Paper Cuts

Because sometimes it's the small things that hurt the most.

Chapter one

There was no question that the loss of his wife was one of the most painful things John had ever had to endure. It was worse than the physical pain of being shot, than coming home an invalid, and all of the terrorizing moments he'd endured since then, with maybe the exception of that time he thought his best friend was dead. Those were the two moments in his life that John Watson could say were truly the most painful. Yet despite all of it, he was alive. He lived a relatively good life with his best friend and beautiful daughter, and he was gifted daily with Mrs. Hudson's delicious cooking. Not to say things had always been so well off. There had been an extensive amount of time where everything was up in the air. Little sleep and even less food had left John a mere shell of the man he'd once been, but with the help of his family—of Sherlock—he'd healed. The wound was closed but the scar would always be there. He supposed that's why Sherlock kept a keen eye on him. They'd all been through hell, and yet it was the detective who was trying to keep things as they should be; as they always should have been.

"You're staring again," John spoke softly, his blue eyes never leaving the paper he had in his hand, the other one holding a now cold piece of toast with only a single bite taken from it. Most mornings started out as such. John would get up early as he always did, and more often than not Sherlock was already awake, puttering about the flat as he worked on a case or his latest experiment. John always greeted him, making some sort of breakfast before sitting down with the paper. He wasn't really reading it, and he was positive the other knew that, but it gave him a poor excuse not to have to talk, not that it was usually a problem. Sherlock was more than happy spending his time in silent deliberation—often over an experiment—but he'd also changed over the years, opening up a bit to voice the occasional thought of concern.

Today seemed to be one of those days.

"There's an article detailing a murder," Sherlock replied, catching the blond off guard.

Alright, maybe not one of those days.

John knitted his brows together in mild confusion as he adjusted the paper in his hand, getting a better look at what he was supposed to have been reading. Sure enough, the other was right, to no one's surprise. However, just below it was something the blond found to be more interesting; skipping over the murder to read on. A young boy was taken to the hospital with an immense fever. He lasted only a day and a half before he succumbed and passed away. The doctors had been treating him for rabies, due to an animal bite a couple days before, but it hadn't seemed to help any.

He couldn't help but to feel his heart ache for the family. As a father himself, John couldn't imagine how painful it was to lose a child. To lose Rosie would absolutely kill him.

"Finish your toast quickly and we will be out of here before Rosie wakes up," Sherlock spoke again, bringing John back out of his thoughts as he blinked, turning his head as he tried to follow the image of the other walking off towards his room with obvious excitement.

"What? Now? I told you I like to at least wait until she's awake before we go running off." He huffed, "And this doesn't look like a seven!" he added, raising his voice a bit so that his friend could hear him from the other room.

In the end, John's words of protest were ignored, and he already knew there was no arguing the subject. Sherlock called back about already knowing their DI friend was going to need help on this one, so with little else for options, John got up, leaving his toast on the table before he went back up to his and Rosie's room. The toddler was asleep in her own bed, lying on her back with her blonde locks messily cradling her head. She looked happy, even when she was asleep, and John prayed that she would never have to experience the heartbreaking pain that he had already encountered in his own lifetime.

With a quick kiss to her head, he grabbed his coat, slipping out of the room and leaving her to sleep in before he met up with Sherlock in the living room. The detective was pacing, ruffling his curls as he looked up at John with that wild look in his eyes.

"Ah, good; finished with your moment of sentiment then? Lestrade sent a text, he needs us there quickly." he hummed, looking mildly irritated, but John could see right through the snarky remark. He knew all too well that Sherlock endured his own feelings of love for those close to him in his life, and there was no debating that Rosie was very much included in that group. Sherlock had no ill feelings towards John's sentimental behavior, and as such, the blond replied with a challenging smirk.

"Waiting on you now," he said in reply, and though Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply, John knew it still annoyed him. By the time they'd said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, however, the irritation had faded, and Sherlock spent their cab ride speaking quickly about the information the article alone had provided and what his theories were. John listened with a lazy ear as he watched London pass them by. The city was full of people, most of whom were on their way to work or were just getting off from a night shift, eager to get home. It was a fairly normal scene to behold, with perhaps the exception of a small group of people who stood handing out masks to the public. It was November, a cold month often accompanied by the flu, but the signs they held detailed something else; something unknown, but suggestive of a deadly fever.

"They're idiots," Sherlock chimed in, pulling John's attention towards himself, "You're a doctor, and a rather good one at that. Don't let them pull you into their crazy conspiracies. They think that because a couple of people have died of fever recently that something is going on but what they've seemingly failed to realize is that people die of fever every year. It's what causes the fever that's important. In most cases, people are educated enough to be able to take care of it on their own at home, but in extreme cases, you go to the hospital. Sometimes it just can't be helped."

