"Take a left at the next street!" Sherlock said. They had been running for several blocks now with John constantly dodging desperate grabs for a meal. It wasn't easy when he had to keep pulling Sherlock out of their reach too. The damned consulting detective was preoccupied with his texting again.
"I'm going to chuck that bloody phone if you don't put it away!" he shouted angrily, shooting the skull of a zombie, whose teeth came too close for comfort. They were everywhere. Turn one corner to escape three of them, two more would pop up.
"Oh, that would be bold of you," Sherlock replied. The way his legs ran with such precision of each step, dodging an uplift of surfaces like curbs, or the obstacle of a corpse on the ground, made the impression that the phone was in no way slowing him down. "We can't have communication 'chucked' away from us at a time like this." He said, slamming his elbow into a zombie's face. John rolled his eyes. He was being too incredibly calm for this shit.
They made a turn for the street and were greeted by a motorcycle. John ran past it but was swiftly grabbed by the scruff of his jacket. "Sherlock! What are you doing?" he exclaimed. There were still corpses running after them. "Can you steer a motorcycle?" Sherlock asked quickly.
John looked around, zombies dangerously catching up to their halted steps. Sherlock's grip on him was stern though. Confident. "Yes but we don't have the…" Sherlock flicked a jumble keys that rested in the ignition of the motorbike. "… keys." he muttered.
John looked back to see more of the bloody creatures coming their way. With no time to waste they hopped on, John in the front and Sherlock wrapping his arms around the army doctor's waist from the back. The two duffle bags were safely strapped to the rear of the bike. He twisted the keys in the ignition and the bike roared to life. They sped off without a second's notice.
"This doesn't make any sense. There's a completely full tank of gas in this thing! Who leaves a motorbike with the keys in the ignition," John asked as they rode across the Waterloo Bridge. The bike darted around abandoned vehicles and 'slow walker' zombies. Sherlock, meanwhile, kept one arm around John while the other held his phone. "What do you make of it?" John asked him. Sherlock pursed his lips. He didn't hesitate.
"It was parked infront of a shop. Someone probably went inside to get supplies and thought it best to leave the keys for a quick escape. Not such a smart decision." John grimaced, horrified. Oh God, we may have just killed someone, he thought. Then he remembered the horde they had led to the shop. John imagined some poor bastard walking out with a heavy pack only to get attacked by the mob.
After several silent minutes, Sherlock broke it, "Oh for goodness' sake John, it just a theory." He looked at Sherlock through the mirror, surprised. Sherlock's brilliant blue eyes had torn themselves from the screen of his phone and were staring at him through the mirror as well. Sherlock shrugged. "I could be wrong." He muttered slowly. John looked towards the road, speeding up the bike as they crossed an empty intersection.
"Since when do you say you're wrong?" John asked, chuckling.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A guilty John Watson is boring," He managed. ", And I care more for a friend's well being than a strangers." John's smile wilted but he gave an understanding nod. 'Okay, I'll give you points for that' he thought. Sherlock was just trying to save their skins. Literally.
Sherlock's phone rang with the arrival of a text message. He read it and hummed with worry. "Mycroft?" John offered.
"Lestrade, asking where we're at." he corrected. "Mycroft hasn't replied."
"Since when?"
"Last month." He peered at Sherlock from the rear view mirror again, troubled by this news.
Mycroft was the government. The government was surely dealing with the Infection. Do the math and you find a busy or possibly dead Mycroft Holmes. Governments never lasted long in these situations like the movies. "I'm sure he's fine." John assured.
The consulting detective only grunted. Another text rang in. "Lestrade and Molly are at Barts."
"Do they need help?" John asked, anxious. The motorbike slowed, coordinates now unsure. "Take a left and we'll be there in five minutes."
As they sped through streets, Sherlock pulled out one of the swords from its sheath, taking fatal swipes at the heads of the walking dead. When John asked why, he said "Might as well clear an infestation if nothing else."
John nearly flinched at every hit the corpses took. "Careful not to get their blood on or in you." He warned. "Don't worry about me, just ride." Sherlock replied to his mate's nagging.
John was always first to put Sherlock's health into considerate worry since he rarely ate or slept much, but the Infection had turned the level up a notch. Eating and sleeping would be harder to come by now and they were going to need plenty of it to survive. John knew his job would be harder with Sherlock running around a zombie invasion.
