Hello, and welcome to the Zombie Apocalypse. I hope you enjoy your stay! This tale borrows from the amazing show "Walking Dead" and is a slash fanfiction written for the Sherlock/John pairing of BBC's "Sherlock". I spent weeks looking for a fanfiction like this one, and the closest thing I found was "A Brief Account of Life With Zombies", which, while a wonderful Sherlock fic, was not exactly what I had in mind. Finally, I gave in, and wrote this myself, because there needed to be one out there and because I do have the writing capabilities to accomplish such a thing. I am currently reading "Feed" which is a spectacular book so far – I have already purchased the sequel. I on a bit of a zombie spree, so here you go. Have a few quotes and then let the story eat you alive!
"Nothing is impossible to kill. It's just that sometimes after you kill something you have to keep shooting it until it stops moving."
-Mira Grant, Feed
"It's not about surviving. It should be about love. When you know love...that's what makes this life worth it. When you live with it everyday. Wake up with it, hold on to it during the thunder and after a nightmare. When love is your refuge from the death that surrounds us all and when it fills you so tight that you can't express it."
-Carrie Ryan, author of The Forest of Hands and Teeth
Clever Dead
by nightmarekitt
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. No profit is being made and no infringement is intended. Characters belong to Moffat and Gatiss. Zombie-basis to the creators of Walking Dead.
Sherlock Holmes had never found it particularly difficult to wake himself up from a dead sleep. As a man with more-than-exceptional intelligent capabilities, he possessed a higher-than-average level of control of his bodily functions. By that reasoning, he was excruciatingly concerned by the difficulty he was having one particular afternoon, as he tried, rather unsuccessfully, to pull himself to the figurative surface of consciousness from a sleep that he couldn't honestly remember telling his body to induce. After putting a significant amount of effort into remembering when exactly he had drifted off and failing miserably, Sherlock came to the disconcerting conclusion that something was very, very wrong.
Immediately smothering the urge to panic– emotions were so utterly hindering – the world's only consulting detective forced his mental facilities in a much more useful direction: waking up.
His mind was obviously on the right path, as his thoughts were rushing aplenty in a few hundred directions at once. His body was being less than cooperative. His physical senses were dulled. He could feel his body – nice to know that, yes, it was there – but something was definitely off. Various parts of him ached – both inside and out. His skin was too tight in some places, too loose in others. Unfamiliar. His muscles were not as lax as they should have been for someone who had been sleeping for any amount of time. Shadows and shapes danced behind his eyelids in various shades of red, but he couldn't seem to open his eyes no matter how hard he tried. The effort he was putting behind it was actually giving him a headache.
He was definitely indoors. Sherlock could feel the texture of cloth beneath his body – sheets, low thread count, cheap – along with something thindraped over his front – wool, itchy, military grade. He could smell something chemical in the air, but wasn't able to get a whiff strong enough for identification. He mentally calculated the angle of the light in the room. There were faint sounds that he could identify, and he wasn't comfortable with what they implied. He heard a consecutive beeping, indicative of a hospital, the scuffs of soft-soled shoes against a tiled floor, and the murmur of people, faintly echoing – large open room, solid walls, high ceiling.
The panic was trying forcefully to surface again.
It could only be a hospital or some other sort of medical facility. Sherlock's senses were dulled. He was awake, but he couldn't move. His body felt different. He couldn't rememberhow he had gotten here.
His thoughts surged forward, grasping at straws. It was a bit like working a difficult case with one question prominent: What have I missed?
A memory – clouded on the edges, not nearly as precise as he would have liked – finally assailed him.
"It's getting bad Sherlock. I thought it would just blow over, but…I don't think we should leave the flat anymore."
Who was that? The voice…he couldn't place it, but he wasn't out of it enough not to know his own.
"I told you a month ago that this would be inevitable."
Inevitable? That what would be inevitable?
"Well, forgive me for holding out a little hope for humanity, even if you've given up on it."
"Impossible, as I never had any hope for the species to begin with," was Sherlock's straightforward reply, and then a more serious, "we can't stay here forever, John."
Sherlock's mind came to a terrifying halt.
John.
John!
How could he have forgotten John?
"We need to get out of the city. It won't be long before there's no one left…no one living. And the military…the government…why haven't they done something about it?"
Sherlock looked at John, taking in every detail hungrily, as he let that word repeat in his mind: inevitable, inevitable, inevitable. The despair…the fear had been fresh in his mind since this whole mess began.
"They can't," was the reply. "It's everywhere John. There's no stopping it."
John inhaled sharply. "You're not saying…"
"I said it a month ago. You chose not to listen." Thank God, John hadn't listened. The good doctor had taken another month on hope and stubbornness and pretended to believe that everything would be okay. Sherlock suddenly wished that he had never said anything on the matter in the first place.
John slumped against the door, and Sherlock, watching John from where he was seated on the stairs, had to say it: "Come away from there. It's not safe."
The ex-soldier turned back to the door, locked it, and then moved slowly up the stairs, despair hanging over his shoulders.
"Move over," John grumbled when he reached the top, and Sherlock slid to one side so that his favorite doctor could squeeze in next to him. They faced the door in silence for a while, squished uncomfortably together, though neither man dared shy away.
"I think I'm going to live," John eventually declared, "for as long as I can. I'm not just going to give up."
"Yes," Sherlock agreed wholeheartedly.
John gave his best friend a completely inappropriate grin. Sherlock's heart lurched in his chest, before he returned it in kind.
"So," said the doctor, "what's step one to getting out of the city infested with the walking dead?"
After the first one, it was easy. Memories crowded in from every direction. Sherlock remember how they planned to get out of London, how hopeless they both really were, and how strongly they both tried to hide it. He remembered running over rooftops in a fashion that had them both giggling afterwards. They fled, and they hid, and they were about halfway there when the worst – the inevitable - finally happened.
It was three days after they left Baker Street that saw them hiding away in an apartment above an old pastry shop. They had thoroughly checked the building upon arrival, and once they were sure that it was definitely secure and clear of walkers, sat down to rest a bit. John was making a reference to Doctor Who and Sherlock was practically seething with boredom when the walker appeared. It got to John first, but Sherlock would not allow that.
The dead man came dangerously close to sinking his teeth into John's arm before Sherlock yanked the walker away, tripped over a stray pillow, and fell onto the floor with the dead man on top of him. Said walker decided that Sherlock looked just as tasty as John and sunk his rotting teeth into the world's only consulting detective's shoulder. Through the thin cloth of Sherlock's shirt – head had taken his coat off earlier – the walker bit and broke skin, before John appeared and managed to yank him off and stab him in the head with a kitchen knife. John shoved the walker off to one side and dropped down on hands and knees next to his friend.
"No, no, no," he repeated frantically, practically ripping Sherlock's shirt off in his panic. John inhaled sharply when he saw the blood. The marks were faint, but they would be enough. John started to shake, as Sherlock watched him with tired eyes.
