Sherlock Holmes

I stayed with my brother for another nine days after the breakout, occasionally venturing out to get supplies or to investigate. That was what I was doing when I heard a familiar pattern of footsteps. One which I hadn't heard in far too long.

I wasn't in a good position. A man supposed to be dead, kneeling over a body in the middle of a zombie outbreak. As much as I wanted to stand, to express my absolute relief that he was alive, I knew that I couldn't at the moment. So I waited.

And now there I was, watching the colour drain out of John's face. He didn't respond for a moment, just stood and stared. But then his gun was pointed at my head. I took a step backwards, feeling that showing a bit of weakness could end up saving my life. "You- you're dead." His voice was shaking. "You're dead, I- I saw you." I tried to speak, but he cut me off. "You're one of them. You're one of them, you have to be."

To say that his assumption was illogical would be far from correct. And I didn't look dissimilar to one of the... Damn, I hated calling them undead. I'd lost a significant amount of weight, having only eaten an average of once a week. I slept about four hours every three days, and that resulted in my eyes being dark underneath. "John, listen to me." I took another step back. "It was all faked. My death, the autopsy, everything. None of it was real." I watched as he shook his head. "John, put the gun down. It's me. If I were one of them, would I be focusing on talking to you, or ripping your throat out?"

He seemed to be considering this. But he kept the weapon raised. "You... You bastard...!" Okay, not how I'd hoped. "All this time, and you... You were alive..." He took a deep breath, clearly trying to keep from shouting. "You left us. All of us, and you expect to just be able to walk back in when the world goes to hell? Oh, but that's right!" Hard. Sarcastic. Broken. "You're Sherlock Holmes! You don't understand or- or care about emotions or anything!" His gaze was more intense than I'd ever seen it. Teeth gritted.

I allowed my gaze to fall to the floor. "John... I had to shoot my brother today." Forcing our eyes to meet now. "Don't tell me that I don't understand emotion. Don't you dare."

This seemed to soften him a bit. "Turned?" I'm not sure he was aware that he was lowering the gun.

I nodded. "Went to him the day it all started. He didn't believe a word of it, of course, I wouldn't have, either. A few broke in. One got to him before I could get to it." I conveniently left out the fact that I'd had the chance to shoot, but it had been holding him, and I'd had a moment of doubt. Sure that I would miss and hit him, instead. "Bit him right on the neck. It shouldn't have been fatal, there's just... There's something in it that kills the victim. Slowly, though. He just died today." Again, I left out a detail. This time of how I'd all but screamed his name until it felt as though my throat was bleeding. "When he got up, I had a glimmer of hope that it was just some sort of miracle. But clearly that wasn't the case."

"I... I'm sorry." I waved away the sympathy. "Why did you go? How could you do this to me? To all of us?"

I sat down, back against the wall. John followed suit. "There were assassins. Either I died in disgrace, or every one of the people I care about would have been killed by Moriarty's men. I had no choice. I've been hunting them down. Finished the day all of this began." I hesitated. "How many are left?" I was afraid to hear the answer.

John appeared to think this over. "Molly and I were in the morgue in the beginning. She's gone. Mrs Hudson wouldn't have lasted more than a day. Greg might still be out there, but I haven't heard from him. Same with Harry. Even tried Donovan and Anderson, but I doubt they're still alive."

I could only imagine what they'd been thinking as they died. "Three years..." This was more to myself than John. Flying to my feet, I pulled out my pistol, began shouting as I fired at the wall. "Three fucking years, for nothing!" I generally didn't curse, but I wasn't exactly concerned with that at the moment.

"Sherlock!" I didn't fight as John took the gun from my hands. "Do you want to use up all our ammunition and tell them where we are?" I felt my body go rigid as he embraced me. After all, for years, physical contact had meant nearly certain death. "It's all right, Sherlock. It's all right. I'm here, I'm alive. You did your best, it wasn't for nothing."

I calmed down fairly quickly. Perhaps two minutes. "We have to burn the bodies." Making some distance between us now, making my way to a nearby closet. "Gather up food, weapons, anything you can find. We have to move. It will be night soon." I pulled out a container of lighter fluid, which I'd used for cooking during my time staying in this very building in the first week of my death. "When you finish, we burn this place to the ground. We can't risk any of them turning."

John agreed, did as I asked. I began drenching the corpses in the fluid, silently paying my respects to each. Not that I'd let John know that.

Having found a length of rope, I trailed it outside, using it as a fuse. Once lit, we got a safe distance away. And when we caught the first glimpse of flame, John, stone-faced and somber, saluted his fallen makeshift soldiers. For his sake, I did the same.

After a lengthy silence, I spoke once more. "I do have one question for you." I looked down at his moustache. "What the hell is on your face?"

Another one by Shinedown. This one is I'm Alive.