Sherlock's tone was that of a bored man's, and John couldn't blame him. Though there was an increase in the deaths caused by fever lately, it was only a handful of cases, most of which had been linked back to an outbreak of rabies. Similarly, the victims were all from a common neighborhood, and as such the city was on the lookout for the rabid animal that seemed to be causing the deadly epidemic.

"In any event, it isn't important. What is, is that we focus on who killed this woman and why." Sherlock finally finished, stepping out of the cab and leaving John to pay as he met up with Lestrade, already talking a mile a minute as he deducted the crime scene. John couldn't help but to smile a bit, watching as he joined them and listened to the path that Sherlock's mind took, still so brilliant despite all the abuse he put his body through.

They spent a good few minutes looking around, John confirming that the cause of death was the stab wound to the abdomen, or more precisely, the loss of blood from such a wound. Sherlock wasn't impressed with such an easy and common result, so it wasn't surprising when he suddenly announced that they would be seeing the family for a friendly—though interrogative—talk.

"Ms. Jefferson, I'd like to start off by saying how sorry we are for your loss," John spoke, his voice soft and kind. Sherlock was unimpressed, moving forward quickly after a short mumble of agreement to show that he too was obviously sympathetic, though he was fooling no one and he knew it. It was just a courteous gesture, which was an improvement in itself. Unfortunately for all of them, the daughter hadn't seemed to know anything. She'd been dealing with he own traumas detailing an abusive ex boyfriend, which had explained the small bruise on her cheek.

Not long after they finished, Greg called with the autopsy results as well as information regarding the scene. Two sets of DNA were found; one obviously belonging to the victim, the other to who they believed to be was their killer. There were trace amounts of blood at the scene that did not match the victim.

"Have them get DNA samples from the family and any close friends." Sherlock told the DI as he waved down a cab, "Make sure there aren't any mix ups. I have a feeling that her daughter may have been the one to do it, and this could be the proof."

"You think her daughter killed her?" John asked a moment later, Sherlock rolling his eyes in reply.

"I know she did." He said, slipping his phone back into his coat pocket, "There was a small cut on her hand, obviously from a struggle, and not with her made up ex boyfriend. I have no doubt that the blood at the scene will match her DNA. We just have to wait."

There was a smug expression of triumph on Sherlock's face as he opened the door to the backseat of the cab, gesturing for the blond to get in before he followed. He didn't always follow Sherlock's train of thought, nor did he always agree, but he trusted him for the most part. Sherlock wasn't a man who enjoyed getting things wrong, so there wasn't a great probability that he had spoken before he was absolutely sure himself. And anyway, they would wait for the proof before they acted.

Getting settled, John let the thought float to the back of his mind as he glanced around the cab. He always did, usually only on a casual level, but he couldn't help but to notice the sheen of sweat on their cabbie's face, and his gruff tone of voice that obviously indicated he didn't feel well. He exchanged an uneasy look with Sherlock, trying to breathe less—as if that would help—as they accepted their ride.

It was uncomfortable to say the least, John worrying about getting whatever it was the other had and Sherlock watching closely. However, no amount of attention would prepare them for the impact. It happened in only a second; the driver neglecting to stop as the lights in front of them turned red. Sherlock shouted something in frustration, but it wasn't enough to avoid the car that hit them.

The collision came from John's side, the force knocking both him and the cabbie over towards the center of the car. John was blindsided; between the pain in his arm, his ears ringing, and the loud sound of an ongoing horn it was hard to understand what was going on. There was a second and third loud crash, jostling them further as cars ran into the one who had hit them.

"John—John," Sherlock was speaking calmly, albeit with concern, as he grabbed John, immediately regretting it as the blond gave a pained groan, pushing his hands away.

"Don't. My arm." He said through gritted teeth, breathing heavily, but slowly as he waited for the worst of the pain to pass. Through it all he could see that Sherlock too had been hurt. There was a cut on his forehead, bleeding well enough though it did not stop him from calling for help. Within a few minutes the paramedics had arrived, and John was thankful for it. None of them were in great shape, and the cabbie too was coughing quite a bit, groaning and shaking as they put him on a stretcher to be taken to the nearest hospital.

It was no surprise that John joined him; put on a stretcher with a splint on his right arm and an IV drip in the other. Together, he and Sherlock rode along to the hospital, getting treated there in a separate room while John was taken care of. It wasn't long after everything calmed down though that Sherlock showed up in his friend's room, a couple stitches and plasters on his forehead, but otherwise seemingly alright.

