Au. Zombie Apocalypse

(A/N) I haven't written this much in a long time.

Sherlock is awake the moment John starts to twist in the sheets. The blankets shift around and he turns over to face the man, the light of morning is already washing through the bedroom. He watches quietly, intent on the man's expression, eyebrows knit together and small noise coming from his mouth, as if talking to someone. There's no telling when he should try to wake the man, just that if it gets too bad he'll have to jump in, but for now he observes.

John is an interesting man, ash blonde hair and inquisitive green eyes. Sherlock had noted that without all his gear he was definitely built up, the last vestiges of his military training still lingering on his body. He likes John Watson the army doctor, he'd decided this the moment he saw the man barging into the house down the street, fearless and strong. The man had good tastes if he had to put it simply. Pulled from his reverie Sherlock reaches out as the man starts getting too close to the edge.

The second he pulls at John's shoulders to bring him back, strong, deadly hands latch onto his biceps and squeeze. Not just any kind of squeeze, the kind that turns knuckles white and could only be attributed to someone holding on for dear life. He looks confused, his talking has stopped and Sherlock gives him a firm shake.

"John," his voice sounds so loud in the room, he tries again, "John."

Green eyes are instantly piercing into his and Sherlock doesn't say anything as John takes a deep, life giving breath. Watching the man come to his senses and actually focus on the world around him his eyes widen in horror at what he's doing.

"Bloody hell," he croaks and unlatches himself.

John catches a glimpse of Sherlock wincing when the pressure disappears and feels his heart sink at the sight of the imprints he's left, light bruising would happen within the next hour or so. Catching his breath John speaks quickly.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock."

"You're not at fault John."

"But I-" he stops when Sherlock gives him a look and moves away. Scrubbing his hands through his short hair John watches as Sherlock slips from the bed, walking away in the nude and he flushes. There was just something about this man and his confident, almost cocky behavior that made light of John's own feelings. He lay in the sheets quietly, his heart returning to its normal rhythm finally. He, in his opinion, had the decency to drape a blanket about himself when he finally got up.

The wooden floor was is to the touch and the air crisp without any heating during the night. Looking into the bathroom he spots Sherlock buttoning his pants and the man tosses him his clothes without even looking up. John grimaces at how stiff they've become over the night, but he's thankful they're dry. Pulling them on he comes out to a breakfast set for two, dried foods and some water.

"We're gonna have to hit a store today, gather supplies," he sighs, flopping down into the chair adjacent to Sherlock's.

They finish quickly, pack and John nabs one of the blankets from the bed, stuffing it into his backpack before they leave. There's no sign of forced entry when they get to the bottom floor and they leave quickly. The streets are wet and the dark cloud is still looming over the city, it had rained during the night, giving everything a muddier look. John knew it was going to be a long day when even in his vest and jacket, the wind kicked up and his shoulder protested when he stiffened up against it. It's mid afternoon before they reach a grocery store, the car blockade they'd run into had detoured them around a few streets.

The doors to the grocery store are wide open and they both know canned foods are the priority, with safety coming in to a close second. John reminds Sherlock that vegetables are what they want most and nuts if he can manage that, high in protein since he's pretty sure any meat in the store has probably spoiled or been stolen. Together they venture in, John using the torch he'd stolen to light their way through the aisles. The store was a mess, shelves practically dumped onto the floor and crushed boxes scattered about. Its slim pickings but John is thankful Sherlock is so tall; the man could easily look at the top shelves where items had been pushed back in a rush.

He hands the light over and tries not to fidget as he stands there in relative darkness. Sherlock is whispering what he sees, passing down a few things that John obliges to put into the messenger bag at his side then the man freezes, a moment later John hears it too. Something dragging across the linoleum and then that telltale moan that couldn't be mistaken for anything else. John's free hand immediately reaches up to latch onto Sherlock's coat sleeve and they're looking at either ends of the aisle.

"We have to run," John whispers and his heart almost stops when at least five other moans rise up around them.

