"Sherlock!" Long conditioning had had John yelling for his flatmate even though he knew there would be no help from that direction. The zombie clawing at him snapped its teeth, nearly catching his arm. Something blurred at the corner of his vision and there was a dry, throaty snarl. Before he could think to react the zombie was torn off of him and slammed into the ground beneath its attacker.
Sherlock, John realized. Pale and thin with too long limbs, John only took a moment to wonder how the undead had gotten out of the basement before scrambling for his gun. He pulled himself back to his feet and watched in horror as the thing that had once been his flatmate beat the zombie's skull open and tore into its brains, and then moved onto the rest of its flesh.
John cocked the gun and the dead stilled completely. Slowly Sherlock, it, lurched to its feet, swallowing a last mouthful of flesh. Sher- it - turned to face him. John followed the movement with his eyes and gun, the latter wavering slightly as he stared.
He hadn't been able to see, so a part of his brain still saw the Sherlock he'd always known. Blue eyes that could be green or even violet, when his moods changed. Skin that was pale, but pink from the blood that came from a beating heart. Movements that had always been graceful and fluid, even with that lean and lanky frame. It was all gone. All of it.
"S-stay back, Sherlock." His voice trembled and he cursed himself for calling this creature by that man's name.
The dead tilted its head, bleached out eyes staring at him unblinking. It rattled out a breath, jerking as it seemed to shake its head. The movement had John swallowing thickly. He tried to steady his aim on its head to no avail. Under any other circumstances he'd be as steady as a rock, but right there, right now, with the prospect of having to shoot Sherlock, there was no hope of stilling the tremors. Tears began to well up, blurring his vision slightly and he blinked rapidly to try to dislodge them.
"D-don't! Don't make me do this. I'll shoot you. I will. I'll put you down like I should have done in the beginning. I will Sherlock. Swear to God I will." His voice cracked on the last word. He didn't know if he'd be able to though, didn't know if he could take that final shot. The tears overflowed.
The zombie's eyes narrowed ever so slightly and the creature shook its head jerkily and took a shuffling step backwards. It pulled in a wheezing breath and straightened up, looking John in the eye.
"Joh-hn." The voice was rough and rasping and slow, but that was his name spoken in Sherlock's deep voice. His heart stopped in his chest and his breath froze for long enough that his vision darkened. Without thinking he lowered his gun as he gaped at the creature.
Movement behind Sherlock caught his attention and he snapped the weapon back up as a runner bolted down the street with the dead's odd, almost tripping, run. The gun steadied and aimed just past Sherlock's head. His pale gaze flickered over the weapon and he stood firm and still as John took the shot.
The bullet connected with the runner's skull in a burst of bone and decaying brain matter. Sherlock's pupils went to pinpricks and John caught a glimpse of ravenous hunger as the dead whirled on the fallen zombie, nearly tripping over his own feet. He fell on the dropped corpse, cracking its skull open on the concrete and wrenching the cavity wide to feed on its rotted brain with feverish need.
John just stared, unable to look away from this thing that wore Sherlock's face and apparently spoke with his voice. He should put it down, it was one of the dead no matter what it looked like. Yet...there was something there. Sherlock's gaze had been too sharp, too focused. No other zombie John had ever seen had looked at him like that. Not like potential food, but searching, examining. Deducing.
Then there was the matter of him eating the other dead. That was new. He'd clearly passed up living, healthy flesh to feed on rotted corpses. And he'd spoken.
"Sherlock?" He hated the way his voice caught on the word and he readjusted his grip on his gun as the dead looked jerkily up at him, brain matter splattering his face and chest and hands. They locked eyes a moment, Sherlock's piercing and wild, and the undead dropped his gaze to the zombie he'd been feeding on. He drew another slow breath.
"Hun-gry." Oh. Oh, of course he was. The dead were always ravenously hungry, and even the smarter ones couldn't control themselves around fresh meat. And Sherlock had been in the basement for weeks, without food. John swallowed and readjusted his grip on his gun again. A couple of steps up and back and he had the open door of 221B at his back, a much more secure position than before.
"Don't let me stop you then, mate." John wasn't entirely sure how he managed to sound flippant.
