Bam.
Sherlock fired his gun at Molly's mangled form, but she didn't stop coming. Where was the bullet wound? John felt warmth blossoming from his chest. His hand flew up and came into contact with something wet. Reluctantly, he looked down to discover the bullet wound spurting scarlet from his own chest. How? He looked back up. Molly had the gun. Her grisly hands were raised, she was aiming at Sherlock. John was gasping for breath as blood filled his lungs. That didn't matter. He had to save Sherlock. He couldn't let her shoot him. His feet were glued to the floor, he was frozen, there was nothing he could do.
Bam.
John woke with a start and bolted upright. He was drenched with sweat, his heart was pounding. He rested his head in his hands and tried to catch his breath. He knew if he stopped fighting it, tears would probably spill from his eyes.
He couldn't allow that. Emotions weren't an option anymore.
He let himself fall back on his bed and threw his arm over his face. It'd been at least two years since his nightmares had stopped. When he was with Sherlock, he felt invincible, like he could take on the world. He wasn't haunted by his past in the military. All he saw was what was laid in front of him, this exciting, unpredictable life. Whatever happened, surely Sherlock would be able to fix it, to get them out of it.
But not this.
His nightmares had come back tenfold. They were twisted, grotesque, they didn't make sense. Most of them involved Sherlock being mortally wounded or dying. He hated to admit it, but that was a real possibility. It wasn't that John had believed Sherlock to be immortal, but he had thought that Sherlock was some kind of being above the rest of the human race. It was hard for anything to touch him, and if anything did, John would be there to protect him. Nothing was getting to Sherlock without going through John first.
Going back to sleep didn't even cross his mind. Awake or asleep, horrible creatures tortured him. There was no escape from the hell he was in. He peeled his sheets off and threw his feet off the side of the bed.
He crept down the stairs as quietly as he could, but his fatigue made his steps heavy. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere downstairs. Four days had passed since Sherlock fired John's gun and put an end to Molly. Since then, he had only seen Sherlock sporadically. He was either downstairs doing god knows what with that corpse or shut up in his room.
John opened the cupboard, but there wasn't much of a selection. Their food stores were running low. This was incredibly problematic. They were going to have to go out for supplies soon.
He settled for some tea to calm his nerves, though he knew in reality nothing was going to calm him down. Just as the kettle finished boiling and he poured himself a cup, Sherlock's shadowy figure appeared in the doorway. John wouldn't have known he was there if he hadn't spoken.
"You had a nightmare."
Sherlock had always known about John's nightmares. In their first few weeks of living together, this wasn't an unfamiliar scene. John wandering about the place attempting to clear his head and shake off his haunting thoughts, Sherlock milling around doing whatever it was that he did so late at night. The first time Sherlock caught him up and about, John was somewhat embarrassed to talk about the cause of his disturbed sleep. He was a grown man, he didn't need mummy to tuck him in and tell him there weren't monsters in his closet. Even if John had wanted to hide it, there was no hiding anything from Sherlock.
The first night Sherlock had discovered John awake at an unreasonable hour, he was able to discern why immediately. He had never once teased John about it, or even tried to delve into the matter. He would broach the subject, as if he only wanted to prove that he could figure it out without John telling him. After that, he would depart from it, maybe making conversation about a case or some ridiculous experiment he was carrying out. After a while, John would feel comfortable enough to go back to sleep. After a few weeks, his nightmares stopped completely.
It didn't take a genius to figure out why they had come back.
John simply nodded and sipped his tea. It was just like old times. They'd have some conversation that John would only partly remember in the morning, and then they'd set off that day to chase down London's most wanted. Or maybe they wouldn't even do that. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't even leave the flat, and John would leave to take care of some errands only to return to the flat wrecked by Sherlock's combined boredom and curiosity. Yes, something simple and mundane like that sounded even better than working on a case.
"Have you actually been able to figure anything out down there?" John inquired, shifting the conversation away from himself.