Sherlock grimaces, there hadn't been any zombies in the vicinity, where had these ones come from? Lurking in the corners of the store, waiting for prey? He swivels the light back and forth between the exits of the aisle and he jerks back at the first sign of movement near them. John is already backing up, a can of food in one hand and the other tugging at Sherlock's sleeve to hurry up. They break for the other end of the aisle, their feet sounding loudly within the silent store. The escape is short lived as up ahead there's another zombie, scuffling on a broken leg, reaching out to them as if for help. This time its Sherlock who pulls John after him into another aisle and the blood is roaring in his ears when he sees that way is blocked too.

John knows their options, and he doesn't much like the thought of having to shoot the zombies and attract the attention of more. No, he has to think quickly and he snatches Sherlock's hand, turning and running deeper into the store, there has to be a back door, or a loading dock they can exit through. It's even darker in the back, the torchlight flashes brightly of the white "Employees only" signs around the area. The second he sees a sliver of light across the room he's pointing and directing Sherlock after him, except he nearly yells when the light flashes over two zombies standing just near the door. To his dismay Sherlock doesn't stop running and now he's following the man, heat pounding he wants nothing to do with the creatures, except put as much space between them and himself as possible.

The zombies groan at the sound and smell of their prey and begin their macabre dance to intervene them. The exit sign over the door had long since gone dark but John is pushing harder, the pain in his leg gone and he slams his good shoulder into it and it bursts open. Sherlock is fast behind him and he winces at how bright it is outside, but he just about runs into John, for the man had stopped. He wants to know the meaning of it and stops himself the second he looks over John's ash blonde hair. There was no doubt in his mind that the mob of undead before them had heard their rather loud escape. In grotesque slow motion he watches their heads and bodies begin to come to life, they can smell their fear, their sweat and Sherlock is the first to regain his bearings.

"John!" He barks and clutches the man's elbow, almost having to drag him away from the spot. It isn't long till his partner finds his feet and their booking it to get around the building and away from the mass of moaning infected. Sherlock shoves the flashlight into his bag and they don't look back. They keep running, even if the undead are slow on their feet, doesn't mean their cries won't attract all the others in the vicinity.

When they stop they're out of breath and John is lagging behind considerably, his knee aching and both his shoulders were nagging at him. Breathing harshly through his nose Sherlock attempted to stave off a stitch in his side and kept looking around them, as if expecting there to be an ambush. They'd stop in the middle of street, not many cars to speak of, but no zombies either.

"Are you alright?"

John nods quickly, ignoring the pain in his leg and the loud pounding of his heart. What he wasn't alright with was that he'd frozen. There had been so many of them, up close and personal, he'd never had to deal with them like that before. He looks around them and nods again.

"We're getting pretty close to where Harry lives…pretty damn close," he murmurs and avoids Sherlock's eyes.

"We should find somewhere to stay soon. Getting caught in the rain won't do us any good."

Looking up John sees that they've run in the direction of the cloud, it's much darker above them and much more menacing. Consenting they go about the long task of finding both a suitable house, easy to defend and easy to escape. They're thankful that the house they'd picked has a can opener and Sherlock tucks it into his bag. The taste of vegetables is wonderful and by the time its dark John is still wired. He tries to sleep but it eludes him and John is startled when Sherlock speaks.

"Tell me about your sister John."

The words are so quiet, so sincere that John isn't even sure where to start. Swallowing thickly he replies in a soft tone.

"We grew up together, went to school together," he trails off, the silence deafening and he finally says it, "but, then she started drinking. Mum didn't like it very much, neither did I. We tried to help her, but that didn't stop her. She's a kind person, just a little lost I suppose."

John pauses when he hears Sherlock move behind him and there's just the wisp of breath across the back of his head and he continues.

"She married this lovely woman named Clara. We all thought it would be good for her, but they split a few months before the outbreak. There wasn't much communication in our family except the occasional holiday get together. Now I don't even know if she's okay... I have to help her if I can."

Saying it out loud feels good, makes the idea all the more tangible that he's actually able to do something. It didn't matter if they were at odds; they were family and family stuck together. He dared to roll over, it was strange sharing a bed with someone he barely knew, but the man was extraordinary and maybe that made up for it a little bit. Lying on his back John whispered again.

"What about you Sherlock, family?"

