"Sherlock, I—she's smart. She would lock up, safe in Baker Street. She's there, she's fine Sherlock." John wasn't sure he believed his own words. But there was no way. Mrs. Hudson was safe. She was there, safe, secure. He refused to believe the opposite.

Sherlock didn't respond. He seemed outwardly calm, but John could tell he wasn't. His mind was whirring; he was trying to figure out a logical reason for all this. There wasn't one—there couldn't be. Sherlock was overwhelmed, he couldn't respond to this with reason. John knew he was scared. This was like Baskerville, except this time, people were dying. People Sherlock cared about. He could put on that cold and calculating front, but he couldn't fool John. Sherlock cared, of course he did.

John glanced in the back seat again and saw Molly, barely conscious. The reality of the situation hit John. She was going to die. She was going to die, and she was going to come back. And John would have to kill her again. Sweet little Molly Hooper. Strong Molly Hooper.

He had seen so many things in his life time. Gruesome injuries, mangled limbs. He had watched people die. His friends, comrades. But once they were dead they were at peace. They weren't stuck in this bullshit world anymore, they could rest. He couldn't fully comprehend what was going on here. These innocent lives, taken, and then forced to roam around free from rest, terrorizing the living. Molly Hooper wouldn't hurt a fly, but what would she do once she was turned into one of these mindless creatures?

He turned his focus back to the road. It was insane how quickly all of this hit, the city was in ruins. Nobody had any time to prepare for any of this, but who in the world ever thinks that something like this would actually come to pass?

There were cars turned over on their sides, corpses littered the sidewalk—roaming and still. There were a few living people scrambling, trying to find somewhere safe, and John watched helplessly as they fell prey to the walking dead. He only had one shot left.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I can't help you.

He sped on, focused on getting to Baker Street. He only had to turn one last corner. As he rounded it, his breath caught in his throat. There were so many of them. So many of them and only one shot left.

"Pull up straight to the door, John," Sherlock commanded. He didn't have to tell John twice. He pulled up as close as he could get while leaving just enough room to open the car door.

"Stay in, I'll get the door unlocked," John instructed. Shaking, John scrambled in his pocket for his keys to the flat. Once the door was unlocked, he flung open the back door of the car and brandished his gun, ready to shoot anything that dared get too close to his flatmate. The hoard of corpses was closing in on them. They were the only living beings on the street.

"Get in, Sherlock! Get in!" John shouted, a nervous sweat forming on his brow. Just as several zombies lingered dangerously close to the car, John glanced over his shoulder and saw Sherlock disappear inside 221B. John followed without hesitation, slamming the door shut behind him. He pressed his back to the door, wanting to feel a barrier between him and those things. Breathing heavily, he sank down to the ground and clutched his chest, as if that would keep his heart from pounding. He could still hear them moving around outside. He thought that the car parked in front of the door would keep a good majority of them at bay, but he made sure to lock and deadbolt the door, and he wedged the small table in the hall under the knob for good measure. That would hold for now, there were more important matters to attend to.

"Mrs. Hudson!" She had to be here. She was here; she was safe. That was the only possibility.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called again, moving through the flat. "Mrs Hud-," he was cut off by Sherlock stepping into the hallway, Molly's blood staining his front, his expression unreadable.

"She's not here, John."

No. No, she has to be.

"She was out. Shopping."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. W-what are we going to do?"

"Nothing. We can't, not right now." Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something more, but no words came out.

"Dammit!" John pounded his fist into the wall. This wasn't fair. He and Sherlock were allowed to run around London, risking their lives, that was their choice. Mrs. Hudson was stronger than she looked, but she didn't have any choice at being thrown into all this. None of these people did. He thought of her alone and afraid, hiding from these monsters down some aisle in Tesco. Or worse, being ripped apart—no, that was too much to bear, he couldn't think of that.

"John, have you got enough supplies here to patch Molly up?"

"I-yes, but—"

"Then do it."

"Sherlock, I can save her, but you realize that she—she'll turn. She'll become one of them?"

"I'm well aware. Patch her up."

John sighed and trudged up the stairs to the flat, his fists balled, adrenaline still coursing through him. As he entered the sitting room, he saw Molly laid out on the sofa. Sherlock had removed her lab coat and re-tied his scarf around her arm to staunch the bleeding. She was dangerously pale, she had lost a lot of blood, but if John got her stitched up, she would be able to pull through in normal circumstances. He had no idea what kind of effects the contamination from the zombie would have.

He retrieved his supplies and leaned down to inspect the wound. First things first, he needed to get it disinfected. He knew it was going to sting. A lot.

"Molly, are you with me? I need to sterilize your wound. This is going to sting, ok? Please bear with me." Molly was able to nod slightly to show that she understood John. She was drenched in sweat.

"Sherlock, hold her hand." He did, and John noted the look in his eyes. Was it concern? Sympathy?

She gritted her teeth and cried out as John poured disinfectant into her open wound. She writhed, but made no attempt to pull her wounded arm from him. Sherlock had both his hands on hers.

"Shh, you're alright, you're doing great Molly," John cooed, brushing the hair off her forehead plastered there by sweat. He felt her with the back of his hand. She was burning up. "The worst is over; I'm just going to get you patched up now, ok?" She didn't openly respond this time, but John set to work dressing her wound. By the time he was finished, she was no longer conscious.

"Sherlock, what are we going to do with her?"

"Will she regain consciousness?"

"She should, after she gets some rest."

"We'll let her decide, then."