LESTRADE

Five minutes later and he's swanning out of the room, the bloody coat of his fluttering. Might as well follow him. He made a detour at the bathroom to grab a bag and then headed to his bedroom. He pushed nearly everything off the bed and flopped on it with the bag. I shut the door behind us and sit on the edge of the bed. Lock glared at me as he rifled through his bag. He pulled out papers, photographs and drawings. And then went through some of the boxes as well. I didn't want to disturb him, he seemed very focused on whatever he was doing. Red ribbon flew over his head and onto the bed, followed by a box of push pins.

"Talk." Direct and to the point. Well some things never change.

Lock climbed back onto the bed and stood up, removing the small framed certificate the adorned the wall above his bed. He started to attach the photos and papers to the wall with the pins.

"What would you like me to talk about?"

"Don't.. c-care. Talk." Give me something to work with here, sunshine.

Lock sat back down and began to cut up the red ribbon.

"Ok. Well, um...how long have you been a...have you been de-...how you are?"

"What?" Don't give me that look! I was trying to be polite.

"How long have you been like this?" I gestured to all of him. This still seemed to confused him, until the eyes grew wide with some understanding.

"Five?" He nodded to himself. "Five...uh.. annual..." The word he wanted floated around, I knew he meant years. It hurt to see him unable to talk. He'd been bloody good at it, the sod.

"Five years...well...you must have been lonely." Except most zombies don't get lonely. I'm not even sure if Sherlock could even be lonely.

"Yes." He didn't look at me, but that quick answer saddened me. Sorry mate. We tried to get you out. Ill never forgive myself that you ended up like this. But then, you might never have met John.

"And, you don't remember anything?" Lock shook his head, his eyes never leaving to bed as he continued to cut the ribbon.

"Wait..."

"You do?"

"Word. One...-Lock." You remember the word Lock? Bit odd. But you are a bit odd mate. Always were.

"Lock. Is that all?" He looked up and stared at one of the windows.

"Man.. he...yelling." I frowned as he seemed to reprimand himself whenever he couldn't get his message across. "He y-yelled...Lock."

Lock.. Sherlock. Did he hear someone yell his name, but can only remember the last half? But when would he have heard it before he died? Unless...fuck. I screamed out his name, before the closed the doors to the hidden entrance of the wall. The wall of what is now the compound. Our safe haven. I remember us all running. Sally and Anderson, Mrs Hudson and Molly. And me and Sherlock. There were soldiers with us and bonies after us. Sherlock stopped to smash one over the head, it was too close to Mrs Hudson. He pushed her in front of him and I grabbed her arm. Everyone was telling him to hurry, because the doors were automated, they were closing. But he never got to us in time. I yelled out his name as he ran away, to find some other way in, to find safety? Now I know what happened after that. He must have run into some zombies. And...well the rest is right in front of me.

"Stop it."

"What?" Lock stared at me, clearly annoyed. I know that look.

"Thinking."

"Yes, problem?"

"Annoy..it bothers." Sorry, I can't help thinking, mate. Though I found myself smiling just a little. That was very Sherlock.

"What are you working on?"

He lifts a polaroid camera up to his face and takes a picture of me.

"A map."

SHERLOCK

I had to make a map. Not one for finding your way from point A to point B. But a map of people, places and other relevant information. I began to pinning photos, papers and drawings to the wall. I took one of...George? Gabe? Gray. No..Greg! I'll just call him Lestrade, I can't be expected to remember everyone's first name, my brain is dead. I'm a high functioning corpse. No, that doesn't make sense.

I took Lestrade's photo and added it to the wall. I connected one end of a ribbon to him and the other to John. I'd met him through John. And then connected another piece of ribbon to him and the other end to a photo of me from before I died. I'd found it on the coffee table. Clearly belonging to Mycroft. I will have to take photos of the others. Now, how did I know Lestrade before I died. Old friend? Neighbour? Is he family? Anyone would be an improvement on the one member I have at the moment.

"You know..me. How?"

"Well, I don't know if I should tell you. I mean what if you remember? People say you should let people figure out these things for themselves."

"People... boring." I dismissed these "people" with a wave of my hand. I would like a proper answer please.

Lestrade chuckled. Why? "I suppose some are, yes. Well, you used to work with me. I was a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard."

Detective Inspector...what did that mean? Think, think! Detective Inspector, DI..Police! Oh I am stupid. Was I in the police force?

"Police?" I pointed to myself. He shook his head. Then how did I work with you?

"You consulted. You were a consulting detective. The only one in the world. You invented the job. Always had to be different."

Consulting Detective? What did that even mean? Only one in the world...oh thats rather good. But I need more data. I can't make bricks without clay. Or a mind map without facts.

"More."

"Well, if we needed help on something, that we hadn't been able to solve ourselves, we'd ask you."

"Why?" Surely police could solve such crimes themselves. Isn't that their job?

"Because you saw things. You observed. You would take in things that people hadn't noticed, or had noticed. And you would deduce."

Deduce. I like that. Perfect word. But what does it mean?! I don't understand!

"How? How?!" He shook his head sadly at me. I threw my hands around, frustrated.

"I can't tell you. The only person I know who can do what you do, is your own brother. You haven't...deduced since you've been like this have you?"

I might have, if I knew what you meant. Unless, my observations are unusual. Because I know things without knowing why. Is that what he means? Before I died, maybe I knew the why, the how, the what and when and where. I'm just missing the pieces. I'm a broken puzzle. I throw the box of pins at the wall, annoyed with myself. Lestrade picks them all up and closes the box. He keeps telling me things are ok.

Are they? Are they ok? Every time you look at me, you're sad. Why are you here if you aren't going to help me understand? You wanted to talk to me for a reason.

"I need...I need more."

"Alright, sunshine. You can ask me any question you want."

"Are you...friend?"

"Yes mate. I was your friend. Or I tried to be." I don't like that answer. Was I your friend or were you mine? Did I have any friends? What sort of person was I? Was I a good or a bad person. I need these all answered!

This is going to take awhile.

I need more data.

And photos.

And John.