substituteskull | (no subject)

(no subject)

Three years since the outbreak and John Watson still doesn't know what to make of it. Like all doctors, he'd heeded the call of city and country as England did what all smart island nations did the moment the moment WHO released a statement that the virus had spread outside of America through international travel. It shut down completely. He'd not paid attention to the politics of it, hadn't bothered so much with the news. John had his work to do, people to treat, safety and quarantine to enforce. His world because St. Barts'.

At first, isolation seemed to work. Patriots were forced to stay outside of the relative safety of Great Britain as the airports and the Eurostar stations shut down. Ferries between the islands were discontinued.

The problem was that no one could isolate whatever it was causing humanity to change. The virus didn't seem to kill the host's brain, just every other part of their systems. A day post infection, the victim would become feverish. Two days later, they'd succumb. And after that...nothing short of dismemberment could stop them. It wasn't airbourne. And not in the blood either. Just the saliva. John had never seen anything like it. The internet called it a zombie plague, but that wasn't quite right either.

It took six months for everyone worldwide to realize that quarantine wouldn't help. Infections sprouted up for no discernible reason. People turned in the Underground, in shopping centres, on the playground. London, and the country, didn't stand a chance. The government fell overnight. Society followed.

And John just stayed on at St Barts'. He stopped trying to do the most good. And just attempted to survive.

It's not easy, even for an ex-soldier. There's no heading down to Tesco's any more. Ammo is impossible to come by. But if John, and the others holed up in St. Barts' still want to eat, someone has to go out. And that someone is almost always John.

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Staring again, eyebrows scrunching up and eyes wider than usual, John fades out slightly after the deduction while his heart leaps up into his throat. He can't afford to be sentimental any more. This is war time, though it's clear that his side has lost, and he has people to take care of even if he refuses to let himself genuinely care for them. This has nothing to do with nice guys finishing last or even fear of loss. Loss is inevitable. John's learned that the hardest way possible.

"What? Oh, right, of course. Here." The spoon is nothing to write home about, bent but luckily still serviceable for this particular task.

Medical supplies have managed to stretch as less and less people genuinely needed them. The hospital had been one of the only public buildings not to be overrun, a strange occurrence given how many had been infected here, though he and Greg had managed to hold back much of the tide, enacted their own security protocols with the CID stationed here, and thus, John's been in a better position than most over the long, difficult years.

Using some disinfecting wipes, therefore, is less wasteful than the drinking water they have learned to purify. John pulls a few packs from one of the drawers and drags over his medical bag while Sherlock eats. He's gentle, not surprisingly, as he starts with Sherlock's face, the side of his neck. Dirt, blood, and who knows what else are easily dabbed away.

"I don't want to know," he says, and then pauses to clear his throat, "how you survived. Or why you were in Siberia. Just-- Why did you come back here? And to Bart's of all bloody places? There's nothing here, Sherlock."

It's unnerving watching John like this. There's something broken and not quite right in his friend's demeanour and the way he processes information. How many 'friends' had John buried in the last three years? I'm one of them.

The most significant difference between Sherlock and John over the last three years was a goal. John and his rag-tag group are essentially a military squad behind enemy lines trying to survive until tomorrow. Sherlock, on the other hand, had a tangible goal to work toward. As sentimental as it had been, his goal had been to find John. Now that he's done that, he doesn't know where to go from here.

Sherlock sets one of the jars down on the table next to him and holds the other firmly between his knees so he can open it with his good arm. The left one is practically useless in its condition and will remain so until the bone mends. Quite a bit longer than if he'd broken it five years ago, he imagines. Healing takes a certain amount of nutrition. He repeats the process with the second jar, then balances both of them in the space between his thighs so he has less of a chance to spill it everywhere.

He eats quickly, shovelling spoon after spoon of the tasteless mush into his mouth. He might have even let out a few appreciative 'mm' sounds in the process.

He doesn't mind John cleaning him off with the sanitary wipes. It won't be the first time John's had to doctor his injuries, though a blanket bath usually doesn't come with it. He won't complain, since being cleaner is something highly desirable for him.

"I came here to look for you," Sherlock tells him plainly. The question is an easy one to answer, because it had been his motivation for years. "Now that I've found you, we can decide what we do next." He scrapes the spoon along the inside of the jar, getting every last bit of food out. He'll lick the spoon clean before setting his finished meal off toward the side.

"So, what do you know about the pathogen?"

