I.

It was Lestrade's fault.

I blame Lestrade. He distracted me. Therefore it was absolutely not my fault that I knocked the glass vial off the table, unknowingly, whilst shuffling things about, looking for a pen. 221B is no different from any other place, and you can't ever find a pen when you need one.

In all reasonability this is the sort of goofy accident that Sherlock and I are prone to have. In Baker Street our version of Health and Safety could be easily adapted to Corpses and Guns, to suit us down to a T. Sherlock and John, the accident prone mavericks.

The glass vial shattered upon impact on the scratched and worn floorboards by the desk. Lestrade and I turned to look at the mess. Sherlock stopped mid rant and whiplashed his neck our way, then looking keenly down on the floor, before rushing over hands stretched out, followed by an abrupt halt and recoil. His usually pale face whiteness to almost unknown records as he looked at the mingled glass and colourless liquid, the daylight playing scintillating sparkled on the jagged edges.

Presently Sherlock sprang into action once more, grabbing me by the wrist and Lestrade by the collar of his shirt, and started manhandling us towards the flat door.

What happened next almost made me jump off my skin.

A wailing siren blasted through 221B. I fell on my knees at once, pressing desperate hands over my ears. Lestrade was dragged on a few more inches before the lights switched off – it was weird but the daylight still illuminated the room – and were replaced by whirling orange danger lights. Sherlock muttered a curse under his breath that much sounded like his brother's name accompanied by a vulgar word, as if he alone knew what all this was about, and what would follow.

As it turns out, 221B is more protected from threats than I ever expected. Solid metal bars descended from the top of the door frames, on those doors accessing the landing. What should gave been meant to keep bad guys out was malfunctioning, locking us in!

Sherlock dropped on his armchair, groaning and hiding his face in his hands. 'Biohazard breach. It's of no use, Lestrade!'

.

'Biohazard?'

I turn around to see Greg trying to force the heavy metal bars apart, but of course they don't budge.

The wailing has stopped, for which I'm deeply grateful, but the orange glow warning light still overpowers the familiar decor.

'Excuse me, Sherlock— what have I just done?' I ask pointedly. Tell me the mess we're in.

The genius detective slowly extricates his long fingers from a haggard face. He looks me straight in the eye and tells me, owing me nothing but honesty: 'John, you've just unleashed a bioengineered virus on us all, exposing us to a 35% death rate disease.'

From the second door, Greg comments, keeping his wits together: 'They are not bad odds, considering.'

I frown, Sherlock verbalises: 'Ah, the wonders of statistics. In a room with three persons, statistically one of us dies from this virus.'

Greg tries his best to hide his shock from us. 'Don't be grumpy, sunshine! No one likes a bad horoscope or a death sentence!'

I'm pacing about in short bursts, uncontained and tense. 'Sherlock, you just happened to have a bioengineered virus laying about on the living room table?'

He simulate aloofness. 'It's also my work desk. You know that, John. Did you just happen to be so clumsy as to knock it to the floor?'

'That's because I didn't know we had a death sentence in a flimsy glass vial lying on the table!'

'Oh, please, John! Did you really think your illegal gun was the only lethal weapon in this room?'

'Is there anything else I should know about?' I snap at the mad genius.

'Not if you're going to act like that.'

'Sherlock.'

'Oh, use your imagination, from the fire poker to the curate darts in the glass case, you know our home is dangerous and you wouldn't want it any other way!'

I let a strangled sound cross my throat as I take a shell shocked seat on my armchair. Gathering my wits, I demand, just as Sherlock lays a baking bowl upside down over the broken vial, encasing the remnants of the liquid and the sharp shards in one go. Greg is punching keys on his phone, increasingly aggravated, but I can anticipate that Mycroft Holmes will have set the automatic disabling of any unauthorized phone calls.

It's a lockdown, after all.

'Symptoms?' I demand to know, sharply.

Sherlock stills and glances up from his hunched stance on the floor. His eyes are deep and vulnerable and very human, even as he refuses to answer.

'I'll tell you all later. We won't show symptoms for the first two hours, and we'll need to use that time wisely to make this living room as comfortable as can be.'

I nod, unconsciously reverting to military training. I set my jaw and look across the kitchen.

'Still got access to the loo, small mercies.'

'Mycroft is a pompous git, he wouldn't bear it any other way.'

'You've got your bedroom, Sherlock.'

'We can take turns in it if necessary. It's a comfortable bed.'

'That it is. The kitchen, there's some food, should last us until—'

I'm abruptly interrupted by Greg Lestrade — 'Wait, John, how do you know Sherlock's bed is comfortable?'

I blink and we both turn towards Greg. 'Seriously?' I admonish, 'we're infected by a deadly disease and you're peddling rumours? Don't tell me that bets pool is still on at the Yard!'

Greg sniggers and I step forward angrily.

I'm held back by the gentlest of touches, reminding me of Sherlock and our predicament.

I point an angry finger at Greg. 'I'll deal with you later!' Then at Sherlock. 'I'll have you know I'm a great catch.'

My friend's thin worrying lips twitch into a blooming smirk. 'Yes, John, I am aware.' I could have sworn his concealed emotion is of fond warmth towards what he considers my antics.

'You could do a lot worse than me, you know?' I snap still.

He pretends to ponder, then assures me: 'I am aware I have no better romantic prospects than you, however the sudden love confession is unwarranted as none of us will die from this virulent strain. All we need to do is keep calm and bear through.'

Greg insists, tense: 'There's an antidote, right? Or an antibiotic? Right?'

I roll my medic's eyes. 'Not for a virus, Greg.'

Sherlock takes a quiet, theatrical seat in his chair and lectures us: 'It's an engineered strain. Flu-like symptoms, exacerbated by a few specific side effects, should all be found with and out of our systems in 24 hours – that's the good news.'

'Any bad news?' I ask him, demurely.

'Yes.' He hesitates, looks up at me, and ends up saying: 'There's only one doctor among us, John, and it's all on you.'

Mate, I've been a doctor in a war scenario. Did you really think I had a vast medical team with me at all times out there?

.

TBC


A/N: Not the currently trending virus and the choice of topic comes from the constant immersion from the media. I had to rationalise it, I suppose. Don't worry, the boys will be fine. I think. I'm not a doctor. But this is a story and not real life. But I'm also not a writer. Well then. I've got a plan. But haven't written it out yet. Oh, we'll see. -csf