Written for Challenge Nine of Let's Write Sherlock to a series of twelve Christmas themed prompts, which you can see on the Let's Write Sherlock tumblr page.
Warnings: Zombies. Violence and language. No Mary, as I wrote this before the new series came out. Could be seen as Sherlock/John if you want.
The snow was falling faster every second that passed, and John was getting worried about whether he'd be able to make it to work in two days' time. The television had already warned them to keep cars off the road, to use non-perishable food sparingly, and to stay indoors.
Going outdoors was something he definitely wasn't thinking of doing. Even Sherlock, currently slumped over the nearest armchair and complaining he was bored, didn't make an attempt to leave the flat. John slid onto the sofa with a groan and tucked his arms behind his head. The ceiling needed repainting.
Sherlock sniffed. "Bored."
"We're snowed in."
A pause. "Still bored."
"No-one'll be killing anyone whilst the weather's like this. Too cold for murderers to be roaming the streets."
Sherlock humphed, and there was the sound of a pillow being kicked onto the floor. John understood why he was upset; Christmas was usually his busiest time of year, mostly because of the family reunions. Old resentments resurfaced. Large knives were readily at hand. Sherlock loved it.
"Bored."
John rolled his eyes, reached for the remote and switched on the telly. "I'll find out when it's set to clear, if you stop telling me you're bored. I already know you're bored."
Sherlock rolled over in the chair, so his feet were hooked over the back and his head was on the floor. Upside-down, he watched as the television screen flickered grey. John leaned forward, trying to listen through the static. The reporter looked worried. More than worried. Scared. John frowned.
"Urgent update-"
The sound dissolved into white noise. John changed channels, but the grey remained.
"Advised to…do not…outside…repeat…outside…"
The screen went black. John sighed and threw the remote down.
"The snow must have got onto the aerial."
"Wonderful." Sherlock slowly slid off the chair onto the floor and lay there, like a sulky, beached jellyfish. John checked his watch.
"Midnight. Want to do presents now?"
Sherlock huffed. "Boring."
"Less boring than lying on the carpet." John went to the tiny tree he'd bought four days ago, only to have Sherlock prune half the branches and use them for a frankly disgusting experiment. There weren't many presents – the snow had been building up for days, and half the visits they'd been expecting from family and friends hadn't happened. A box of chocolates dropped off by a thankful client and a pair of mugs from Greg was all there was, apart from their own. John hadn't bothered wrapping Sherlock's new microscope lens – even if Sherlock didn't pick out his presents himself, he could always guess at a look.
Sherlock had given him a new watch. John didn't ask how much it had cost – he'd learned it was better not to know. He put it on. It was a good fit. The snow continued to drift past the window.
"John?"
Sherlock had been tinkering with the telly for the past hour, with no luck. His eyes looked sore from the effort.
"Mm?"
"What was the reporter saying before – the urgent update?"
John shrugged. "Probably something to do with the snow. Telling us not to try visit relatives or something. As if we'd try in weather like this."
Sherlock hummed. John read. The Wi-Fi was also on the blink, and he couldn't get it to work long enough to update his blog.
Everything was so quiet, the sound of his ringtone made him jump. Even Sherlock looked startled. It was Harry, on video. John had only used the feature once or twice before, and it took a couple of seconds for him to work out.
Harry was muffled in a coat and scarf he hadn't seen her wear before. People moved in a blur behind her, never in the frame long enough for John to identify them.
"John?" Harry's voice was muffled, and the video kept pixelating in and out. "Thank god you're alright, where are you heading?"
"What do you mean, where are we heading? It's an ice rink out there."
"Jesus Christ, haven't you heard?"
John frowned. Someone behind Harry dodged past, holding what looked like a cricket bat. He wondered vaguely if Harry had gone back to playing. He felt Sherlock at his back, peering over his shoulder.
"Harry Watson, I presume?"
