest of the world were destroyed. The only things that circulated its streets now were zombies and mutant animals.
He prefectly remembered the day when all of that happened. It was the same day when his beloved Molly announced him he was going to be a Dad. He had never felt more frightened and insecure of himself, but overall he felt a great joy that easily surpassed both emotions. However, his day soon got ruined when a terrorist group caused the escape of the Thanatos Virus during a biological terrorist attack to Harrods mall.
The panic began. Hundreds of people ran for their lifes and most of them found their end when the army put on quarantine all Harrods. However, that didn't stop the virus of finding another ways to escape, pidgeons that had sneaked into the building, the sewers...
It soon extended through London, and then Europe, until every continent and every location in earth was contaminated. Nobody escaped from its destruction. Except, maybe, a few lucky survivors that now lived on small zones isolated from the outside by hard walls that zombies were too stupid to climb.
Not even him, Sherlock Holmes, World's only Consulting Detective, was able to escape that plague. On a desperate try to reunite with Molly and their unborn baby -who were confined on hospital along many other survivors- he was bitten by whom he once was his best friend, John Watson, and left for dead.
What nobody never knew was that no matter how hard th virus tried to control Sherlock's mind, he wouldn't give it up so easily. Finally, the pathogen ended giving up the battle and dying. But the transformation had already been done. Sherlock was now one of them, and even he retained his memories and his human conscience, he couldn't be accepted by human society. Now, the only things he was able to do was eating meat and roam like a lost soul through the apocalyptic streets of London, wondering about his wife and their baby.
It wasn't until five or six months later when he found a group of survivors in search of medicines and food for their shelter population. Some of their faces were vaguely familiar to him, maybe from Scotland Yard or . None of them had ever been his friend, however, that didn't stop him from coming to their rescue when they were attacked by a pack of mutant dogs.
At the end, he ended up chained and inside a van because one of the 'scientists' of the group had found interesting his weird action of saving them and he considered it worthy of studying.
It's not like he's going to cure all the zombies or win the the Nobel prize studying me.
During the two hours that was the trip he had to endure the judging and disgusted looks, the sound of shotgun refills and the typical comments such as 'Wasn't he that genius detective? He looks horrible.'.
Moreover, the roads were not paved, and every few seconds the wheels crashed against a small rock and the van lost a bit of its balance. Being the zombie he was, he didn't mind the hits, but it was irritating to have to be moving from side to side like a child's toy without being able to keep balance.
They finally managed to arrive at the shelter. It was like a huge town/base camp surrounded by rock walls and where you could find several facilities and services for the survivors, though it wasn't the same than when they didn't have to live locked from the outside. An aura of fear and survival surrounded the camp.
The second they traspassed the doors, a lot of curious and nurses approached the van. Obviously, none of them knew he was inside, but he was sure that as soon as they saw him, they would panic and the revolution would start. He couldn't help but make a grimace that being alive would have been a smile.
However, even if they looked like proper idiots, his captors managed to hide him and move him without being discovered, to what had once been some kind of scientifical facilities, but now there was only ruins left.
On that building aside from him and his captors, another 12 persons habited it, among them there was three families, formed by eleven of the resdents; the other one was a very pregnant woman who lived alone on the top floor and who had a constant medical attention. Sherlock, even if he really did not have now a heart, felt pity, thinking that his wife and child would be now amond the numerous piles of corpses in London.
Without unchaining him and stop pointing at him, they led him towards an old elevator and took him down towards what looked to be like the prison cells. There, they pushed him towards a wall and put a chained collar around his neck, to prevent him from leaving, just like they would do to a dog.
It was really humiliating, the old Sherlock would have complained and reduced to tears to his captors with his harsh and sharp deductions; but the actual Sherlock, the zombie who had lost so much in life, and death, just looked towards the wall with his grey empty eyes without making a sound, not even a small growl. If John could see him now, he would be proud of him, seeing that his attempts at civilizing him had at least been successful.
… …. …
Days passed and everyday was the same routine. When the sun rose in the sky, after a sleepless night, one of the guards entered on his cell with a M1911 pointing him and a piece of raw meat as big as a cow. They threw it at him, Sherlock nodded feeling a bit grateful for the meal and started eating until he was full and left the leftovers for lunch or dinner.
Then, after endless hours of looking toward the bars on his cells, the cell's door opened again and entered one of the doctors accompained by two guards. They made him do intelligence tests, to see if his mind was as sharp as it once had been; they also checked to see if his reflexes and mobility were in good state. Sometimes they tried to make him speak a word. They never managed to. Then, he or she noted the results and left, mumblig about how docile, fascinating and smart was that zombie.
Sherlock had always been a man who despised routines and ordinary people customs, but he came to appreciate that schedule, because the other option was to be left to slowly decompose in the streets while he anxiously thought about his friends and family. At least here, he had some contact with humanity.
But someday that routine changed.
The doctor who was attending him-whose names he had never bothered to learn because there are things that would never change- was interrupted while he tried to make him speak. A very distressed looking woman entered the room, but without stepping into his cell, that would have been the last straw for him about the stupidity of his caretakers.
"Doctor! The pregnant woman has gone into labour!" She screamed. Sherlock couldn't help but flinch at the woman's shrill voice, didn't she noticed that the doctor was just a few meters from her? That there wasn't any need to cry like she was being persecuted by a hoard of mutant dogs? Obviously not. He wondered how this woman had managed to survive that long with that squeak of a voice.
