"Sherlock, have you seen my phone?" John asked from the floor, from where he had been looking under the sofa.

The detective, eerily illuminated in the cool morning light, did not move from his perch by the window. "No," he deadpanned, never once looking away from the street.

John clenched his fist.

"Are you sure? It was on the coffee table not two days ago. I haven't picked it up since, but now it's gone."

Sherlock raised his voice. "I said I didn't know where it is; were you not listening?"

"Yes, but just because you don't know where it is doesn't mean you didn't move it," John retorted, bitterly.

"I did not move your mobile, John."

"Then where has it gone?"

Sherlock gave him a short, withered glance. It made John want to punch him the face.

"Really John, we're in the middle of an epidemic and your focus is on your mobile?"

John got up off the floor with a huff. "Yes, actually. You see, because we're in the middle of an epidemic, it would be nice to have, you know, in case someone were to phone it."

"You're worried about your sister."

John gave him a loud, mocking clap. "Brilliant deduction, that. Do tell, what gave me away?"

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."

"Yes, I know. Just—" He groaned. "I need my mobile."

"You can use mine. It's on the mantel next to the bat." He made a vague gesture with his shoulder toward the display.

John looked away, bashful, and muttered something.

Now it was Sherlock's time to be exasperated. "Now what is it?"

"I don't know her number."

"Harry's?"

"Yes. It was in my contacts. I just never got around to memorizing it." John ran a hand over his face. "Any chance Mycroft could get it if I asked? If he's not too busy trying to prevent the collapse of government or sipping tea."

Sherlock turned away from him to look back out the window.

"Mycroft has not responded to anything I've sent him. He has ignored my calls. I have not heard from him in over two weeks."

"Well, I assume he's running himself ragged. He's probably just too busy." Still, it was strange. Mycroft didn't usually ignore Sherlock's calls; just the other way around.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock said, quiet. "Mycroft, the mother hen he is, would never ignore my calls when it comes to something serious. And this," he motioned with a tilt of his head to the world beyond the window, "is very worrying."

John joined him by the glass. There were lines of people on the street waiting to hail a cab or rolling their luggage and their families behind them.

"Have you thought about it? That we might need to leave 221B for a bit. Somewhere a bit calmer."

"Things are no more calm elsewhere in the city," said Sherlock.

"Yes... I'd considered that."

Bright eyes flicked to take him in. His voice was reverent when he answered, "We will wait, but I have not dismissed the notion."

So it was not out of the question.

"Good to know."

A soft knock at the door drew their attention.

"Yoo-hoo," Mrs. Hudson softly called. "You boys doing all right in here?"

John smiled and waved her in. "Doing fine, Mrs. Hudson. Yourself?"

She gave him a sad, maternal smile and patted his arm. "I'm doing fine, dear. I was just in to see Mrs. Turner. The poor thing isn't doing so well. Trying to get a hold of her family is making her distraught. Says she's going to go get a cab to them, the love. I told her I didn't think that for the best with all those scared people out there. She's not as young as she used to be." She gave John a tight smile, touching her side. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

John cocked his head in sympathy. "Your hip acting up again?"

"Just a little, dearie. Nothing to worry about."

John nodded, then looked to Sherlock's turned form. He deliberated a moment before asking, "Mrs. Hudson, do you have any plans? Maybe it would be best, if things get too bad, that you went to visit family. Get away from Baker Street for a while."

She fidgeted with the gold chain around her neck. "I've thought about it, but it's not so horrible out there. Just like the bird flu, I'm sure that it will sort itself out soon enough."

This was nothing like the bird flu. It was something much, much more serious, but there was no use in worrying her overly so.

"Right. Just keep it in mind, won't you?"

"Alright, though I'm sure there's no need for it," Mrs. Hudson tittered. "You're looking a bit peaky, John. I'll make you a cuppa. Will you be having any, Sherlock?"

"Hm? No, I'm afraid I've been rather put off my tea, thank you." He angled his body so that he could look to her. "Do take John's proposition into account, Mrs. Hudson. We won't leave baker Street without you."

The elderly woman made a soft tsk noise in the back of her throat, but gave him a little smile as she left to put on the kettle. Knowing her, she would probably bring up a tray of sandwiches and biscuits, as well, that John would gladly accept and Sherlock wouldn't touch.

Shouts and car horns could be heard from the street below.

