Au. Zombie Apocalypse

(A/N) fuck college, it's distracting me from writing about zombies (pardon any mistakes, posting before I rush off to work, I'll correct things later)

Pale, grey light filters in through a skylight above, its grim beauty is only marred by the sheets of water that are cascading across it the glass pane. Sherlock is awake first, but not because John is moving, quite the opposite, he usually wakes up early. Blinking the sleep from his eyes Sherlock stares ahead, ruffled blonde hair tickles under his chin and he nuzzles closer. He's contentedly warm, the large comforter trapping their heat in and he examines the fine hair along the back of John's neck.

The man had not thrashed or moved much during the night, in fact they had stayed in the same positions they fell asleep in, spooned together sharing body warmth. Breathing quietly he lays there for a long time till John stirs, murmuring in his sleep and shifting around. Sherlock is completely still as John finds another comfortable position. He feels the man's forehead press against his sternum, ashy hair tickling again and he can see the scar on John's shoulder. It's exceptionally pale compared to the rest of John's skin, and he reaches up to run his fingertips over it. Smooth and warm and he resists stroking it longer in favor of drifting back to sleep again, he's relatively sure their clothes could use a few more hours.

The next time he wakes it isn't so peaceful and he almost has the wind knocked out of him when John's hands thrust against his chest. It's like before, where his face is a display of emotions and he's making little whimpering noises. Sherlock doesn't take it personally and doesn't waste time in trying to wake the man. He finds the process to go much easier this time and he only has to say John's name once and he's staring into weary green eyes.

"I dreamt of her again-," he gasps, almost disbelieving that now Harry was going to be a regular in his nightmare lineup.

John doesn't get farther than that and he scrubs his hands over his face, willing away the horror of his dreams. Sherlock doesn't move, only lays there quietly observing, John is trying to be strong in front of him and he knows it and a part of him wonders why. A part of him hopes that maybe John will give in and cry and then he'll wrap his arms around this beautifully broken man and promise everything will be alright. But he doesn't, at least, John doesn't give him the chance.

"Something on my face?"

The words are muffled slightly as John stops wiping invisible tears away and halfway buries his head into the pillow.

"Not at all."

One eye peeks up at him, "Oh….reason for staring then?"

He isn't quite sure what kind of look Sherlock is giving him, but his eyes are a misty blue and he can see how they flick around his face. If he had to describe the feelings it was bring to the surface, he'd have to say 'self-conscious' was the one that stood out the most. Curiosity would be a close second and something like defiance chasing the others, he could stare too, if he wanted! So maybe he should, but the second his eyes went past Sherlock's collar bone they were immediately looking elsewhere. Being a doctor it wasn't like he hadn't seen all that stuff before, just that all the ones before couldn't really compare to the man in front of him. He had an air of refinement, even in such bleak times it kept up and even now on the bed they currently cohabited. Was Sherlock looking down on him? No, no couldn't be...could he? John's eyes met Sherlock's and he opened his mouth to ask again, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Do you want to talk about your dreams?"

That wasn't what he expected, "You sound like my therapist and no," he replied bluntly.

He saw the man's lips form a slim smile. They fall into silence, the steady patter of rain filling the air with a quiet hum. John is halfway asleep when he feels the bed dip and then an arm sling over his chest.

"Our clothes could use another hour or so. Sleep."

It was obviously an order, but John was too tired to argue about it, he'd ignore his other demands later. Sherlock didn't fall asleep though, he lay in thrumming silence of his rushing thoughts. He relished the light; it gave his eyes the chance to regard everything in front of him, truthfully he needed time to think. Think about the ramifications of how his feelings would affect this this mutual companionship they had unwittingly agreed to.

The facts, yes, start with the facts and lists. John was an asset, a doctor, a solider, rational to a degree and quick to adapt, not to mention he liked the man's defiance and determination. John was a liability, he would be a weakness, he was...he was.