That pregnant woman must have been very important, because as soon as the doctor heard the notice, his eyes widened as saucers and ran away from the room towards the elevator, leaving him alone and chained again; while he tried to bring a baby to this world filled with death and terror.
After a couple of hours, Sherlock unconciously started wondering what the gender of the baby would be, which colour would be his/her eyes and hair, and if he/she would resemble more: his/her mother or his/her father. On another occasion he would never have cared. But as he saw the same faces everyday, he already knew almost everything about their lifes. On moments like this, he often fantasized with the appearence that his baby would have had if he/she had been born. The baby would have his curls, obvioulsy it wasn't a genetical trait that could be avoided so easily, it probably would also have his nose and the soft and pinkish lips of its mother. And big brown eyes that would shine with something that he couldn't decipt. But now, he would never know that.
The days returned to his normal and boring schedule, but now he could hear some of the guards cooing about how adorable was the new addition to the 'family'. At first, he didn't pay them any attention, it was some stupid blabbering after all. However, one of the conversations really caught his attention.
He was in one of his medical ckeckups, during one of those dreadful intelligence tests. And one f the guards, a woman, judging by her tone of voice, started talking to her companion about the newborn baby.
"You should have seen her." She muttered without lowering the gun. "She's utterly beautiful! The mother says that she takes after her father, with that long curls and those blue green eyes, but I bet my ass that that cute button nose is Molly's."
Sherlock's empty grey eyes were wide opened, and unconciously a growl escaped from his mouth, alerting everyone present on that cell. The guards tensed and pointed their guns at his head, just in case he had a psychotic break and went to bite the doctor's arm. However, they were stopped by the voice of that same man.
"Wait! I think he's trying to say something, don't shoot!" The doctor seemed excited with the progress he had made, as he was starting to lose hope with him. The guards didn't seem any excited though, probably because they were more realistic and believed that there wasn't any way for a dumb zombie to speak. Frankly, he didn't blame them.
Sherlock tried to speak, but the fact that he was dead now and that he hadn't spoken in almost nine months was making it difficult for him. But now that he had that small light of hope, he couldn't back down, he had to try it. Inhuman sounds and growls were the only sounds that he was able to emit, however he didn't gave up on his quest.
"Mmmm... mmm... mmmm... Mmmmmaa... Mmmoo... Mmmmooooll... yyyy..." Formely, Sherlock would have been ashamed of his lack of vocabulary, but now wasn't the time or the place to think about that. The two guards and the doctor gasped in surprise.
"He speaks! But how can this thing speak?" The female guard asked dumbfounded. The doctor was too thrilled to heard her.
"I knew it! I knew he was different! And you told me I was crazy for trying to make speak a useless corpse. Ha!"
"But why does he call for Molly?" The male guard asked scratching his head.
"I don't know. It's probably because he heard me say her name." She said looking with a frown at the not-so-stupid zombie.
They decided to not pay more attention to the subject, thinking that it was probably a word that had caught his attention. But soon they would see how wrong they were.
During the next two weeks, 'Molly' was the only word that Sherlock was able and willing to say. He knew that if he could say his wife's name, the possibilities of him being able to sepak another words were really high, but also the possibilities of being able to speak normally were almost minimal. However other words and normal speech didn't apeal to him, he was interested in the name 'Molly' and its meaning.
How blind he had been, if he had paid more attention to the small details instead of grieving and feeling pity for himself, he could have known that somehow Molly and their baby were safe, on the last floor of the building. If he had taken a look at the doctor's note he always had on his hand he would have seen Molly's name and signal on the bottom of the paper. He was starting to lose his deductive abilities. But for the first time on his 'life', he couldn't care less.
He continued begging, pleading for them; 'Molly' being the only sound that he emitted. Every day, every hour, every second he would call for her. Because he wouldn't give up on them, never. He was willing to fight for them until his 'last breath'.
Until his wish was finally granted. So much had he insisted, that the guards finally got tired of him and allowed him to see them. But not for him, for the doctor, because he thought that Molly and him could be related and would be fascinating how Sherock would react to her. The baby would have to stay away from him though. Sherlock ignored the hurt that he wasn't supposed to feel at not being allowed to see his own child.
They had taken drastic security measures, such as having a glass separating them. But he was willing to acept that, if only he could see his Molly again.
When the doors opened, he couldn't help but press himself against the glass. She was as he remembered her; his tiny, slim and lovely Molly. She seemed so tired, he supposed it had to do with having recently given birth.
When her chestnut brown eyes landed on him, she blinked. And then blinked again while her eyes filled with tears. A sob tore through her, and she ran towards the glass while more sobs emerged from her frail body. He put his hand where her hand rested against the wall, not saying nothing. What could he say? He didn't knew any other word other than 'Molly'.
Molly continued crying, because what he had been turned into and because the reenconter that she had long ago lost hope on having. He continued watching in silence, longing to stroke her hair, to hug her with all his strenght and to kiss her soft lips, which he wasn't allowed to do in fear of infecting her. But he was happy.
When his baby, 'Helena' he reminded himself, was a bit older, she would be able to come down with her and meet her Deaddy. He could never touch them or kiss them as he would like to, unless they were wearing a special suit. But as mentioned before, he was happy.
For a second, he felt his heart start beating again.
Happy Halloween!