"Any signs of a concussion?" John asked groggily, his blue eyes looking over his best friend with worry, ever the doctor.

"No, I'm relatively fine." Sherlock assured him, and after a brief moment of staring him down, John relaxed, sighing heavily.

"Thank goodness. The last thing we need is something serious." He said, shifting slightly so that he was propped up more. Sherlock seemed unamused, always more serious and concerned when it came to the wellbeing of those close to him.

"You have a broken arm, I'd consider that to be at least mildly serious," the detective responded, though his tone held an air of humor to it. It was obvious no one was in danger of losing their life in that moment, and it was almost always at this stage that they relaxed, laughing to one another about their unpleasant experience.

"Yes, but that cabbie looked far worse off," John commented, trying to remember if he'd seen any physical injuries other than a few scrapes and bruises, "He was obviously sick, which is why he ran that red light. I can't be sure, but whatever it was, was serious."

Sherlock nodded in agreement without argument, something that rarely happened, but his expression was a serious one, "Yes, I took the liberty of checking on his status, and as it turns out, he didn't make it."

"What?" John looked shocked, his face reading confusion, "He was injured that badly?"

"No, he didn't die from injuries sustained at the accident. He died of a fever."

John grew quiet at the news, sitting back and contemplating. He didn't like what was going on. The deaths brought on by a fever were becoming far too common, and as a doctor the urge to jump into the action was a strong one, his arm be damned. But as they sat, a woman's voice came over the intercom system, sounding panicked as she tried to calmly ask for security down in the morgue. John thought it odd to need security around dead people, and one glance at Sherlock told him the other was thinking the same, silently going over a list of reasons why someone might need back up down there.

Something felt wrong, and it had the both of them on edge, their earlier case forgotten as Sherlock stood, gathering John's coat and placing it on the bed before slipping on his own.

"We need to go," he said, looking down at John with a serious expression. Of course he was interested, but he didn't like fooling around in an unsafe environment when John wasn't in a condition to properly protect himself should something actually go wrong.

"Get the nurse," John replied, sitting up fully now, "I'll talk to them and sign myself out, and then we can leave."

Outside the hospital, things seemed to slowly grow chaotic. The traffic had become heavier as people seemed to suddenly be in a rush. Others were running on the sidewalks, buying things like canned food and bottled water, the early stages of panic setting in as finally news of an outbreak had begun to spread. People were getting sick and dying, more often after an attack or encounter with somebody else who was infected. It hadn't become apparent what was going on in that moment, but it wouldn't take long for the real terrors to emerge.

"They won't listen to me," Sherlock said in frustration as he returned, paying no mind to the consequences as he began to unhook John from his machines, "We are just going leave, we don't have time to waste here."

John frowned as his machines started to ding, signaling they'd been undone, "Sherlock, stop, we can wait a few moments if they're busy." He protested, all the while letting the other continue.

"Is everything alright in here?" a nurse asked as she came running in, looking flustered and appalled to see Sherlock unhooking a patient, "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stop immediately. We are having difficulties with a situation and we need all of our patients to stay in their rooms calmly until we get things settled."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock said, ignoring her request, "My friend here is fine and would like to sign himself out. John Watson. Can you get his doctor?"

Desperation found its way onto her face as the other kept going, grabbing John's clothes as well now. In the hall, the sound of running footsteps could be heard, followed by a stern male voice over the speakers, only this time it wasn't requesting back up; the hospital was on lockdown.

With only another request that they stay in their room, the nurse left again, shutting the door behind her. John hadn't resigned himself to staying put, but he took the moment of privacy to get his regular clothes back on, careful of his arm that stilled ached quite a bit.

"What do you think is going on?" he asked, turning to his brilliant-minded friend in the hopes that he might be able to shed some insight.

"Something's gotten out of hand and it isn't just an illness." Sherlock replied, pacing the small room back and forth. Just then, his phone rang, and with only a glance and a disgusted look it was obvious who it was. Sherlock ignored it in favor of continuing his analysis of the situation, "No, the threat has to be a person; someone out of control that's a threat to the patients. Whoever it is, I'm sure we can take them. Are you ready?"

John gave a nod of his head, but the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing once more had him uneasy. It was no doubt Mycroft, and in most cases, the other didn't persist to get a hold of his brother unless something was seriously important.

"Should you maybe answer?" John suggested, but the look Sherlock gave him alone was enough to know the answer.

"No, let's go." He said, opening the door.