Sherlock grimaced, it had already happened, he was emotionally invested in this man. The way he held himself, the way he spoke, his facial expressions and his easy personality. Had it been so long since he'd had human contact that any man off the street would do? And that, right there, Sherlock knew was a lie. He'd met plenty of handsome men, but none as appealing as the doctor asleep next to him. Exhaling through his nose Sherlock pressed his face into the John's messy hair and decided it would be mutually beneficial for them to continue like this, no matter where it lead.

John woke up later, the covers pulled all the way over his head and empty bed. It didn't surprise him too much and he took the moment to slide a little bit over to Sherlock's side, it was relatively warm still. He knew it couldn't last, pretending this was some Sunday morning where he'd just lay in bed until noon. No, his old life was dead and gone and now it was the bleak world around him, filled with corpses imitating the living. Rising from the bed meant welcoming the cold air of the house; it settled on his skin and chilled him to the bone.

John retrieved his clothes and dressed, his jeans damp in a couple spot but not enough to bother. He found Sherlock in the living room perusing through a book as he paced back and forth while holding Skull and muttering to it. The man was certainly something. Standing there for a moment he watched him, amused at how invested he was in whatever the book and Skull had to offer, positively endearing. Clearing his throat he greeted the man and they sat down for brunch.

"Well, John, I feel that we are at a precipice, a decision must be made," John watched Sherlock in the chair across from him, the man leant forward, elbows on his knees and hands pressed together as if in prayer, "whether you and I part ways."

Mid bite John stopped and stared, sharp grey eyes were trained solely on him and looked as though expecting an answer right then and there.

"Uhm, well…"

"I'd prefer we decided soon," his tone was so nonchalant.

"Well, I mean, I wouldn't mind if we kept up for a while. We don't have to if-"

"It's settled then."

John could've sworn he saw a sly smile cross the man's lips, but he was sweeping out of the chair and disappearing down the hallway no sooner had he stopped speaking. Finishing his bite John was glad the man seemed pleased by his answer; he just wondered what they would be doing now. Winter was coming-

"Now then, the matter with your sister was sorted out; onto something that has intrigued me."

He wanted to turn and shout at him for his insensitive comment.

"Oh, forgive me. Grief counseling isn't a strong point of mine."

Sherlock ignored the way John's expression turned sour, and continued, "Now, throughout our trek across the city we saw graffiti, pointing to shelter, food and water."

"Yeah?"

"I propose we find this place and observe it. Living in a colony has its advantages, steady source of food and protection no doubt."

"Alright then, sounds fair by me."

"Good, come now John, we've wasted enough daylight as it is."

The rain had tapered off since yesterday, now a dreary drizzle that blanketed everything. They stuck close to the building fronts, passing under an awning just for the sake of a few moments without rain on their heads. Sherlock is the first to spot the graffiti they had been searching for, farther down the street then John had been able to see, but he trusted his tall companion when he jogged ahead to examine it.

John arrived just in time to see Sherlock running his hands over the white paint, eyes squinting as he observed the writing. He didn't expect Sherlock to speak up, but the moment he was beside the man he started speaking.

"The arrow is in a relatively straight fashion, someone wasn't in a hurry to paint it. More than likely they had others with them, safety in numbers. The writing is precise too, someone tall enough to form the letters in all the same fashion."

He watches as Sherlock continues to trace his hands over the letter as if imagining how the person wrote each o them, how they stood and the flow of their movements. It's something else to witness how he pulls back the layers of scene as makes connections so obvious John wonders if he himself would ever have been able to see them without Sherlock. Probably not he figured.

"Promising... there may be more people there then I thought, enough they can safely send out parties to make signs and do it with confidence that of they are attacked it would be no problem."

John gives a lopsided smile as he sees Sherlock's fingers dance along the wall before he tears himself away to give him a pointed look.

"I'd like to see the facility before we reveal ourselves to them, knowing your ally is just as important as knowing your enemy."

