2 weeks after the impact

Face coated in sweat. Eyes wild. Breath coming in short bursts. Legs aching.

Just round this corner and he was home. Round this corner and he'd be back at Baker Street.

John skidded around the corner, but now there was another pack of zombies coming from the opposite direction and he was trapped, they were coming from both directions and he was trapped.

"Sherlock!" he roared to the window of 221B. "Sherlock, help!" It occurred to him that his flatmate was probably sleeping, so he turned away from the flat, cursing Sherlock and making a mental note to scold him when he got back.

If he got back.

John crossed the road, but the horde of zombies wasn't that stupid, they would figure it out and come after him. He was buying himself time, but they were nearly on him.

"Damn it," he growled under his breath. He had a pistol but bullets were rare and there was no point wasting them on these zombies. It wouldn't work anyway. For buggers like these you needed a machine gun, something with enough kick to blow their heads right off their bodies. Unfortunately, this was only a routine resource run. He'd wanted to search a couple of houses for food and maybe ammunition. The pistol had only been in case he had to deal with other scavengers. He hadn't been expecting any zombies.

They were gathering at the door of number 221. They could smell Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, obviously. Apparently the scent of the two of them was more overpowering than John's alone.

They were trying to break down the door. He didn't doubt that they could manage it, for although the virus had wasted them away to skin and bone – minus the skin in some cases – there was a lot of them, more than enough combined strength to break down a door that hadn't been designed to withstand a zombie apocalypse.

He bolted back across the road. By John's reasoning, the house next door to 221 should be the same layout as his own house. He knew nobody lived there; the residents had left. Most people had left, gone to live with others. Safety in numbers. If Sherlock and John had had any friends then they would probably have done that too.

The door would take too long to break down. The window, go for the window. He removed his jacket to cover the glass and elbowed the window sharply. A crack appeared. Grunting, he elbowed the crack again. It spread, but still didn't shatter. One final elbow and it broke. The zombies were still preoccupied with 221 and the door was starting to look rather unsteady.

After picking up his jacket John clambered through, into a living room. It seemed nice enough. A kid's home, it would seem, by the drawings hung on the wall and the books on the shelf.

He bolted up the stairs and leaned out the upstairs window. He swung it open and climbed out, clinging desperately to the window frame and trying not to think about the hard pavement and the vicious zombies below him.

It was a simple enough task. Jump from this window to the next, the next window being that of 221B. Simple enough on paper, but actually looking at it, it seemed awfully far.

When he looked down, he couldn't help but think of the form of his best friend, lying lifeless on the pavement beneath St Bart's. The image still haunted him. He remembered how the blood had pooled around his head, like a sick version of a halo.

"Don't think about that," he muttered to himself. And then with a wild jump he was flying through the air, his coat billowing out behind him. The window was rushing up rapidly.

His fingers grasped at the window frame. His body slammed into the wall beneath it. The impact almost made him lose his grip, but he curled his fingers in as much as he could and hauled himself up. He was there. Now to smash another window.

Balancing precariously on the ledge, he held his jacket out and repeated what he had done a moment before to next door's downstairs window. He stabbed at the window with his elbow. Then again. At the third stab, he pulled his elbow back a little too far, overbalancing and slipping off the ledge.

He was certain that he was going to hit the ground below and be consumed by the zombies. Certain. But somehow, somehow, his fingers found purchase on the ledge. His body twisted awkwardly, but with sore fingers he pulled himself up once again.

One more elbow to the window and he was through. Discarding his jacket on the floor, he rushed through the kitchen, down the hallway beyond and into Sherlock's room.

"Get up, you bloody stupid idiot!" he bellowed. Sherlock woke with a start.

"What?" he slurred groggily.

"Get up!" John repeated. "There are zombies breaking down the front door. Get your gun and get the hell up!"

There was a machine gun propped on the wall next to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock grabbed it as he got up. No need to get dressed; the men always slept in their clothes now.

John's own gun was in the living room, resting on the sofa. He picked it up and followed the dark-haired man down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson was in the downstairs hallway, teeth chattering in absolute terror. Sherlock spared time to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"It's going to be okay, Mrs Hudson," John said, knowing full well that he was probably wrong.

"We'll need to open the door, John," Sherlock called. "They'll be coming in as soon as I open it. Are you ready?"

John nodded. "Mrs Hudson, get upstairs," he ordered. "Sherlock's bedroom is safest, it's furthest back. Get in there, don't come back until we tell you to."

She nodded mutely. John watched in worry. She had trouble getting up stairs sometimes, with her hip. Would she be okay?

He almost smiled. It was funny what people worried about.

"Okay, Sherlock. I'm ready."

"Three... two... one!"

Sherlock heaved the door open and the zombies started piling in. The first one in was shot immediately by Sherlock. The second one was dealt with by John. One, two, three bursts and it was down. Sherlock moved back, baiting the zombies in; they were easier to deal with one by one than in the crowd outside the door.

Five, ten, fifteen zombies went down and still more were coming. Bullets were sprayed into the zombies with marvellous precision. John was halfway up the stairs; it was a good vantage point. Sherlock stayed at ground level.

Two zombies left. The skin was peeling off on the side of one's face, revealing the bone underneath. "You're an ugly bugger," Sherlock growled, before pulling the trigger and watching as it fell to the ground, dead.

That was his deadly mistake. As he watched it fall, the last one gripped his bicep. It snarled as it dragged Sherlock to it.

John was down the stairs in two leaps and running to Sherlock. Its jaws were about to clamp down on him. It was going to spread its virus to John's only friend. It was going to...

The first bullet bored a hole through its cheek. It didn't kill, but it distracted it.

"The cheek, John? Really?" Sherlock moaned.

"I was aiming for the head," John explained. He aimed again and this time it carved its way through the head. A shot to the brain would kill even a zombie. It released its hold on Sherlock and fell to the ground.

"Do you really have to complain when I'm saving your life?" John said. "It's really bloody annoying."

The two of them dragged the numerous bodies out into the street and closed the door behind them, bolting it shut.

It had been an average day.

Note: I am aware that there are some inaccuracies regarding the exterior of 221B Baker Street and the surrounding houses. Canonically, there is a small balcony along the upper windows of the houses; however, I thought jumping from one window to the next would be more exciting than running along a balcony. Thank you for reading this far despite the admittedly slightly boring first chapter and I hope you decide to read on. :)