"Nothing of consequence. I can't discern enough from a corpse only, I need a moving one. It's almost impossible to understand why—how the brain re-animates the body. Or why they need the sustenance of human flesh. Perhaps they just want it. That would be poignant commentary on the human race, wouldn't it? Just as greedy in death as in life."
Nothing more than that? If he was honest with himself, John knew he didn't expect many answers from Sherlock. He couldn't bear to think about Molly's body in the basement, Sherlock doing god knows what to it. Perhaps examining her body had given Sherlock some perverse peace of mind, but it did the opposite for John.
"We'll have to go back out there soon. For food and supplies," John stated, changing the subject yet again.
"Mmm. Tomorrow," Sherlock mumbled, looking out the window onto the darkened street.
"Tomorrow? That's soon, isn't it? We could last a few more days." John wanted to take more time to plan something like this. Thoughts of Sherlock maimed and grizzly swam to the front of his mind.
"Tomorrow, three days from now, what does it matter? If anything, the sooner we stock up the better. Is there enough gas in that car?"
"Yes, plenty."
"How much ammunition have you got?"
"I think I've got three clips upstairs, plus whatever you've got. I know you've got a pistol of your own around here, and god knows what else."
"I've only got the pistol, and only one clip. That should be enough for now, but it would be beneficial if we could locate some more. The Yard's most likely deserted; we'll be able to commandeer some of their supplies."
John didn't answer, save for a nod through a vacant expression. They were going back out into that hell. Into that awful battlefield. Being locked up in the flat for a week had given John a somewhat false sense of security. He always felt on edge, but he knew he was in no immediate danger. He didn't want to be thrown into the thick of it again so soon. He was used to being in peril, but he wasn't used to the people closest to him dying.
"Go back to sleep, John. Nothing's going to get you," Sherlock said lazily, striding back towards his own room.
"It's not me I'm worried about," John mumbled back under his breath, though he was sure that Sherlock heard him. He would have loved to register the expression on Sherlock's face, but he was so fatigued that nightmares or not John was ready to take his advice.
He trudged up the stairs and let himself fall haphazardly onto his bed, trying not to think about anything in particular. Not about leaving the flat tomorrow, not about dying, not about the creatures stumbling around on the street. Soon enough, he was allowed to fall into an undisturbed sleep, albeit one that did not feel very satisfying come morning.
Rolling over, he checked the alarm clock on his nightstand. 1 PM. He couldn't remember for the life of him the last time he had slept that late. With a stiff neck and a sore back, John sat up in bed and sighed. Maybe if he didn't come downstairs, they wouldn't have to go out today after all. Begrudgingly, he slung his feet to the ground and ascended down the steps, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
"You don't normally sleep this late," Sherlock drawled from the sofa. It didn't appear that he had been doing anything other than staring into space prior to John's appearance.
"Yeah, well, nothing about any of this is normal, is it?" His voice was rough from sleep.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked in amusement. He turned to face John and his expression fell slightly. "Eat something, then we're going out."
John sighed, frowning a bit. He didn't feel like eating at all. In fact, he felt rather sick. He supposed he ought to take Sherlock's advice and eat something, he'd need all the strength he could get for what they were about to do. He thought about shooting Sherlock a sarcastic remark encouraging him to eat as well, but John had learned very early on in their relationship that food seemed to be something that Sherlock did not require like other human beings. John had begun to suppose that Sherlock breathed in sustenance from the air or something as equally ridiculous.
John trudged into the kitchen and took a muffin from the pantry. He had remembered these muffins tasting fine only a few days before, but this one tasted like cardboard and stuck in his mouth. He poured himself some water from the sink to wash the muffin down. He was not in the mood to eat. The muffin would have to suffice; he really didn't want anything else.
"You're anxious," Sherlock said casually as John re-entered the sitting room. "Normally you'd eat a bit more than that for breakfast. Well, it's more of a lunch, considering it's past 1 pm."