"This is madness. Like something off the telly," John said, rubbing his face. Sherlock finally moved to sit across from him in his customary position. "I think it's worse because we just don't know what it is. They never did give it a name."

"Would a name make it any less threatening?" Sherlock scoffed. "Even if you could call it something, it doesn't mean you could combat it."

"Yes, but it would be nice to put a name to the virus, nonetheless. Makes it seem a little less intangible. Unstoppable."

"Then make a name for it, if it makes you feel better. It won't change anything unless you find a way to beat it." He titled his head back against his chair and muttered at the ceiling, "Useless."

John felt his collar grow warm, but forced his emotions down. He could really use that tea right about now.

"What about you, then? Have you made any progress on figuring out how to stop it?"

Sherlock head snapped up and he scowled. "No," he snarled. "I am a chemist, not a pathologist. Still, I might have done some good if I'd had a sample of the virus and the use of a lab. As it is, I cannot get anywhere close to Bart's. And Molly isn't picking up."

It was understandable that she may be a bit busy.

"What about Lestrade? What is the Yard doing through all this?"

He shrugged, and his head fell back again. "It is a panic. They're playing mediator between parliament and people and minimizing as many casualties as they can during this exodus. I am of no help to him, as he is no help to me."

"Just as well, I don't suppose you'll die of boredom in the throes of anarchy."

Sherlock's lips quipped. "It loses a bit of the finesse of premeditated murder, but it will have to do."

John chuckled softly, to which Sherlock graced a small smile. A comfortable silence filled the space between. It was strange; like having their own little pocket of sanity amidst the pandemonium.

Shrill noise was wafting up from outside.

WHUMP!

"Christ! What the hell—" John vaulted from his seat and rushed to the window. He couldn't see exactly what was making the noise from his current angle, so he hoisted the glass and thrust his head out. The cacophony of traffic and people all rioted around him, including the outcries of those attempting to get away from the man who was currently slamming himself into the door of 221B. Again. And again. And again.

"Oi, stop it!" No response. No recognition that he'd even heard. "What the bleeding fuck do you think you're doing?"

From over John's shoulder, Sherlock mused, "No acknowledgment of the pain. The mania has completely taken him over."

"Is that man infected?" John asked. He's never actually seen one of them. Is this what it did to them? Christ, what was he doing? The man's face had gone bloody from the repeated abuse, and yet he did not stop; his hands savagely clawed at the wood.

Faintly, John heard Mrs. Hudson shouting in retaliation to the man banging on her door below. He saw Sherlock's eyes flash bright a second before the man was running.

"Mrs. Hudson! Don't open that door!" John yelled, already bounding down the stairs after Sherlock.

He heard the creak of the hinge and the surprised scream before he saw the scene take place.

The man was upon her.

No. God, no.

Broken sounds gurgled from the infected man's bloody mouth, and he swiped at her hair and face. She hit him with her fists, but just as the door hadn't, he was not deterred. He gnashed his teeth and bent low against the woman's neck. She wailed tortuously, and John could see the red blood begin to flow across the floral pattern of her dress.

"Let go, you brute!" Mrs. Hudson cried. He made to move, but Sherlock was faster.

John didn't think he'd ever seen Sherlock completely barrel into someone like that. Not with that look of absolute rage.

Mrs. Hudson curled her body up against the wall, cradling her shoulder in a protective way. Tears were dipping down her cheeks from large glassy eyes and she was gasping to catch her breath.

"Mrs. Hudson? Martha? I need you to talk to me." John tried to get her to focus on him and not outside, where Sherlock was still fighting with the infected man. God, he couldn't think about that right now. "Come on, we need to move. Can you stand?"

She leaned heavily against him, but her knocking knees could not support her weight. "I—I can't. My shoulder—Sherlock—"

"Don't worry about him right now. We need to get you out of here." He tucked his arm behind her back and under her knees. Mrs. Hudson gave a surprised squawk as John lifted her into the air.

His shoulder was not going to like him for this.

They absconded up the steps despite John's protesting wound. She seemed much smaller in his arms now, cradling her shoulder and trying not to sob. It made his heart ache.

When they made it inside, John closed the door with his heel and placed her as gently as he could into his chair. "I am going to need to take a look at your shoulder."

The outside door slammed shut, but the screams filtering in through the windows grew louder. John did his best to ignore them, but they were obviously disturbing Mrs. Hudson whose hands jittered in her anxiousness. Someone was coming up the steps, and John could hear the way he was favouring one of his legs by putting more weight on the other. It was Sherlock; who else would secure the door?

