A/N: Here, have teeny-tiny zombie crack fic to make up for the angst of yesterdays (that I really enjoyed writing, even though it was totally gorey and stuff.)
Day #7: Zombie
Pest
(Rated K+)
Going grocery store was a lot more difficult these days. It was recommended that you bring at least one gun, but John always brought two. Better to be prepared, really. Rifle strapped to his back, and his Sig tucked neatly in his pocket, John made his way out of the safety of 221B and into the street.
The Zombie Apocolypse wasn't as exciting as they made it in the movies. Sure, zombies were everywhere, but London didn't shut down. It kept on going as if they acquired a multitude of new pests. Really, the only thing that changed was that you had to carry some sort of gun on you at all times.
When the zombies first made their appearance, things got a bit chaotic. John and Sherlock had been in the morgue when one of the bodies came back to life. Sherlock had tried to examine the body, much to the dismay of John, who pulled the detective away before it could latch onto him. John had killed the zombie with a few quick blows to the head with the nearest blunt object. Sherlock had been in a strop for days after that.
The trip to Tesco's was entirely uneventful, but John faced a bit of trouble in the dairy aisle, shooting three zombies as he grabbed his milk. Grabbing a few other necessities, John made his way to the the checkout, chatting cheerfully with the cashier as she shot a zombie before taking his money.
When John arrived back at the flat, he was surprised to find that the door had been left open. He distinctly remembered closing it. Pulling out his Sig, John crept up the stairs, wondering if his mad flatmate was behind all this.
Sure enough, John discovered Sherlock, standing in the lounge, staring at a zombified Anderson. John raised his gun to shoot, but Sherlock stopped him with a glare.
"He's much improved this way. Quite docile, as well."
"That's great, but he's still a zombie." John replied, shaking his head. "We have to shoot him."
"Nonsense, John." Sherlock replied, now poking at Anderson in interest. "I would like to run tests on him. He's been here for twenty minutes and hasn't tried to bite me."
"We can't keep him here, Sherlock." John exclaimed. "He'll leave rotted body parts all over my newly cleaned floor."
"Hardly different than normal." Sherlock retorted, earning a sharp glare from John. "Oh, all right, I'll clean up after him."
"Fine." John sighed. "But if he bites us once, he leaves, got it?"
"Of course, John." Sherlock conceded, albeit with a smug grin.