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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'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.

It's not unusual for Sherlock's retorts to be taken the wrong way, so it's not surprising to find himself utterly confused on how John responds. Back to the moment he'd jumped from the rooftop of this very building. He should have known that John wouldn't have gotten over it just by seeing him up on his feet again.

When John starts to apologise, Sherlock just shakes his head. You've got nothing to apologise for, John, he thinks as he takes the stack of oddly sized items. He has to hobble over toward the benches where things are dry so he can set the clothes items down. "Antiperspirant," he says, knowing it will be enough to let John know what he'd like brought over to him from the stores. He'll get the rest of his toiletries when he's dressed.

"All right. I'll make it brief, if you don't mind. I can share more details when we've got a moment later," he starts as he lowers himself awkwardly on the bench. Between one injured arm and another injured leg, he can't so much as step into the leg hole of the pants to pull them up.

"I'm sure you've realised by now that I'm not actually a fake," he starts as he struggles to dress himself; "I said those things on the roof in order to give you a reason to despise me so it would make things easier on you. It would have also suited my purposes if you'd believed it to be true, since it would have made you disinteresting to Moriarty's legacy. However, you've been loyal to me to a fault - not that it matters as Moriarty's organisation is just as affected by this plague as we've all been.

"Another thing that's most likely come to your mind is that my choice to commit apparent suicide was under coercion. Moriarty informed me while we were on the rooftop that he had hired snipers to target you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade in the event that I refused to complete his story. I hadn't known about the snipers at the beginning of the conversation, but I knew he would have made the proper arrangements as to not give me a true choice in the matter. I also knew that his end game was to leave me dying by my own hand in disgrace.

"Because of that, I arranged for you to be called away to Mrs. Hudson's aide shortly before meeting with Moriarty on the roof. I spoke with my homeless network and Molly Hooper to assist me with my 'magic trick'. Molly Hooper drew one pint of blood from me, which is what you saw at the crime scene. She handed the collection bag to a member of my network to apply to my face and the pavement to give you the impression that I'd hit my head on the way down. I was careful to land legs first, however. That way, I was able to walk away without so much as a few bruises. I also hired the man on the bicycle to slow you down so we could set up the scene. Just before you approached, I placed a small rubber ball under my arm to pinch the brachial artery giving the illusion that I had no pulse."

Maybe it's cowardice, but Sherlock can't bring himself to look at his friend as he explains things. He keeps his voice calm and detached, but he knows that if he sees whatever hurt or anger that would inevitably cross into John's expression that he'd have a harder time with the details.

"I'm sure you've got questions," he continues without giving much of a pause for interruption. "Why didn't I tell you? Why couldn't I trust you? And, I apologise that my answers might not be sufficient in your opinion. The truth of the matter is that I didn't tell you because it was necessary not to tell you. If you'd known what I was planning beforehand, you would have either attempted to stop me or your performance during the phone call would have been poor. I didn't know that there was a sniper already trained on you, but I did know that you would somehow be key in this. Your mourning needed to be real otherwise Moriarty's men would know that I was still alive. At the time, I thought it was to protect my own life. But, it turned out that it protected three others instead."

Every last word feels like a little pin prick deep inside John's soul. Oh, he knew when Sherlock was lying on that roof about having Googled him that there was something horrible going on. Just like he knew the ruse to get him to leave was just that-- A ruse. The trouble is, the last real thing he'd said to Sherlock, face to face, was out of anger and spite and shock. He'd called him a machine. Nothing that had. been said on the mobile meant a damn thing after that. Nothing whimpered at a gravestone mattered because Sherlock was gone and Sherlock died protecting him.

Oh, he'd been angry. He'd throw a small tantrum from time to time, overturning boxes full of Sherlock's books and kicking them across the room. Little moments of anger had never lasted. Not even when Sherlock was alive. They just left John as drained as he feels now. He has to consciously pause in his quickened breathing to force himself to uncurl his fingers from the fists at his sides.

