John was very glad to have friends who worked in the research facility. It had always been a valuable asset to him in the past to be on good terms with the people he and Sherlock often worked with. It helped to be of an amiable disposition in the first place but the perks were much further reaching than having someone available for a quick, occasional chat. Friends didn't let little things like bureaucracy get in the way and considered need-to-know items pertinent to share if they involved topics of personal interest. By all accounts by which John had ever learned weigh another person's merit, Mary Morstan was a very good friend indeed. And for the first time in his life, John had absolutely no concerns in introducing another human being to Sherlock Holmes.

Mary had admitted from the start to having watched their dreams with fascination. It was data, just electric pulses, so in a way it made sense that people could observe the dreams from the point of view of a dreamer, but it was strange to conceive of another person having memories of intimate moments within their own, vicarious experience. Like being a character in a show. John was her favorite character, and she liked to switch between his and Sherlock's points of view to get to know him better. It was a beautiful love story, she said, even though John did not remember it quite in that same way. He remembered running a lot. Fighting. Laughing like idiots. More running. She remembered eye contact, conversations without words, unconditional trust and the lovers' sphere of influence where there was only the concept of 'ours'. John remembered it too when she put it that way. And for whatever reason, it earned her the story of before they went to sleep-of many stories dating back to the real moments they'd shared before the disease and the odyssey they'd embarked on afterwards. No television or movies save for what existed in the time before, other people's dreams and stories were the only source of entertainment for those whose purpose was to work while others slept. Mary was a sponge for every detail John could part with in the tale of himself and Sherlock Holmes. And for John, Mary kept his mind off the unpleasantness of being a test subject when he knew she'd be there in some capacity when all was said and done. She was the best part of being awake-nice to look at, great listener, and in general best described as 'frustrated'. And the only thing she wanted from him, more than anything else, was to finally find out what their first kiss was like and if the stories she'd enjoyed had a happy ending.

As tended to happen, John didn't have to look for her-she was already waiting. Just outside the patient cells, white coat on with an orange pen sticking out of her breast pocket, Mary stood in denim and cream with the nervous smile of a fan on her face as she waited for them to exit the secure area. She was left handed like him and preferred orange ink so the stains on the sides of her hand didn't show as obviously. John couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock would deduce as much or put the colored ink down to her being a woman with his usual biased filter.

"I want you to meet someone," John prefaced as he held open the last door, pushing up against it to let Sherlock go first.

Sherlock frowned, looking at their welcome party with mixed annoyance and confusion. It soon faded under a thin veil of condescending compliance that could only mean one thing: prey. She was a source of information, someone to interrogate, something to disassemble to see if it contained the pieces he needed. John wasn't going to tell him not to but he'd be damned if he let that be all she was. He gave him a warning look which was received, understood, and with a short nod accepted. It was good to know some things never changed even when given all the time in the world to do so.

"This is Mary," he said, stepping out to put a hand to her arm, gesturing for her to be accepted in all the normal, observable ways he knew. "She works on the computer systems here. Well, just about anything with an OS, anyway. Mary, this, as you know, is Sherlock."

Mary smiled brightly, inclining her head in greeting. "It's very nice to finally meet you," she said, her hand coming up to push her blond hair behind her right ear. "I guess a 'good morning' is in order. Hope you're feeling well."

Sherlock arched his left brow but did not voice whatever thought had just popped into his mind on the back of the deductions he'd very quickly made. "All things considered," he answered, standing tall. "I'm going to need a laptop or computer access of some variety. I assume you can facilitate this?"

"Uh, not really. I can show you to the library if you want a book, though."

"No book is going to contain the information I need," the detective clarified, looking somewhat affronted that she seemed to think he wouldn't ask for exactly what it was he required. John pursed his lips, looking down at the floor for a second to try and weather the best course through what was assuredly going to be a combative mood. Things had changed-that was an obvious fact. They'd gotten used to a far bit of changes on the road but they weren't the same as on the inside. Salvation had a price and seemingly minor restrictions like technology use were among them.

Mary pulled a face that mirrored John's in sentiment but animated itself with her personality. "I'm sorry. It's just not possible. If anything happened to the Ark systems, we'd all be as good as dead. Problem with a single mainframe set-up is you've got a central bank that can be susceptible to attacks and data corruption if you get too many users on board," she explained with the granted wisdom to offer reasons to save time on his asking. "Your brother has access, not sure if that helps, but outside plugging you back in, there's just no way. Not that there's much there you'd be interested in, honestly. We're down to basic systems with video conferencing and e-mail for the higher ups. What you remember of the internet was wiped years ago to eradicate any threat of system viruses." Mary shrugged apologetically then gave an easy smile, apples of her cheeks round and pronounced. "Bet they wish it was that easy in the real world."