It's difficult to tell Sherlock's injuries, not even with four, now five, dirty wipes laying on the examination table where his bag now rests. He's gotten most of Sherlock's face and ears and the left side of his neck. The rest will have to wait and he trusts Sherlock to inform him what, besides his arm, will need immediate attention just after. He doesn't want to exacerbate any wounds. Antibiotics are finite and a much more precious resource than towelettes. Still, the moment the jars are emptied, two tablets are pressed into Sherlock's hand.

He doesn't bother to tell the detective what they are. Even the untrained would know they'd been given anti-inflammatory medication and a pain killer. It's standard procedure.

John sits again, this time with every intent to check the arm, and watches Sherlock's slightly smeared but still nearly clear face a moment longer than he'd truly need to. It's back down to business as if they'd only parted for a moment due to a personal trip or a case. John's not sure if he's pleased about that, emotionally, but there's a greater sense relief he embraces instead.

"I know it's in the saliva," John says, feeling along Sherlock's arm for the break and trying to determine if he'll have to pop a break into place before he wraps it, first. "I know that if there's a bite mark, that's it. It's not a virus. People got that wrong before the power was more or less cut and wifi stopped functioning. It's worse. It's alive. We're just it's hosts."

Sherlock looks down at the pills in his hand as soon as John gives them to him. His hands are filthy, but he's eaten things far riskier than some dirt and a bit of blood. It's easy to recognise the pills and what they're for, so he sets the pain killer down to the side and takes the anti-inflammatory medication by itself. It only takes one dose to knock a recovering morphine addict back into old habits and the drug coating that dart already has him worried about such things.

"Simple fracture, 2/3 up from my elbow," he explains while trying to work up enough spit to swallow the pills\ by. "Possible concussion - parietal lobe, left side. Sprain in the right ankle. Everything else is superficial trauma that you needn't worry about aggravating."

It takes some effort to keep the pain off his face when John starts to touch the area surrounding the break. The nerves there are on fire under even the lightest touches. "Yes, it seems that the parasite kills the majority of the infected, but alters the behaviour of the survivors. Much like the Leucochloridium paradoxum that infects gastropods and alters brain activity, this parasite seems to do it on a larger scale for the human host. The salivary glands, submandibular specifically, only hold the parasite's sporocysts. Unfortunately for us, there doesn't appear to be any intermediate or vector species, though I've noticed a mutation along the way that allows infection in cats."

He's obviously been doing his homework during his travels. The first thing he'd done when he'd seen the plague in action had been to download as many medical texts in ebook format as he could. He'd also devised a way to recharge his mobile phone using both analogue batteries, and when those aren't available electrolytes in water.

Sherlock's style of speaking is soothing and maddening all at once and John smirks, eyes never moving now that he has a task to do. Patching Sherlock up has never been a burden. After all of their time together (which amounts to barely a sneeze in his life experiences if dissected apart), John's barely had to do much maintenance on the consulting detective. Only Sherlock's stubborness -- or the refusal to leave one of his thinking postures while suffering from a bleeding head wound -- would lead John to playing doctor with his flatmate.

This is different. This is so very different.

Noting the pain medication set aside when he stands up to find a medical splint in his bag, the doctor says nothing at all for a long moment until he does return to his seat. "Cats."

Well, that's something to keep on the look out for. They've been known to eat feral animals when scavenging turns out poorly. It's not the best life style, but they need protein and their small stock of chickens don't yield near enough eggs.

"This will hurt, I'm sorry," John tells Sherlock, tape in one hand, ready to snip off strips to prepare for the actual binding. "So you've not thought of a cure then?" Just conversation. Sherlock is a genius, not a miracle worker.

"Yes, cats," Sherlock responds, thinking back to the moment he'd seen it first-hand. It was a small thing, adolescent house cat. It had a bell and everything. The way it walked was the same way the human hosts did. Swaying and unblinking. An intense stare of a functional mind behind whatever was controlling its behaviour. Clever, it had managed to get a pounce on a different human survivor he'd spent a few days travelling with. He'd killed the cat and within a four hours, the first symptoms started to show. He'd killed the man and went on his way - better than the alternative fate.

"It was in Germany about eight months back when I saw it. The pathogen can spread easily from cat back to human. I imagine the first cat infection came from the bite of one of the human hosts," he explains both because the information is important and also because he knows what's coming up in terms of bone setting.