He'd not wanted to hurt someone as badly as he did Sherlock for those few seconds at the end of his story. When silence came and the truth was out.

John closes his eyes and the corners of his mouth tremble. That isn't anger. That's the suffering of a man who lost everything and trying not to let it show. When his eyes open again, the lashes are decidedly wet and John presses his lips together, backing up and pacing forward once more while trying to get himself back together again.

The going is slow and he shakes his head ad if to clear it. "So--" A small cough, as John always does, when suddenly uncomfortable. "Right, so you headed off to...Siberia was it? Took your vengeance? And walked back to London?"

There's been too many lonely nights. Too many what ifs. John has a feeling tonight is going to go just as poorly.

When Sherlock's finished with his explanation, he finally allows himself to look at John to see what he can deduce about the reaction. It's strong and sharp, whatever it is. And, guarded behind closed doors. Somehow, trying to determine John's moods and feelings is so much harder than doing it with a stranger. It's not that he feels particularly cognizant of emotional privacy (even when John's involved), but there's something about being closer with someone that makes blind spots easy to form.

Whatever the intricacies of John's mood, he doubts that they will be conducive toward any meaningful exchange between the two of them. He'll have to discover a way to repair the damage to their friendship his decision of three years ago had caused.

"I actually stayed in London for two weeks," Sherlock admits, this time keeping his eyes trained on his friend. "I had to find the snipers, after all. I managed to track one of them down, but the other two escaped. One of them went to Siberia, where I pursued them. The last is still at large, but I doubt he's going to be very interested in fulfilling that promise to Moriarty. If he's still alive, that is."

Two weeks.

That's all John needs to hear before the little bit of control he has left at the moment snaps and he very nearly does something stupid...like hurt an already injured man. He comes within moments of hitting Sherlock across the face (and less kindly than he had the last time he'd been goaded into it) when he finds his knuckles instead grazing along the single scar he remembers being on Sherlock's face from the time before: the little imperfection in his lip.

Dropping his hand, John heads towards the locker room door and though he does push it open, he doesn't leave just yet. There are a few words to say before he needs a god damned minute alone to work through all of this.

"I hope my performance mourning you helped. I know you did it to protect us. But they all died any way."

Cruel, and he knows it, but John's grown more selfish. He slams the door to his bedroom shut, audible through the walls. Sherlock might be on his own for a little while. Or perhaps not. There are some curious folks here.

Sherlock's eyebrows go up slightly when he sees the moment John's control snaps. He expects to be punched in the face when his friend approaches and pulls his hand back to prepare for such an assault. He won't flinch away or try to stop it, since he thinks that he deserves it. Even though he had been doing it to save John's life. Even though he'd had to stay hidden away in the underground among members of his homeless network. One false move and the knowledge of his life would have put everyone in danger all over again. Not just John and the others, but himself too.

When John's hand loses momentum, Sherlock relaxes. He hadn't realised until then that he'd allow himself to brace for the attack in any way. And the way that John's knuckle brushes over his skin is almost tender, despite the unchained emotions still pouring off his friend.

He doesn't say anything to stop John from going, nor does he try to defend himself in any way. The man who in John's own words would outlive God to have the last word allows John to take that honour.

The locker room is unpleasant after John leaves. There's still a muggy steam in the air from his shower, but it's more of an internal discomfort that he's feeling. He'd just as soon have a few minutes to himself, so he chooses not to go find his way to an unclaimed room until he's had that.

For a long, long time, John just sits on the end of his bed. This is familiar territory. This is how he spends all of his time alone when not plotting out new supply gathering routes or trying to read the numerous books they've brought back from the National Library or schools they've gathered food or other materials from at the beginning. He mostly sits here worrying for the people here, what will happen when the canned goods expire, what will happen when they've eaten the dried boxed goods? Soon, and very nearly, they'll be faced with starving.