Sherlock looked back up at him, head tilted and eyes narrowed. The look was all too familiar and the doctor froze beneath it. Finally the zombie snorted and hauled himself upright, movements jerky but slow and careful. He looked to John once more, and as the man gave a short nod he fell onto another dropped zombie, tearing into it as if he hadn't just devoured the brains of two others.
John just watched him, too used to gore to even bat an eyelash at watching the undead detective eat. It gave him a chance to properly observe after all. Sherlock didn't move like the freshly dead, but he wasn't quite to the point that all he could do was shamble either. He moved like his nerves were numb, but he was being careful and each motion was deliberate enough that he didn't trip himself or get in his own way. He wasn't rotted properly either, skin graying and pale and slightly leathery, like he was beginning to mummify. Better than rot really, at least he didn't smell as bad as most of them did.
"You couldn't be normal, even dead, could you Sherlock?" He put his gun away and picked his scavenged groceries back up.
At his voice Sherlock looked up, gore dripping down his front. He gulped down a last mouthful and stumbled to his feet, and took a couple of shambling steps forward before stopping. It was clear that he'd stopped far enough back that he couldn't lunge and grab John and that the action was a conscious decision. He'd gone right back to staring in that painfully familiar fashion, though the lack of blinking at all was new.
"Right then, of course you couldn't." John shifted, just watching the dead man, "You, what, break out of the basement to come rescue me and decide that you'd rather eat zombies instead of what you're supposed to be eating?" He was aware that his voice was getting a touch higher as shock began to set in but he ignored it.
Sherlock tilted his head to the side, entire posture slumped as was normal for the dead. His eyes narrowed again and he dragged in a breath in what John was coming to realize was preparation to speak.
"John...s-saaaafe." John stared at him blankly as his mind caught up with the two nearly groaned out words. Oh. Oh!
"Safe? You were trying to keep me safe?" He shifted, uneasy about asking what he needed ask.
"And you don't...don't want to crack my head open or take a chunk or two out of a limb?" John was proud that his voice stayed steady. Sherlock rattled out a hiss and shook his head so hard he nearly overbalanced. With a groan that might have been a curse the dead righted himself and stared again, eyes tight.
"Right then. You were keeping me safe. You broke out of five padlocks to just keep me safe. And you don't fancy me edible. That's...good, yeah. That's...right then" His voice wavered again and he took a breath to steady himself, looking away from those pale eyes a moment. He shifted his grip on the bag over his shoulder as he looked down the street.
"This place should be crawling with zombies by now." He gave a strained chuckle, "I think you scared them off, mate. Fancy that, you frighten the dead." A giggle that might have been just a little hysterical found its way out of his throat.
The fact that Sherlock looked around slowly and then twitched his unresponsive facial muscles into a rictus grin didn't help the ridiculousness any. The expression fell away quickly, as if it was too much of a strain to hold it and he just stood there listlessly, still staring. John was growing used to the unwavering gaze.
"Oh God, I'm giggling. You're dead and covered in decaying brain matter and just ate through three other zombies. I can't giggle!" He ran a hand over his face to try to calm the hysterics down a bit. A deep breath helped further.
"Right. I know I'm out of my mind, but..." John stepped aside and gestured the zombie inside, "Come on, Sherlock. Not going to leave you out here and I guess there's no point putting you back in the basement again."
Sherlock nodded jerkily and shambled forward, stumbling up the stairs and into the hall of the flat. John noticed the way he moved, slow and hesitant and he fixed his gaze on points ahead of him before moving forward as if tracking while he was moving was difficult. The dead stopped just inside, waiting for his flatmate.
John glanced back around, made sure there were no zombies watching and slipped in as well, carefully bolting the several locks on the front door. A glance showed that the basement door was broken open and with a snort he just shoved it closed. He hitched his bag up on his shoulder and headed for the stairs, looking back towards the still undead in the corner.
"Well, come on then." He paused at the top of the stairs. Sherlock gave a rattling hiss and started up them, pale hand clenched onto the rail and he paused between each step. The action of climbing the stairs clearly took every single bit of his concentration and John felt something constrict in his chest at watching him struggle with something that had been so very easy for him. There was a tightness around the undead's eyes that indicated he was just as bothered by his lack of dexterity.
John winced and proceeded him into the flat, locking the door behind them both as Sherlock paused and stared at the abnormally clean room.
