Sherlock buttoned his shirt up just below the peaked collar, knuckles hovering above the metal band fastened around his neck. That was going to drive him mad. He had never been one for fussy shirts and constricting ties. Functionality and comfort were the only concerns he cared to take into consideration when dressing himself and never had either column included a caveat for neck adornments. It was close to the skin, constrictive in the way it did not permit for much more swelling than it took to swallow. A ghastly thing he had a right mind to remove if not for the well-meant warning.

If you attempt to take it off before it's deactivated, you'll trigger the safety and it will poison you, the nurse had said. Then again, its entire function was to poison him. Trying to take it off was simply an act of suicide when the contraption was supposed to be a means of murder. Remote activated execution should he try and hide, try to run, try to take over the Ark in a mad grab for power to thwart the democratic process. While he begrudged them their methods, he couldn't help but be pleased they had so little faith in his ability to go quietly into the night. He hoped very much to prove their expectations correct. It was all just a matter of how.

John certainly wasn't going to be of much help seeing as he was on the same side of the divide as Sherlock himself was. Such a stupid, pointless risk. Sherlock had half a mind to... well, do nothing, honestly. What would be the point? It was done and John seemed unharmed though one could argue he was far from unchanged. Passionate kisses aside-though it certainly warranted its own thoughts-he seemed to have the same sense of annoyance towards the world that he usually reserved for Sherlock. It was nice to see hints of that fuse burning down on his behalf rather than in its usual response. He wasn't giving up but he was certainly fed up. Good. So was Sherlock. In that particular case, the more they had in common the better.

John watched him from across the room, sitting up against a table with hands perched against the end. "You get used to it," he said, motioning towards the collar in a vague jerk of his nose. Sherlock could see its match against John's skin as well, tucked under layers but obvious now that he'd had a moment to get a better look at him. Everything was obvious. He was downright baby-faced in comparison to the deep wrinkles that used to fall into his frown lines. Still present were the bags under his eyes but they were much recessed from those of John of old. Sherlock wasn't quite sure he liked it. He was rather a fan of the expressive ridges in his face. It would take some getting used to.

As far as his own changes, Sherlock did his best not to look too often into the floor length mirror set to help him dress. The last time he'd seen that face it had been gaunt, the body wasting, and the veins of his left arm set to collapse. He did not care to note the health in it now. Best to ignore it all together. He could not help but run his fingertips under the collar, though, and rotate it round his neck to try and find a less constricting placement. "I don't care to get used to it," he muttered, giving up at last with a scowl. "I'm not a pet."

"Welcome to my life for the past five months."

Sherlock scowled further, looking over his shoulder at his friend as he set to tuck down the ends of his shirt. "You volunteered," he reminded him with as much accusation as snark.

John shrugged, chin wrinkled by his drawn lips. "Yeah. Still not the maddest thing I've ever done."

"No, I suppose not." Several certainly came to mind, not least of all was choosing to stay by Sherlock's side with every reason to believe he'd get sick and no promise of his own survival. And then, of course, there was Afghanistan. Really, the man was prone to madness. It rather put the kiss into perspective.

White ends tucked and fly closed, Sherlock weaved his matching belt through the black loops with some minor annoyance at its flimsy make. Whosever it was had no taste in quality wares. He could feel the cheap, imitation leather bite into his hips with too little give and too wide of ends making uncomfortable ridges to set against his bone. It was a testament to how dire their circumstances were that one couldn't even get a quality belt at the end of days. Still, it wasn't borrowed women's' wear or any of the other garments they'd made do with. A cheap belt and clothes that fit loosely but not comically so were fine in the scheme of things. At least the work they had left to do required much less leg work.

"So... what do we do now?" John asked, his time spent observing Sherlock dress with a doctor's stare now past its time of use with the detective suited in all but jacket, socks and shoes.

To that end, Sherlock sat on the bed and crossed his ankle over his knee, alternating with each black combo. "Now we do as we've always done; we investigate."

"Investigate what exactly?"

"The people responsible for manufacturing the disease in the first place."

John's hairline scrunched as his brows knitted above his dark blue eyes. "The what?"

"We're dealing with a disease that just happens to affect the human genome and you think it's a freak coincidence of nature? Possible-several millions to one-but much more likely is that someone decided to play god and overestimated their ability to control their new creation." Sherlock did not attempt to hide the grim satisfaction in his voice as he gave John a not-so-subtle peek into the thoughts that had been running through his head since their little conversation before his brother's humble exodus. They'd been given a task of the highest order in language no camera could pick up and no microphone could hear. It was good to know there was still a use for the world's only consulting detective even now.

John's face skewed around his wrinkled nose, his eyes creasing in a parody of the lines that once were. "You mean like some sort of super soldier program they've always got in the movies?"

"As so often happens, life imitates art. Who wouldn't want a breed of soldiers who can bounce back from wounds and rejoin ranks in far less than half the time? Last I saw you you'd been shot. Locked in a drawer for several years, I can only imagine the stiffness and discomfort the wound would have given you upon waking up. Five months later and you walk like you were never wounded. How long did that take?"

