Gone For Five Minutes By: KitTheFangirl
CHAPTER ONE
AN: Hey, guys! So I just finished up my 'Another Choice' fanfiction and I needed an idea for a new one and I came across some Johnlock fanart. (SPOILER ALERT: At the top is a picture of John holding his gun and it says "I was only away for five minutes, Sherlock." Then at the bottom is a picture of Zombie Sherlock and it says "Five bloody minutes.") Okay, SPOILER ALERT OVER. Anyway, I decided to write a fanic for it. It's about zombies, if you havn't guessed by the title, the discription, or the small description of the fanart that inspired me, then you must be stupid or oblivious. So here we go again. Disclaimer: I do not own the chatacters in this story belonging to the television series, 'Sherlock'. Warning, Character death.
-John Watson sat in the drivers seat of a stolen, broken down, hotwired cab, driving through the, now deserted, city of London with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, in the passenger seat. They were trying to see if there were any non-perishables left in the shops. Their food supply was running low in the 221B where they had barricaded and hidden out. Its been 3 months since the government had collapsed in the zombie apocalypse. No joke! It was sincerely the zombie apocalypse. But, not like 'The Last of Us' video game. It was more like "Zombieland" or "World War Z".
-After killing three zombies and raiding the food, they saw a girl. She was wearing a black skirt and a black t-shirt and holding a steel baseball bat, ready to swing. She was the only other human they had seen in two months. John's wife, Mary, along with Mrs. Hudson and everyone else they knew, except Mycroft and Lestrade who were safe somewhere with the President of the United States, and happily married, were now the undead. John placed his weapon on the floor and motioned for Sherlock to do the same. "Hello." John said, cautiously. "I'm John and this is Sherlock. We're not going to hurt you." The girl rolled her eyes, still gripping the steel bat. "I'm not a little girl. Of course you aren't going to hurt me. If you try, I'd break you." She said in an American accent that had started converting to British. Sherlock, by the look on his face, already knew the girl's life story. Then again, by the look on her's, she knew theirs. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the famous detective and his blogger. I had been wondering what had happened to you. You're the only ones, besides me, of course, that I would have believed could survive this apocalypse of ours. My name's Samantha. But I don't like that formal, girly name; so, call me Sam. We should probably get going, don't you think?" "We?" Sherlock asked.
-Sam just stared. "Of course, 'we'. I'm a 18 year old girl, on my first year of collage. John wasn't just going to leave me here. I could tell, by the look on his face, that he was going to ask me to come back to your hideout, which I believe is your flat, 221B Baker St. and stay with you. And please, do tell me if I'm ranting or if I need to stop and breath. I do tend to explain my observations with way too many words and in way to fast a manner." Sherlock and John had the same daft, shocked expressions on their face but their brains were thinking different things. John was thinking 'Wow. She's just like Sherlock. She knew I was about to ask her to stay with us.' and Sherlock was thinking 'How could she know that John was going to ask that? There was no physical evidence to prove it. But, she was confident enough to say it aloud." But, then they both thought the same thing, 'Who is this girl?'
-The trio arrived at the flat, after making a quick stop at Sam's hideout, and carried in the groceries, quickly and quietly, as if to not draw attention. That night, John was ready for bed and walked over to the couple in the living room. Sam, who was on the couch, almost finished with the book Sherlock had given her, and Sherlock, who was wearing three nicotine patches and sitting, not correctly, may I add, in his chair. "So, what are we going to do about sleeping arrangments?" John asked, dragging Sam away from her story and Sherlock, from his mind-palace. He added, "I don't think Sam should have to sleep on the couch."
-Sherlock looked from John to Sam and back again. "She can sleep in my bed." "Where will you sleep?" John asked. "In my bed." Sherlock said, confused. The confused looks on both men's faces made Sam laugh. She rarely did that anymore. They both looked at her for help explaining and she wondered how they ever got along without her. Sam looked at Sherlock and said, "John thinks that it would be inappropriate for us to sleep in the same bed since I am a female and only 18." Then she turned to John and said, "Do you honestly think that he's going to make a move?" John shook his head. "I guess not. Well, goodnight." John left the room. "Goodnight." The two called back.
-And then there were two. Sam had finished the first book, gotten a second, and finished that one as well by the time midnight rolled around. Sherlock, who was halfway through a romance novel, called 'The Fault In Our Stars' by John Green, that Sam had lent him, saw the clock and looked at Sam. "We should probably get to bed. John hates it when I don't sleep." Sam changed into some pajamas that she had packed when the apocalypse had started and Sherlock lead her to his room. It was surprisingly clean and dark. There was one window, which was covered with heavy, purple, privacy curtains and, assumably, boarded up. There was a black dresser against the wall, next to the door and on the wall across from the window, there was a closet. The bed was dead center of the far wall, flanked, on both sides, by two identical black nightstands. Sam and Sherlock soon fell into a deep, relaxed, confortable sleep.
-Sam was jolted awake, a silent cry trying to excape her lips, as she was forced up by the memory of her nightmare, to the point where she sat with her head between her knees, trying to slow her breathing. Sherlock, who she had jostled awake, trying to excape the nightmare, watched her, not sure what to do. Seeing her distress, he did what John had once told him to do. He let go of logic and did what came naturally. Sherlock scooted forward, towards the young girl and rubbed his hand up and down her back. Sam's breathing was, eventually controlled and she was able to sit back up. "Thanks." She said, embarrassed and not looking at the detective. There were a few seconds of silence, which Sherlock broke. "Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock asked.