"Yeah, now isn't the time for introductions. Haven't either of you switched the telly on in the past hour?"
"It's on the blink," John murmured. "There must be snow on the aerial. Same for the internet. Why, what's going on?"
"Fucking war on London, that's what's happening. You heard about the Wonder Project?"
John had, briefly – some sort of scientific organisation claiming to deal with vaccination and disease control. He nodded.
"It's out of control. There's people infected with something, wandering all over London, passing it on. It eats at the brain tissue 'til there's nothing left, and it's spread by contact. If you touch them, you're screwed. You turn into them. If you're lucky, it might kill you."
"Harry, this is-"
Someone appeared in the background of the video. "We've got to go, they'll be on us any moment."
"Clara?"
"No time for meeting the family, John. Me and Harry have to get out of here."
"They haven't even heard about what's happening. Keep the door guarded, I'll be there."
"We don't have time to-"
"I'll be there."
Clara vanished. Sherlock was leaning so far forward his breath was misting the phone screen; John thought that if he frowned any more his eyes might pop out of his skull.
"Get out of the house – in the open, you're less likely to end up touching them. Get out!"
"Harry-"
"Clara and the rest of us are heading for Reading – the TV says that's our nearest quarantine zone, we'll be safe there."
"We're going! We've got to go!"
"Harry-"
"We'll see you there." Harry hesitated. Her hair was shorter than John last remembered. "I will see you there."
He nodded. The video cut off.
"Bloody hell. Is this some kind of hoax, Sherlock, does Harry think it's funny?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Your sister exhibited none of the signs of lying and most of the signs of genuine fear."
John remembered the terrified reporter on the television, and swallowed. "Right. No, you're right. Harry isn't that imaginative."
Sherlock pulled back, rubbed a hand through his hair and, without further discussion, went to get their coats from the hooks by the door. "Mrs Hudson?"
"With her sister for the holidays," John murmured, going to the cupboard in the wall and digging out his army boots. If he wanted to keep his grip on the ice, they were the best thing. Hats and scarves. Gloves. He picked out dull colours, pale colours that would help them hide in the snow, almost without thinking about it. It was instinct. He found a rucksack and threw it in Sherlock's direction.
"Fill that. Food, water bottles." He reached for a satchel – if he could wind the strap a couple of times around his shoulder it wouldn't hamper him if he had to run. "I'll get medicine, spare clothes."
"Money."
Money suddenly seemed like a very bizarre thing to need. John was working like a robot; things like coins and notes didn't quite compute. How much time did they have? No way of knowing. And to think, an hour ago he and Sherlock had been exchanging presents. He packed both the chocolates and the lens; should the sun come out, and the matches he found by the cooker run out, they might be able to use it to start a fire.
He came back from the bathroom, cramming antiseptics and painkillers in alongside jumpers and socks, to find Sherlock with his ear pressed to the door. As he watched Sherlock, very slowly, put a leather-gloved finger to his lips and turned the key with an almost inaudible click in the lock.
"We're not getting down that way?" John whispered. Sherlock shook his head.
"There's someone there. Don't want to risk it."
John had his gun in one coat pocket, extra bullets in the other. He transferred the gun to his belt, where he could reach it quickly. Sherlock had the rucksack over his back and the harpoon that had, only a few months ago, been decorated with a dead pig. It looked shorter than John remembered; somehow, Sherlock had snapped the end off to make it more manageable.
He looked like a soldier, and he looked like a little boy at the same time, and the thought of leaving the warm flat was alone enough to make John want to weep, but he'd made Harry a promise.
"Window?"
Sherlock nodded. "Window."
The snow was piling up fast, but not fast enough for John to contemplate jumping onto it. "Got any rope?"
The question was more rhetorical than anything else, but Sherlock had just come to the window, and he gave a reply.
"Only bed sheets, and we don't have time to knot them." As if to emphasise the point, there was a heavy thud on the door. "Wait here."