"I refused his offer to go with him. I'd rather run into a group of infected."

He chuckled quietly at Sherlock's very serious statement and didn't push further. So he wasn't the only family that had its problems.

"I remember this one time, Harry and I were at school," John didn't ask if Sherlock wanted to hear stories, but he felt as though the silence needed to be filled with something. Sherlock didn't abject though, just closed his eyes and listened to the soft voice of his traveling companion.

/

The morning goes quietly, John doesn't wake in a fit and they leave the house after a rather cold breakfast. John is eager today, Sherlock can see the pep in his step, the faster than normal pace he's going. The day is heavy withe smell of rain, so much so that Sherlock keeps an eye to the sky, he'd like to avoid getting his coat drenched, it would take forever to dry completely.

It occurs to him, that, if and when they do arrive at Harry's, and if the woman is still alive...that he'd be heading home alone. Twos company and threes a crowd, he wouldn't think about intruding on the two to tag along. No, he wouldn't impose himself on the, John was an exceptional man and maybe, just maybe if he invited Sherlock, he'd entertain the idea of going with them.

He's so lost in thought that by lunchtime he can barely remember the route they've taken. John leads them to a small cafe that's had its main window smashed in. They sit at one of the tables and dine on a meager portion jerky and crackers with water to wash it down.

Barely an hour after they've eaten John announces they're in the right neighborhood, Sherlock doesn't speak. He lets John have the quiet of anticipation build up inside of him and when they come to a row of small houses, he watches him jog ahead and then stop. No, he doesn't just stop, he is deathly still and then he's sprinting past the fence and up the walkway.

"Harry!"

Sherlock doesn't waste a second sprinting for the house, John was making a ruckus and he could hear outside. John is calling and shouting, hoping for some kind of reply. Walking in Sherlock sees the blood smeared along the entrance, the living room is a mess, thrown books and toppled furniture and more blood leading away to the kitchen. His steps falter a moment, he can't see John, but he hears the soft wail of a man who's lost everything and it strikes into his chest.

He can hear John muttering, crying softly and Sherlock is torn between letting the man alone and going to his aid. Compassion wins out and he takes slow, deliberate steps across the ruined living room. The linoleum of the kitchen is awash in blood, smeared hand prints and the obvious chaos of someone desperately trying to crawl away. John is crouched low, his whole body shaking and Sherlock focuses on the man's back, the remains that were no doubt once a human being in his peripherals.

"No, no, no," John is chanting softly, "I'm so sorry Harry. I didn't get here in time."

This is what he's always tried to avoid, personal connections to people. Sherlock turns from John, he won't leave his side but he won't intrude on the initial grief that's wrecking through him. Family would always be a weakness and friends more trouble then they're worth. John was the exception.

Sherlock decides for both of them that dwelling on the past will not protect them. He turns and in one swoop, slings an arm around John's chest and heaves him up. His reaction is immediate and the shouting begins, the profanities strung together hold no sway over Sherlock's determination. He has to save him again, save him from this crushing wave of debilitating sadness and move on.

"John, we have to go, there's nothing left for you here."

He wishes John would understand, but he doesn't expect much from the man at the moment and so he continues, fending off elbows and all around man-handling John out of the house over his shoulder. It takes what little strength he has left from the days of running and small meals. To his annoyance John only gets louder and Sherlock knows for a fact that they need to escape, maybe find somewhere to hide; at least until the coast is clear and he's made sure that John's fit hasn't brought unwanted attention.

Sherlock has seen men break before, he's seen them plead and try to bargain, and it's nothing new to him. His job before all of this had been singular to him, the worlds only consulting detective and when Lestrade's men were too slow he had to make things happen to move the case along. But he's never seen a man shatter before.

He almost doesn't believe how much energy John has, it's a struggle just going across the street and it isn't too long before he's finally fed up with it. Swinging the man back to the ground he punches him hard enough to knock the doctor out. Blessed silence...and now dead weight. It's almost impossible to heft the man back onto his shoulder so he scoops him up into his arms and carries him as far as he can manage.