"I'm infected," Sherlock said quietly, at the same moment that John sobbed his name. "I'm sorry, John," Sherlock added when John started to run his fingers over the wound.
Sherlock violently shoved him away. John fell back on the floor, watching as the detective rose into a sitting position. John wore an expression of betrayal and despair.
"Why…?" he cried softly, and the sound was so un-John like, that Sherlock shuddered involuntarily.
"Clean your hands," he whispered. "Stay away from me. I don't want you to get infected."
"But-"
"-now John!"
John stumbled over to their bags and cleaned his hands off with some alcohol swabs. Sherlock watched quietly. He had expected that one of them might not make it, and he knew there was a higher probability that he would be the one who didn't.
"I expected this," he admitted quietly.
John stilled for short moment, then shot to his feet, and glared through tears and snot at his best friend.
"Why didn't you say something sooner?" he demanded much too loudly.
Not good. The sound would attract the walkers.
"We could have been out of the city weeks ago, before they got Mrs. Hudson, before it got this bloody bad! I just got you back! Why didn't you make us leave?"
"John.."
"Why not, Sherlock?" John exploded. "Why did this have to happen!"
The silence that filled the room after that was slightly disturbed by the sound of the walkers trying to break through the doors on the first floor. As Sherlock had predicted, they had heard John's outburst.
Sherlock's heart was pounding rapidly in his chest. He was tired, he was afraid, he felt guilty, but most importantly, he was going to die…and he wouldn't stay dead.
"You have to-"
"-no." John snarled. "No, Sherlock. Don't ask this of me. I won't leave you."
Sherlock swallowed. "I'll turn, it won't take long…a day at most."
"S-Sherlock," John started, breaking down again. "I can't do this."
"Leave me here."
"No, no, no, no, no, no." John moved over to where Sherlock was sitting, fell to his knees a second time, and pulled the other man into his arms. Unable to help himself, Sherlock returned the embrace.
"I can't do it, Sherlock."
"Then you have to go, John!" Fear was finally taking over, and Sherlock couldn't hide it anymore. "Get out," he breathed, "or I will go outside and let them have me. I will not be responsible for killing you – I won't!" Sherlock pressed his face against John's neck and breathed in the scent of his skin. They were both trembling now. "You're my only friend. Please, do this for me," Sherlock mumbled, and refused to let himself press a kiss to John's neck. It wouldn't do either of them any good now.
John leaned back and looked his best friend in the eye. "A day, you said?"
"Less than," Sherlock insisted. "In an hour or two, I'll start to feel nausea, then the fever will set in, and my body will slowly shut down, one organ at a time. The infection damages the brain extensively. By the time my heart starts again, my only desire will be hunger, and as humans are essentially carnivores, I will crave flesh."
With a grimace, John asked out of the blue, "Why don't the walkers eat each other then?"
"Reanimated bodies are damaged, they don't heal properly. As it happens, they start to rot, and many rot before they are reanimated. Rotting flesh doesn't smell good or taste good, I'd have to assume."
John nodded, and let his eyes drift upwards as tears continued to slide down his cheeks. "I'll stay with you until the end, Sherlock."
"John-!"
"Stop." His eyes fell and met Sherlock's again, held. "I'll stay with you until you die. When you wake up…I'll…I'll be the one to do it. Then, I'll leave."
Sherlock didn't say anything when John reached forward to touch his face.
"I'll stay."
Sherlock spent a lot of time trying to move. He still hadn't managed to open his eyes properly, but his senses were getting sharper. He knew that there were three people who often tended him – checked his stats and switched out the IVs when necessary. Now that his hearing was relatively normal again, he had concluded several things from the visits of the nurses and doctors who kept an eye on him. For one, they weren't infected, which was comforting, to say the least. Also, he knew that they thought he was in a coma, which was a logical assumption, all things considered. He had also determined, to his utter relief, that he was not imagining the events that had led to his arrival here. The medical staff often chattered about "the infection" and "walkers".
On the other hand, their chatter was quite grating, and provided little useful information. For example, they never spoke of John and never called Sherlock by name. Once, he heard himself referred to as "specimen three" and was so offended by that particular address that he had actually managed to twitch the fingers of his left hand. However, to his ire, none of the medical staff even seemed to notice. He spent the time between headaches (from the strain of trying-and-failing to move) thinking worryingly about John and wondering vaguely if Mycroft was the reason he was not currently moaning about and mauling one of the living.
Sherlock worried over his last memory before the black out – a fuzzy image of John looking into his eyes as the heat finally knocked him into unconsciousness. He knew that, yes, John had stayed with him through those last feverish hours, and that though he was in a great deal of pain, Sherlock thought of nothing but John as he slipped away. The grief was overwhelming sometimes. Apparently, the so-called sociopath had greatly underestimated his affection for John Watson, for in those final moments, one feeling had dominated all the others – a flood of affection that Sherlock could only attest to love.
I love John.
The feeling that filled him was so powerful. Sherlock dearly wished he could move. This stillness would surely lead him to insanity, if that infernal beeping from the medical equipment didn't do it first. A multitude of time passed, and Sherlock dipped in and out of consciousness. He supposed the small blackouts could be attested to sleep, but he never recalled feeling particularly tired when they happened.
Eventually, something interesting finally happened.
Sherlock was in a muddle of thoughts, practically smoking with boredom, when a familiar voice cut through the tedium.
"Anything new to report?"
Arrogant. Polite. Demanding. Slightly affectionate.
Mycroft.
Sherlock had never been so happy to hear his grating tone.
"Nothing new, Mr. Holmes," a female voice replied – Lynn, one of the nurses.
Nothing new? Hi. Hello! I'm awake in here! By the way, I twitched possibly a week ago, and you bloody morons failed to notice!
Another set of footsteps, a second familiar voice – not John – Lestrade.
"Have you tried the adrenaline shots again?"
Sherlock remembered those as a piercing sensation that made his thoughts blur and eventually sent him into the darkness again. Needless to say, he wasn't very fond of them. Leave it to DI Lestrade to suggest it.
"Besides sending his heart rate through the roof, they haven't produced any positive results, Mr. Holmes," said Emanuel, the snarky old doctor who was in charge of his care.
Sherlock really only had the patience for one particular doctor.
"We've informed you of all the new developments," Lynn said flatly.
"Which is to say, none," Mycroft replied in a tired tone.
There was a shuffle of clothing and Lestrade's gruff voice saying, "He'll wake up one day, Mycroft, and even if he doesn't, he's probably better off than the rest of us."
Wrong! Sherlock wanted to scream. I'm losing my bloody mind in here!
"Perhaps you're right. After all, there's been no sign of John, and I'd hate to see what Sherlock will do if he wakes up and the good doctor is nowhere to be found."