The woman looked from John to the door with wary eyes. "Who is that? I can't take—"

"It's Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson. I need you to calm down so I can get a better look at this, okay?" She was bleeding so much. As quickly as he could, he fetched a flannel and pressed it into the juncture of her neck. She flinched at the feeling of rough fabric against exposed skin and sinew, to which John winced sympathetically. She patted his hand gently, as if he were the one that needed consoling.

"I feel a bit faint. Is it awful? I think the nerves are masking most of the pain, if I'm perfectly honest. Not really feeling much."

"Your pulse is pretty elevated. I really need you to breathe. There's no reason to worry. It's over now. Sherlock's taken care of him. I've got you." The pulse was a bit worrying, though. She didn't seem to be settling in the least, and he wasn't sure just how much her heart could take.

"Have you any heart conditions?"

"No, just my hip. Brittle bones but a strong heart. Have to have, living with Sherlock," she attempted at humour. "Too many surprise explosions and what have you."

He smiled at her. "That's fortunate." And while that news was good, and though she may not be feeling it, the wound was serious. The man had ripped open her shoulder; bitten a strip of flesh out. She needed more help than he could give her here.

Sherlock came in through the closed door.

"I hope whatever you did to yourself doesn't need to be looked at right now, because you'll have to take care of it yourself."

"It is of no concern, at the moment," Sherlock said gruffly. He moved closer, and John had only a moment before Mrs. Hudson withdrew a sharp intake of air and she slumped forward. "Jesus! Martha! Can you hear me?" The old woman was still in his arms. He checked her pulse: still elevated, but thankfully there. She must have just passed out.

"We need to get her to a hospital, Sherlock. If that man was infected, the bite could have—what the bloody fuck did you do to yourself?"

The entire left half of Sherlock face was spattered with blood, and a gash at his temple seemed to be the main source. Before John's panic could set in, he said, "Don't worry, it's nothing. He was more tenacious than I expected. No matter how many times I injured him, he just kept coming back. Eventually I just had to loose him into the street and seal the door." He rubbed his reddened knuckles. "But no bites and the blood is my own."

Why was that supposed to be reassuring?

"Right, well, we'll just have to tend to that later. We need to gather some supplies. She needs a hospital and we may not be coming back. Get everything we may need into backpacks for us to carry: food, water, money, passports—just everything you think we should take if we have to leave right away.

John looked at the woman in his arms. While Sherlock took care of that, he needed to make sure that Mrs. Hudson would be fit enough to travel. Stable, in the least. He set her against the chair and peel the torn fabric of her dress sleeve back. The blood flowed freely from the wound. With his free hand he pushed against the carotid artery at the juncture of her neck. Her drumming pulse was easily noticed beneath his fingertips. She was out cold, so why was her pulse still so high? Was it the virus?

"Sherlock, hurry. I don't know how long it's going to take us to get there with people the way they are out there." He paused. "And we may have to take into account that she may be infected. And there's no cure."

"Shut up, John. Where do you keep your passport papers?"

"Closet. Do you know where Mrs. Hudson holds hers?"

"Breadbox. We'll grab it as we leave. Computer?"

"Necessities, Sherlock. Your mobile is enough. Mine too, I you find it."

Sherlock muttered what John assumed was a reply and continued packing. Each minute dragged by into painful eternity until finally Sherlock came back into the sitting room, bags in hand and his coat wrapped around him.

He stared at John's fingers at her neck.

"How is she?"

"We need to leave. Her heart rate is far too high for someone unconscious; it must be the virus. I don't know how to combat this."

"Do you need me to carry her or can your shoulder make it?"

"I think—"

The flesh under his fingers lay unmoving. Her heart had stopped.

"John? What is it?"

"Her pulse is gone. I need you to help me get her horizontal, now!"

Sherlock immediately abandoned the bags and was at his side. When they had her flat, John began CPR while Sherlock moved to give him space, though still near enough for John to see his hands flutter fretfully.

Breathe.

Chest compressions. Two. Three.

Nothing.

Again.

Two. Three.

The weight of Sherlock's eyes was nerve-wracking. He pushed it aside, but it was impossible to disregard. All the more so as he pulled away from Mrs. Hudson's lifeless form.

Sherlock's mouth was agape. "What are you doing? Why have you stopped?"

John turned away. "Sherlock…"

Furiously, he wrenched John's shoulders to face him. "Stop it, John! You're a doctor—save her!"