They arrived at St. Barts with a not too friendly welcome. Zombies of every kind- limping and decayed from fresh and fast- surrounded the block Barts stood on. They pushed themselves against its windows, doors, and walls but their access was denied. Some had the great idea to smash the windows and jump inside. "I guess they can't think to open doors or windows." John commented. They jumped off the bike, Sherlock immediately taking down two zombies.
"Why are they even trying to get inside?" John shot the skulls of two zombies and punched out a woman whose jaw completely flew off from the impact. Sherlock put the jawless creature out its misery by plunging a blade through its head. "They're like animals. One sees or hears a piece of food and all instantly come for a bite." Sherlock answered.
Some of the zombies John and Sherlock fought were completely falling apart from their sockets. "Older bodies can't keep up," Sherlock sniffed, taking out another skull. ", People are raising from their death beds." This made John even wearier for the future. Not only were they going to have to kill bodies that existed now but take down people that had been deceased. "As long as there's enough brain matter and muscle, they're mobile." Sherlock only grunted in reply.
As John reloaded, a zombie came running at Sherlock from behind. "Move Sherlock!" he exclaimed. Sherlock spun around, blade raised. A gun shot exploded through the side of the zombie's head and it fell at Sherlock's feet. The two looked to where the shot was fired and spotted Lestrade at the bottom broken window of Barts. "Get inside!" he ordered, taking shots at the horde trying to push itself in.
John and Sherlock killed the small group of walking corpses trying to penetrate through the sturdy entrance and locked the door behind them. Sherlock received a text. "Head to the morgue." He said. John snapped his head towards the shrieks and moans emanating from several of the hospital rooms. Fear crept up his spine.
With their weapons ready, they sprinted across the hall. The first two were horribly rabid and John cursed himself when his first shot missed one of their heads. Sherlock took the bold idea and charged at them. Infected nurses, doctors, and patients of every size and gender ran for them as they tried to reach their destination. Some of them were difficult to kill for John since he knew most of them. But Sherlock had no disadvantage in this and took them down swiftly.
They made a right turn to head for the morgue doors and almost collided into another zombie. The impact was close enough to when John could see the creature's yellow eyes. Her hands grabbed John by the collar of his jacket and she screamed in delight of a meal. Acting quickly, he slammed the butt of his gun into the creature's head and it fell to the ground. Sherlock made the kill quick and they continued through the morgue door, slamming it shut behind them and panting.
Molly greeted them almost instantly, her white lab coat speckled with crimson colors and her usual long mousy brown hair, severed short near the bottom of her jaw line. She gave a weak smile. "It's good to see you two." She managed. Sherlock and John stared, still out of breath from their latest combat.
"You cut your hair." Sherlock said. Molly flushed with embarrassment. "Yeah, I was upstairs with Lestrade and one of the patients grabbed me by the hair. I would have been zombie food if Lestrade hadn't cut it." She explained, sighing. She touched her hair, wishing for its familiar length.
"It suits you." The consulting detective commented, making Molly smile. Lestrade burst through the door, making the three jump. He breathed, bushed, but smiled when he saw John and Sherlock.
"I'm glad you two are okay." He said, trying to regain regular breathing patterns.
"Well it was a close call. Of all the places to be, why did you choose a hospital full of the ill and dying?" John asked.
"It wasn't like I asked the Infection to spread at this time and place," the tired inspector replied. ", Just bad luck, I guess."
He sighed, and rested against the counter. Sherlock and John snapped their attention to the footsteps coming from the other room. Sally and Anderson walked in, sporting supplies and weaponry. "Lestrade, the other exit looks…" Sally's voice trailed off seeing them. Anderson looked peeved. "Oh for God's sake, you invited them?" he whined at the Detective Inspector. Lestrade squeezed the bridge of his nose, tired.
"Now don't start-"
"Sorry, I didn't know you needed an invitation during a zombie apocalypse." John cut in. "Does that mean we're party crashers?" Sherlock added. "Yes I do believe so. Looks like times of death are now called parties also." John was smiling, along with Sherlock. "Well that's nice, makes it cheerier if you ask me."
"Will you two stop acting like children? How can you even joke at a time like this?" Sally cut them off angrily.
Molly held up a coffee pot and said, "Anyone thirsty?" trying to change the subject. John got the hint and nodded, helping her with the mugs. Sherlock peered through the window. "So…when do we head out?"