The next time John wakes its storming outside and he's in a bed he doesn't recognize. Reality crashes back in and he can the mangled body of his sister, a broken sob wrecks through his frame and he squeezes his eyes shut. Not that it helps, just makes the images all the more vivid and he dares to use his voice.

"Sherlock?"

John tries not to panic, he made quiet the scene, he wouldn't blame the man for splitting after that. Sitting up John shivers, he's without shirt and the blankets are calling him back. He doesn't want to move and he falls back into the sheets and ignores the fact his eyes sting. The window on the far side of the room is blurred by the pounding of rain and his mind won't stop drifting back to Harry. Exhaustion over takes him and he's pulled back under to sleep.

Low murmuring fills the room and John wakes to a darkened room, the sound of the storm is a dull roar in the background. The moment he moves to sit up the talking stops and he can see the murky outline of someone sitting beside the bed.

"Sher-"

"Shh," the voices commands quietly before continuing, "we have to wait here for a few days. There's an audience outside."

Guilt bubbles in the pit of his stomach and he lies back down, usually he's so composed but... Harry. Taking a shaky breath he fights back the tears and regains what little composure he has left.

"I'm sorr-"

"Shut up John."

An unexpected laugh tumbles from his lips, so much unsaid and Sherlock won't let him say it. The man is a mystery, never taking anything but giving back in his own way.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Since yesterday afternoon, it'll be morning in a few hours."

"Have you slept at all?"

"No, I've slept enough in the past few days."

"What were you whispering about before?"

John turns on his side to face the man, he needs a distraction, he needs to keep the morbid images of his sister from creeping back into his mind.

"Skull and I were chatting."

That caught his attention. Squinting, he could just barely make out that Sherlock was holding something.

"I see...do you talk to Skull often?"

"Enough that we have a close rapport with each other."

Silence stretches out for minutes, but it feels so much longer to John, his vision is clearing and he can see more details of Sherlock. There's an overwhelming need to thank the man for dealing with him and yet he's pretty sure Sherlock will tell him to be quiet again.

"Go to sleep John, I will be here in the morning."

It doesn't take long for the doctor to fall asleep, his mind and body agreeing that now, with someone to watch over them, is as good a time as any to relax.

/

There's the sickening smell of rust, like liquid in the air it soaks into anything it touches. Dashes of red smear across his world like streamers in a parade and he feels neither joy nor happiness as he stumbles in the dark. He's calling out because he knows she's there, just beyond his reach and John is tearing at the seams. It's like drowning, and he's gasping for breath but salvation won't come and he feel so estranged from his body. John can see himself kneeling by her body, crying and apologizing but he's alone. Sherlock isn't there, it's nothing but a room, filling with blood and there's nothing he can do to stop it. His dreams are filled with the terrors of his past and his present; they're blending together into one long nightmare of blood and lost friends.

It feels like he's lived a thousand years, watching his life go by like a movie and it just keeps repeating, showing his failures and his faults. There's no end in sight until he's see that glimmer, just a spark and it's turning into a fire. Hungry and unyielding it consumes his life, purifies even the deepest of his scars and it's no longer a spark, it's a voice, drawing him out of his lonely corner in hell.

John tries not to think about the fact he's breathing so hard he's making himself dizzy, Sherlock is leaning over him. The room is so much lighter this time, he can actually see the planes of Sherlock's face, see his messy black hair and the whites of his eyes.

"I'm okay," he confirms out loud and takes a few calming breaths.

Sherlock doesn't leave his side though, and John has to break silence, "God I'm hungry."

The smallest of smirks quirk the man's lips, "Get up then, we'll have lunch."

Walking through the house he sees that Sherlock has been busy, covering the windows and blocking the doors. All their supplies have been emptied onto the kitchen table and he's pretty sure the man has some kind of order to this chaos. The man corrals him to a seat at the breakfast bar and he's actually served a plate of food and he resists laughing at the absurdity of how normal a plate looks. He eats alone, watching Sherlock wander in and out of the kitchen and carrying that absurd skull with him.

"How many are out there?"

"More then a dozen. The rain masked our scent, so we should be safe. We should leave tonight though."

"Tonight? In the dark and rain, with walkers out there," John gives him a skeptical look.