John did. The thudding turned into banging. Hinges shuddered. Sherlock clattered around in the kitchen or bedroom, John couldn't tell which. He could feel his fingers trembling in fear and anticipation.
"Here!"
"Ironing board?"
"Look at the way the snow's piled," Sherlock panted, jamming a table under the window and placing the ironing board on top of it. "We can sledge down without twisting more than the odd ankle."
John raised an eyebrow. "You're mad."
"Get on."
John climbed onto the back, metal holder for the iron digging horribly into his back. It was going to leave a mark in his skin when they hit the ground, but Sherlock was already crammed onto the front with his legs almost round his ears. If John moved forward, if Sherlock's legs slipped off the front, he'd shatter both his feet.
"Did I ever mention I hate the winter Olympics?" John murmured. He had his face pressed into Sherlock's back. There was a cracking noise from behind him. John pushed, Sherlock heaved his body forward, and the ironing board slid off the sill, fell for exactly three heartbeats, and landed with a bone-jolting shudder that clacked John's teeth together. They skidded into the icy road, rolled over, and got to their feet without speaking. Both the rucksacks had made it. John's gun was still in his belt. Sherlock grasped his hand, pulled him over a patch of ice, and began to run. Neither of them had time to look up at Baker Street's window.
They'd made it less than a mile before they met the first of them. The pavements were so icy John was having trouble finding anywhere to put his feet. Sherlock had longer legs, which allowed him to stretch from patch of snow to patch of snow, but it also meant he had further to fall every time he skidded. Sometimes they caught each other. Sometimes they didn't. The streets were dead. Everyone must have heeded the warning, and stayed indoors. Or they'd already left. London was steely when it was empty. The cold didn't help their pace.
"Do you think-" John stopped, swallowed as freezing air hit the back of his throat, and tried again. "How long do you think they'll wait, in Reading?"
Sherlock shrugged. His breath was rising in puffs around his ears. He looked half like a kettle.
"A few days, perhaps. However long they can hold out."
John checked his new, expensive watch. "We'd better hurry up."
"It's not as if we-"
John cut Sherlock off by shooting out a hand and latching onto his arm, jerking him back and round in a full circle. A second later the shadow he'd spotted staggered into the full light of the evening sun. It was lopsided and baggy, like a badly stuffed toy. It limped and wobbled, but even so it was also very, very fast. Determined. As Sherlock skidded backwards on the ice it got hand to the rucksack. John wanted to shriek a warning about physical contact, but he knew Sherlock had already heard it, and that Sherlock tended not to forget.
Sherlock hadn't forgotten. He wriggled out of the backpack and started running, past the thing and on, John less than a pace behind him. The thing didn't follow them, too busy tearing the pack to pieces. It was only when darkness had fallen and they were both so exhausted from running they decided to take shelter in a skip that had fallen on its side that John realised all he had by the way of food in his satchel was the box of chocolates.
When they shared them out it came to seven each. Sherlock was allergic to almonds, so John ate them. They saved two each for the morning. They drank melted snow. They waited. They slept. They had bad dreams. Neither of them dared light a fire, even though they had matches and paper.
"Not much of a Christmas party, is it?" Sherlock murmured, when they'd both woken for the third time.
"Worse than last year," John admitted. His toes felt like chilies; pinched, painful and deceptively warm. He kept wiggling them, but he didn't think getting up and walking around in the dark would be a good idea. "Even worse than that time…with Molly, and Irene, and-"
Sherlock sighed and buried his face in his knees. John shuffled closer. Snow blew into their skip. Time passed, and John slept.
"Good idea to take a break away," John murmured. "Avoid the holiday rush. The ice." He pulled a face. "God, the roads are a nightmare back in England this time of year."
Sherlock was sitting with every inch of all limbs pulled into the beach blanket, as if touching the sand would burn him. He looked hot and bothered – dressed completely inappropriately for the sea, of course – and his sunglasses were slipping down his nose.