"You're room's clean too. I dust on a regular basis and tidied up everything...course I did that to the rest of the building too...Kitchen's operational again, especially without your experiments hiding everywhere. And I think Mycroft's been keeping this place with electricity and water, he knows I'm still here and does know what happened to you...Not going to complain about it of course, keeps me comfortable." John let himself ramble as Sherlock stared at him, and the doctor marveled at being able to do so without being interrupted at all. The undead detective only nodded slowly and looked towards the bathroom, starting slowly for it.
"Sho-wer." John chuckled and put his bag down in the kitchen. No doubt Sherlock was desperate to get clean after three weeks in the basement and then getting covered in gore.
"Right, you head over there and I'll grab you clothes." He listened to the dragging footsteps of his undead flat mate as he grabbed a clean set of Sherlock's pajamas from his room. No point in getting anything more fancy for the dead. He didn't notice as he began to muse aloud about the situation, too used to being alone and talking to himself to remember that there was someone else to listen to him.
"Right then. He's dead. He's jerky and he's shambling just like the rest of them. But he's talking. He remembers me, obviously, knows who I am and wants to keep me safe...God, and I've let him into my safe-house. I'm acting like he's still alive but he isn't. I can see that he isn't...but he's not acting like the other zombies..." John came out of the bathroom where he'd left the clothing and a towel and froze as the subject of his rambling was standing right in front of him. There was a faint glitter that was likely amusement in the depths of Sherlock's bleached eyes. John flushed slightly and glowered at him, stepping around him.
"Shut up and take your shower you git. Groan if you need anything." Sherlock gave him another twitching, rictus grin and shambled past him. The door closed clumsily and John took the time to put away what he'd managed to scavenge. He listened quietly to the banging about and the occasional hiss over the sound of water and could only imagine the trouble the dead was having with his clothing, let alone actually getting himself clean. By the time the door opened again John was sitting at the kitchen table, finishing up cleaning his gun.
Apparently Sherlock had had as much trouble as it sounded like he had. His hair was only partially dried, his clothing sloppily pulled on and the tightness around his pale eyes spoke of frustration. There was still grime under his nails and he clearly couldn't get himself completely clean on his own. No surprise really, it was obvious how unresponsive his body was and it was likely that his sense of touch was completely gone. Ignoring those little signs and the skin tone though, the undead looked merely rumpled.
John couldn't help but chuckle as he put his gun into his holster at his back.
"If you weren't so obviously dead I'd think you just woke up from an after case sleeping binge." The grin he leveled at the dead was easy, relaxed, and he was rewarded by an easing of the tension around Sherlock's eyes. The dead man huffed out a lungful of air and shambled into the living room...and flopped down on the couch. John laughed.
"And now it really is like you never left. Well, other than your lack of blinking or breathing." Sherlock didn't respond but with that blank stare. John just shrugged and grabbed a random movie and turned the telly on low to watch it.
"This might bore you a bit, but I've taken to watching movies in the evenings. Helps remind me of before the world went mad." Sherlock shifted on the couch so the he could see the television but made no comment throughout the whole of the movie. Once the movie ended John got out and put it away.
"Until the 'net went down I updated the blog, but there's no point in doing that any longer with it gone now." He was obscurely sad about that, as he had enjoyed writing.
Sherlock shifted, sitting up on the couch and giving a low noise that might have been agreement of some type. His pale, unblinking gaze was completely focused on the doctor, and it was getting mildly unnerving again. Somehow the dead man noticed that he was unnerving John and blinked, the motion slow and twitching. John winced.
"You attempting to blink is worse, don't do that." Sherlock snorted in response, an action that was clearly consciously done. The sound of derision was familiar and welcoming. John's shoulders relaxed.
"Good. Right." He nodded and took a breath, "Okay, I think I can handle this." He really wasn't quite as sure as he sounded but Sherlock didn't need to know that. Besides, it was far better to have him even like this than to believe he was still alone and that the genius was completely gone.
Sherlock hauled himself into a sitting position on the couch and gave a short nod. He pulled in a breath.
"G-good." Even with the stutter the word was so decisive and so Sherlock that John couldn't help but laugh. The sound was semi-hysterical and a touch manic but John got himself under control quickly enough and stood, shaking his head.