Sherlock's thoughts stumbled and tripped. John wasn't here, then. No, of course he wasn't. If John were here, he would have never left Sherlock's side. Suddenly more frustrated than ever, Sherlock internally screamed and gripped the sheets of his bed.
Wait.
There were startled gasps in the room around him as Sherlock's hands curled tightly around the bedclothes, and then, just as quickly, released them.
What followed was a long pause, filled with that obnoxious beeping, until finally, someone spoke.
"He moved."
It was Lestrade's voice that broke the pause, but Sherlock didn't notice it. He was mentally cheering. After moving once, after having experienced it, he was sure he could do it again. He was mentally straining himself, when he heard Mycroft's concern slice through his efforts.
"What if he wakes up, and…he's…"
Sherlock paused, because Mycroft actually sounded vaguely upset, and because he had a point. What if Sherlock was able to move? What if he could walk, talk, deduce, and do everything that he could before, but, but…the blackouts. What if every time he blacked out, he became one of them? It wasn't probable, but neither was a zombie apocalypse. It then occurred to Sherlock, that it didn't really matter. All that mattered was finding John and making sure that the one person Sherlock actually gave a damn about was alive. After that, he renewed his efforts to move.
About six hours later, long after his brother and the DI Lestrade had departed, shortly after the latest nurse had visited to switch out his IVs, Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes.
John Watson slammed the wicked end of a crowbar into the skull of a middle-aged woman with no jaw, one arm, and a very distinct limp-and-moan problem that was not psychosomatic. She fell to the ground, and he hacked at her head until there was nothing left but a bloody lump where her face used to be, and she finally stopped moving. It would have been more efficient to use the gun strapped to his hip, but only an idiot would fire off a gunshot with so many walkers around. The sound attracted walkers like moths to flame. There were three ways a walker could identify a living person: sight, sound, and/or smell.
So long as they had eyes, they could see, and walkers were attracted to movement, but the other dead didn't interest them. If you smelled alive, you were food. For whatever reason, whether it was the last inklings of curiosity in a mostly dead human brain, or some kind of suppressed instinct, they were drawn to noise as well.
These were the things that took precedence in John Watson's mind for all hours of the day.
"Shit," Mitch said as he appeared from behind some bushes with an axe in his hands and a pistol strapped to his hip. In his thirties, Mitch had been an overweight salesman until the dead started to walk. He'd lost a lot of weight since then. They all had.
"I can't believe it got so close."
"We need to tell the others and move camp," John declared. "No time to burn this one. If there's a herd around, we need to be long gone before it gets here."
Herds were different than the packs of twenty or so walkers that sometimes formed. The herds consisted of anywhere from fifty walkers or more. Herds were dangerous for obvious reasons. The undead had been moving out of the city over the past few months in search of food, and there was little chance of escaping them once you got caught up. The walkers were starving, and nowadays the living rarely just got bit and escaped long enough to turn. If more than one walker cornered you, then you weren't getting away – you were dinner. Plain and simple. Though most of the living agreed that it was better than the alternative.
Mitch nodded to John and they moved carefully back through the woods to a small clearing where they had set up camp. There were fifteen people in their group, none younger than nineteen or older than forty. They all worked and they all kept watch. When it came to walkers, there were a handful of rules that they had all agreed to live by.
If you get infected and somehow not eaten, then you can either bite the bullet yourself or have someone do it for you. There is no third option. The other rules were simple things like do your share of the work, mind your manners, fires only when necessary, no loud noises, never go anywhere alone, etc. The list was extensive, but agreed upon by everyone. John had eventually been voted their unofficial "leader" by a large margin. The ones who had voted against him had actually either been killed, infected, or left long ago. Most of their group contained people who weren't even from the city. They were from small towns and villages where rumors had passed that there were safe havens in London. Other than John, only two others were actually from the city. Mitch was one of them.
"Hey, John," Kara, a tall woman with dark hair, said. She eyed the crowbar he carried with a frown. "Walker?"
"Pack up. We're moving out. See how face we can get before the sun sets. Tell Connors to get the maps. We don't want to wander in to any towns."
"It has to be today?" said Lea, a tall blond woman who had so far proved to be pretty useless to the group. Whining seemed to be her hobby.
"Yes," was John's sharp reply before he turned away to go tell his second-in-command. Kurt was an American transfer student who had attended university a few cities over. He was 22, good-looking, and – most importantly – an experienced hunter. He had a good head on his shoulders and despite the fact that he was an arrogant prat sometimes, he followed orders like a pro.
"I'm going to grab Cindy and Jeff. Get everyone ready to go and keep an eye out for walkers," John instructed.
"Didja get one?" Kurt drawled with a tilt of his head. He was built like a football player, tall and stocky, despite how little they all seemed to be eating lately. John didn't like him because of that though. It might have had something to do with Kurt's black curls and pale blue eyes. They weren't sharp or cattish or clever, and he didn't have sharp cheek bones or pale skin or bony shoulders. John determinedly told himself that he liked Kurt because he was outspoken, good-hearted, and obedient.
"Yeah," John said with a sharp nod.
It was okay, though. He lied to himself every day. One more falsehood wasn't going to kill him. John hopped in to one of their three cars and drove a few miles out to pick up Cindy and Jeff. For safety's sake, they always kept lookouts posted for walkers and other survivors.
He found them seated on the hood of their car, chatting quietly while they kept a careful eye on the woods and the road. John pulled onto the main road and parked beside them, killing the engine. He got out and started to explain the situation, but their quick conversation was decidedly different than normal.
"What's going on?"
"John!" Cindy hissed. She was nineteen and a goofy red-head who reminded John way too much of his sister when she was younger. "We saw a car!"
John's brow furrowed. "What? When?"
"It zipped through here about an hour ago, heading into the city," the much-older Jeff added. "They didn't even slow down. Why are you back so early?"
"We're relocating. I killed a walker close to camp. How many have you seen today?"
"One in the distance," Cindy replied quickly, and pointed cityward.
"We took one out this morning, too," Jeff said, lifting a bloodied baseball bat off of the hood for John to see. "It's over there." He pointed with the bat to a spot across the road.
"More of them are moving out of the cities. They might be stragglers from a herd. We need to move camp."
"What about the car?" Cindy asked carefully. They all acted this way around John, a combination of respectful and fearful. They had learned in the beginning that he had a sharp temper when provoked, and after a few of his nightmares, that it was often easier to dump water over his head than to risk shaking him into consciousness. Still ever the ex-soldier, his first instinct straight out of sleep was always to fight first, ask questions later.
"I'll give it some thought," he finally replied, and walked back to his ride.
CleverDEAD
Sherlock was finally on his feet again after about a month since the first time he opened his eyes. He had regained all of his regular facilities again after two months, and by that point he was done waiting. Their initial response to his "waking up" had been exceedingly irritated. "They" mainly consisted of doctors and scientists who had miraculously cured Sherlock, made him immune to further infection, and repaired most of his brain and organ damage with some kind of growth hormone that they had invented.
