Sherlock
The curly-haired consulting detective slumped back down in his chair. Having solved yet another mystery, he was already bored out of his mind, and had to wait about thirty more minutes before his boyfriend, John – a doctor – came home. Not knowing what else to do, he pushed himself up off of his chair, and picked up the violin that was a few feet in front of him.
Just as he began to play a song, a waltz that he'd written for John's wedding – he'd divorced Mary not long after, realizing that she'd lied to him more than once – Ms. Hudson walked in, without knocking, as usual, snapping Sherlock out of his little concentration bubble.
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear, am I interrupting?" She asked, hand lingering on the doorknob.
"No," the light green-eyed man replied honestly, "not at all. Did you need something?" He asked, hoping that their tenant actually needed something, to take away his boredom.
"Oh no, dear," she said, making her way to their kitchen, no doubt wanting to make some tea, "John called, he said he'd be coming home early." She said, and just as Sherlock thought, she began to set some water in a tea-pot, boiling it to make tea.
The detective didn't answer, he just smiled to no one but himself, and set his violin back down on it's stand. It wasn't too long before someone was knocking on the door, and the detective quickly made his way over, opening the old, dusty-green door without haste.
"John," Sherlock greeted happily.
"Hello, Sherlock," the doctor replied, kissing his boyfriend quickly before hanging his coat up onto their coat rack.
Sherlock, having his natural deducing skills, noticed something about his boyfriend, and wasted no time trying to figure out exactly what was wrong.
"What is it, John?" Sherlock asks, crossing his arms across his chest, something he doesn't usually do.
John looks up at his boyfriend from a stack of papers he was looking through, then smiles, "can't keep anything from you, huh?" He asks, setting the papers down. Sherlock shakes his head, and eyes his boyfriend, searching for clues as to what he's not telling me.
He finds out almost immediately.
"You need to go somewhere," Sherlock says, not a question, a statement.
"Yes," John confirms, making his way into their room, and dragging a suitcase back into the room, "I heard there's a case over in the United States, in Pennsylvania," he says, as he comes back and forth between the bedroom and the suitcase, "you might want to start packing, I already purchased two tickets for us."
Sherlock nodded, ecstatic, ready to leave the cheery atmosphere of London to take on something new.
The U.S. for them was something undiscovered, unexplored territories, so, naturally, the detective and the doctor drank away at their tea, packed their bags, said goodbye to all of their friends, and took a taxi to the nearest airport.
As they made their way to their designated seats, John had to control his excitement.
"Do you have any details about this case?" Sherlock asks, letting John take the window seat.
"No," John admits, slumping in his chair, "but so far, no U.S. detective has been able to solve it, so I figured you and I could give it a go." John suggests with a sincere smile.
Sherlock can't help but smile down at his boyfriend. He nods, and turns his head back, so that he's facing the seat in front of him.
It isn't long before the airplane is taking off, and flying them all the way to North America, to the "land of the free," Sherlock scoffs at the idea, remembering that the U.S. is one of the badder countries to be in at the moment.
"Attention: We will be landing in about five minutes, thank you for choosing London airlines, and enjoy your stay at the United States." The pilot says.
John smiles, and nudges Sherlock slightly, drawing him out of his train of thoughts, "we landed faster than I expected –"
John is interrupted by turbulence, and the plane coming to a sudden, screeching halt.
Great, the detective thinks to himself, as the beginnings of a headache dance along his skull.
John's figure tenses beside Sherlock, and instinctively, his hand finds Sherlock, giving it a quick squeeze.
"Do you think that this is anything bad?" John asks his boyfriend, eyes wide, face contorted with worry.
Sherlock shakes his head, and stands, following suit along with all of the other passengers, following them out. Once outside, they both see that they have everything to worry about. The two men stood at the bottom of the stairs of the airplane, and took in the state of chaos before them.
"Bloody hell," John murmurs, his grip on Sherlock's hand tightening.
Sherlock's green eyes roamed all over the chaotic airplane hangar, and they lock on a woman, sitting on top of an overweight man tearing and eating the man's throat. Sherlock begins to back away slowly, stopping only when he sees a figure helping a woman into a shed, she's bleeding profusely, and the detective deduces immediately that she's not going to survive, and the man carrying her seems to know that as well.
But Sherlock thinks he recognizes the man, a well known British traveler, and he decides that it'd be best to follow him around.
"Follow me," the detective orders, tugging John towards the man, but keeping a safe distance.
"What are we going to do, Sherlock?" John asks, swallowing back bitter bile, that takes it's time travelling down his throat, as he sees a man biting at a woman's arms.
"We survive," Sherlock states, almost as if it's obvious to everyone but John.
Sherlock stops once he sees the traveler stumble out of the shed, and run into two younger boys, perhaps in their late-twenties, or early-thirties. They have a conversation, and soon, the traveller is following the boys, which, based on their actions, are brothers, the taller one being the younger one. Sherlock wastes no time, and follows the three men to their car, a 1967 Chevy Impala, in perfect state, and stops them.
"Help us!" John calls out, realizing what Sherlock is trying to do.
The three men stop, and turn to face the detective and his boyfriend. The shortest of the trio rolls his green eyes, and huffs in anger.
"Please," John pleads once they're within speaking range, the taller one's eyes soften, and he looks over at his brother, "please, we're medical professionals, we can help if you'd need any."
The eldest of the two brothers scoffs, "well, good thing we don't need any help, right?" He says, making his way to the driver's side of the Impala, and opening the door.
"Sam, get in the car," he commands, waiting for the younger one to get in.
"Dean," Sam breathes, pouring reason into his voice, "if mom and dad are hurt, they can help us." Sam says, looking back at the two men.
Sherlock nods, "we know all about this," he confirms, hoping that Dean gives way, letting them into the car.
Dean sighs in frustration, and rubs at his forehead, "get in." He says, and they waste no time. The five men get into the car, and wait, and wait, and wait.
"We have a hideout, we knew this would happen," Sam explains, managing a map, and feeding Dean directions, "we think it's the safest option, and we've already zombie-proofed it."
John squeezes Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock just looks out the window.
Something about the eldest one is throwing him off, but he doesn't know it yet. He'd just have to wait.