When John warns him that pain is coming, he just shakes his head and probably looks much more indifferent than he feels. "No, I haven't had a chance to stay in one place long enough to test any potential remedies," he says and closes his eyes when he perceives John getting ready to do the snap. It will be quick, but excruciating. The rest of John's little compound will know exactly when John sets his bone, since he's not immune to crying out from sudden pain.

The sound of anguish is usually lost on John these days. You have to learn to shut these things off when you're in battle, to cover the guts of the wounded with your own body so dirt doesn't get into abdominal cavities and ignore screams when digging out shrapnel. Pain is fleeting. Shock is always a problem, but sometimes you have to ignore that too and just fill wounds with foam and move on.

It's not glamorous to be a surgeon. John might be personable at all levels -- or had been -- but during war, you have to learn to compartmentalize yourself. His training has come in handy at all fronts and leaders-- Leaders don't have the luxury of feeling too deeply for his unit mates.

But Sherlock--

That particular cry -- which has those not on guard duty running to the morgue -- wraps fingers around John's heart. He does what he needs to do and then places both hands, clean and warm, against either one of Sherlock's cheeks while he stoops to look into his face, to calm him again.

He doesn't apologize, but his eyes hold something secret. It will take time for John to learn this way again, to be always compassionate. To regain a humanity that military life drills out of you.

"Breathe. In, out. Breathe, Sherlock."

Pain is something that's hard to get used to, but he's managed this long on his own and he's no stranger to it. Having someone else, even someone he literally trusts with his life, controlling when the pain is administered takes away a certain amount of control he'd always had on the situation before. It's harder this way and this particular injury had spent almost a full twenty-four hours healing improperly to make things more tender.

Panting, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice John's hands on his face for a good several seconds. His vision threatens to go black and he thinks he might pass out, but John's voice gives him something to focus on to keep him from doing just that.

"Fine," he says, head swaying forward and pupils finally starting to constrict to a normal level of dilation for the dim lighting. "I'm fine, John," this time it sounds more believable. He reaches up with his good hand and pats at John's forearm. "You might want to get that splint together now."

"Shut up," John commands with a ghost of a smile on his face and does as he's told. There are feet on the stairs and explaining all of this is going to be annoying at the very best. He tries to just focus on the arm -- which ought to be cleaned, but a little dirt will have to do for now -- and the bandage tape and the air cast. "This is going to be worse," he warns just as the doors are shoved open and four people start talking at once.

Yes. John is still smiling, his back to the group of people he will forever be reluctant to call his friends. There is a woman holding a gun, pale skin and blond, though her gray is showing. She looks soft around the middle, strange for people living on rations, unless one takes into consideration that she'd been heavier and this war has cost her some of her bulk and replaced it with extra skin. Behind, a younger girl, either just having hit puberty or nearly there. Her hair is red and her face fierce. Children always suffer the worst.

Two men bring up the rear. One had a shot gun but it looks old, likely hasn't been used in awhile. He's about John's age and hard eyed. If Sherlock's got a memory for John's friends, he'd recognize Bill Murray. Then again, Sherlock'd never gotten on with John's pub mates or old war buddies. The last man is in his twenties, missing an eye and scarred right down to the corner of his mouth. It's his voice most noticeably heard above the rest.

"Why did you unstrap him!"

John glances up at Sherlock again. "He's not a risk."

Sherlock hears the sound of approaching people. Four, judging by the sounds of the footfalls. Two men, two women (or perhaps smaller men). They're walking fast. Determined. He assumes it's got something to do with him calling out. He's an outsider. An unwelcome presence and it won't be the first time he'd been treated as such with groups of survivors.

"Worse is relative," Sherlock comments with a bit of a smirk himself. He's braced for whatever mistreatment John's group will give him. When they enter and fight over who gets to speak first, Sherlock takes a cursory glance around the room at all of them. He deduces a half dozen things about each of them by just that much, but he's learned not to open his mouth when someone's holding an armed pistol aimed in his direction. John might notice the scar of a perforating GSW on his side that had been the main focus of the lesson.

"I'm a researcher," Sherlock tells the scarred man - the one he'd determined to be the 'alpha' in the quartet - letting his gaze fall on his remaining eye. "And, a friend of John's. Now, if you're content with living like a group of scared animals, then I won't stop you. You could shoot me now or kick me out, keeping the supplies you've stolen from me. Or, you could allow me access to these facilities so that we might have a chance of finding a more permanent solution to this plague."