"From what I hear, they're not exactly of the opinion it isn't."

Mary sobered at Sherlock's retort, a guilty masque falling over her face as she fell back into her role as technician and left attempts at being personable aside. "Sorry. Right." She held her clipboard closer to her chest, giving John a somewhat guilty glance that was as much a shared wince as an apology.

John nodded. He understood. "You don't think there's any way you could get your hands on some medical records, do you? Files, just... any sort of thing related to, uh.. well, us." he asked.

"I already owe Jeremy a couple favors. I can try and see if I can owe him a few more. Can't really promise anything, though. Security's likely to be a bit more extensive for a while."

Because of Sherlock. Because one of the diseased got loose in a secured area. Because anything could have happened. John frowned at the thought though Sherlock hardly seemed phased or at all concerned for the people who had had to calm him down and the scare it must have caused them.

"Nevermind all that," he said dismissively, hands clasped behind his back. "I'm better off just speaking to the doctors myself."

Mary looked at the floor with raised brows and a further frown. "That I can't help you with. They're in a quarantine branch all their own. Jeremy might be able to get me some pathology reports, raw data mostly, but you're not even eligible for the kind of clearance you're talking about."

Sherlock scowled, never a big fan of the word 'no'. "Other than my brother, who is?"

"Um... it starts and ends at about that level. Chapman's the only other person I can think of-he's not exactly the PM but until we resettle London, he's basically in charge. He'd have access to everything." She pushed her hair behind her ear again, relaxing once more with the ease of the familiar.

Chapman was not one of John's favorite people. They'd never met but that hardly mattered. John knew whose name was on the document that demanded the use of the collars. "He's not exactly the kind of bloke who accepts invitations," John added as he cleared his throat, suddenly rather aware of the temperature of the metal around his neck and uncomfortable with the way the recycled air chilled it as his throat flexed against the band with a swallow. "Are you sure we can't just ask Mycroft?"

Sherlock shook his head. "He won't help. Being implicated in our task is counter-productive to his own gains. Where will I find Chapman?"

"You'll have to put in a request with his office. You're not going to find him just out and about." Mary pulled her clipboard down and made a short note, the orange pen finding its way to paper from her pocket. She smiled. "John and I know his secretary. Might be we can persuade her to put you on the books."

Whether Sherlock knew it or not yet, it was the best they were going to get. John nodded, taking over in light of his companion's quiet displeasure as Sherlock scowled at the ceiling with a prodigious eye roll of exasperation. "Thanks, yeah. Tell Diana there's two weeks worth of pudding in it for her."

"Sure thing." Mary took further note of the offer on the table, smiling under the shadow of her short nose. Note written and pen tapping idly between forefinger and middle, Mary smiled at John and gave his arm a pat, the conversation having reached its natural end. "See you at dinner?" she asked with an expectant smile.

John nodded, rocking back on his heels. Sherlock had checked out of the conversation, filtering the pleasantries entirely as his mind worked on whatever he felt more worth his time. That was fine. There really wasn't a need for him to pay attention to meal plans and goodbyes.

Mary edged in towards him with her shoulder, voice lowered and eyes growing sharper with intent. "Gonna have time for me?"

"... Maybe. We'll see." John cleared his throat again, feeling his skin burn slightly under his collar as he fought against a blush. He knew what she wanted but there was a time and place for such things and neither were when Sherlock, checked out or not, was standing there in shared company.

She tapped her pen against the end of John's nose, his eyes crossing with a scowl. "Don't hold out on me, John Watson," she warned with a sing-song lilt. "I don't do this all for free."

John put both hands against her leaning shoulder and pushed her gently to walk away. "Yeah, yeah. Timing. Go away," he muttered, not discontinuing the directed shove until her feet joined in and helped to take her further away from the two with backwards steps.

She winked at him, playfulness exuding from her confident frame in more ways than just her sighed laugh. "It was nice to meet you, Sherlock. I'll see you both later," she called, turning away as she proceeded to leave towards the interior rings of security that guarded the Ark servers and heaven knew what else.

John cleared his throat again-god, people were going to think he was choking-and pointed out towards the lit exit of the exterior laboratory space. There was a whole tour waiting for them to go through and the sooner they started the better. Sherlock was looking at him though, one brow raised above an iris surrounded in white before his lips pulled into a shrug and his feet set to put distance between the conversation and his own deductions. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. John quickly set a pace to keep him at his side and shook his head with a steadfast scowl.