"So what's our plan of attack for today?" John inquired, ignoring Sherlock's deduction.
"Simple, really. We drive into town and hope there aren't too many of them to get through. If there are, we come back and try another day. "
"What if there are always too many?"
"If we're unable to obtain supplies in the next three or four days, I'd say we have no choice but to relocate. We can't stay here if we can't get what we need to live."
"Right." John hoped that wouldn't be the case. Even though he was constantly alert for signs of trouble, 221B still felt safe. At least, as safe as someone could feel in a situation like this. It was home; it was comforting. He didn't want to imagine breaking into a foreign house, still fresh with the memories of the people who once lived there. He didn't want to look at their family photos and picture instead some grotesque, twisted monsters. He wanted to stay here, where at least something was familiar.
"Well, no use waiting around here any longer. Get your gun," Sherlock commanded standing and tucking his own gun into the waistband of his pants.
John lumbered up the stairs with heavy feet. He changed his clothes and retrieved his gun. He studied himself in the mirror, the bulge of his gun slightly visible under his shirt, his extra clips in his breast pocket. His expression was hard. He looked ragged; he hadn't bothered to shave in a while. He was still a soldier. He realized he had never stopped being a soldier. He walked straight out of the war and right into Sherlock's battlefield and in turn into this mess. He knew it would never stop, especially not now. He'd be fighting for his life every day for the foreseeable future. There was no cure for this, there was no stopping it. He'd have to soldier on, doing what he did best, protecting the people he loved. Which at the moment was whittled down to Sherlock.
He tore his gaze away from his reflection, and with the same heavy feet he clambered back down the stairs. Throwing Sherlock a smirk, he gestured towards the door and said, "Right then."
As John passed him on the way to the door, Sherlock briefly clapped a hand on his back. John wasn't sure what he meant by it. Sherlock usually kept physical interaction to a minimum, and when he broke that trend it wasn't without good reason. He could sense his nerves, John knew. Was he being reassuring as a friend, or doing it so John wouldn't freeze in action later? He settled on believing both.
Before opening the door, John took a peek out the window. Not too many. A few stumbling around. They shouldn't be a problem. And if they were, John would take care of them.
"We're good," he relayed to Sherlock, both of them starting to remove all the items they had barred the door with. John cracked the door cautiously, motioning for Sherlock to stay back. His soldier's instincts had kicked in, and he found himself suddenly taking charge despite his nerves.
John swung the door open and crept around to the driver's seat of the car. He nodded to Sherlock and he hastily joined John in the passenger's side.
"The Yard first?" John asked, throwing the car into drive.
"Naturally. It's best to arm ourselves as soon as possible."
The drive through the city was possibly the eeriest thing John had ever seen. Aside from a few wandering zombies and numerous bodies littering the sidewalk, the London was as deserted as he had ever seen it. Windows were broken, doors hung off their hinges, a fire hydrant spewed water. He was honestly surprised at the lack of zombies. London was large in numbers, and he expected the zombies to be just as numerous.
"We're lucky there aren't more of them," John observed.
"Don't speak too soon," Sherlock replied. "There's a lot of people in this city. They have to have gone somewhere."
As they pulled up to the Yard, John felt a pit forming in his stomach. They had friends there, and he was afraid of finding them inside. He parked the car as close to the door as possible, then exited the car while drawing his gun, Sherlock doing the same. He scanned the area, making sure nothing was close enough to be considered a threat. He walked in front of Sherlock and slowly cracked the door and peered around the corner, his gun still raised. A stray corpse slowly lumbered down the hallway towards them, blocking their way.
Bam.
John got rid of it. They continued into the building and down the hallway, careful not to tread on any of the fallen bodies. John tried not to look at them for fear of seeing someone he recognized. He skirted around the body of a woman with dark curly hair that looked suspiciously like Sally Donovan. He forced himself to look straight forward and stay alert.
