The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.
The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for this idea.
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As usual, Sherlock was right (of course I was right), numerous reports of zombie attacks began to flood the newsrooms; strangely though most were from well developed nations like China, Japan, and Australia, but the odd report from third-world countries was not uncommon. Though it didn't take very long for the virus to reach Great Britain. Maybe a week and a half after the mass of reports from America; which worried the rest of the world as they had stopped coming, and the growing reports from around the world, the first zombie report in England was out of the London Heathrow Airport. The plane had just landed from South America and the passenger passed out on her way off; she died of an allergic reaction believe it or not, and the crew hadn't been able to save her. Three minutes later she reanimated and killed four people quickly. Unfortunately, the whole incident had been aired live. All of Britain; Sherlock included, squirmed as the five citizens reanimated and were put down.

"If the woman's death tells us anything, it's that we don't have to be bitten to turn. She didn't have a mark on her," Sherlock said after the BBC News went off the air for a short time. John cast him a sideways glance (not exactly a comforting thought). They'd already taken several precautions, according to John plans. Mrs. Hudson's storage freezer had been brought up into the boys flat where it was holding some fresh food and several gallons of clean water. The fridge had been stocked with some fresh foods but like the cabinets had been stocked with canned foods and non-perishables, at least a years worth; before rationing (if John doesn't let every Tom, Dick, and Harry into our home it could last longer).

They'd spoken with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly about arrangements should the incident go completely viral and everything was set up. In anticipation, John had taken to carrying his Browning around with him at all times (paranois and gross distrust of the public, not as stupid as I treat him sometimes), it didn't exactly make him feel safer, but her certainly felt a bit more secure with it on his person.

"I don't want this, John," Sherlock protested when the doctor passed a second Browning to him.

"This is not up for debate. You agreed to do as I asked in this situation and I'm asking this of you. Carry this on you at all times, in case it goes F.U.B.A.R. and you aren't at home. It's for protection," John explained, closing the detective's hand around the pistol (not complete bullshit). "And don't give me that crap about being uncomfortable with firearms in public." He pointed at Sherlock with that same soldier look in his eyes.

Sherlock sighed, chambered a round, and flipped the safety before tucking it at the small of his back. John had actually been paying more attention to the news reports as of late (acting like they're military intelligence reports, close enough when you really think about it) and had taken to sleeping in the sitting room. Keeping both a sledgehammer and axe on the landing outside the flat.

(this is utterly insane) Riots were on the verge of starting and the public was quickly becoming paranoid that the government was hiding something from them about the outbreak (people really DON'T think when they're panicked, feels like this is playing out like some sort of movie). Sherlock climbed into bed as a news report began about a march through Trafalgar Square. He ignored it; knowing John would give him a full report in the morning, and quickly fell asleep.

(bloody sirens, they must have started rioting) Sherlock stirred in his sleep as sirens wailed around them. His brow furrowed when he recognized that they weren't police sirens, but the old World War II air raid sirens blaring throughout the city. He sat bolt upright and quickly launched into the sitting room. The TV was the only light source and the National Alert was scrolling across the screen.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the impossible has happened. There has been a massive zombie outbreak in greater London. The crowd of dead began in Trafalgar Square and are quickly making their way through the West End. We strongly urge all citizens to remain in their homes, lock your doors and windows, turn out your light and STAY indoors. We ask those in the West End to NOT try and flee your homes, there are simply too many to out maneuver and their numbers are growing. DO NOT try to reach your loved ones elsewhere, you don't want to end up one of them and above all else, DO NOT engage the walking dead. Barricade yourselves in your homes if you can and stay tuned for further updates. BBC One will be staying on the air as long as we can, please, stay safe," the anchorwoman stated, her voice breaking at the end.

She began the speech again and Sherlock looked around for John (he's had to have seen this). He wasn't in the flat. He rushed from the sitting room and nearly collided with Mrs. Hudson and Molly; as a precaution she'd been staying in two two one c.