"Yes, it'll be to our advantage if its raining as well."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"John," Sherlock back tracks into the kitchen from the living room and stands on the other side of the counter," we won't last here, the longer we stay the more danger we're in."

Sherlock can see the defiance in the man's eyes, the dim room does nothing to hide the way his face finally falls in resignation.

"Right, tonight then."

"Glad you agree. Finish lunch and go get some rest-"

"No," John's voice is tight and he glares at Sherlock.

"Yes, you need your strength-"

"And what about you? It's not healthy to go days without sleep!"

"Now is not the time to be playing doctor. We have to leave here and I will drag you back to that bed."

"You're being unreasonable."

John can hear the soft exhale of a laugh and he doesn't find the situation funny in the least. He's finished his food and now it's a matter of who's going to do what. They agree to both stay awake and go through their packs and scour the house for anything useful. It's storming nonstop the rest of the day without letting up. Sherlock has stopped talking to Skull, to John's relief and has started drilling him for information. Mostly he avoids the subject of family and war, so John ends up focusing on himself and his medical knowledge.

It's strange having someone so tall trailing after him, intent on everything he's saying. When he turns the conversation toward Sherlock, it's less enlightening, his brother Mycroft is the bulk of his ramblings. They're not too nice either, but he accepts them none the less, sitting at the table with him as they arrange their packs more evenly. The house grows quiet though, as night starts to set in around the house and John is adamant they use flashlights they'd found, forget the zombies seeing them, what about their safety? John takes a deep breath, his hands twisting nervously along the handle of the shovel he'd claimed as his weapon. What irks him is that Sherlock hasn't even raised the bat he'd given him, was he asking to be over taken by a zombie?

Just opening the backdoor sets John's nerves on end, the wind breezes in around them and the scent of rain and mud is heavy in the air. Sherlock turns the flashlight on and they're exiting the house. The grass is soggy, the wind bites through their jackets and John knows they'll be soaked by the time they stop. There's nothing quite like the feeling adrenaline pumping through your veins, it's so familiar and John welcomes it like the sun on his face. The moment their feet hit cement John almost falters when he sees Sherlock's light swipe over two zombies and he pushes himself harder to keep pace.

They run, like there's no tomorrow, leaving behind what little connection John had to his past. Survival is all that matters now, getting to the next day and taking that next breath is what drives them back into the city. Lungs burning, joints aching John knows he can't last much longer and when he almost trips over his own feet he stops and his legs give out. Gravel bits into the palms of his hands and the torch is off to the side with his shovel. Everything is dark, everything is drowning in freezing water and he's thankful to see Sherlock coming back because he doesn't think his vocal cords will work. Grabbing the fallen items he feels Sherlock stagger a little at his weight, no doubt feel just as much pain and exhaustion as him.

Time doesn't seem to move, it's all just one long moment of darkness and rain. He's slumped against the door that Sherlock is currently trying to unlock, slender fingers taking much longer to maneuver than normal. The second the door gives way John yelps and stumbles back, his companion is quick to follow and latch the deadbolt with a a satisfying thunk.

It's a full five minutes before either of them move, catching their breaths before Sherlock is the first to walk away shivering. They've created a puddle in the entryway and John finally gets up. He finds Sherlock in the living room, emptying out the contents of his bag and John joins him. The house is a blessing, but what he'd really to have had was some heat and he knows if they stay in their soaked clothing much longer it won't bode well for tomorrow.

Throwing his empty pack down John is starts to strip, feeling the soaked clothing stick to his skin in the most uncomfortable ways. Torch in hand he searches for the bathroom and by the time he's finished hanging his clothes up, Sherlock is there too doing the same. They're both shivering and John knows there's only one thing they can do.

"Sh-Sherlock, we have to-"

"I know John, h-hypothermia will set in soon."

He's glad he doesn't have to explain it. They find the bed in disarray, sheets askew as if someone had woken up and left in a hurry. There's no discussion and John accepts the fact that Sherlock is so tall and when he's pulled up against the man's bare chest he also accepts the fact that he's entirely okay with it. With a layer of blanket between their bodies for privacy's sake, they pulled the sheets close and eventually their shivering subsided and sleep was easier to catch.