Sherlock had minimal interest in any of this.
The first word out of his mouth once he could use it again had been "John", and once the medical staff realized exactly how insufferable and not-exactly-spouting-words-of-thanks-and-praise he was, they all decided to hate him quite a lot. He was perfectly fine with their hatred of his person, and instead focused all of his efforts on recovery and bugging the hell out of his brother.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock burst into the control center of the supersecret underground facility that had for some obscene reason, been dubbed "Default 9". Mycroft Holmes smiled tightly at his brother, as the surrounding staff rolled their eyes and made sounds of distress.
"It has been two months and I am tired of waiting. I am leaving this ridiculous place and finding John."
"We've been over this Sherlock. It has been nearly a year since we found you in that apartment. John was nowhere in sight. He's gone, little brother, and very likely dead or undead."
"If you remember John Watson at all, then you know how entirely unlikely it is that he's dead, and if he's a walker then I'm sure you can cure him just as you cured me!"
"You know perfectly well that our ability to cure you only worked because your body hadn't completely degraded and because by will alone, you managed to salvage most of your brain. It also helped that you hadn't eaten anyone yet. If John was turned, what do you think our chances of repairing him will be, Sherlock? Have you seen many walkers? I've seen men without legs dragging themselves along the ground. I've seen people without organs, eyes, jaws, and limbs. You have to think, little brother, about where and how John might be."
Mycroft's tone wasn't as biting as it once was. Instead, his voice had gotten quieter and gentler as he spoke. The other staff members in the room were shifting uncomfortably. All of them had been privy to Sherlock's tirades when he had regained the ability to walk and talk. He had practically declared his undying love for John Watson to the entire population of Default 9, along with his determination to find the man again. The only two in the facility who were willing to speak back to Sherlock, to tell him how hopeless the situation really was, were Lestrade and Mycroft – two people that he never really listened to.
Sherlock suddenly snarled, and wrapped his hands around the tags hanging from his throat as he growled, "Let me out."
Mycroft rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and whispered softly. "No."
"LET ME OUT!" Sherlock screamed.
Mycroft closed his eyes. A year ago, he might have said: Oh, Sherlock. You mean you haven't figured out how to escape yet? How utterly pedestrian. However, Mycroft ensured that the codes to all of the escape routes were changed on an hourly basis to complex algorithms that would take even Sherlock over an hour to break. Select individuals in the facility were privy to key cards that could open all of the doors, and all of those individuals were aware of Sherlock's abilities and were guarded when his presence. There were security measures in place in case of infection or invasion. Whenever the doors had to be opened for any reason, Sherlock was either drugged or physically carted away to a locked room with heavily armed guards. He was not just Mycroft's little brother anymore. He was the only completely successful test subject who had been cured of the infection. No one in their right mind was about to let him leave Default 9. He was their only hope for humanity's survival.
Several of Mycroft's guards apprehended Sherlock, as his older brother hissed out a stern and resounding, "No."
Sherlock then did something that Mycroft had never seen him do before.
The older Holmes watched with wide eyes as Sherlock trembled, hung his head, and started to cry. He didn't sob or scream or even make the smallest sound of protest.
He cried.
Silently.
And when the guards tried to lead him off, he shoved their hands away and made his way back to his room without saying a word to anyone.
CleverDEAD
Hours later, with several guards in tow, Mycroft ventured though the halls of the underground center to his little brother's room. He unlocked the door and passed the key to one of his guards before he slid into the dimly lit room, shutting the door quietly behind him. Sherlock was curled up on one corner of his bed, where Mycroft quietly joined him. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and for the first time since they were children, pulled his little brother against his side.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft whispered. "I know you loved him."
Sherlock shuddered and glanced up. "At least…try," he begged. "Try to find him, Mycroft. Please. I just need to know if he's alive."
"Of course," Mycroft agreed. "We'll try. You know, I am grateful to him."
Sherlock's voice was muffled as he pressed his tear-stained face against his brother's shoulder. "Why?"
"He didn't shoot you or bash your head in, like any sane person would have done."
Sherlock stiffened and let that realization sink in. "He said he would."
"He didn't," Mycroft sighed. "John is not a weak man. He's killed for you. He's not afraid to take a life. But Sherlock…he couldn't kill you. Logically, he should have, but he didn't."
Sherlock pulled away completely and looked his brother in the eyes, curiosity shining slightly beneath the grief. "Why?" he wondered aloud. "John's not an idiot. He should have done it. I know he would have."
Mycroft smiled softly. "For the same reason that you've been driving everyone in the facility insane since you woke up. It's because he loves you, and because he has hope."
Sherlock's mind was racing. You could practically see the gears turning.
"You said I hadn't eaten anyone. How did you find me?"
"You were tied to the bed and the doors were barred. We found you entirely by accident. You were snarling, rotting mess, but you hadn't been for long. You were wearing John's tags."
Sherlock fiddled absently with the bits of silver hanging from his neck. He finally turned to Mycroft with a determined gleam in his eyes.
"John is alive. You're going to find him. I am going to make sure that those stupid scientists and doctors of yours are whipping up a proper cure."
Mycroft smiled, thinking, that's more like it.
CleverDEAD
John and Sherlock lay together on the bed, their hands entwined between them. Sunlight poured in from the only window, and the moans of the dead drifted up from the outdoors.
"I'll miss you," John said eventually, because it needed to be said.
Sherlock was so deep into the fever that he only managed a, "'iss…y-you."
Fortunately, John got the message.
Sherlock was already in and out so much, that John doubted the detective would remember much at this point. The doctor reached up and removed his military tags and their chain from around his neck.
"Dead or not, keep these for me, won't you? I've got your scarf and coat packed up. I know how attached you are to them. I'll take care of them for you."
He rolled over on the bed and leaned halfway onto Sherlock to put the chain around his neck. He paused afterwards and ended up staying there, looking into Sherlock's dazed eyes as the fever slowly pulled him under.
"…skull," Sherlock huffed, and John smiled tightly.
"Yeah, that, too." His smile eventually faded, and he said quietly, "you know, you'll make a pretty intimidating zombie, Sherlock."
"Nng," Sherlock said, and mustered the strength to lift a hand and brush his long fingers across John's cheek.
"John…" he whispered harshly and then it finally happened – his eyes closed, and his hand fell. John buried his face against his best friend's chest and listened intently for a heart that was no longer beating.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.
CleverDEAD
Anthea stepped into the control center, and all discussions immediately died. She eyed Mycroft meaningfully and he quickly dismissed them all – even his guards – from the room.
"Report," he finally said, and she approached him from across the room, taking a seat at an adjacent table.
"I still miss my phone," she declared.
"Anthea," he said sharply.