A researcher? John already knows that isn't going to go over well with his people. In fact he can already hear the agitation. He finishes up what he's doing and swings around, constantly world weary and understandably tired. It's been a long day. He went out alone on a supply run, came back for a shower and ran into a ghost of a person who mattered so very much to him was lost just before the rest of the world went to shite too.

"This is Sherlock Holmes. I want his things returned. All of them. And though I know it's going to be difficult along the way, could you please try not to shoot him if at all possible?" He'd just got him back. John doesn't really expect himself to do well if he loses him again to this jumpy group or infected cats or what not.

The room stills. What John says goes. Pulling rank has evidently come in handy. John stands to rinse his hands in untreated water, good enough for washing but certainly not for drinking, and shakes his hands dry.

There are murmurs from the group but the young girl is the one who speaks next: "You mean, he's the one that road the tube with a harpoon?"

Researcher is the closest label he can come up with for what he'll be doing if he's accepted in John's group. He doesn't have an education in medicine and he won't be administering medical treatment to anyone outside of himself (and John if it comes to that), so doctor won't be a good title. Detective work is simply obsolete. Consulting researcher is meaningless without someone consulting him. 'Zombie exterminator' would work, but he'd rather stick to the lab if he can help it now that he's found his way back home.

John has a high rank. Possibly the leader, Sherlock notices when he sees the way everyone backs down as soon as John gives the word. He can see a wary look on the unscarred man's face. That one seems familiar, but Sherlock can't put his finger on where he'd seen the man before.

"You told them about that?" Sherlock complains, as soon as the girl breaks the charged atmosphere with the comment. Something in her voice is akin to hero worship, but he ignores it. It gives him the uncomfortable impression that John's been telling stories about him. The kind you tell around a camp fire about heroes of old. Just how many make believe images of himself will he shatter in the next forty-eight hours?

"He's the one that helped you look into Alex's killin'?" The older woman asks when it finally clicks. "He looks different without the hat..."

A scowl finds its way on Sherlock's face. The mention of the tube incident is fine. Even the comment about that God-forsaken hat, he can shrug off. But, having a group of people talk about him, but looking at John while he's in the room is maddening.

John's got his own brand of hero worship when it comes to Sherlock but that tended to get stuffed aside each time he found something of his commandeered for an experiment or when Sherlock would forget he existed and leaving him standing by holding something of police interest. Oh. His once perfect record-- Not that it matters now, of course. There are no records. There are no anything. And John's had to do some much worse things in the last few years than having to visit a solicitor.

"That's only because his hair's a bit too long," John says, somewhat more jovially than he'd been putting on for Sherlock before, but that threat of possible sobbing keeps nearly bursting in the centre of his chest.

He has to school himself into breathing properly. Getting people worked up further is never a good thing to do and they look to him, sometimes falsely, to be strong for them.

Bill's eyebrows bunch together on his forehead and he tilts his head up to see Sherlock more clearly. He'd been at the funeral.

And the rest of them had read the sensational story about Sherlock in the newspaper. None had really recognized John at first when they came together, but that's all right. He'd done his work to get Sherlock off of what London thought of him just the same. It'd been his only real goal when disaster settled down. He couldn't clear Sherlock's name entirely -- But he could do his best.

John's change in attitude doesn't go unnoticed, but Sherlock sees through it as fake easily. Maybe he would have been fooled by it three years ago when he was less keen with these things. (Or maybe he wouldn't have simply because he'd gotten to know John on a personal level). Right now it's just telling him that John's been forcing himself to keep a front for these other people at the expense of his stability. And more of the puzzle pieces click together regarding his friend's troubling behaviour.

Other than the unscarred man, it seems that the knowledge of Sherlock's identity has settled the mood of the quartet. There's some resentment in that one's eyes that he doesn't much like, but it's nothing that will cause an immediate threat to him or John, so he disregards it. He'll remain wary, though.

"I'm in the room, you know," He interrupts, palming the pain killer at his side. He doesn't plan to take it, but he also doesn't trust people around him very easily. "If any of you have something to say to or about me, you can say it to me directly." That means you, too, John. "But, if you don't mind, it can wait. I'm not sure you lot noticed, but we were in the middle of an examination."