"I don't agree."
John laughed. He had his head tipped back to the sun, warm face, warm hands. He could almost feel the freckles bursting onto his cheeks. Even his teeth were tingling with the warmth. He should do this every year. Christmas on the beach. Sherlock sulking. Brilliant.
Something touched his left hand, and he looked down to see a crab scuttling over his fingers. He reached for it, but it scurried off, snapping its pincers angrily.
When John woke he could still feel something on his hand, and when he looked down he saw Sherlock had it grasped in his own and was shaking him.
"John? John, John…"
"M'wake." He blinked, remembered where he was, what was happening, thought about why and realised he didn't know and he'd have to wait a hell of a long time to get the answers, and sat up straight. Dawn was seeping into the skip. Sherlock wasn't pouting. John wasn't smiling. They were both hungry, sore, and cold. His toes were wet. He wished he had a toothbrush.
They ate the remaining chocolates as slowly as they could, which wasn't very slowly. The wind greeted them with the equivalent of two slaps and a punch. They trudged on. When they tried to check maps on their phones, they found the signal was down, and the internet too. It was a good job Sherlock had a decent sense of direction. They met no-one, but that didn't mean no-one was around.
"Are you sure there isn't anything else in that bag?" Sherlock murmured, when they'd gone far enough for his lips to turn blue, but not enough for them to start being tinged grey. The wind made him look thinner. The sleet had settled in little ridges over his eyebrows.
"Very sure." John swallowed. "We'll find something soon. Reading isn't far."
"Mm."
"You don't want to stop?"
"No."
"Good." John skidded on a patch of ice, righted himself, and waited for Sherlock to catch up. "Because I don't think we can afford to."
"It's worrying." Sherlock paused for a moment, scooped snow out of his sock, and then they began to walk again. "Not seeing anyone, normal or…"
"Unfriendly."
"Mm."
"Perhaps we've been lucky."
"Perhaps they're waiting for us."
John shook his head. "Why would they wait?"
"The longer we go without anything to eat, the shorter time it'll take them to catch us when they decide to start."
"Decided eating's a good idea all of a sudden?"
Sherlock yanked his collar up over his blue lips and glared. "When one is in such temperatures, it's only sensible to ensure one has the correct number of calories to sustain-"
John tried to laugh, but the wind took it before it got fully past his teeth. "Alright, alright!" They were starting to reach the outskirts of London. There were no cars on the motorway; or rather, the ones that were there were bedded down in snow, doors open, abandoned by their owners. "I tell you what, though, I'd kill for a turkey sandwich."
"Roast potatoes."
"Hot wine."
"Soup."
John actually groaned. His stomach contracted. He knew it was a bad idea to talk about a Christmas dinner they couldn't have, he wasn't going to stop. At the moment, the thought of a hot meal was pretty much all keeping them going.
"Last year…" John stopped talking as they edged their way around a car with windows shattered inwards. There was blood on the seats. "At your parent's. I'd sell my soul for half of what they had on that table."
"You ate half of what was on the table."
He had. The indigestion had been appalling. "It was worth it."
"Overindulgence is stupid."
"Fun, though."
Sherlock's lips were still buried in his collar, but John thought he might be smiling. The sleet had eased a little, and when he looked up he found he could see the horizon, which was discouragingly far away. But then he looked left, rubbing the snow out of his fringe.
"Over there!" He pointed. "See that?"
Sherlock squinted. "Service station?"
The place looked closed, but even if it was it would be stocked – food, water, possibly electricity, or at least shelter from the storm. All they had to do was find an entrance, and if they couldn't find one he'd break a window.
Cars were still parked in the car park, most of them well up to their tires in snow, some, again, with broken windows. John wondered if it was due to traffic accidents, and hoped it was.
The doors were locked, so they made their way up the fire escape, slipping on the icy railings and dripping steps.