Out in the halls, nurses were running back and forth, making sure patients were calm and in their rooms, nearly every door closed at the moment. Their phones were ringing off the hook, and suddenly it seemed like everyone in London was reporting attacks of a cannibalistic nature. It left John deeply unsettled, and from the looks on the nurses' faces, he wasn't the only one. None of them even stopped to talk to them, shoving past with something much more daunting on their minds.

"The elevator is over here," Sherlock said, hurrying over and pressing the button more than enough times, much like a child who was far too excited. It only took a moment though to realize the elevator wasn't coming, and Sherlock was quick to drag John by his good arm in the direction of the stairs, opening the door and bringing him along, "If they've shut down the elevators then they're trying to isolate the situation." He said, his mind working a mile a minute.

"Let's just get out of here while we can and worry about what's going on later." John replied, trying to keep calm despite the sinking feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He wondered briefly if perhaps his panic was an overreaction, but as they reached the ground floor, it soon became apparent that it was actually not enough.

Sherlock jerked open the exit from the stairwell to an ugly sight. In lockdown, the front doors to the hospital had been closed. It kept the unwanted from coming in, but it wasn't enough to deter them from trying. Outside the front doors was a mob; a mob of seemingly angry and injured people, growling and emitting inhumane-like sounds as they pounded on the glass, smearing it with gore-covered hands. John had never seen anything so terrifying in his life; the breath catching in his throat as he stared.

Sherlock felt much the same, but his logical mind was screaming denials at him, and he didn't wait long before he dragged John back into the stairwell, closing the door behind them roughly before pacing the landing, trying to get a handle on his mind.

"What the hell was that?!" John exclaimed, looking scared and confused as he turned to Sherlock for the answers obviously neither of them had, "There are people out there covered in blood! Why aren't we letting them in?!"

Sherlock shook his head, grabbing roughly at his usually well-maintained curls and pulling, praying that the pain would wake him up from whatever nightmare was unfolding in front of him. But it changed nothing; he could still hear the growling and hissing from the horde outside.

"Those weren't people, John," he whispered, his own voice sounding far away, "We won't let them in because they're already dead; monsters out to get the living."

The blond stared at the other for a long moment, wanting so badly to shout at him about how much of a liar he was, but he had seen it with his own eyes. It wasn't a lie.

John sighed heavily, rubbing his face as he tried to come to terms with what was happening. Sherlock's phone going off was a shrill and startling sound in the near silence, and this time the detective didn't ignore it.

"Mycroft, what's going on?" he demanded, wasting no time. John hated to hear his best friend sound so unsure. It reminded him of their time at Baskerville, only this time he was sure they weren't being drugged. The whole hospital was freaking out, it wasn't just them, and that made things so much more real.

A long moment passed where nobody spoke; there was only the sound of the dead at the entrance and Mycroft's garbled voice over the phone. Sherlock never said a word, and perhaps he was never given the chance. They were plunged into darkness mere moments later. John could hear Sherlock's coat as he made a quick turn, carefully feeling out for his friend in the dark; but ever the genius, Sherlock was quick to use his phone as a light, finally meeting John's terrified gaze with one of his own.

"We got cut off," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "John, we need to get out of here. We need to get to Baker Street and stay there until Mycroft can get to us. After that, we'll be okay."

John stared at the other for what felt like forever, trying so hard to read the complicated thoughts behind the mask. He couldn't; all he had to go on was the fact that Sherlock was willing to work with his detested brother and the horrible sight he had seen with his own eyes. More important to him though was the thought of Rosie at home, scared without her father in a time where monsters were suddenly real. Even worse was the idea of losing her to their cannibalistic nature.

He shuddered, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach as he turned away, leaning against the wall as he took several deep breaths, trying so hard to will away the urge to puke at the images his frenzied mind was forcing on him. Sherlock looked pale and concerned, no doubt already knowing where John's mind had wandered off to. All he could do at the moment was offer him a consoling hand on his shoulder, hoping that it did something to reassure him that things would be okay.

"We need to find another way out of here; a back door. If we can get out without catching the attention of the feeders, then we can get home to Rosie," he said, forcing his voice to sound more confident than he felt himself. He needed to be strong for both of them. He knew he was probably their only chance of making it out of there safely. Not that he thought poorly of John's skills as a human being or as a veteran soldier, it was just a fact. He couldn't let anything happen to John or Rosie.

A/N: Hello, old friends and new ones! It has been a long, long time since I've written anything at all really, much less seriously. I've finally reached a point though where I think I can push myself over that stubborn hill. I would love to hear your thoughts and constructive criticism on this new story though, and it goes without saying that reviews/comments are very encouraging. But above all I hope you enjoy!