"Yes, it really can wait--"

"But you died!" the youngest of them interrupts, another step forward before Bill puts a hand on her shoulder and calls her name, Sarah, in a slightly warning tone. "How did you manage? How did you get here?" Groupie is written all over her face. Though the world has come to a disastrous new turn, teenagers are teenagers. Sarah's eagerness might be off putting but at least it's genuine.

The rest of them, John included, are just too guarded.

The former Army doctor and soldier does nod to the group. "I'm nearly done. I'll get him a shower after and we'll talk." It's not exactly democracy here, they tried that and it failed, but John still believes in talk before orders. "Would you mind shutting the door?"

It's Bill's eyes that still burn after the small group leaves and John deflates noticeably. "Sorry about that. We don't get guests all that often."

'Off putting' is an understatement. Sherlock eyes the youngest warily when she speaks so bluntly. He's not used to that sort of thing and he's never been good with children. He respects children from afar, since they see the world in a much less biassed way than adults, but interacting with them on a personal level had always gotten him in trouble with their parental figures. Either for being rude and hurting their feelings or for giving them strange ideas.

Because of that, he lets the unscarred man control the situation. When their eyes meet before the small group leaves, there's a mutual dislike shared between the two of them.

"I can imagine what few visitors you do get, they end up dead or shunned more often than not," he says, voice sounding bitter as he speaks. If he could have his way, it would just be him and John in Bart's with no one else to bother them. But, seeing how badly off John is, he doubts solitude would have been as friendly to his disposition.

John alone would not have ended well. The last time he perceived himself to be alone, he'd come very close to putting his, now useless, Browning in his mouth and pulling the trigger. Bill's been a good support system for him here, though. As good as one can hope for in these particularly trying times. It's felt, from time to time, like they were back in Afghanistan. John'd never wished to go back there, not until he lost Sherlock. Not until he helped the survivors push out the infected, maddened gleam in the eyes of Molly Hooper before he put a bullet through her.

And Greg--

He can't think of Greg, not even on good days.

"Most of the people we see aren't people any more," John says, somewhat more coldly in the tone he uses, more so than than he'd been just a few moments ago. "Or they're trying to scope out our group size and our supplies and how well we're armed."

He packs up his things and grabs the jars from between Sherlock's legs. They keep them for salves that Molly insisted they all learn to grow and make.

"You trust one time in the wrong direction and it costs good people their lives. Think you can walk on that ankle or do you want me to put on a support brace?"

Sherlock hadn't seen to the ends of anyone he considers close or important in any way since the infection had spread on a pandemic level. He'd seen lots of death, turned or otherwise, but none of it mattered much to him other than the vague sense of loss of seeing comrades fall in the line of duty. At first, he'd been more effected by the death tolls, but one grows callouses from those things just the same as the fading callouses on his fingertips from playing the violin.

"I never thought I'd be the one telling you that your methods are harsh," he comments, using his good arm as support to get himself off the medical table. He puts his weight on his uninjured foot and tests the sprain. He winces, then shakes his head. "Better to wait to brace it until after I have that shower."

He's not surprised that other groups would send scouts to infiltrate Bart's. He hadn't come across much of that in his travel, since he'd spent his time in a nomadic state and tended to ally himself with the same sort. Supplies were just easier to come by for those who kept moving instead of boxing themselves in a cage.

“To be honest with you,” John says, not offering Sherlock a hand unless it looks like he might tilt himself over and despite the fact that his height actually puts him in the perfect ratio to act a leaning post, “I agree. It is harsh.” But you don’t survive an infiltration, bury your dead, and accept others willingly into your mix again unless you’re very stupid or very desperate.

Sherlock, obviously, is another matter entirely. One he can’t figure out and for now, he brain is happy not to think about. They’ve almost twice as long catching up to do as they’d known each other and it’s a difficult thing to get over for John.

The showers are not far but up a flight of steps to the living quarters wing. From the looks of it, they’ve regulated themselves to offices and use the women’s locker room for their toilet and bathing needs rather than bother with the patient rooms. There are many, many more rooms here than are currently, and obviously, being used. At one point, there had been over fifty people here. The number had dwindled significantly.

“There’s plenty of soap and shampoo and the rest,” John says. When people initially looted the neighborhood, hygiene products hadn’t been on their mind. Now, just about everything in a two kilometer radius has been harvested for their use. “Will you be all right if I leave you here? I’ll check back in twenty minutes. My room is third one on the left if you get impatient. I’ll find some clothes for you too on the way back.”

