"Here." John stuck his arm out behind him and offered Sherlock a cigarette.
"These are from my secret supply," Sherlock grumbled, accepting it.
"Well it wasn't very secret then, was it?"
"You don't smoke."
"And you were quitting. The world's gone to shit, the last thing I care about is the state of our lungs." The two men stood in silence in the kitchen of their flat, the unfeeling dead lumbering around in the street outside. The unfeeling living stood next to John and took a drag from his cigarette.
"John," Sherlock began, shattering the silence that hung thick between them.
"You were right. I have to cut my emotions out of this. I can't think about it, Sherlock. I can't. I can't think about Harry, I can't think about Mrs. Hudson, I can't even think about the woman I flirted with a few days ago at Tesco. They're all—they're all dead. I can't wrap my mind around it, I can't handle it—I can't! I don't have any choice but to stop my feelings, numb myself. If I don't, I'll go insane. I've seen a lot of shit in my life, Sherlock. But this so much bigger—this could be affecting the entire world for all we know! I can't react to it, I don't know how." John flicked his cigarette and turned his back towards Sherlock.
"No one is equipped to deal with something like this, John. You have to adapt. If anyone can, it's you. You've always been a survivor," Sherlock remarked, exhaling through his nose.
John couldn't stop the ridiculous grin from creeping onto his face. He was glad his back was to Sherlock. He chuckled aloud.
"I never liked smoking," he said, putting out his half stub of a cigarette on the table and striding back into the sitting room. Only one night has passed since this disaster started. Already, John couldn't remember what it was like to feel at ease, to feel normal. It seemed like a thousand years had passed since he and Sherlock were doing nothing more than observing a body for a case. There would be no more cases. There would be no more consulting detective. There would be no more consulting criminal either. Well, he wouldn't count Moriarty out just yet. He was slippery—hard to catch, maybe even for these creatures. Perhaps by some incredibly fanciful twist of face he was behind this, watching John and Sherlock from afar and laughing as those close to them died. Soon Sherlock would figure it out, find him, dance through his game. They'd phone Lestrade and he'd come down and arrest him and this would all be over.
"John?" Molly's tiny voice interrupted his daydreaming. "Would you get me a glass of water?"
"Sure thing," he replied, stopping to feel her forehead. He was astounded at how bad her fever was. It had been nearly 48 hours and it hadn't broken once. Her condition had done nothing but worsen. She was sweating, often times shaking, and she vomited quite frequently. John didn't know how much longer she could last. Brave Molly Hooper.
"How's she holding up?" Sherlock inquired, finishing his cigarette as John reentered the kitchen.
"She's a fighter, but I don't think she can keep it up for much longer." Sherlock said nothing in reply to this as John fetched a glass from the cabinet and filled it. "She doesn't want to be left to wander around after she turns, either. She knows she'll be dangerous. She wants us to—take care of her, and then you can do whatever you want after that."
"I suspected as much."
John sighed and returned to the sitting room to bring Molly her water. He gazed down at her. She was so pale, so tiny, so fragile.
"John, where's Sherlock?" she whispered, straining to speak.
"I'm here," he stated, stepping out from the door frame. Maybe it was the dimmer lighting in the sitting room, or the cigarette he just smoked, but John thought he looked tired. Molly looked up at him and gave a weak smile which only lingered briefly on her lips. The corners of her mouth turned down and her chin quivered.
"I—I can't do it anymore, I can't fight this. I—," she sobbed, tears slowly overflowing from her eyes.
"Molly, if you feel like it's time to let go, it's alright. We're here, we'll take care of you. You don't have to suffer anymore," John reassured her. He had done this too many times. Sat next to a dying person and comforted them. Sometimes they'd tell him bits about their lives—their regrets, their last requests, their fears, their dreams. He still remembered all those little bits.
"I'm—I'm scared. I'm leaving so much behind. What about my cat, my poor cat? Someone has to feed him. And Mum and Dad, I can't even say goodbye. I—," she clamped her eyes shut and turned her head away. John opened his mouth to say something, but his words stopped as Sherlock strode across the room, knelt down at Molly's side, and kissed her on the cheek.
"You've been so brave, Molly Hooper." Those definitely were not the actions John expected from Sherlock. He expected him to tell her that she was in fact leaving nothing behind. All her family and friends, and yes probably even her cat, had all fallen victim to this mess just like she had.
Molly made a sound that was somewhere between a giggle and a sob. She cleared her throat and got her bearings and then choked out: "I can at least say goodbye to you two, then."
John thought he saw Sherlock squeeze her hand.
"John, you've been lovely, and sweet—you always are. Thank you. For everything."