A few moments later, he realized this was a mistake. All too late, he heard something scrambling on the floor and felt something clamp down hard onto his ankle. He gasped and darted his eyes downward. A body—no, not even that—a torso had its grisly hand encircled around his ankle, its grip tight. John fumbled to take aim at it, but before he could get himself together, its brains were suddenly spattered everywhere. It ceased moving, and John turned around to see Sherlock wielding his gun and breathing hard. John just stood there gaping and clasping his chest.
"I'm a better shot than you think," Sherlock said, his tone surprisingly calm.
John chuckled a bit. "Thanks," he breathed, still trying to get his wits about him. His focus came back to him, and this time he didn't dare ignore the bodies scattered around the floor. He tried to keep his head on a swivel, looking all directions at once, ready to react at the first sign of motion.
As they went on, John was more and more baffled at the lack of activity. Still, he wasn't complaining. He wasn't eager to be grabbed around the ankles again anytime soon. He quickened his pace as they neared the armory, ready to get out as soon as possible.
"Wait," Sherlock piped up, pausing to check in a room they had just passed. John looked back and realized what room it was. It was Lestrade's office. John wasn't sure what he was looking for in there; the room was empty and torn apart.
"Sherlock…"
"It's nothing. Let's keep going," Sherlock muttered, leaving the office almost as quickly as he entered it. Just a little farther to the armory. Down the hallway, one more turn. Once they reached the end of the hall, John threw his arm out to stop Sherlock. He knew there was something down there before he even looked. He could hear them shuffling and their sharp, ragged breaths. He turned around the corner to face them.
Four of them. He was sure that he recognized one of them as the woman who worked at the front desk. Two of them were just nameless faces. The last one was so disfigured he wouldn't know if it was a familiar person or not.
Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam.
All gone. The door to the armory stood wide open. As they neared the entrance, they saw that most of the arsenal had been picked over. It would only make sense that everyone in the building would attempt to arm themselves as best as possible when the outbreak occurred. John sighed as he entered the armory.
"Everything's gone," John sulked.
"There's got to be something useful here," Sherlock said, snooping under the shelves. "See?" He extracted a couple of riot shields and nightsticks from the floor. "And this never runs out of ammo."
"I suppose." John figured that was pretty useful, but he preferred his gun. Especially in these last few days, it had become an extension of his arm. His eyes scanned the room, looking for more firepower. "Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, withdrawing a loaded handgun and several cartridges. "That's more like it," he said grinning.
They searched the room several times over, but didn't find anything else of use. John couldn't help but feel a little dejected. He didn't know what he expected to find, but he thought there'd be more than this.
"This trip wasn't completely useless, John. Don't look so deflated. Anyway, on to Tesco," Sherlock jeered. The sentence sounded so ordinary, on to Tesco, just need to pick up some milk. That trip to Tesco could kill them.
They started out the down the hallway, wove through the slew of broken bodies on the ground, and somehow made it unscathed back to the car. At this point, the lack of zombies was putting John on edge rather than comforting him, as if this was the calm before the storm.
They didn't talk on the car ride to the store. John's gaze was fixed forward, always prepared to see a horde of walkers coming towards them. Sherlock stared out the passenger's window, his brow furrowed in thought.
Once again, John parked as close as possible to the door. He didn't like the automatic sliding doors. That meant one of them could walk in at any time with no problem. His grip tight on his gun, he repeated their usual procedure, scanning the area, scoping for zombies, and motioning for Sherlock that it was safe to leave the car. John noticed he kept one of the nightsticks at his hip. The Tesco seemed pretty much deserted, but he didn't let his guard down for a second.
"Well, at least I won't get into a tussle with the checkout machine today." John knew Sherlock cocked a smirk behind him. He grabbed two shopping baskets and thrust one into Sherlock's arms. "Grab some shit and let's get out of here."