"Someone's been here before us!" John shouted back to Sherlock as he reached the top; there was a door, which was closed, but the window next to it was broken, and the jagged bits of glass had been carefully removed to let whoever it was through.
"Good or bad?"
"No idea." John gingerly poked his head through the gap, not daring to call out. Sherlock reached his shoulder and peered past him. A blast of warm air hit them, and for a moment John thought someone had just turned on a heater. Until his nostrils worked and he smelled stale breath. Not Sherlock's. Not his own.
The thing that might once have been a person reared at them so quickly its fingers missed his nose by a millimetre as John staggered back and pushed Sherlock to his left, away from the steps and against the railings. He swore as it reached through the window. Sherlock, trapped against the bars, threw him the severed harpoon, but the blows did little to help. John was forced back, and the thing scrabbled threw the window. He threw the stick back to Sherlock, who slammed the blunt end into the thing's back, forcing it in a circle to face John. He drew his gun. The thing growled. John fired.
The shot slammed straight into the thing's head; somehow he'd managed to aim so it lodged in the brain without passing all the way through and slicing Sherlock's gullet in half. Ice skidded under his heels as the force of the gun sent him staggering back. It was less than a centimetre, but his heels had already been perilously close to the edge, and it was enough. His hand jerked and tightened instinctively around the gun. Sherlock threw himself forward, but his fingers missed John's shirt. Not by much, but by enough.
John fell.
He remembered hitting a step halfway down, didn't remember hitting the snow, remembered Sherlock shaking his shoulder, shouting at him to get up. Memory flickered and alternated. Comprehension did the same. On. Off. On. Off.
He was at the bottom of the steps-had he remembered to lock the front door-"wake up!"-where was he?-"wake up!"-white noise-he was at the bottom of the steps-lazying around as always-he was at the bottom of the steps-very lazy-get up.
John sat up, swayed, and retched. If he'd had anything substantial in his stomach he would have sprayed it over Sherlock, but as it was only a very small amount of chocolate-y dribble passed his lips. He spat, and blinked. Sherlock was fuzzy. The snow was gathering on his hair.
"John?"
His head pounded. On. Off. On. Off. He wanted to switch off, he wanted to sleep, he wanted to die, he was going to die if the thudding didn't stop-
"John."
The pain faded. John gritted his teeth, used Sherlock's shoulder to hoist himself upright. "M'fine. Nothing broken."
"I'm sorry."
"Why?"
"I should have caught you."
John laughed. It made him want to throw up again.
"I shouldn't have let myself get backed to the edge of the steps."
When he looked up he could see the thing still dripping, one blistered arm stuck through the railings. Sherlock still had the harpoon and the rucksack. He'd found John's gun. Neither of them dared make a second attempt with the service station.
Sherlock made them press on, and John, weak and sore but not too damaged, followed him.
They didn't start finding other people until they were about a mile out of Reading. They came from all directions, armed with crude weapons – lamps, kitchen knives, golf clubs – and carrying strange arrays of sentimental objects, food and water, and clothes. John swapped antiseptic for half a loaf of bread from a man with a white beard. His name was Brian. He'd been a journalist. He'd set out with two friends and a relative, but he didn't say where they'd gone. John didn't ask. He already knew.
Some of them still had blood clinging to their hair and fingernails. Some of them were carrying children. Some of them were crying. But they kept on walking, swimming, through the snow, until the sound of ragged gasping seemed to be the only thing that stood between them and safety.
But it wasn't.
Because where people were gathering, so were the ex-people. Sherlock and John, side-by-side, saw them before the others, because John had good eyes and Sherlock was the most observant man in London, England, the world. There was a place, surrounded by a fence and guarded by people in black, and behind the fence John could see lorries and lines of people, ordinary people, being led into them. And the things, unable to get through the fence and the large, heavy gates, simply milled and dripped and churned the snow until it was grey.