Life just isn't that simple. They can't start a farm in the countryside with the snap of their fingers. It's suicide to try to head out of the city with this many people any way.

And their attempts at gardening in one of the city's many pocket parks hasn't gone as well as John had hoped.

But that's a worry for another time. Right now, all John is thinking about is Sherlock. About the missed opportunities and the years between them. Sherlock is the same as always, but John feels as if he can hardly be called human. He's not the person Sherlock remembers and as much as that bothers him, what bothers him more is that Sherlock spent this time, this whole time, not only protecting him, but coming back to him.

And what has John done?

John's might as well gone and died too, for all he's worth.

The tears don't come. The sobs are just as horrible without them. And the walls are not thick enough for that particular sound not to travel. The two children that had first spotted Sherlock that morning, who had crept into the locker room to catch a glimpse of him now, turn their heads towards the noise and frown before deciding to ignore it.

"Hi. Are you going to kill us?" one asks, her hair cut short and her brown eyes wide.

It's not just the sound from John's room that travels through the near-desolate hospital. Whispers in the walls. Hushed conversation between two women that he can only make out half the words to. Someone singing down the hall. Objects scrape across the floor and clunk into place on shelves and chest of drawers.

And, then there's John Watson. Sherlock's ears are trained to seek that particular voice. There's no talking there. No whispers or singing. Just anguish. Sobbing, it sounds like. And, it leaves Sherlock feeling somewhat hollow.

He doesn't want John to suffer and grieve him. He's back. They're together again. That's supposed to be a start of something good. A rekindled friendship. When they'd first met, within a month, Sherlock had known that they were good for each other. Two broken, damaged men who somehow made each other better. As cheesy and sentimental as it sounds, the sum is greater than the two parts. They'd made each other whole.

But right now, he's the last person John will want to see. And, he doesn't really understand how to handle situations like this. Emotions are much easier to read than they are to console.

Sherlock doesn't look up, even though he knows the children are there, until one of them speaks to him directly. "No. As long as you don't get infected, I have no intention of killing you. The same goes for the rest of this group." Maybe he should have left it as a plain 'no', but he gets the feeling these kids understand the danger of infection having seen it first hand.

The second kid - the one who elbowed the girl in the side for asking that - looks uncomfortable. Maybe a little shy as he wrings his hands together. "Sorry about her," he says, but the new guy only shakes his head and looks away from him.

"It's a good question to ask," the girl continues and the boy simply continues to look mortified.

"Doctor Watson said he's all right, so he's all right," he insists, which does at least seem to shut the girl up for a little while. It doesn't, however, stop her from coming closer. She's a curious thing, and when she smiles, it's obvious that she's been kept in good health by the state of her teeth. She looks Sherlock up at down, pointing at his marks, wanting to know how he got them.

It's a world where children have learned to compensate for what they no longer have and though Sherlock could still be a danger, she seems capable of caring for herself. The boy too. Neither, however, seem to realize that Sherlock wants to be alone.

At least they're collected before too long by the teenage girl from before, shy and willing to flirt though she might not quite realize she's doing it. Groupie. Sherlock's had those sorts before, this is obviously nothing new.

The trek to England from Siberia might have been long, consuming, boring.

But dealing with children and teenagers might well be even more tedious.

Sherlock is quiet for the most part during the interrogation the children have him going through. He's too exhausted to try to disengage himself in a more physical way, so he sits where he is and ignores two-thirds of the questions prattled off to him. When he chooses to answer, he keeps the explanations brief, but the kids 'oo' and 'ah' at the off-handed descriptions of his 'battle scars' and how he's gotten them.

In hindsight, Sherlock will put together that the reasons the kids are so impressed with him is because other than John, no one around here puts themselves in the direct line of danger on a regular basis. No one's made time to add more scars to their bodies because they're all too busy hiding away to protect themselves.