"Two months, maybe." John nodded, an outward sign to the acceptance within. "And, yeah, I was in a wheelchair for most of the first one. Not going to lie and pretend that had nothing to do with me volunteering. Not really the sitting down type."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as he set both black soles to the floor. "No. And a much better excuse for it than wanting to be with me. Don't say that again. It's... weird." He stood up, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair, not giving John more than a moment to understand the swift aside before plunging back into the matter at hand. "Now, there are two types of science: intentional and unintentional. Intentional science says someone wanted this to happen and helped it do so. Unintentional is far less sinister and makes a great deal more sense when you consider the fact that most things are tested on animals long before they see human trials."

"And we know animals could be carriers." John said, trudging along as well as to be expected.

"Exactly. That's the problem with using live subjects; you never know what they've got incubating inside them. Laboratory conditions are only a surface distinction."

John continued to nod as a show of his involvement, arms crossing over the open neck of his cardigan. "So someone was testing on animals, the protein ends up attaching to some viral strand, and it gets loose," he surmised, waiting for Sherlock's small hint of approval before furthering his inquiry. "If that were true, though, you'd expect all the first cases to be centralized. From what I remember, it was a little more random than that. Mostly major cities but pretty global."

"It took a month for symptoms to show in me and if we run with the hypothesis that they too would have first been exposed through an animal carrier, that would allow plenty of time for them to spread it before anyone was the wiser. Lovers, donors, drug users-there's all kinds in this world and just sneezing on an aircraft could make it a world-wide pandemic at an alarming rate."

"Obviously Mycroft would have figured this out too. He hasn't said anything to me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He enjoyed showing off but some details were just too tedious. "The world is still trying to work out survival, you think Mycroft is going to engage in the petty politics of finger pointing? If there's to be an inquiry, and I'm sure there will be eventually, it will be had when more pressing issues are at a close."

"At which point they'd have already decided what's to happen with us." John acknowledged with a lick of his bottom lip. He pushed off from the table, taken to a slow pace at the foot of the bed.

Sherlock watched him with a mischievous smirk. "Which is why it's always good to remember that I am not my brother. It may be petty politics but I'm not handing my survival over to a committee when there exists somewhere the materials and notes related to the research that caused this. And if they found a way to isolate and implant the protein responsible-"

"-They might be able to negate it," John finished for him, snapping his fingers like the proverbial lightening that had struck.

"Precisely. Block the protein and maybe we can't cure the disease but we can keep the side-effect of survival from causing additional concern."

"And save our skins."

"Always my favorite part."

"Mine too," John said, a fair bit more hope in his expression than had been there in the start. Sherlock could almost see his pulse quickening, the excitement of a battle plan energizing him beyond the fears of futility. How they would manage to carry out their investigation was a detail Sherlock was only half concerned with. They weren't going to accept any decision lying down. It was as much a mindset as it was a game plan and Sherlock had made do with much less in the past.

John's flushed face looked off to right, his hand cupping the side of his neck in a sheepish posture that did not bode well as Sherlock watched his body language with growing apprehension. "Speaking of skin," he said, licking his lips again. "I know I never said so before but, uh… you're a good looking guy. Especially when you're animated and, uh.. well, impassioned. Not that it mattered but I'm glad I get to see that face again outside a dream."

"Don't," Sherlock warned again, his face contorted as though he'd bitten a lemon. "That's not us."

"What's not?"

"The… oh, you know. Saying things. Like that. You even sound stilted trying—it's painful to listen to, honestly." Sherlock regretted not having more to do in the hospital room to make himself look occupied or busy beyond the requirements of conversation. Did they really have to do… this?

John let his left-hand fall, placing it against his hip instead. "So, what, I'm not allowed to say I find you attractive?"

"Preferably not. It's too… trite. Too obvious. It sets my skin crawling to hear that sort of nonsense from you. Besides which, we have much more important things to discuss," he implored, though still trying to make it sound simply bothersome and uninteresting an alternative.

The spark in John seemed to fall into shadow, his brows set to furrow as his lips pursed to pout. His teeth nibbled against his bottom lip before setting it free on a word. "Is this a 'let's not' or just a… 'not like that'?" he asked, all jokes aside and seriousness well inferred.

They didn't need this anymore. They had a greater reason to survive, an entire subset of the human race to champion, a defining path and an outlined goal. They didn't need to change anything about themselves to offer some light in the darkness.

Sherlock didn't need to do most of the things he pursued, though. Want really hadn't steered him wrong in the past. "Not like that," he echoed, watching the hint of a smile pull back into the corners of John's mouth. He ignored it in favor of maintaining the superiority of appearing to care the least, walking towards the door to hasten their retreat from the static white confines of the room. "I haven't forgotten. Though your choices have improved quite a bit from me or nothing to include a number of other survivors, technicians—"

He jolted as John's palm made quick and sudden contact with his backside, the muted smack not making much of a sound though it set Sherlock's back straight and his step to halt. John leaned in against his shoulder, nudging his way out in front. "'Nothing' was always an option—not a lack of one," he corrected him. "You ready?"

Sherlock nodded, not quite sure what to think but relatively sure that counted in the list of reasons why John Watson was the least boring man he'd ever met and as stubborn as he was mad. He held his chin high, not about to let his proud stature be compromised by juvenile antics as he walked on.

John wore the sort of grin that went well with his youthful complexion. "Not gonna tell me not to do that either?"

"Did I say anything?"

"Nope."

"Then stop being an idiot."