The word spread quickly, before John had time to think it out properly. A ripple passed through the group. Some people stopped crying. Some started. John hefted his pistol in his hand. Sherlock raised his harpoon to shoulder level.
"Bet I can touch the gate before you do."
John smiled, thankful that he'd given in and taken a painkiller just under half an hour ago. His joints felt well-oiled. He could run, and he could fight. "Bet you can't."
"How much?"
"Five quid."
"Ten."
John sucked breath through his teeth. "Competitive, are we?"
Sherlock shifted on his toes. John laughed.
"Ten, then. Ready?"
"Ready."
The fight was brief, but exhausting. John, thankful he had gloves and that every part of his skin was covered apart from his face, ducked and wove and tried to remember skills he'd learned in his training too long ago. He kept half and eye on Sherlock, and Sherlock kept half an eye on him; every now and then one of them would shout a warning. The things were fast, but unsteady on the snow because their vision was impeded by swellings and scabs. When John ran out of bullets he used the butt of the gun as a club, and when it got smacked out of his hand by a dripping limb he used his heavy boots to kick and shove. He wished he could bite.
Sherlock wasn't skilled with the harpoon, but he was enthusiastic, and John kept a close enough watch on him to make sure they got to the gates together. Something lunged and brushed his jacket, but he powered back with a heel and got it in the knees. The people in black had been watching; guns extended, they opened the gate a crack. The travellers poured through. The gate snapped shut. Someone screamed.
"Take the jacket off!" a man shouted. John flinched in bewilderment as it was torn off him and chucked over the fence. A thing caught it, worried it, and dropped it. The people were ridded of their blood-stained, battered weapons and possessions. Everyone was stripped and hosed down with something foul-smelling and pink in colour that made John's eyes burn and set Sherlock off on a sneezing fit. The snow got under his toenails and they were hustled, humiliated, shaking and grateful, into an area where they were given clothes and exactly ten minutes to put them on.
Sherlock had snow in his ears, and he picked it out as John handed him socks. They didn't speak. John was barely awake, and Sherlock's hair was droopy and soggy. Disbelief had set in. All John wanted to do was drink something hot, find Harry, and get very far away, very quickly. He tried to find his phone, and realised it had been in his jacket.
Sherlock got changed faster than John did, and was hustled out, protesting.
"I'll find you!" John promised, but he didn't know if Sherlock had heard him, and then he was gone.
"Who is he?"
John turned to see Brian pulling a green t-shirt, identical to everyone else's, over his head.
"Sherlock."
"Your?"
"Flatmate."
"Ah."
John had no energy left to analyse the 'ah'. All he could do now was take orders. He was good at that. Usually.
"How did you find out about-ah."
There it was again, the 'ah'. John turned in time to see Brian pulling his sleeve hastily down over his arm, and he was quick enough to catch the vertical stripes of soreness running over his elbow.
"What's that?"
"Nothing. It's nothing."
"I'm a doctor, let me see."
Brian made to step back, but John, still with his t-shirt wrapped around his hands, grabbed him before he could get away. Everyone else had left now. The marks were fingernails, raked up and along, viciously. There was blood crusted around them, and not all of it could have been Brian's.
"What happened?"
"I…it happened too quickly. We were only a couple of feet from the gate, I let my guard down."
John let the arm drop and stepped back a pace. "You have to tell them."
"No."
"They might-"
"They'll throw me out the gates, if they don't shoot me first."
John knew it was true. He knew Brian wasn't going to give himself up. And he also knew that Brian would stay close to him, to make sure he didn't tell. Sherlock would find them. Sherlock might get close.
He wasn't going to risk that. His own life, perhaps. Everyone else's? Not a chance.
"Please. Don't tell the guards."
"I won't." He wasn't lying; he couldn't tell them. If Brian thought he was going to, he might get violent. And John had been in contact with him. The guards weren't to know he hadn't touched him. They'd throw him out too.