They started down the same aisle, occasionally tossing something in their baskets. After a few minutes, John turned his shoulder and saw that Sherlock had wandered away from him and down a different aisle. Damn him.
"Sherlock?"
"I'm fine, John, honestly. I can go to the supermarket without mummy's supervision."
Cheeky bastard.
John sighed and continued to throw items in his basket. Soon enough, it was full. If Sherlock had filled his too, that would be enough food to last for a couple weeks, at least. He turned to go and find Sherlock when a crash fell upon his ears. Immediately, he ran towards it. He heard Sherlock call his name, followed by a gunshot.
"Sherlock!" His feet couldn't carry him fast enough. He arrived on the spot to see Sherlock on the ground, his gun in his hand, and a freshly killed corpse at his feet. John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and started inspecting him. "Christ, Sherlock, are you alright? Are you bit?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine, John. It just caught me off guard, I'm fine," he stammered, clambering to his feet. John could tell he was shaken.
"Let's go home," John said calmly. Sherlock nodded. They both retrieved their baskets and headed for the exit. Home free. A couple of scares, but unscathed. They made it.
John ate those thoughts as soon as they walked through the doors of Tesco.
How.
They were everywhere. Hundreds of them. A swarm. Wheezing, stumbling, clawing. John's heart fell.
"How—so many. How did so many get here so quickly? How?" John shouted in disbelief.
"Shut up and shoot," Sherlock remarked, charging into the throng.
"Sherlock!" John shouted, having no choice but to swoop in after him. The distance between them and the car was not very far, but it seemed like miles to him.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
One after another, he and Sherlock fired off rounds into the horde of zombies around them. No matter how many they shot, so matter how many bodies fell, their numbers didn't seem to decrease, a path didn't seem to be cleared. John had emptied his clip and reloaded. Glancing over at Sherlock, he noted that he hadn't been lying earlier, he actually was a pretty good shot. He would shoot a body on his right, and bash a head with the nightstick on his left. Sherlock would have made a pretty decent soldier. A near perfect one, actually. Pretty capable in combat and lacking most emotions, just what the army needed more of.
He turned his mind back to the battle taking place in front of him. He was starting to get nervous. They had managed to inch a bit closer to the car, but he was running low on ammo again. Maybe he should have taken a nightstick as well. Those riot shields would have been of good use, too. John hated when Sherlock was right. And he always was.
John reloaded again. This was his last clip. He had to make it last. Almost there, they could make it. He wasn't going to die here. He refused. Just a little farther.
"John," Sherlock said, way too quietly for their current predicament. "Jo—"
Something wasn't right.
John turned around, but nothing could ever prepare him for what he saw. It was worse than Molly. Of all the things he had imagined he would see when he turned around, this was not one of them.
Mrs. Hudson.
Sweet, brave, kind Mrs. Hudson. Nothing could hurt Mrs. Hudson. Anything that did faced being thrown out of a window by Sherlock. She was untouchable. No one would dare harm her. She was gone, dead, and somehow, humanity and hope had died with her. In her place was a monster straight out of one of John's nightmares. She was sickly, her clothes torn, her face bloodied, her shoulder mangled. She stepped forward slowly on crooked feet, reaching out to Sherlock as if she recognized him. John would have sworn her eyes were pleading, like she was begging her boys to help her. Sherlock had his gun raised but stood frozen on the spot.
"Sherlock, she's gone, you know that!" John shouted, turning his shoulder to shoot another zombie. So close. They had to get out. Sherlock remained still. "Sherlock!"
He wouldn't move. Or he couldn't.
John shot two more zombies before clambering over to Sherlock's position. All the bodies were narrowing in on them. They were so close. They were not dying here.
"Sherlock," John said slowly, coming up beside him. John reached up to Sherlock's raised gun and lowered it. He mustered up all his resolve then took aim with his own gun. He swallowed hard.
The sound of a gunshot had never been more deafening.