She sighed. "Supply run was successful. We hit up some of the outskirts of the city. Soon we'll have to start going farther."
"Perimeter check?"
"Interesting," she declared.
He rose a brow, as if to say, how so?
"Survivors to the North of the city. Two. We were moving pretty fast, but our cameras got a shot. She passed him a pixelated photo. "Male, late thirties. Female, late teens. They were sitting on the hood of a car on the side of the road. Coordinates are on the back."
"A look-out," Mycroft said with some astonishment.
She nodded. "I think so, too. Weren't many walkers out that way. They've probably got a camp set up somewhere, I'll bet."
Mycroft was quiet for a long moment, before he finally spoke again.
"I want you to find John."
She huffed. "Sherlock?"
"He was…persistent."
"This won't be easy. It's…impossible. Dangerous"
"I know," Mycroft said flatly, "but I have to try. Were it not for John, Sherlock wouldn't be here at all, and he's important to everyone."
"Right." She drew in a deep breath. "I'll head back out then."
"No. Rest up tonight. Take a small team in the morning. No more than four, Anthea, and while you're out, check the area where you saw these two." He tossed the picture in her direction. "If you find survivors, we need to get them here somehow."
"The helicopter is for emergencies only."
"It's important enough. If they're a large group, they deserve safe-haven as much as anyone. Otherwise, we'll bring them in a few at a time. If they've been out there for a year already, then they're already adequate survivors."
"Whatever you say, boss."
CleverDEAD
John sat in a circle with his group, sans a few look-outs. The discussion at hand was, of course, the mystery car that had passed several days ago on one of the main roads.
"We should send someone. Maybe a small group?" Kara suggested.
"If they saw us, and they didn't stop, they're not likely to care," Cindy said sternly.
Kurt: "I'll go. I can check the outskirts. Maybe, I'll see something."
"It's not a bad idea. You're more likely not to get seen, if you're on your own," Mitch agreed.
"He'll need to take a car, fuel, and food, and on the way back, he'll have to make sure the walkers don't follow. Are you sure that this is such a good idea?" David protested.
"He has a point," said Cindy.
Small arguments broke out then, and John couldn't help but notice that the group seemed very divided on the subject.
"A vote," he called, not loudly, but sharply, and the group went quiet.
"In favor of sending Kurt?" he called and very few hands were raised.
"In favor of sending a small group?" Less hands.
"It's done. No one's going," John decided. "Get back to your chores."
They scattered without complaint. Fresh off of a watch, John decided he needed to rest a bit. He called Mitch to keep an eye on his tent. There was a chill in the air. It was getting close to the cold season again. John retrieved his bag out of the corner. It was one that he rarely opened in the warmer months, but he made the effort to haul it around anyway. No one bothered to ask why.
John pulled the blue scarf out first, stared quietly at it for a minute, before wrapping it around his neck, and tying it into that knot that Sherlock had so favored. The coat came next. Last, the skull. John smiled sadly at the thing, before curling around it on the ground and pulling the coat over himself like a blanket. He didn't even try to pretend that he could smell Sherlock in any of his belongings anymore, but he still thought of the genius consulting detective until sleep finally took him.
CleverDEAD
No one had ever really asked him about Sherlock, though he remembered the somewhat startled glance that Mitch had given him when they first met. When a few more weeks passed and it started to get uncomfortably cold, John donned Sherlock's overlarge coat and his scarf when he needed to. Mitch, having not joined them since after last winter, noticed the coat and refrained from asking about for three days before his curiosity finally got the better of him.
John was reviewing the map Connor's was in charge of when Mitch approached him, and in front of most of their group, asked the question that would put John in an off-mood for weeks to come.
"Was that Sherlock's?"
John froze. Connor gave him a worried look and actually stepped back as John's expression hardened. The ex-soldier turned to Mitch, unable to ignore the many eyes that studied him around the camp. Mitch actually looked a little fearful, as John regarded him levelly.
"It was," he said roughly, when he was finally able, "and I'd appreciate it, if you didn't mention him again."
"Sorry," Mitch said and held up his hands in surrender. "I was…just curious. He was quite the celebrity, you know?"
John snorted and looked skywards when his eyes watered. "Celebrity," he snarled. "He threw himself off of a bloody building to save my life, was dead for years, then turned up in our flat one day without warning. Yeah, the press loved him." He looked Mitch straight in the eye and said with as much feeling as he could muster, "I don't give two fucks what the rest of the world thought of him. He was my best friend, and he got turned into one of those things, and he did it to save me." John was crying now, and he didn't give rats ass that they were all watching him do it. "I had him for a year, before the world went to hell, and when he told me that we were all going to die, I ignored him. It took me a month to realize that he was right, and that we should have left then. If we had, he might still be alive, but no – he gave me a month of hope, in exchange for his life."
Mitch's eyes were wide. "I…I'm sorry, John."
"I'm sorry, John."
John smiled bitterly.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, too."
CleverDEAD
"You're not going to believe this."
Mycroft looked at Anthea questioningly, as she passed him a folder. She was grinning.
Mycroft opened the folder, and his eyes widened comically.
"No…" he said wonderingly, staring at the first picture. "Is that…?"
He filed through the pictures, eyes growing wider by the page.
"John Watson?" Mycroft gasped.
Anthea laughed, never having seen him this animated about something before.
"Alive and well, leading a group of fifteen just North of London."
"Of course, he is," Mycroft said with a grin.
"We haven't approached them yet, but I'm sure they'll come. They're quite clever, the lot of them. It was hard enough to get pictures without alerting the group."
Mycroft looked through them some more, when his eyes finally sharpened. He gave Anthea a hauntingly Holmesian look – that look that usually meant trouble everyone involved.
"Whoever knows about this, keep them quiet."
Her brows rose. "You don't want anyone to tell your brother?"
"I think it might be prudent to give him an early Christmas present."
She smirked. "Shall we keep a secret from John as well?"
Mycroft outright grinned.
CleverDEAD
Sherlock was elbows deep in science when one of Anthea's crew waltzed into the lab. The younger Holmes was up and across the room before the door had even closed behind the new occupant.
"Report!" Sherlock barked.
"We found a group of fifteen survivors North of the city."
Sherlock felt something suspiciously like hope rising in his chest.
"John Watson wasn't one of them."
The feeling fell and burst into flame. The ashes were pissed on by the God of Lost Hopes and Dreams and ground into the dirt beneath the Boots of Despair.
The man from Anthea's crew was treated to a black glare and a snarl before Sherlock disappeared into the hallway.
Sherlock holed himself up in his room and spoke to no one for three days.
CleverDEAD
John dropped his crow bar into the dirt and gaped openly at the woman standing dead center in the middle of camp. She was draped in a black uniform and wearing a grin. She was also surrounded by John's group. He gathered his wits and spoke up above them.
"Anthea?"
The made a path, and his eyes met hers.