One thing Sherlock has not lost over the years is his extreme levels of pride and his sense of self-reliance, so he doesn't reach for John's assistance until he's taken a half dozen stupidly painful steps and one nearly lands him flat on his face.

Where John's group had relied on interrogation methods when it comes to dealing with strangers, Sherlock had simply learned to read people. He could fish out dishonesty as easily as he could identify tobacco ash. People were much simpler to understand on a strictly emotional level than he'd given them credit for. Animals, really. It's the same concept as recognising shame in a dog with its tail between its legs.

And, that's why he feels especially guarded with the unscarred man who seems so protective over John and distrusting over him. Aggressive and possessive. The hostility of a man who's seen war.

Using John as a crutch lets his eyes wander while the other man physically leads the way. He takes in the changes in Bart's since his fall. He can easily see a few of the rooms John's little group had claimed for themselves. Not much in terms of personal items, only what's small and could have been grabbed in a hurry. In one room they pass, he notices a photograph of someone's family, and across the way someone's got a baby blankie wadded up next to their pillow.

His attention goes back to John only when he starts to speak again. That's when they've gotten to the locker room door. "I've walked across half of Asia and all of Europe. I think I can manage a shower, John," Sherlock points out, even if he would rather spend a few more minutes with his friend.

John is on the fence about quality time with Sherlock right now. What he needs is a dip into the still sizable alcohol storeroom they have and an hour or so to himself to get his emotions back under lock and key. Each moment with his old friend just rips him apart again and John can't allow himself that sort of bond. No more. He can't go through it all again.

Unfortunately, there's discussions to be had first with Bill, Gabrielle and Erica. John doesn't feel like arguing. He listens to their concerns, of which their are plenty. Bill keeps his mouth shut, but John knows he's just waiting for the women to leave. Bill speaks his mind plenty, but only to John. John's come to rely on that. To rely on him. Probably too much, if he's honest, but he's the only face from before this nightmare that John's kept steadily in his sights.

As expected, the women are all right with Sherlock's stay. Bill, however, is not.

"I don't like it," he says as John goes to leave the room. He promised Sherlock half an hour. It's been more than that already. And to be honest, John is itching to return to his friend's side. "He died. He died, you fell apart. John, don't do it to yourself again. Not after Mol. Not after--" John gives Bill a dangerous warning glance and Bill falls begrudgingly silent. "I thought we agreed that I wouldn't have to save your life any more, John," he says, softer this time.

John's shoulder slouch a little but he doesn't move from the door. "I asked for a miracle and he gave me one. Bart's is still the best teaching and research hospital in London. If anyone can cure what's out there, it's Sherlock Holmes. I have to believe that."

"But what about--"

John tilts his head to the side and pushes the door open. "Please. Not this again. We agreed. It's done, Bill. I'm sorry, but it's over." The door swishes shut behind him and John heads back downstairs to find his old flatmate.

Sherlock hasn't had a proper shower in half a year, so he could spend an hour and a half under the steady stream of water without the chance of feeling bored or annoyed. He still tries to work quickly with the limitations of having one hand to do two hands worth of work. While he enjoys the initial rinse, he takes the time to brush his teeth and have a quick shave. The toothbrush, mouthwash, toothpaste, and razor all coming from the unclaimed supplies kept in the towel closet.

He'll choose a locker for his own to store them later - he can tell without having to open the lockers themselves that it's what the rest of the members of John's party had decided to do. A small amount of privacy, even though the combinations are easy to work out.

By the end of the half hour mark, Sherlock's managed to get into a reasonably hygienic condition. He's already feeling more like himself as he spoils himself with a few extra minutes of letting the water wash over him.

It gives him time to think.

There's several things that Sherlock's concerned about now that he's found John. First of all, it's the change in his plans. Now that he's met with his old friend, he gets the impression that he's going to be the one shouldering the responsibility of finding a cure for the plague. It might be impossible, even for him. He's already got some ideas and he can already anticipate the protests that will come about from it. Sectioning off an area of the hospital for live specimens, is both dangerous and necessary. He doubts the others will be keen on the idea and he doesn't have enough political sway to convince them by himself. John. He would have to go through his friend to get what he needs, but the unscarred man would not be accepting of that.

The other thing he's worried about is John. He's different. Sherlock's probably different, too. But, there's something weird and asymmetrical about John's emotional state. He's not good with therapeutic conversations and he's never concerned himself with things like this before, but he finds himself too worried not to try. He'd risked his life and limb to get back here where he could rely on the one person he counts as a friend. That can't have been for nothing.