"Don't mention it." His voice cracked. This was different than sitting at a stranger's deathbed.
"Promise me something?"
"Yes, anything."
"Take care of Sherlock."
John laughed.
"Always am, Molly." That remark even got a smirk out of Sherlock. Molly gave a tiny smile and turned to Sherlock.
"Behave yourself, then. And Sherlock—I," she gasped. She cried harder than ever, and somehow she managed to muster up her remaining energy to throw her other arm around him, sobbing into his shoulder, muttering something incoherent.
"I know, Molly. I'm sorry," he replied. John had never heard his voice so small. He was sorry, for what? Sorry that she loved him and he couldn't love her back?
Sherlock turned his head and made eye contact with John. What was his expression? Was it sadness? Regret? Was Sherlock truly upset, or was he just putting on a show? No, he couldn't be faking this. As cold as he could be, John knew he Molly was included in his list of exceptions. He thought maybe he should give them some privacy, but Sherlock looked almost pleading. John realized Sherlock didn't fully know how to react to this. John took that look as an indicator that Sherlock wanted him to stay, to give him stability in this unfamiliar situation.
He shut his eyes, turned back to face Molly, and sighed. He raised his arm, tentatively at first, and then with conviction, threw it around her to reciprocate the embrace. John was sure at this point there was no way he was putting on a show. He had seen Sherlock hug people (mainly Mrs. Hudson) on rare occasions but this was different. This was raw; this was Sherlock shedding away the layers he always worked so hard to keep up. John wondered if he had ever seen anyone close to him die.
As Sherlock broke the contact, he turned his head and furrowed his brows, like he couldn't stand to look at Molly anymore. Without saying another word, he sauntered out of the room and into his own, softly closing the door behind him.
"I'm sorry, John," she choked, her face still wet with tears, "but could you just leave me here to rest? I'm so tired."
"Of course, Molly," he replied, his throat tight. He understood what she wanted.
She wanted to be left alone to die.
The air in the room suddenly became so thick he thought he might suffocate. Molly would. She would use up what little air was left in this room, until eventually her breathing would stop altogether. Then she would lay in wait for one of them to find her, stone cold and unmoving. Then, like something out of a nightmare, she would wake up, stiff and dead and hungry.
John trudged back into the kitchen. Not knowing what to do with himself, he put the kettle on again. He spied his laptop on the table out of the corner of his eye. How did that get there? Sherlock, probably. He signed on and opened a blank word document. He knew he wasn't a fantastic writer. If you asked Sherlock he probably wouldn't even say John was good. He only started it up because his therapist had pushed it, and he only continued it because his life with Sherlock supplied him with material so interesting that he was sure half of his readers didn't care if his writing was good or not. To John, the matter of whether or not his writing was good was irrelevant. He hated to admit it, but writing really did have a therapeutic effect on him. It took his mind off things. Or maybe that was just Sherlock.
Right now he definitely needed a distraction. The thought of Molly laying in the sitting room waiting for death was pressing so hard on his mind he was sure it would crush him.
So he wrote.
He sat down, and he wrote up the events that had transgressed in the past two days. He knew that no one would ever read it, but nonetheless his fingers hammered away at the keys. He wrote it up just the same as he would any other case, like nothing was out of the ordinary. He had no sense of time as he worked tirelessly for what could have been several hours. After he was finished, he saved the document and poured himself some more tea. It was cold, but he didn't care.
He opened a new document. He typed the first line.
Dear Harry,
He thought about what Molly said, about not being able to say goodbye to her loved ones. Then he thought about what Sherlock said, about his loved ones most likely being dead. This was his goodbye. He had never got on well with his sister, but he couldn't bear to think about her in the ranks of the lifeless corpses inhabiting the city.
No one would ever read this letter, but he poured everything that was left unsaid between him and his sister into it. He wrote how pissed off he was that she drowned everything in her life with booze. He wrote how sorry he was that he closed his eyes to what was happening to her and didn't try to help her sooner. He wrote that he loved her, and he knew she loved him too despite everything that went on between them.
He shut his laptop and sipped his cold tea. He sat with his face in his hands for a few minutes. Or maybe it was a few hours. Time didn't mean anything anymore. He thought he might actually nod off, but he stirred when he heard Sherlock's voice call softly from the sitting room. It was so soft John was surprised he heard it at all.
"John."
He swallowed hard and drug himself back into the sitting room as a huge knot formed in his stomach. He couldn't bring himself to look at Molly until Sherlock said, "Check her vitals."