With those final words he turned and continued on in the direction the arrow pointed. They find the arrows are space relatively far apart, assuming the people following them will continue walking with the faith they'll find the next one. Except by the third arrow they spotted the street they turned onto could only be likened to a minefield. John's hand reflexively tightened on the shovel in his hand. More than a dozen of them wandering around, there was no avoiding it, and of John had to admit it, he might have been a little eager to exact some revenge on the creatures.

"If we're going through and not around, we need to handle them carefully," he whispered as if reading John's thoughts.

"How do you propose-"

"Separately, divide their numbers instead of drawing them together. If it gets to be too much, call for me."

He tries to ignore the fact they Sherlock thinks he's the one going to call for help, brushing it off he takes a steadying breath. Glancing over to Sherlock he sees the man hike the scarf around his neck up above his mouth and nose. It makes him wish he has the like to do with. Settling for zipping and popping the collar of his jacket, John heads for the opposite sidewalk. The shovel in his hands feels unnaturally heavy, but he swings it to get a feel for the metal end.

There's a walker heading straight for him, the others down the street have already caught on and started to convene. Lifting the shovel up John made sure to keep it flat, his eyes zeroed in on the thing's neck, if anything he'd get a good chunk of its neck and then incapacitate it completely. John lines up the hit and swings as hard as he can. There's the sickening crunch of bones being shattered and the squelch of flesh and blood giving way to metal. John makes sure to duck his head down at the initial splatter before peeking up to see the degree of the damage. Kicking the zombie squarely in the stomach it rips away from the shovel and crumples to the ground, one more blow outta do it. He barely has to align himself, taking an easy swing and severing the head.

The stench of infected blood is thick around him and John skirts around the corpse, continuing onto the next one that's shuffling around a car. The kills get easier, his reflexes quicker as the rust sloughs off and it's just like riding a bike. In between moments he gets to peek over at Sherlock, who is further along than him, his movements are precise, coat swirling around his knees, like a dance as he methodically immobilizes them for easier dispatching. By the 5th zombie John is breathing heavy, muscles aching from having to take down full grown men and women. There's two left and he pressed against the side front of a building to catch a breather.

In the back of his mind he thinks this a young man's game, someone without injuries and nightmares to weigh them down. He doesn't have to wait long to debate whether or not to forfeit this round because he sees Sherlock heading for the farthest creature, bashing its head in. Tearing himself away from the wall John musters the energy to take one last zombie down. The first swing goes halfway and sticks in its throat. Growling he has to tug harder to break it free, he gets ready for the next blow and is startled when its knees go out and he sees Sherlock standing behind it, tall and ominous, a beautiful executioner. Its skull caves in like an eggshell and it falls to the ground with shards in its brain. John is breathing harshly through his nose, his arms fall the shovel scrapes wetly along the ground.

Stepping around the body John follows after Sherlock, their weapons bloody and their bodies wired with adrenaline. The walk down the road is tense; neither of them speaks till they see the next arrow.

"I'm knackered," John sighs, shoulders slumping.

Sherlock gives a low chuckle, "You handled yourself as expected."

John laughs and shakes his head grimaces at the cold slide of rain down his neck, he'd forgotten it had been raining; street seemed nothing but a blur now. Their weapons wash off for the most part, but the more stubborn pieces of flesh cling to it as a grotesque reminder.

"Do you think they'll all just eventually die out," John asks, he silence is killing him.

"Their bodies are no long living, the tissue is dead, and decay will be their ultimate killers, so it will be months before we see any kind of determinate end to all of this."

John wants to say more, he wants to delve into the world of everything after all of this is done, he wants to speculate, but he doesn't, he doesn't know if he'll live that long. They decide to eat lunch on the go. Sherlock is determined to find the end of the arrows. If anything, John is grateful for all of this, for having a travelling partner, who is above all things smart and he didn't think if it had been some village idiot, he'd have been able to control his temper.

Lost in thought John barely notices how Sherlock stops on a dime, or the hand that comes up to block his way till he runs into it chest first.

"What are-"

"Look."

He follows the man's line of site, down the road to an intersection where there's a large group of people. Except there's something different about this group, they're in formation and moving at a steady pace.

"Should we hide?"

