Molly's screams didn't falter as she tried desperately to wrench her arm from the corpse's vice-like grip. Sherlock stood still, stunned, not processing what he was seeing. John was shaking, sweating, but his soldier's reflexes allowed him to keep his focus just enough to grab his gun from the waistband of his jeans and take aim.
Bam.
One shot to the chest. But it didn't stop. The corpse was still alert and moving, and still maintained it's clamp on Molly.
"W-what the hell is this?" John half whispered. This wasn't right. That thing should be dead. Nothing could survive a gunshot straight to the chest. This thing should have been dead in the first place.
His whole body was trembling, but John lined up for a second shot.
Bam.
The bullet entered the corpse's forehead, spattering blood and brain matter everywhere. Finally, the body ceased to move and Molly was able to free herself. She clutched onto her injured arm with her good one, blood staining her white lab coat.
The gunshots seemed to bring Sherlock back to his senses, and he slowly eyed the body, as if to make sure it was really dead this time. After a few seconds he tore his eyes away from it and hurried over to Molly to check her condition.
"Molly, Molly look at me. We're going to get help, you're going to be fine," Sherlock gasped, clutching her face on either side with both hands. John wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure Molly or himself. He looked up at John with pleading eyes. Still trembling, John wiped the sweat from his brow, nodded, and hastily threw open the door of the morgue to go and retrieve help.
He slammed the door shut almost as soon as he opened it.
"J-jesus, Sherlock. I—there's more. They're walking around, these people, these things—they should be dead."
"That's impossible. The dead don't just walk around," Sherlock hissed, his arms around a shaking Molly.
"You saw it just as clear as I did. You can't deduce your way out of this. Mycroft—he said we had to get out of London, that he was sending a helicopter here. This has to be what he meant. He wanted us to get out of this—whatever the hell this is."
"I—we have to get Molly out of here. She's losing too much blood. How many are out there?" Sherlock inquired, removing the blue scarf from his neck and tying it securely around Molly's injured arm.
An ear-shattering scream was heard from somewhere inside the hospital. John swallowed a lump in his throat and estimated how many bullets he had left in his gun.
"Enough. I only have 13 rounds left, I don't know if that's enough to get us out of here."
"Make them count," Sherlock said resolutely, squatting down and scooping up Molly.
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath before pushing the door open and plunging face-first into hell.
Several shuffling bodies cluttered the hallway, no one living seemed to be in sight. John was on his toes. He would only shoot the ones that came dangerously close. He was breathing heavily, and his heart was about to pound right out of his chest. They walked quickly, stealthily, but they didn't run. The walking corpses didn't seem to take too much notice and only lumbered slowly after them. John would take care of them if they got too close.
As they were about to round a corner, John motioned for Sherlock to stop. He looked onward and saw a young nurse cornered by a zombie. Zombies—yes, that was what they were John supposed. The living dead. He raised his gun to shoot the offending zombie, but he was too late. He watched in terror as the thing sank it's teeth into the nurse's neck, continuously ripping at her flesh. He shot too late at the corpse, sending a bullet through it's head with ease.
Whether it was the sound of the gunshot or the smell of fresh human flesh, John didn't know, but the few bodies clambering around in the hall behind them seemed to take notice. They were getting too close.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Three shots, three bodies dead for a second time.
John ran out to the wounded woman.
"Can you stand? Walk? We'll get you out of here, we'll-"
"Shoot me!" the woman sobbed
"What? No, we can-" John stammered.
"No I'll turn, please I'm begging you, I don't want to—please," she reached out and took John's hand gingerly in her own. "Please, i-it's alright." The look in her eyes was so pleading. John let the full meaning of her words sink in.
She'll turn. She'll become one of them. A walking corpse.
He closed his eyes and turned away, his breathing tight.
"I'm sorry."
Bam.
Only nine shots left.
"John, there's no time, we have to get out!" Sherlock shouted, a barely conscious Molly still clinging to him.
John studied her half-limp form. Would she turn? Become one of them? John knew the answer. Did Sherlock? Of course he did. He just didn't want to admit it.
He shook his thoughts and got his mind back to the task at hand. Only a few more meters to the stairs. Only two flights of stairs to the ground floor. A few more meters to the exit. Then what?
They made their way to the door of the stairwell. John took a deep breath and bust though the door brandishing his gun in front of him. Nothing. Maybe those things couldn't climb the stairs. They made their way into the stairwell and climbed the stairs as fast as possible, huffing and puffing the whole way.
"Sherlock, what do we do once we get to the exit?" John managed between breaths.
"Don't I always think of something?" Now was not the time to be cheeky, Sherlock.
John was willing to trust his flatmate's judgment, partially because it hadn't failed him thus far, and partially because he didn't have any ideas himself.
As they neared the door to the ground floor, John's heart rate increased. He gripped the door handle tightly and braced himself for what lay on the other side. He heard screams.
He thrust the door open and was greeted with complete and utter chaos. He couldn't fully take in all of what he was seeing. There was a lot of them—definitely more than could be handled with only nine bullets left. There were living people, running, screaming, dying. Some of them were being freshly attacked, some of them lay on the ground, not stirring. They would be soon enough.
"Sherlock, there's way too many. What do we do?" John didn't think even Sherlock would be able to get them out of this. This wasn't a criminal, this was some kind of plague, a virus. Sherlock couldn't deduce it, break it down, make it go away. John wasn't even sure if they would be able to make it to safety—if safety even existed anymore. He found himself thinking those familiar words.
Please God, let me live.
"We run. Cover me," Sherlock said, a little too calmly, considering.
"Sherlock, there's too many—," John stammered to no avail, Sherlock was already racing headfirst into the throng of the living and dying, leaving John with no choice but to do his best to cover him.
Somehow, Sherlock was able to choose the clearest path amidst all the calamity going on around them. That still didn't stop problems from arising.
Bam.
One darts out in front of Sherlock.
Bam.
One lunges out for John.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Three block the exit of the hospital.
John positions himself back in front of Sherlock. Several are waiting on the other side of the door to St. Barts. The automatic door slides open.
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.
Only one shot left. They were left open in a swarm of zombies. They were zeroing in on them. Now what?
"There!" Sherlock shouted, nodding towards a running taxi a few paces away. John sprinted as fast as he could to the driver's side door, almost shouting in relief when he found the door ajar. He practically threw himself into the vehicle, with Sherlock clambering into the back with Molly. As soon as everyone was in, John locked the doors, made sure all the windows were rolled up, and floored it. He adjusted the rearview mirror slightly and saw Sherlock with Molly's head resting in his lap in the backseat. How long would it be before she turned?
"Where to? Baker Street?" John pondered aloud, taking care not to run into any bodies—living or dead.
"I—yes. It should be secure enough. Surely Mrs. Hudson had enough sense to lock up—," Sherlock's voice stopped dead in his throat.
John felt his heart drop as he realized why Sherlock dropped out mid-sentence.
Mrs. Hudson.