The first outbreak of disease took place in the middle of America; perhaps Idaho, or Montana, John could never quite remember. It was a marvel to scientists everywhere, a strain of disease that was completely potent and dangerous, yet only killed when it felt like it, almost like it had a brain of its own, a microscopic bundle of nerves that was sophisticated enough to make the tiny organism able to kill only when it felt like it.
The scientific community fell to its knees at this discovery, every one wanting a mere slide of this amazing new organism, but a small shipment broke apart, and the disease went on a killing rampage, killing every person in that small mail office in that small American town in the middle of nowhere.
It mutated and, instead of becoming tired out at all this killing and multiplying, it grew increasingly violent, now choosing to be transferred through blood. Bites from anyone and anything proved a death wish, and false vaccines were put up on the market, making the desperate infected clamber for any hope they got in this disease ridden America they found themselves in.
Finally, someone got hold of a dead specimen and did extensive research on it, pulling it apart and putting it back together. It was named after the one who found a vaccine to this terror. It was named moriartiphigys, or the Moriarty Virus.
He soon disappeared off the planet, right before the disease mutated and his vaccine proved worthless. America was threatened again, and so was the rest of the world. Canada was relatively left along, it apparently disliked cold, and Britain was too; along with Greenland, Antarctica, and a bit of Russia.
Every place was decimated quickly, and the few that survived migrated upwards, towards the cold and ice, away from the dangers of heat.
The whole population went down quickly, the symptoms of this disease mild enough to not kick in until the person had been fraternizing with other people, giving it a chance to procreate. Since blood was the only way it was transferred, the government of every country made it possible to buy "disease-proof glass." It worked, for a bit, but it wouldn't work forever.
The worst part of this disease is that it makes the humans do things they wouldn't do, maybe kiss a girl if they were gay, maybe eat a strawberry if they were allergic. It was tame, but it soon evolved, as all things must, into killing people in cold blood.
Guns were provided to everyone, every male and female with any chance of surviving. People in every Army were sent home to protect their loved ones, and people formed small groups to survive. Fortunately, the disease seemed to have no predilection for human food, and left it well enough alone, leaving ice cream to defrost slowly and the lettuce to wilt in between raids.
Now, we go to a small threshold in the middle of disease-ridden London, (they always knew that they would never be safe forever in the cold) where three shivering men lay in a garage, heating up small amounts of tea.
One of the men was John Watson, a small, unassuming blond man who was deported from the Army when he got shot in the shoulder. He had since moved in with Sherlock Holmes, a slender, dark haired man whose posture and glare made him seem like some kind of royalty. He would assure you, complete with a scathing remark about your intellect, that he was not, and probably bring up something about your parents splitting or your cheating on your significant other. He was always quite in love with John, but, being oblivious, John had not noticed, for he was too busy with other things, namely his war-buddy, Rory Williams, a doctor that he had known briefly before being sent home. He had been sent home for the disease, the prevention of it, and was working on finding a vaccine when his compound got busted and he had gone looking for a place to stay. This place, as luck would prove, to be his old friend John Watson's place, shared with a moody detective.
Neither of them minded Rory very much, and in turn, Rory pardoned the many scathing remarks about his intelligence that Sherlock threw his way (Mostly in jealousy about John), and he had a place to sleep, which was always nice.
They had decided to go up, towards Scotland, to try to get away from the virus, and John and Rory would both try to continue Rory's progress in search of some sort of vaccine.
Their first priority was to raid a Tesco's, and gather more tea and beef jerky and such, because what they had was dangerously low, and they needed their tea.
Rory liked the beef jerky, personally. Sherlock huffed at this, and John laughed minutely, lapping up the cold remainder of the tea, and sat back to watch the fireworks of lovable, awkward Rory trying to placate decidedly unlovable, arrogant Sherlock.
It wasn't easy, nor comfortable, or particularly warm, but they were together and they had a few defenses against people who weren't really that nice.
Plus, they still had enough tea to last the night.
That's all they needed, right?