"I don't know what's worse. The fact that you're dead, and still functioning somehow, or the fact that I'm fine with it!" He ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath, trying to calm the circles his mind was running in.
"I've well and truly lost it, haven't I? I know you can't answer that, but you don't really need to." He bit that off and was unsurprised as Sherlock hissed at him. It seemed to be his new sound of irritation, probably one of the easiest vocalizations for him to get out. His pale eyes were narrowed and he dragged in a rattling breath.
"Nnnot c-comm-plet-ly l-lost it." The simple sentence took several seconds for the dead to get out and he was clearly frustrated with his inability to speak quickly. John stared at him and snorted.
"That's just a fair bit creepy, mate. But the fact that you're talking, actually talking, is the biggest reason I could let you up here. Dunno how much you're actually following though." He trailed off, sitting back down heavily and ran a hand over his face with a sigh. Sherlock pulled in a breath that groaned, eyes narrowed.
"I c-can th-think f-f-fine." He had to take a breath between every other word and it seemed to take every bit of concentration he had to speak clearly. John stared at him, trying to understand his friend's words.
"I don't; you mean to tell me that your brain's working? That you can reason and logic and actually think like a living person? You know we were told the Dead can't think any more, Sherlock, that proper memories and reasoning are gone. But you're saying you've got that? That you can actually think?" He knew how incredulous he sounded, even in the face of evidence that Sherlock was fully aware. The dead man gave a jerky nod.
"You t-talked to mmme." John blinked at him and continued staring as he let that settle in his head, Sherlock didn't seem to mind.
"I talked to you...and it gave your brain, what? Some sort of jump start?" Sherlock nodded again, stiff body tense.
"You're saying your brain is fully functional? Like before? Thousand-kilometer-an-hour thinking with no slowing down? Taking in everything, no matter how small, retaining it and then deleting what you don't think you need? Your brain is 'alive'?" Horror was beginning to creep into his mind as he processed this. Sherlock nodded sharply, eyes tight yet again.
"Oh God..." A hand came up and ran over his face, settling in front of his mouth in an involuntary reaction, "Oh dear God, and you're stuck in..." He trailed off as his gaze raked over Sherlock very dead form. "You've been stuck like that this whole time?"
The undead detective shook his head slowly.
"D-door." John frowned at him, trying to figure out what he meant by that.
"When you stopped clawing at the door every day?" It got him an affirmative nod. John let out a breath.
"That was almost a week ago Sherlock. You've been down there for three..." The doctor's eyes narrowed as he thought and then flew wide.
"Oh God, you remembered everything while I was screaming at you didn't you?" His voice was soft and a touch apologetic. The dead man shrugged a shoulder stiffly.
"Mmem-or-ry w-was in p-pieces b-be-fore then." John nodded as he understood and dragged a hand over his face again.
"That...must have been torture for you." His voice was hollow as he realized that his friend had been alone in the dark all this time. Even if his memory was in pieces it was clear that his mind had still been working at least a little to remember anything at all. The tightness around Sherlock's bleached eyes and the tenseness to his shoulders spoke far more loudly than words.
"No wonder you ripped into those zombies. You must have been starving by then." Jon tilted his head at him, "You seemed satisfied at least a bit after eating them though." The undead detective nodded sharply.
"So the dead can eat other dead, but they'd rather go for the living. Already know they'll go for animals if that's the only thing nearby. Wonder if you could get by on that if there weren't any zombies?" He shook his head with a snort, "Never mind, there'll always be walking corpses around, more get made every damn day after all as some poor survivor slips up just the once." His dark eyes raked over Sherlock's form. The clean, incongruous clothing made a jarring juxtaposition against his yellowy tinged gray skin. The Bite that infected him could be seen through the thin fabric, a stain of black against pale gray.
John pulled his gaze from the wound he knew was there and looked to his undead flat mate's face. Sherlock was still staring, unblinking and expressionless. The doctor was beginning to get used to it.
"So, you've fed now. Are you still hungry?" The question got him a snort.
"Al-ways hun-gry." John didn't think he was imagining the mocking note in the rasping voice, "Mmman-ag-able nnnow." That was interesting.