In the space of two days John's life had shattered around his ears, and it had changed him. Or perhaps it hadn't, and he'd always been this ruthless, and the new circumstances only permitted it. When he strangled Brian with the t-shirt still wrapped around his hands, he felt very little.
It was murder, but he did it anyway.
He hid the t-shirt in the overhead tiles, found another, and went back out, into the snow. The new batch of people had already entered the building; in the confusion, no-one would know it had been him. And even if they did, the scratches were plain to see. They might thank him.
The delay cost him dearly. Sherlock had already left.
John was in what he thought was the next lorry in the line, but he couldn't be sure, because the guards didn't speak and the people who weren't guards knew very little. Chaos sounded outside the metal walls when the gates opened. The things clawed at the steel, moaned, shouted, and the passengers screamed and wept and complained, and through it all John could think was that if one truck was forced to go another way he might never see Sherlock again. Harry he'd already known he'd have to trust to fate, but he had hoped to hold onto Sherlock. He'd managed it for a long time, after all.
Worry crept from his stomach to his chest and throat, making his bladder squirm and his breathing difficult. He was close to passing out with exhaustion, and they'd burned his bag with the medical supplies in, which meant he couldn't take a painkiller when his headache returned. His hands were shaking. White spots popped out in front of his eyes and stayed there, even when he blinked and blinked and tried to make it look like he wasn't crying, because he wasn't. He'd just killed a man. A nice man. The lorry turned. Someone's elbow clanged against the metal, and the sound didn't fade for a few seconds.
John was feeling half-blind and by the time the lorry stopped. The people crowded out in a rush, and he was swept with them. The shoes he'd been given were useless, his socks soaking, his feet freezing.
"Sherlock!"
Everyone was shouting. No-one could hear each other. John wanted to scream at them all to behave themselves, the line up on parade so they could match everyone to the people they knew without making his headache worse, but the guards were distracted sealing gates and fastening locks. All he could do was try and shout louder. He wished he was taller. He wished he could see properly in the first place.
"Sherlock! Harry!"
"John!"
It wasn't either of them who shouted. John was a common name, and so was Harry. He stuck to Sherlock, because it was unusual enough to be picked out in the rabble.
"Sherlock! Sherlock!"
He walked left, then right. There were three lorries parked in the snow-filled area – the grounds of some government building by the looks of it – but there was no guarantee Sherlock had got into any of them. Harry was an even longer shot.
His chest was beginning to spike with pain.
"Sherlock! Sher-"
"John!"
John turned, blinked the bright light out of his eyes and craned his head so the spots rushed to the left, allowing him to see Sherlock, looking entirely ridiculous in his too-small green t-shirt, making a beeline for him.
"I thought you'd ended up on the lorry behind." Sherlock brushed his shoulder as the crowd moved round them. "What took you so long?"
"Doesn't matter. I'll tell you later." He stood on tiptoes, but it did him no good. "We need to find Harry."
Before Sherlock could turn his head to start looking, something hit John in the small of the back. Harry's hands were shaking, just like his own. There was blood in Clara's hair.
"Thank god, I thought I'd never find you in this."
"You made it. You and Clara."
"You and Sherlock."
"Thank god."
"Thank god."
The murmuring was inconsistent and sloppy, but it comforted him. Sherlock was sticking close to him, eyes half-closed against the glare of the sunlight on snow. Clara was crying. Harry was breathing heavily, and when she spoke her voice was muffled.
"Merry Christmas, then."
John, hands still trembling, began to laugh.
I've never written anything to do with zombies before, but I suddenly had the urge to and for some reason the prompts inspired this (I obviously have a lovely Christmas imagination). My wildcard prompt was 'season's greetings'. I know it's a bit strange mushing all the prompts into one story, but I hope it worked!
Thanks for reading, reviews welcome.
The end.