"No, they've already seen us, we'll meet them halfway, but be ready to run if I say so."

This is the last thing he wanted to see, a large group of people, menacing in their own right, they're only two men and John doesn't think he'll have the skills or time to shot every one of them if things turn bad. He follows just behind Sherlock, their path taking them to pass around the group instead of through. His grip on the shovel tightens, hoping that maybe they'll get out of this alive.

The suspense is killing him and just before they pass the group the strangers stop, all of them and John really gets a look at them now. Most of them have riot gear and clubs, there are two who have lighter armor and are carrying plastic bags with something metal inside. Someone comes forward and addresses them.

"Are you following the arrows?"

John doesn't speak, Sherlock does it for the both of them, "Maybe."

The man, with his scruffy hair and stubble gives them a tentative grin, "We're from the shelter, and you're not too far away from it now."

That catches John's attention, really? Maybe their luck was looking up. Sherlock is still looking at the group with a calculating gaze, gauging them for future reference.

"We'll be on our way," Sherlock announces.

The group is still standing in the middle of the street when they move away, and he finally speaks when out of earshot.

"You were right, traveling in armed groups. The gear looked to be police issued."

"Yes, well, this changes things, the shelter will be expecting us."

John could hear the subtle growl in his voice, "How-"

"They have radios, we're strangers, we will undoubtedly be reported."

"Oh..."

"Come then John, let's see how they are faring."

The rain persists through the last stretch of their journey and the first signs of actual human activity are the barbed sandbag barriers that have been placed staggered along the street. There are piles of zombies piled to the sides and John recognizes where they are, the primary school ahead of them looks miserable with no one tending it for weeks. The moment they cross the threshold from street to behind the barricades they see men filling out of the front of the school.

"We heard there was shelter here," John shouts, he doesn't want confrontation, like war, letting the other party know your intentions would make the meeting go smoother.

Sherlock makes the subtly shift from leading to just behind John's shoulder, no longer the lead but ever present.

One of the men, with his gun held at the ready replied, "Come forward and we'll talk."

John moves with his tall shadow and they're told to stop a few yards from the actual doors.

"Neither of is infected," John offered to try and ease tension.

"If you want to come in you must relinquish your weapons and submit to an exam, our doctors will decide that."

"Alright."

Sherlock doesn't argue, he is thoroughly pleased at how easily John handles himself, his voice projected and confident, no wavering. Not only that but his posture showed no signs of fatigue, this man was quickly becoming the object of his internal fawning. Dropping their weapons they were escorted by three of the men into the building and John felt as though he was in a different world when they were past the into all office and entrance.

People.

Adults, children and was that a dog over there? The dizzying amount of movement, of people moving things, children playing and laughing was like something he'd never thought he'd missed so much. They're lead through hallways, kept in close formation between the men till they reach a small gym that's filled with cots and white curtains strung up to preserve some semblance of privacy. They wait as one of the men breaks off to intercept one of the plain clothed doctors walking around. Another doctor appears, having seen the newcomers and soon they're herded to the end the farthest end of the gym and he feels his chest tighten when he's separated from Sherlock. Alone with the other doctor John does as he's told, removes his backpack and strips to just boxers. He's asked the typical questions of any exam, and when it comes down to he admits that he too is a doctor, which sparks even more questions.

By the time he's done and sent back to the armed guards, he spots Sherlock talking to a man with greying hair. They walk over and it's like Sherlock has a sixth sense because the man turns, arm gesturing to him and speaks.

"John, meet Detective Inspector Lestrade."

They shook hands but Sherlock dominated the conversation immediately afterwards.

"As I was saying, John will right in, being an army doctor he's more than qualified."

He watched with interest as Sherlock gave a somewhat quick summary of his findings and asked to have a lab of his own set up so that he might conclude his findings. All of it, all his demands were said with such an air of confidence and familiarity John was surprised at how quickly Lestrade agreed to it. Their military escort was dismissed and John trailed behind as Lestrade offered to give them the tour before he had other business to attend to.