"You know, it says a lot about what you think of me if you can actually think that after the last half hour," John said by way to scold him, not having to be any more specific than that for all the certainty he had-tempered in annoyance as it was.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, face calm and uninterested now that he had seemingly processed his conclusions to a comfortable state. He held open the last of the secured doors then started off at a more than leisurely pace once joined on the other side. "Sex isn't indicative of emotional attachment," he said, heels clicking against the clinically clean floor tiles as the hospital-like atmosphere continued on even outside the laboratory with interior windows and perpetual white surroundings.

"It's also not something you do when you have an understanding with someone else."

Sherlock's lips pursed in contradiction. "I wouldn't exactly call it an understanding," he said, perhaps a hint of jealousy lingering in his baritone but for all the world considerably unconcerned with the idea that John could have been entertaining bed fellows while he slept and dreamed. Still giving John an out-or worse, permission.

It was a little infuriating. It had been three years ago but John still remembered vividly the moment they'd shared in the Wilkes' kitchen, Sherlock's damaged face and unfocused eyes lilting towards his as he sank low against the kitchen counter to meet him halfway. John remembered wishing it had all happened sooner, that he had been given the chance to realize how precious a thing Sherlock was to lose and what that loss felt like to his heart-the physical pain of it that did not care how much emotional distance he'd tried to live by. He'd always loved Sherlock and had always tried not to linger on how much or to what extent. The old adage that one does not know what they have until it's taken away had long since passed the test of time as truer words than casually spoken. And of course Sherlock loved him. No questions asked or confirmation needed. But in a way, Sherlock was right: sex did not require love anymore than love required sex. John could love Sherlock and still sleep with women-hypothetically speaking only; John could not fathom a romantic relationship in which heart, body and mind were satisfied by different people. Sherlock wasn't saying he doubted that John loved him, simply that he was not entirely convinced of the level at which that love fell. John's attempts at flirting had proved to be disastrous, but Sherlock hadn't discourage physical contact in the way he had kind comments and confessions. As far as John was concerned, he hadn't misinterpreted that almost-kiss from three years before, nor the kiss from minutes past. Sherlock was just being careful, like always, and reluctant to be the first to make confessions or concessions about the nature of their relationship.

For being one of the bravest men John had ever known, he could be a bit of a coward at times.

"I am showing you to my room where I intend to ask you to stay with me instead of taking a separate suite all your own. It has a table, a chair, and a full-sized bed," John listed, eyes always looking ahead for an unintended audience but voice hardly softer than his normal tone. "Do I really need to explain to you what I am asking or do we have an understanding?"

Sherlock paused only for a moment, a deep intake of air punctuating the quiet before his lips started moving on nonsense again. "Well, it certainly makes things easier to collaborate on when we have a shared living space. Wouldn't have to worry about you not opening your door if I need to use you as a sounding board."

"It's not Baker Street. One room, one bed. Do we have an understanding?"

With his gaze set in front of them as he lead Sherlock down the white, empty halls, John could not see whatever expressions Sherlock was making outside of the brief glimpses of it reflected in the panes of glass that they passed. He was quiet, though, for longer than he thought he should be. Did he really not know? Did he not want to? John felt his skin grow warm again as the latter thought developed further in a worry. It wasn't a condition, it wasn't absolutely necessary, he'd just thought-

"I don't want to be your 'boyfriend'," Sherlock said at last, his reflection's eyes looking sideways down at John. "Makes it sound like we're eleven. Small point but I'd really rather not use the word."

John's fleeting heart-attack jumbled its rhythm into a joyful skip. "Sure thing. Partners?"

"Mm. Tolerable."

"Left or right side of the mattress?"

"Center. Never shared."

"You're on the right, then."

"Fine."

"Happy?" John asked, feeling his own smile stuck to his face and not missing in the least the glimpses of amusement in Sherlock's as he chanced a glance upwards.

Sherlock shrugged. "I've got poison strapped to my neck so I can be killed remotely, I'm trapped in a underground bunker, there are political factions that want me dead, and by virtue of existing I am ineligible to get my hands on the information I need through conventional means."

"Yeah. Me too," John said, hands in his pockets as he continued to fail to remove the smirk from his face. "So that's a yes, then?"

He chuckled, giving rise to a few notes from John as a sense of strange contentment seemed to emanate along side their predicament rather than in spite of it. They lived for this. They loved this. And it was certainly worlds better than waking up in a boring world with no problems left to solve.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

Somewhere out there in that dead, desolate world, someone was going to be very sorry they'd kept them alive after all this time. He was certain of it.