He could tell before placed his fingers to her wrist that she was gone. She didn't look peaceful. She looked like she had suffered. He eyes were closed, but her mouth hung slightly open. She was still damp with now cold sweat and her hair hung limp around her face. There were bags under her eyes and she was of sickly pallor.
"Gone." His mouth was dry despite the tea he had just drunk. Sherlock pursed his lips and furrowed his brow.
"We need to move her. I don't know how long it will take before she turns." Right. Wouldn't want to mess up the sofa when it's time to shoot her in the head. "The basement, 221C should do. Get your gun."
Sherlock had shown his sentiment earlier, now it was time for business. As he bent down to scoop up Molly's lifeless form, John went to search for his gun. Where had he left it? Ah yes, right near the door. He had flung it down as soon as they had reached the safety of their flat.
As he neared the hallway, he could see it on the floor, black and cold. He picked it up. It had never felt so heavy in his hand. He trudged down the stairs to the flat below 221B. He realized that Sherlock must know where Mrs. Hudson kept the keys. What didn't Sherlock know?
When he nudged open the door, he saw Molly laid out on the floor with Sherlock beside her, carefully examining her pupils. John didn't know what he had expected to see. Sherlock thrown over her body weeping? Surely not.
"You think I haven't mourned properly," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up. John didn't answer. "You think I don't know how. I do, John. Everyone mourns in different ways."
"I know, Sherlock," John muttered in reply. He just didn't expect him to be so eager for research this quickly.
"I have to work quickly and gather as much data as I can while I can. I don't know how long it'll take before she turns. "
"Right." Of course. John didn't want to argue at the moment, nor did he have the energy to. He sat down on the floor and propped himself up against the wall and turned his head away from Sherlock and his experiments. He didn't want to watch whatever he was doing to Molly's lifeless body. Once he was in a semi-comfortable position, his exhaustion hit him. He was spent from the last couple days, mentally and physically. The one night of sleep he had tried to gather during this whole fiasco was restless and haunted with images of his loved ones as roaming corpses. His closed his eyes and his head nodded.
Sherlock was standing in front of him. His skin was a sickly gray color, his limbs were stiff and turned at odd angles. Blood matted his hair and oozed down his face. His neck was mangled, just like the first corpse they had seen reanimate in the morgue. His eyes were black and lackluster. The eyes of a dead man.
Sherlock moved towards him, slowly. He drew ragged, rattling breaths. A grisly arm reached out for him. John looked down at his own hands; they were covered in blood. His flesh began to peel from his body. He looked from his own rotting body and back to Sherlock's. He started to panic. Where was his gun? He scrambled to find it. He needed it desperately. He would have to shoot Sherlock and then himself. he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Sherlock was so close he was inches away from touching him. The ghastly figure spoke to him.
"John," it wheezed. "John!"
John woke with a start and discovered that it wasn't the ghostly Sherlock of his dream speaking to him, but the real live one. How long was he asleep? He guessed maybe an hour or two. He surveyed the scene laid out before him. Sherlock seemed on edge. Then he noticed Molly's arm stirring.
It was starting.
"Oh God," he gasped, clambering to his feet and wrapping a hand on his gun. He could hear rattling, gurgling breaths coming from Molly, as if she had fluid on her lungs. Her skin had a languid, gray flush to it. She opened her eyes. They seemed to have a milky film covering them, and her pupils were dark. He remembered how her eyes used to look. So kind and soft.
This wasn't Molly anymore.
He saw Sherlock, his face intense, studying every inch of the body before him, trying to take in as much information as he could. Only seconds remained before she would become a danger to them both, and John would have to stop her. He swallowed hard.
She sat up, and her rasping breathing became more audible. Sherlock knelt down beside her and grabbed her face in both hands, looking straight into those unfamiliar eyes. Her arms flew up and grasped his wrists. Her hungry mouth hung open.
John drew his gun.
"Sherlock, move." He didn't stir. His gaze was still fixed upon her eyes. She was dangerously close to him. The ghoulish image Sherlock from John's nightmare danced in the back of his mind. "Sherlock!"
In one fluid motion, Sherlock ripped himself free from her grip, stood, and took several steps back. She writhed and scrambled to her feet.
"Give me your gun, John," Sherlock requested calmly.
"Sherlock…"
"Give me. Your gun," he commanded through clenched teeth. John handed it over. She inched closer and closer to them, there was no time to argue.
Sherlock took a deep breath, steeled himself, and took aim. John wanted to look away, but he was frozen where he stood.
"Rest now," Sherlock whispered mournfully. He pulled the trigger. Blood spattered. She fell to the floor with a thud.
John had never seen anything more grotesque.