"John Watson," she said with a smile. "We meet again."
He walked forward and shook her hand.
"Mycroft?" he asked carefully.
"Alive," she said, but the smile fell from her face.
He frowned. "What's wrong?"
She reached into a pocket, pulled out something silver, and laid it in his hand.
John stared silently at his military I.D. tags. His thoughts were frantic, and a bit angry, but he quieted them, remind himself that none of this was her fault.
"Oh," he eventually said and she patted him on the shoulder. "We did the dirty work. Mycroft was upset."
John cleared his throat, and stuck the dog tags in his…Sherlock's old coat pocket. At least he knew now.
"Right," he said suddenly, falsely cheerful. "So, let me guess: there's a super-secret safe-haven hidden beneath the streets of London." John said flatly.
Anthea smirked. "We just call it Default 9."
CleverDEAD
Sherlock burst from his room and ran to find his brother. Mycroft was tucked away in the cafeteria, eating breakfast with a number of rather filthy looking people. The new arrivals, Sherlock's mind supplied, all of whom regarded Sherlock with wide, fearful eyes.
"Sherlock," Mycroft acknowledged between sipping at a bowl of soup. Sherlock didn't even bother with had become the habitual fat joke.
"Mycroft," he made the name sound particularly distasteful, "where are they?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about, little brother."
Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table, knocking a red-headed girl's bowl of soup into her lap. She screeched accordingly, but Sherlock ignored her. The rest of the table's occupants were giving him horrified glances.
"Where are they?" Sherlock's tone was barbed.
Mycroft glanced at his brother momentarily, taking in his disarrayed state, before his eyes settled at the man's neck.
"Ah," he said, going back to his soup, "you've lost John's tags."
"I didn't lose them. I would never lose them. One of your idiot minions took them from me!"
Mycroft ignored him. "By the way," he said conversationally, "these are Default 9's new occupants. The lovely young lady whose soup you've disturbed is Cindy, and that's Rick, Kurt, Kara, and Lee." He gestured accordingly.
Sherlock removed himself from the table and gave them all an imperial glare.
"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. "I will tear this place apart until I find them, and I will start with the labs."
"All of the most important rooms have already been locked down."
Sherlock snarled, "So it was you!"
"You'll get them back," Mycroft promised, adding silently, and all that they entail.
"I don't suppose you're willing to share when the rest of these idiots will be arriving."
Mycroft chuckled. "I'm not stupid, little brother."
Sherlock stormed out.
Mycroft turned back to the new arrivals. "As I was saying, you're not to tell either of them about each other. John thinks Sherlock is dead, and Sherlock thinks that John is missing. In fact, if I were you, I wouldn't bother my little brother at all until this whole thing has blown over. He's been like that ever since he work up from the coma."
"I didn't expect him to be like that," Mitch said suddenly. "The only time John mentioned him, he acted like Sherlock was some kind of hero. That guy was kind of a jerk. Erm, no offense."
"None taken, I can assure you," My croft said with a smirk.
CleverDEAD
Mitch Hartford had a knack for curiosity that often got him in trouble. This situation was no different. A week after he had settled into Default9, he hunted down the younger homes. Sherlock was in the labs again, finally having gained admittance after what was now being called "The Tag Accident". He was still in a rather impressive sulk about the whole ordeal, and Mitch probably would have been a bit more sympathetic, if he wasn't privy to the fact that the very man Sherlock Holmes was pining for was actually alive and well on his way to joining the underground safe haven.
"Mitch," Sherlock greeted, which was quite startling, seeing as Mitch had only seen Sherlock that first day at lunch.
"Um…Sherlock," he replied uncertainly.
"I'm assuming you're here to annoy me. What do you want?" He was so rude. Mitch was really starting to wonder how John could care so dearly for this asshole.
"Just to talk, I guess. I heard of you before the walkers took over."
"The good old days," Sherlock replied dryly.
"Yeah. I also wanted to give you my condolences," he said quickly, "for John."
Sherlock paused and turned to Mitch. "John?" he said sharply.
Under the scrutiny of that look, Mitch wondered how anyone could concentrate. He had thought talking to Mycroft was uncomfortable. Sherlock's gaze was unbearable, but beyond the scrutiny, there was actually something vaguely like fear lurking behind those feline eyes.
"I met him once…before."
Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and focused on his work again.
"Oh," the detective said quietly, and then, "I quite liked John."
"Yeah, he was good bloke, always looking out for everyone."
Sherlock's smile was fond and rather unexpected. "Yes, that was John."
Mitch was starting to get it now. The words that Sherlock spoke about John Watson were practically dripping with adoration.
"Tough bastard, too," Mitch supplied, hoping to goad Sherlock into saying more. "Bit quiet though."
Sherlock let out a small laugh. "He was only quiet when it was inconvenient and talkative when it wasn't. He was quite the socialite, actually, drove me insane sometimes. As for tough…well, he was a soldier. I suppose it was expected. He saved my life so many times that I stopped keeping track."
Mitch nodded and smiled triumphantly. Apparently both John and Sherlock had a knack for ranting about each other.
"I heard you were rather…vocal about your affection for him when you first woke up."
Sherlock frowned and his voice turned icy, "Apparently, I'm the only person here who believes that John could survive that mess. Surely, if someone like you or any other ordinary idiot can survive a world full of walkers, then John could. The likelihood of him being alive is far greater than that of any average man."
"Yeah, John was clever and military and whatnot, seemed perfectly normal to me though," Mitch said, a little defensively.
Sherlock glowered. "John Watson wasn't 'perfectly normal' by any means. He was an adrenaline-addict who was loyal too quickly and who ruined all of dates to come to my aid whenever I called. John Watson was mine."
Mitch waited a bit before saying anything after that. "It sounds like you loved him."
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply.
"Yes."
CleverDEAD
John and Kurt were the last ones. It was snowing lightly as the huddled around their tiny fire, talking quietly.
"How long do you think it will take?" Kurt asked. "If they left this morning?"
"All depends, I guess. It took a few days for each group."
"Anthea's pretty sweet, huh?"
"Yeah," John huffed, "but she's Mycroft's. You don't mess with his people, even post-zombie apocalypse."
"But you did, yeah?"
John smiled sadly. "By the time I knew about his brother, it was too late anyway."
"You and Sherlock were together?"
John laughed bitterly. "No."
"Wanted to be?"
"Maybe."
"So you swing both ways, huh?" Kurt said with a small nudge to John's shoulder.
The fire was barely glowing anymore; John watched the smoke curl up from the ashes.
"Not really, but there's an exception to every rule, isn't there?" he whispered. "If he were alive now…I'd keep him close and never let him out of my sight again."
"I heard he was a jerk."
John smiled and tugged Sherlock's coat tighter around himself. "He was a prat, but he was a good man, too. Smartest man I ever knew."
"You loved him."