"So you're still hungry but you've got control of yourself now since you've eaten?" It really was obvious what Sherlock meant but the clarity was needed all the same and John was no longer adept at holding his tongue. Sherlock merely nodded jerkily, not snarking at him as he would have before. There was a minute pang of loss at the realization that doing such would take far more concentration than the Dead man cared to give.
"Then I just need to keep you fed and I won't be in any danger from you, yeah?" John sat back in his chair as he mused, "I suppose I could drag bits back here for you, cut off one's limbs so you can have its brain and a good bit of meat left." There was no horror at all in his voice as he discussed chopping up bodies to bring them back to his zombie. Sherlock shook his head slowly, eyes never wavering from their focus on John.
"G-go out w-with you." He was getting a little clearer the longer they conversed. John raised a brow.
"What, take you out scavenging with me?" He turned the idea over in his mind, "Could be practical. Give me someone to watch my back that I don't have to worry about getting bitten. Or stabbing me in the spine." He trailed off and barked a slightly hysterical laugh.
"What the bloody hell am I thinking? You're Dead, you shouldn't be doing anything but making a meal of me. Yet here you are, offering to eat the things that try to hurt me. You do realize that none of this makes any damn sense don't you?" John was aware of the faintly manic tone in his voice, but the look that Sherlock leveled at him was calm and steady, with no sign of a zombie's mad hunger.
"John. Safe." The first two words Sherlock had spoken to him rang through the quiet of the flat once John's laughter stopped. An assurance and a promise.
"Still on that? You're turn to try to protect me then, 'stead of the other way 'round. That it?" The manic note was still there, but John felt exhaustion creeping up and drowning it out. Sherlock just nodded yet again.
"Yeah alright. Keeping me safe means eating other dead." He snorted, "Don't doubt you'd go after the living that came after me either, would you Sherlock?" The dead man shrugged stiffly.
"Al-ways, hun-gry." John snorted.
"Sherlock Holmes wanting to eat. That's certainly new, and a bloody sure sign the world's ended." The statement was sarcastic and John hauled himself up to go peek out the window, checking the street. The zombies he'd put down earlier were still laying on the concrete, and there were a few more shuffling about beneath stuttering streetlights.
One in particular caught his attention. A child, no more than ten, dragging a ragged stuffed giraffe by its neck. The toy was coated in blood and stuffing was coming out of its torn chest. John jerked the window closed and leaned back against the wall as the urge to go out and put down every one of the wretched things out there welled up and threatened to send him storming out of the flat in a suicide march.
The sound of a body shifting on the couch snapped open eyes he hadn't known he'd closed. Sherlock was standing, still on the other side of the coffee table from him and watching him closely. This wasn't the flat staring of before, his eyes were searching, somehow softer than a moment before. Though still they were the discolored, amorphous pupils of the dead and there was no getting around that fact.
John swallowed thickly as he realized that Sherlock had been privy to everything he'd said, and likely knew better than he did how tenuous his grip on his sanity was.
"Now it feels like you're studying me like you used to. 'Cept your eyes are more dead of course." He tried to sound flippant. Sherlock managed to twitch a brow like he was trying to raise it and snorted at him. John grinned and headed for the kitchen, good mood entirely restored.
It took him but a moment to get a meal of beans and canned fruit and a bit of toast with a thin layer of precious jam and a bottle of water together. He allowed himself to ramble as he did.
"The water works, but it's only good for bathing. I don't trust that it might not be contaminated. 'Course, could have been the food, could be in the air so it's a bit of a moot point isn't it? Anyway beans are an easy source of protein that I don't have to cook, and therefore, won't make any smells. Not that I think the smell of cooking it going to actually draw in more of the dead but there's no point in testing the theory on a regular basis is there?" Throughout it all Sherlock just stood silent, posture slumped and sagging and just watched him with that unwavering gaze. He didn't even draw a breath to attempt to speak.
"Somehow I don't even feel bothered that you aren't going to talk back to me. On one hand, you don't verbally insult me anymore, or deduct me constantly. But on the other... I do miss the sound of your voice." The words were out before John was thinking on what he was saying and he felt his throat close up just a touch. Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a moment and then his expression fell slack again.