It's been nearly forty-five minutes since John's left him in the shower. He turns the water off and tugs the smallish white towel he'd found with the toiletry supplies off the edge of the shower 'stall' divider. One handedly, he rubs some of the water out of his hair before patting the rest of himself dry. He doesn't have a change of clothes yet and he can't tie the cloth around his waist with one hand, so he'll stay where he is until John comes back for him.

John doesn't panic when he finds his room empty. Sherlock can't have gone far, not on that ankle. a glance around the room tells John that nothing's been disturbed and all signs lead, thankfully, to Sherlock taking a longer time than usual in the shower. He's quick to find something for the detective to wear, just an old pair of pants someone else won't be using and a shirt likely too big for the thin, lanky man. It's nothing that can be helped right now.

John knocks slightly on the door to the locker room, feeling almost ridiculous for doing it because he's lost any ounce of body shyness, but it's Sherlock. Sherlock ought to be afforded-- Oh, who the hell is he kidding? The man use to walk about the flat in a sheet!

Smirking to himself, John shoulders his way into the room and scans the space for steam or perhaps the dark curls he's not use to seeing so long.

John says nothing. His feet are firmly planted on the slick tile and he his lips press together. It's hard to have too much to say all at once. He doesn't know where to start. And even if he did know--

How could he ever say them?

Pardon the staring, Sherlock. He means well.

Body shame is not a concept that Sherlock's ever had time for. Nudity is simply a human condition and there's nothing sensual or startling about it in his opinion. Most of the work he's done required the nudity of corpses, and the nudity of the living is nothing different.

John might notice some changes in Sherlock's physique since the last time he'd stood in this state of undress. Several new scars cover him from head to toe, but that's to be expected in times like these. The most 'impressive' being the bullet wounds on his side and a long gash along his inner left thigh. Both fully healed and lacking any sign of inflammation. Current wounds are abrasions on his left shoulder and several smaller incise wounds on his hands and forearms. Defensive wounds, if John's got a mind to remember such things.

Injuries aside, he's lost some of the softness as well. He doesn't go hungry, so he's still roughly the same width as he's ever been. His legs and arms are much more toned, however. With the extent of physical exertion he's been undergoing, it shouldn't be surprised that he's developed some amount of muscle mass.

He can forgive John's staring. In fact, it makes him smirk just a bit in response to it. He probably looks more like himself when not covered in filth. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me," he tells him to break the silence. It's not true, though. He knows very certainly that John, even with his abnormal state, would not be forgetting him any time soon.

One look over his friend and he can tell that he'd just gotten over some hard conversations. Consorting with the rest of his team, or at least some of the rest of the team, about him. For now, it seems that John's weariness isn't at a level where he should be concerned.

It's a catalog of missed opportunities, time spent apart. It's angering, a rustic feeling that comes more from John's feelings of inadequacy than anything else. If he'd realized five minutes earlier what Sherlock's goal had been in angering him that morning, perhaps he could have stopped what happened. If he'd been a little more observant, they could fixed whatever it was that kept Sherlock away from him sooner. Maybe the rest of his life would have different if Sherlock stayed with him.

It's likely not the point of this, to feel abandoned, but each wound, healed without his help or a forced visit to A & E for what he couldn't just do at the flat causes his teeth to grit together. And he only blames himself.

"You jumped off of a roof three years ago while I watched," John says, but it's not as cold or as pseudo-amused as he'd hoped. There's that affection again, and the need to just have himself a good cry. John doesn't have that luxury anymore, however. What good will tears do? "I think that if I remembered you after that, a few extra minutes convincing the others of your reason for being here ought to get overlooked."

There's a crack in the iceberg behind one deep blue eye for just a moment before John clears his throat and refreezes himself again. Now is not the time for sentiment.

"Right, well, sorry. Didn't quite mean to-- Forget it. Here's something to change into and I'll look at that ankle. I... I think I've changed my mind on the story, however."

Go on, Sherlock. Wow him again. John would like to have a little bit of hope in humanity once more.

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Did you want me to take on some of these random peeps?

If you'd like! I'm just winging it. There's a few others too floating around.

John's band of merry bandits. I don't know what they know/don't know. xD

THAT LOOK. Beautiful.

He's a charmer

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