When John regained consciousness again he was lying in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar bed. A firm and angry wind howled at the night outside, and rain smashed down on the roof. At first he couldn't remember anything, but then it all came back suddenly.

"Sherlock." He moaned as he clumsily tried to get up. He came to stand on his feet and then realized he was no longer in his flat. Hell, he was no longer in London.

He was in a small room with tapestry of a faded blue colour. The air smelled of sea and tasted of dust. His luggage lay in an untidy pile in the centre of the room. There was a desk and a bed, and two of the walls were lined completely with cupboards. One of them gaped open and reviled its content, which was mostly canned food, candles and warm clothes. Leaning up the wall was the two metres long harpoon.

The small weather-beaten hub seemed to consist of only two other rooms: a kitchen and some pathetic excuse for a bathroom. The kitchen was stacked with yet more canned food.

Through the dirty windows the pouring rain allowed him to see no more than a few meters of stone-covered, barren land.

Returning to the room he had woken up in, John discovered a pile of documents lying on the bed. He had been too confused a moment ago to even notice them.

A flicker of hope sprang to life inside him as he thought that it might be some explanation letter from Sherlock. Going through the pile, it didn't seem it though.

The papers were mostly instructions. Some talked of how to work the turbine that was apparently located in a stream on this small and deserted island. Some told him how to achieve a varied diet on only canned food. Many talked about how to avoid airborne diseases and a few even briefly discussed the subject of killing people effectively with a 6 foot harpoon.

John was getting anxious going through the pile of papers without finding a single one addressed personally to him. He had not yet come to terms with the fact that the man he adored had first deceivingly kissed him in order to violently drug him and then dumped him on some god-forsaken island in the middle of nowhere. And then Sherlock hadn't even written anything. A letter, a post-it note, anything!

John sat down on the bed and wondered what he was going to do now. He couldn't stay; that was for certain.

His head hurt so he lay down and as he put his head on the pillow he heard the unmistakable noise of paper. He rushed up and reached under the pillow and pulled out an envelope. On it was written his name in Sherlock's elegant handwriting. He opened it with shaking fingers.

John,

I apologize for my traitorous behaviour, but I had to keep you safe. I hope you will have trust in me when I say it was not enjoyable for me.

I know what you're planning, but I strongly advise you to stay on the island. I am not in danger, and there is no need for you to run around playing hero. I promise I will find shelter as soon as possible.

I beg that you will remain here until the termination of the thread .I doubt it will last any longer than a couple of weeks with the power and swiftness with which it is spreading. Nevertheless, I advise you to stay as long as your stash of food allows you.

Take care, my Doctor.

Sherlock.

John anxiously turned the paper to see if it was continued, but this was all there was.

Leaving the letter on the bed he got up and went to stare out the window. The rain had slowly starting to settle down, and he wondered how long he's been unconscious. Had it been a couple of hours or for a full 24 hours?

He also wondered if Sherlock really would be safe. He didn't really have a history of self-caring if you though back to the many times he'd skipped eating or sleeping for days in his desperation to solve a case. Then again, he was certainly not foolish, and he had firmly promised not to get in any danger.

The third thing John thought of was how fast he could get of this island.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked interested as he put his spoon down and took a sip of his tea. He and his brother were sitting in Mycroft's office. The place was only lid by the fireplace, by which they were sitting in comfortable chairs made of leather and neat little pillows.

"Who?" Sherlock asked and pulled his eyes from the fire that cackled lightly.

"You know who." His brother told him seriously.

"John's fine. He's at the island of Passio. Far from anyone who might get the disease." He told him and took a large sip of his tea in order to avoid the concerned look his brother sent him.

"And I assume that you're aware of the fact that he'll probably return anyway?" Mycroft added. "He has grown very fond of you."

"I haven't left a boat on the island." Sherlock said and sighed. "He'll have to make himself a raft to get off, and by the time he's done with that it'll be too late."

Mycroft opened his mouth to add something to, but Sherlock changed the subject before he could draw in his breath.

"What will you do? I assume you'll be leaving London."

"Yes. I'll be going to the mansion in Wales." Mycroft said. "It has a very lovely defence system. Walls. All the way around."

Sherlock eyes returned to the fire that licked and caressed the wood like some devouring lover.

"So you believe there will be a fight? You believe the things they say? The things they say about the dead bodies?"

Mycroft put down his empty tea cup on the table and poured himself some more.

"I know it, Sherlock. I have just seen footage they sent us from Hong Kong. The hungry bodies are rising turning on the living. It's a nightmare out there, and that nightmare is approaching home disturbingly swiftly. "

Sherlock sank his spit as he realised just how much more dangerous the thread just got.

"What do you plan on doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked in a voice that indicated he was afraid Sherlock would stay behind to observe the disease make its entry in London.

"I am going to stay here for the night. I have ensured Mrs. Hudson's safety, but I have yet to get Hooper her needed stock of food. She is staying in the locked mouge until the thread is terminated. I have yet to take care of Lestrade, though I have warned him. He is probably packing this moment..."

Mycroft interrupted his brother with greatest caution.

"Inspector Lestrade's safety," he said slowly. He seemed to fiddle with the words before he continued. "has been taken care of. He is going with me to Wales in 30 minutes."

A deep silence fell over the room. The two brothers stared at each other with equally unreadable eyes.

"Don't pretend you didn't know." Mycroft snapped.

"I won't." Sherlock assured him.

They turned their gazes from one another and instead stared into the flames together. The sun outside was starting to set and the flickering orange light was gradually growing more distinctive.

"When will you leave?" asked Mycroft in a soft voice, breaking the silence.

"Tomorrow."

"I will not force you to anything, but you better be out of this doomed city by sunset tomorrow." Mycroft told him. "Soon order turns to chaos."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded knowingly with an absentminded gaze into nothing. "When will they air the news?"

Mycroft made a glance at his watch.

"15 minutes." He told him. "Which means I've got to leave now. Don't want to get caught up in the traffic."

He got up and took his coat off a hook on the wall by the door out. He had already reached out to pull the door knob and walk out as he stopped himself. He turned and looked at his brother.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," he said.

"Goodbye, Mycroft." was the answer. The younger Holmes turned and they shared a long moment of a silent farewell.

"Take care." The older said. "I will see you again when all this is over."

"Indeed you will."

Then Mycroft left the room and left his brother alone.

Sherlock sat motionless for 12 minutes after which he got up and turned on the television to watch the news airing.

The media made it sound as if the news of the disease's arrival in Paris was just in and not hours old. They advised people to keep calm and carry on as if nothing was happening. The news reporter went as far as reassuring the people of Britain that the disease had no chance of crossing the Canal.

Sherlock could easily tell he was lying.