"I-di-ot." The familiar insult had John laughing. It wasn't a happy laugh, tainted as it was with an aching soul deep exhaustion and sadness. His eyes started welling up and within a moment he was fully in a breakdown, tears and laughter all intermingling into something manic and giving testament to just how broken he was. The laughter faded into quiet sobbing and he leaned against the counter as he tried to get himself under control.
A cool hand settled onto his back and he snapped upright, whirling around and flattening back against the counter. John's dark eyes were wide as he stared at Sherlock, who slowly dropped his hand and stumbled backwards. The undead's own pale eyes were just as wide under John's almost violent reaction and the twisted expression slowly falling off his face said that he'd been trying to comfort his friend the only way he could.
Sherlock backed away as his face went impassive again, eyes tight once more. His shoulders hunched and his weight shifting leg to leg like he was unsteady. John stared at him as he got his breathing under control. He hadn't been expecting to be touched and Sherlock clearly hadn't expected the doctor's reaction. In fact...the dead man looked downright apologetic, and perhaps a touch pained that John flinched from him. The living heaved a sigh and relaxed, waving a hand slightly.
"I'm fine Sherlock. Its fine. It wasn't you I was flinching over. No one's touched me in weeks. Hell, getting touched would mean I messed up and was about to get eaten out there." He locked his dark gaze with Sherlock's pale.
"Thank you. For that. I wasn't pulling away from you." He felt like it was important to let Sherlock know that. Even if the dead man didn't particularly care he still needed to know that John trusted him, accepted him.
Sherlock stared a while longer and nodded. His swaying stilled and he pulled in a breath.
"Tired." The word was oddly dragged out but it was obvious that the zombie didn't mean that he was tired. John pulled a hand down his face and sighed.
"Yeah. I am a bit." A thought occurred to him and he frowned slightly, "What are you going to do while I'm sleeping?" John wasn't entirely sure he was comfortable with a zombie loose in the flat while he slept. Even if it was Sherlock.
Fortunately they seemed to be on the same page as the undead detective nodded towards his bedroom.
"L-lock mmmme in." John nodded and moved around the undead. Sherlock followed.
"Yeah that'll work. I'll lock you in and move something in front of it just in case, yeah? I'll let you out tomorrow and we'll go scavenging...Well, hunting in your case I suppose." Amusement filled his tone at the thought of Sherlock actually hunting. However, he'd seen the damage the dead detective could do to another zombie and it was brutally effective.
Sherlock merely nodded and shuffled into his bedroom, collapsing face down onto his bed with a groan. John laughed and shook his head as he pulled the door closed and slid home the deadbolt he'd installed in a moment of boredom. A chair was wedged beneath the knob as an extra measure.
He paused, he'd started a tradition with the zombie and he was loath to discontinue the practice.
"Good night, Sherlock." He kept the words soft, and for a moment he wasn't sure the Dead even heard them. A very muffled whisper of sound came from the locked and barricaded room.
"G-good nnnight, John." Relief surged through him. He wasn't hallucinating, wasn't completely mad. Sherlock was back, was still himself, even if he was a three week old corpse.
Only then did he go up to his own room. He locked the door, slide the dresser in front of it and changed clothes before dropping in exhaustion onto his own bed. For the first time in weeks he slept peacefully.
Sherlock listened as John finally left to get his own rest. Heard the man pushing about furniture and surmised that he was barricading his own door. Good. He wasn't completely trusting of the creature he'd let into his sanctuary.
The tiny little bit of him left that was purely human protested that thought. It was drowned out by cold logic. They both knew the hunger of the dead, they'd both seen it, and both knew not to trust it. It didn't matter how in control Sherlock seemed, he was dangerous. At least some part of John seemed to realize and accept that fact.
The last of the air from earlier squeezed out of his lungs and he didn't bother drawing another breath or shifting from where he still had his face in the pillow. His eyes were closed, protecting the precious tissue, and he had neither desire nor reason to move for the rest of the night. What little feeling he had left was rather happy to have a bed rather than the cold floor but that thought was swept aside as unimportant.
John. Dear God he had underestimated how broken the man was, how lonely and desperate and mad he was. It was as of yet unclear just how much Sherlock could fix the damage done to the good doctor. Even worse, how much he could do with his quite limited speech capabilities. Most mental cures required a great deal of talking. He'd have to hope that his mere presence helped the man come back to himself a bit.
Slim hope.