He'd wanted to leave the rest of the conversation go until later, but now he can't. Sherlock has the right to know everything. And there's more to the story than just John's slow cataloging and storage of infected people he's cared for or the others in his camp have loved. He doesn't turn to face Sherlock. It's good that they're talking but the awkwardness will be difficult to overcome.

John's head rolls slightly onto his shoulder and again, he finds himself wetting his lips. This story, more than any other, does truly hurt him. The telling is slow.

"Greg was bitten. It was an accident when we were trying to move a few new...infected...into the psychiatric unit. We'd managed to-- What am I saying? They'd managed to come up with a prototype then. A virus with a stripped casing that was suppose to kill the parasites. We were just...waiting to try it. Molly was gone, we'd lost more than half of us in the breach at the western wing."

Babbling, perhaps, but John's story telling has always been a little disjointed. It's what makes it so personable and relateable.

John leans forward this time, catching Sherlock's equally red eyes. They're certainly the pair. "He didn't succumb for three weeks, Sherlock. Three weeks! We'd been so sure... So sure we did it-- But... We... We lost the dosage. And most of the notes after we were infiltrated." This must be the Thomas incident Sarah had partially mentioned. And, it seems, the notes that Bill had crossed out. "The procedure..." John shakes his head. "I can't duplicate it. But they were on to something, they really were. While I agree that the medicines, and yes fine, the farming, are all important--"

John wipes almost angrily at his face. No more tears.

Greg's death had been very, very hard on him. They'd grown so close in the crisis. It'd nearly been the last straw.