John inhaled sharply, then exhaled with the words that defined his existence:
"Yes, I loved Sherlock Holmes."
CleverDEAD
Default 9 was a huge fucking place with 16 entrances that were stupid-hard to find and even harder to get in to. It took Anthea's team three days to get them past the walkers and into the facility and an extra day to get John and Kurt through a thorough medical examination. Even then, they weren't allowed to really clean up until they'd eaten at least one meal and had a security brief with Mycroft. It was utter bollocks to John, who thought taking a shower should have been first on their list of priorities.
Then again, seeing Mycroft Holmes was actually the icing on the cake.
When he first stepped into the cafeteria, his entire group of survivors were waiting for he and Kurt. They looked clean and happy and John was delighted for them. He gave every single one of them a hug and actually blushed when they thanked him for keeping them alive out there. However, when they were all seated and Mycroft Holmes stepped in the room looking clean and fit and utterly alive, John saw red. Without even really thinking about it, he got up, rushed across the room, knocked out Mycroft's two guards, and pushed the man in the face.
When Mycroft finally straightened, nursing his bleeding nose, he met John's eyes levelly. Aside from John's harsh breathing, you could hear a pin drop.
"You sodding bastard," John snarled in a tone so furious that several of the people in the room actually gasped in shock. A few of the men rose and approached John from behind to restrain him if necessary. "You should have fucking got him out of there! Did you even care that your brother was trapped in that place? Do you know what happened to him? I HAD TO WATCH HIM DIE! IT WAS LIKE FUCKING MORIARTY ALL OVER AGAIN!"
John actually reared back to punch him again, but Kurt grabbed him and pulled him away. John fought and struggled against him, nearly broke free, when Mitch stepped forward and had to help restrain them. In the end, David had to help hold him back, while someone rushed to give Mycroft assistance.
John ended up screaming profanities until they actually had to knock him out.
Mycroft wiped the blood from his nose and stared at John's prone form.
"To his room," he said in a nasally tone. "Keep an eye on him, and remember what I told you earlier."
He left the room.
CleverDEAD
"Well, well, well, brother darling, who did you upset this time? I heard about the dislocated nose." Sherlock said, voice laced with amusement.
"Someone with quite a nasty temper and apparently, a stronger protective streak than I anticipated."
Sherlock chuckled. "I may have to shake this man's hand and thank him personally for saving me the trouble."
Mycroft sighed, and winced as it his nose protested the movement. "We're still looking."
"Don't bother lying to me, Mycroft. I've done the count myself. Everyone's here in the facility. They're all far more concerned with the new arrivals."
"Fifteen people managed to survive out there for more than a year, Sherlock. They're not meant to be scorned. You of all people should find this uplifting. It means that, against all odds, there may actually be hope for your Doctor."
Sherlock was quiet.
Mycroft continued, "Anyway, we're having a party tonight to celebrate the arrival of the fifteen survivors. You are expected to attend."
"No, thank you."
"Sherlock, it would be in your best interest to attend."
"I highly doubt it."
"We've recovered your violin. You can play for everyone and prove, once and for all, that you are not entirely useless to the facility. Upon doing so, you will actually get to keep the blasted thing."
Sherlock snorted, a good indication that he really didn't care.
"On another note, if you come tonight, I will return John's tags to you."
Sherlock actually dropped the vial he was holding. It shattered on the floor. His eyes narrowed in Mycroft's direction. "I knew it. Who did you hide them on?"
"Anthea."
"Of course," he hissed. "I suspected."
Mycroft headed slowly toward the exit.
"So you'll attend."
A put-upon sigh, followed by an irritated: "If I must."
CleverDEAD
John came to in a dimly room. He was laying on a soft, small bed. He sat up slowly, wondering where the hell he was. Then, he remembered punching Mycroft, and felt immensely satisfied about it. He had a good stretch and rose from the bed. When he opened the door, he nearly ran in to someone.
"Oh, sorry, uh….Greg?"
John gaped at DI Lestrade for a full minute, before the other man laughed and engulfed him in a tight hug.
"Christ, John, it's good to see you! I heard you were back. Can't believe you spent a year out there."
"Me neither," John admitted. "Any idea where I can get a shower…and some clothes?"
"Sure thing, mate. I'll show you around." Greg led him down the hall, talking quickly. "There's a party tonight for your group. Sort of a welcome-and-congrats-for-not-getting-eaten thing."
"Sounds exciting."
"Yeah, so I heard you clocked Mycroft?"
John scowled. "He deserved it."
"Yeah…deserves a lot of things. Ah, here we are. Showers. We have hot water, too, if you can believe it." He showed John around, and then left him for a bit, claiming he would find John some decent clothes. John spent a decent amount of time appreciating the hot water, before he emerged in a cloud of steam, wrapped himself in a towel and met Greg in the changing room.
John stared at the clothes the detective offered him for a long time. He offered a black and white striped jumper that looked extremely familiar, a pair of boxers, a pair of worn blue jeans, some shoes, and a pair of black socks.
"Those are…my old clothes," John said, awed.
Greg grinned. "Mycroft was pretty thorough when it came to cleaning out your flat. Oh, then there's this." The detective held an oversized duffle in one hand. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, "It's Sherlock's coat and scarf and that bloody skull. They cleaned them up for you."
John took everything and dumped them on the closest counter.
"Thanks, Greg."
"Yeah. I'll wait for you outside, then?"
John nodded and tried not to be overwhelmed. Despite all of this, finding a safe place, keeping his people alive, and seeing so many old faces, one fact was still abundantly clear.
Sherlock Holmes was still dead.
CleverDEAD
The party wasn't really all that formal. In fact, the only people who were even remotely dressed up, where Sherlock and Mycroft, and that was because they were both snobs as a general rule. Chatter filled the ball room, and it was really quite arrogant for Mycroft to have arranged for this facility to have such a thing, but have one it did.
The party was in full swing when Mycroft finally gave Sherlock his violin.
"The tags?" the younger Holmes growled menacingly.
"After you play," Mycroft said with a quick smile. "And by play, I don't mean deafen us all by abusing the strings."
"First, I suppose you're going to give some kind of grating speech?" Sherlock enquired.
Mycroft smirked, and as if that was his cue, called the room to attention.
"Good evening, everyone! Thank you for coming. Tonight we're here to celebrate the arrival and survival of fifteen of our fellow human beings. No matter how safe and secluded we are down here, it is important to remember why. Many of us have lost loved ones to the undead, and it is likely that we will lose many more. However, it is also important to never lose hope. Now, if you'll all turn you attention to my right. My little brother is going to play for us tonight."
Small chatter broke out among the spectators and Sherlock turned his attention to his beloved violin. He adjusted the strings slowly, tested each one meticulously with the bow, as he picked his mind for a tune to play. He fled through the compositions of the old composers, but none of them seemed to satisfy. Finally, it occurred to him that he knew exactly what to play.