"I can't believe it's really happening," Molly commented as she sat before the television, staring at the fresh images coming in. For the first time in his life, Sherlock's jaw dropped at the gruesome pictures and graphic live video feed (my God...there are so many of them). For a long moment his brain refused to work and the zombies crowded into homes, spilling blood across dark windows. One rushed the cameraman; who used the camera as a weapon and bludgeoned the creature with it before returning to filming.

"Sherlock!" John called, bringing the detective back into the flat. He trotted back onto the landing to hear the splintering of wood. "Make sure the ladder is close by, we're going to need it to get back up." He'd already destroyed the banister and was making his way down the stairs with the axe, swinging it into the wood and slowly making the seventeen stairs to two two one b vanish.

"What about Lestrade?" Sherlock found himself asking as he propped the stashed ladder against their kitchen door.

"He's on his way. Was near Trafalgar and got out of there when the shit hit the fan." The steady swing and thunk of the axe filled the air as the sirens persisted. A bang on the front door launched John down the steps, his Browning in hand. "Stay there, Sherlock."

"John open up!" Lestrade shouted, banding even harder.

"Did one of them get you!?" John shouted back through the wood, gun raised.

"One will if you don't let me in quick!" John ran to the door and unlocked it, allowing the inspector inside. His car had blood splattered on the windshield and a massive dent where he'd clearly hit someone...something. John's eyes widened as he looked down Baker Street. There they were, not shambling like predicted but walking, almost running like regular people. There were only a few differences, their skin tone and their eyes; and neither were human looking anymore. John shook his head, coming back to his senses and slamming the door shut, wedging an old pickaxe under the handle and locking each new deadbolt he'd installed.

"What the fuck happened?" John question the panting inspector as he closed and locked the frosted door.

"I honestly wish I could tell you, John. It was a royal clusterfuck and it...it just happened so goddamned quick. We had it under control, the huge mob of protesters in Trafalgar...," he paused, running a hand over his mouth. "God, almost all of them just dropped, simultaneously, four hundred people or more. The ones that didn't drop were as shocked as the rest of us and then...Christ, John they got up so quickly, going for the nearest person they could sink their teeth into," Lestrade's voice broke as he remembered fellow officers screaming as the dead tore into them. "I have never bailed on anything quicker. Is Molly upstairs?"

"And Mrs. Hudson. What happened to Donovan and Anderson?"

"They weren't there. I don't know if they're all right or not," Lestrade admitted, standing in a huff. John handed the inspector the axe and grabbed the sledgehammer for himself as pounding sounded on the front door. "We need to destroy these stairs quickly." He trotted up to the first landing and began to swing the hammer.

"John...?" Sherlock's voice was quiet (what the hell is happening out there?) and for a moment he looked like a child, terrified of some irrational beast in his closet.

"Turn the TV down, close the curtains and make sure all the windows are locked. Then get back here and make sure the ladder is ready when we've finished this," John ordered, returning to his work. Sherlock did as ordered, pausing as he looked out of the window overlooking Baker Street (how did the get so numerous so quickly?, clearly the laws of fiction and reality are two very different paths) and by the time he returned to the seventeen stairs that had once lead to two two one b were nothing more than splintered wood cluttering the breezeway.

"Jesus," he said in awe, unable to stop himself at the sight of the destruction.

"Lower the ladder." Sherlock hooked it on the sturdy hooks John had installed for this purpose and grabbed the axe as Lestrade came up first as the doctor's insistence (noble until the very end). John took much longer to get back upstairs, the sledgehammer weighing him down considerably, but soon rejoined his friend in their flat. Sherlock pulled the ladder from the hooks and heard glass shatter as the dead made their way into Speedy's.

"What the hell do we do now?" he asked, his voice low and replacing the ladder on the stairs to John's room (now the ladies room).

"We survive," John stated simply, his eyes no longer the ones of the kind John Sherlock had come to know. They were hard and set, like the soldier he had once been.

- To be continued... -