John's heart was in his throat. What could possibly be said at a moment like this? The dawning horror in Sherlock's eyes was like watching glass crack and shatter. He looked broken.

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock ducked his head. "How did it happen so quickly? She was offering us tea not an hour ago."

Sometimes John forgot, what with Sherlock's preoccupation with death, just how unaccustomed he was to witnessing someone die. Not that the war could be a good thing, but John was thankful for it now. So that he wasn't breaking to bits at the sight of this woman he'd grown so fond of.

The woman neither had expected to suddenly move.

Her hand shot out to latch on to Sherlock's pant leg before the detective could get clear of her. The noises that were coming from her throat sounded wet and rough, and when Sherlock jerked his leg in order to get free she did not release him—even when the wound on her shoulder oozed blood from the damaged muscles. No hesitation caused by pain.

She'd been lost to the virus.

He drew his Browning out of his trousers and aimed at where her tiny hand was digging into the fabric.

"I'm so sorry," he told her, then fired.

The momentary impact was enough for Sherlock to scramble away to a safer distance, but she was getting up. Her hand was seeping blood onto the lino and her dress stained with red-painted roses.

Sherlock wouldn't move. His eyes kept staring to where John had shot, and where her fingers were now warped and mangled, if even there. John grabbed at his sleeve to try to spur him to action. Just a reaction. He couldn't be in shock, not when John needed him to move.

If there was ever a time John wished for Sherlock's self-diagnosed sociopathic nature to be true, it was now.

Even if just to spare him.

"Leave her! She's lost. Leave her!"

Nothing.

John cursed and forcibly shoved him through the doorway and down the stairs, but making sure to hoist the packs onto his back. He was not going to lose Sherlock, too. It wasn't until they reached the pavement outside that Sherlock retained enough of his faculties to move without John's abuse.

He roughly pushed himself away and into the flock of people. John followed closely behind, but as he surveyed their surroundings he saw the bloodshed marring the pavement. So much of it. When Sherlock said he'd turned the man into the street, he'd meant he'd let the man attack those people as distraction.

Who had that man killed

Who else had he infected?

And who of those infected would move on to infect the others?

He grappled with the bags over his shoulder as he was manhandled in the crowd. Sherlock was in ahead of him but keeping close enough so that they were not out of sight. They just had to keep moving. Out of the city. They just had to get out of the city.

They passed countless screams and pleas for help, to which John had to drive himself to ignore. Sherlock took them through alleys to beat the crowd, but it provided little aid. Eventually, they were forced into the sewers, where there was still a surprising amount of refugees. But it did help.

Finally, when John felt his blood boiling and his heartbeat in the arches of his feet, they made it. Far enough that they could surface. And then they continued walking.

Sherlock had come back to himself to an extent during their travel. He had eased some of the burden off John by taking up one of the packs, and his eyes were luminous and direct as they passed by others on their path. Cataloguing and deducing. It was a welcome relief but not a certainty.

"We should probably talk about this," John said, a bit uneasily.

"Yes. It's astounding, the rate in which this virus is spreading. I need more data on it, as soon as possible. I wouldn't need a hospital, though their labs would be optimal—still, too much of a risk right now while we're alone. Just the right equipment, for the time being. And a specimen—"

Panic struck John as a thought occurred to him during Sherlock's rant.

"I gave her CPR. How did I not contract the virus from her?" John wondered aloud. "It took her so fast; I would have noticed something by now if I were, right?"

"You were lucky," Sherlock agreed, though John could see he wasn't really paying him much attention. Too lost in his own thoughts.

"Right. Damn lucky, that." He shook his head. That was entirely too reckless of him. "And you were fortunate, yourself, not be bitten when you attacked him in the doorway."

"It, John, not he. What's left of those people could hardly constitute as human."

"Is it even living?" He felt the ghost of Mrs. Hudson's racing heart beneath his fingers. And how it just stopped. He rubbed at his temple as if to dislodge the memory. "God, she didn't have a pulse, but she just reanimated—"

The detective's face turned cold, and he looked away from him and to the gravel path. "Mrs. Hudson died, John. She did not come back."

"What? She came back, Sherlock! You saw it yourself."

"I did not. She's dead. We're not discussing this further." John held his tongue from refuting him. It didn't matter, anyhow.

Sherlock was certain that Mrs. Hudson had died, and John could tell that something in Sherlock had as well.