The room was silent, when he finally set the bow to the strings, and let the melody flow.
CleverDEAD
It was haunting, the sound that greeted his ears as he followed Greg to the ballroom. The detective turned to him and whispered, "I guess they started without us." John couldn't help but notice the amusement dancing in Greg's eyes, or the excitement that gleamed there. John smiled back uncertainly, too absorbed with the tune to care.
It was a familiar tune, something that Sherlock used to play in the middle of the night – always when John woke up from a nightmare. He suddenly ached to know its name, who it belonged to, who dared make such a beautiful sound. They finally arrived in the ballroom, at the back of the crowd. A few of the others noticed their arrival, and John watched as they all met his eyes and grinned fiercely. It confused him a bit, but he smiled back.
The song went on and on, and John finally closed his eyes, remembering a different place and time. He kept them closed even when the song ended, and didn't hear the clipped argument at the front of the room as the audience clapped appreciatively.
CleverDEAD
Sherlock finished and bowed. He accepted the appreciation of the crowd and before they had even stopped clapping, had turned to his brother.
"Beautiful, Sherlock. Mummy would be proud. What was the name of that one? I don't think I've ever heard it before."
Sherlock's voice was quiet. "It was John's."
Mycroft's smile was oddly mischievous. "I thought so."
Sherlock held out a hand expectantly. "Now, the tags, Mycroft."
"Right," Mycroft turned to the crowd, just as Sherlock let out an irritated sound.
"If you would," the elder Holmes said rather loudly. Sherlock's eyes snapped quizzically to the crowd, which seemed to be separating, creating a path.
To my tags, hopefully, Sherlock thought angrily.
But when the path cleared, only one person was left for him to see, and for the first time in Sherlock's life, he dropped his own violin.
CleverDEAD
John heard it, a loud thud and a sharp intake of breath. He opened his eyes and his heart stopped, for standing across the room was none other than Sherlock Holmes.
There was a breathless moment, when the crowd was all smiles and Mycroft was smug, but Sherlock only saw John and John only saw the impossible – that Sherlock Holmes was alive and well and definitely not a zombie.
They stood still for so long that John had almost convinced himself that the thing he was looking at was not Sherlock Holmes at all, rather a statue with an excellent likeness, but then Sherlock was running, and John was running and they merged midway in a painful, but amazing embrace.
John pulled away enough to stare up into Sherlock's eyes and was suddenly slammed with the realization that it could be no one other than him. And then Sherlock was kissing him, so hard and so fiercely that John should have pulled away, but he gave as much as he got, until breathing became impossible and John was getting rather annoying because something was poking him in the back. He pulled away and Sherlock followed the trail of his skin down to his throat.
"Sherlock," John laughed, "you're still holding the bloody bow, you idiot."
Sherlock made a noise that might have been from pleasure or acknowledgement, and dropped the bow entirely. John was then swooped off of his feet, and came out of a daze enough to realize that Sherlock was holding him bridal style and striding meaningfully out of room. People cheered and wolf-whistled as they made their escape.
"Voyeurs, all of them," Sherlock declared loudly.
John laughed, and pressed his face against Sherlock's neck. He had just started tracing the line of Sherlock's collarbones with his tongue, when he was dropped unceremoniously onto his feet. Sherlock approached him slowly until John was backed up against a door. The gleam in his eye couldn't be called anything but predatory.
"Sherlock," John said breathily and wrapped his arms around the other man's neck. Sherlock smiled and pressed his forehead to John's for a long moment, eyes closed, until they snapped open and he pushed John through the door and into the room.
"Yours?" John asked, not bothering to look around.
"Mycroft's," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Revenge for all of this."
John's eyes widened. "Those bastards! They all knew, didn't they?"
"They must have. Bloody conspirators."
Sherlock pushed John onto the bed and settled over him on hands and knees, just looking, taking in every detail.
"I was so afraid that were dead," he eventually whispered, and lowered himself over John's body, pressing his face against the man's neck. John cradled Sherlock's head, running his hands through his hair, and realized quite suddenly that they were both crying.
"God, Sherlock, how are you even here? You turned. I watched you." John said coarsely.
Sherlock started pressing kisses to John's face, anywhere and everywhere that he could reach.
"I remember a bit of it…the fever, but then it's all gone, up to the point where I was stuck in the medical facility here and I started to regain consciousness. Mycroft's people found me. They were trying to find a cure, and I was the first successful specimen."
"Specimen," John spat, and gripped Sherlock's shoulders tightly.
"Yes, I wasn't particularly thrilled by that either, but I was alive, John, and I was determined to find you. You see, I have a condition. It's been bothering me ever since I woke up." He looked John right in the eyes and gave him a heart-melting smile. "You see, I'm in love with an ex-army doctor. He's short and he wears jumpers and he makes excellent tea. I can't live without him, and I am so very glad that he didn't bash my head in the very instant I turned into a flesh-eating zombie."
John gave Sherlock a watery smile and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. When he pulled away, his eyes were practically glowing with affection.
"I have a condition, too," John declared, "I'm in love with a man who keeps dying and coming back to life. It's quite stressful."
Sherlock laughed and pressed himself suggestively against John.
"I think I can make up for that."
John grinned as Sherlock noticed the gleam of something silver against John's throat.
"There they are!" he suddenly exclaimed and dipped his fingers under the top of John's shirt to retrieve his ID tags. "I thought Mycroft had stolen them. He said he'd give them back tonight."
"I guess he did."
"Conniving brother of mine," Sherlock growled.
John moved to take his tags off, and placed them around Sherlock's neck.
"They should stay with you," he said softly, then his tone became rather playful as he yanked the chain to pull Sherlock closer. He whispered the words against Sherlock's lips, "People will see them and know who you belong to."
Sherlock slid his hands under John's shirt and kissed him as they leaned back against the pillows, indicating rather pointedly, that he knew other ways to stake a claim on someone.
"I'll always belong to you, John," Sherlock whispered later, when they lay bare and entangled together – forever inseparable. "And you'll always be mine."
John smiled and whispered into the night.
"Zombies or not, dead or alive, I'll always love you, Sherlock."
"And I'll always love you, John. After all, where would I be without my blogger?"
"You would have been killed by a cabbie. Thank God I prevented that, eh?"
"No more embarrassing than being turned into a zombie."
"No, I'm pretty sure the cabbie would have been worse."
They chuckled simultaneously, until Sherlock finally put an end to it.
"Sleep now, John. Tomorrow we have quite a big case to solve."
"And what's that, Sherlock?"
"Ending the zombie apocalypse."
"Can Scotland Yard handle that one?"
"I think Mycroft should be the one."
John made a sound of agreement.
"You know what? It doesn't matter. I've got you. You're all I need."
Sherlock gave John a slow kiss, and they both, finally, rested.