When the young woman comes to retrieve the children, Sherlock treats her with a forced sort of politeness. The same way he'd treated Molly Hooper when he'd been looking for favours and before she'd proven herself to be more cunning and intelligent than he'd given her credit for. Whatever happened to Molly Hopper? Dead, most likely.

He has the young woman help move his hygiene items into an empty locker, then he has her lead him to a room that he can claim as his own. He asks specifically for one closer to the laboratory area.

They pass John's room while they walk and Sherlock spares a glance at the closed door. There's no more sounds of sobbing coming from that room for the moment, but the closed door means John's still seeking privacy. It's one of the wordless agreements they had when living together. If Sherlock was in his room and the door was closed, it meant 'do not disturb' and the same went for John and his rooms upstairs. Though, he had a way of ignoring the rule when it suited his purposes or when John's nightmares were particularly cruel.

It takes almost an hour before Sherlock convinces the girl to leave him to himself. He resorts to saying a few rude things about her, but she's much more resilient than Molly had ever been with those sorts of things. Almost like she's deaf to anything she doesn't want to hear. First stage 'groupie'. Oh, how lucky he is.

When he manages to pry himself from her company, he closes his door only to reconsider and leave it open by a small crack. An invitation to John, but he doubts John will be the only one to take advantage. He doesn't plan on sleeping, anyway.

Time alone doesn't have the sort of catharsis that John had hoped for. There's no such thing as an emotional balm in this world any more and he's done his best learning from his mistakes in the past when he relied too much on people. The trouble is, no matter what facade John's taken over -- learned not only from Sherlock, but from Sherlock's brother as well, he's never been very good fitting into that particular mould. He cracks because he can't turn his empathy off, though that hasn't been a problem in months.

Once he's managed to get a few new plasters on, John ends up standing just outside of Sherlock's (it must be, this room has stood empty since the only other surviving physician died by her own hand last year) room for several very long moments. He's watching shadows and bits of colour flit by the scant opening, well aware that his former flatmate knows he's out there.

Either Sherlock is being polite for once or he's in his own little world and merely waiting for John to come in so they can finish the conversation from earlier.

He misses that. He misses chats paused for hours, as if time's stopped because John hadn't be there.

John lightly taps on the door and pushes it open, cane in one hand and a strange look in his eyes. Conflict. "Care for the tour? I'll not make you jump across rooftops."

Sherlock is sitting on the bed, the leg with the bum ankle stretched out in front of him and the other curled up to his chest. The undersides of his wrist lies against the knee. He can't steeple his fingers, which makes him feel like an open circuit. But, he can rub the knuckle of his forefinger over his lips in another thoughtful habit of his.

He hears John approach his door. He knows it's John, because he recognises the particular sound of the soles of John's shoes on the ground. He'd heard it before when they walked to the locker room. He can also tell he rhythmic way John walks. An ear for music has it's uses when it comes to observations, just like an artist's eyes do.

He doesn't invite John in, knowing that the other man will do it for him. There's plenty of things for him to think about and consider while John hesitates, even if his thoughts take a turn toward John himself because of the situation.

When the door opens, Sherlock's eyes are fixed over toward the wall After John speaks, his eyes move over to find his friend's. "I was wondering when you'd come in," he comments and turns himself so he can throw his legs off the bed. He'll eventually need to let his ankle rest, but he's not the sitting down type.

Using the wall as support, Sherlock makes his way toward his friend. "A suicide, was it? I suppose not everyone can cope with a changed world." He's speaking about the room, of course. It hadn't been hard for him to deduce the details from the remaining evidence. They hadn't exactly been thorough in cleaning the location afterward.

Holding out his hand, and the cane, John has at least managed to get himself back to some semblance of normalcy. The smiles are still fake and he's understandably guarded, but the awkwardness is, in part, mellowing out. How does one face a best friend after years of isolation from them? After their death took so much? There are questions that John will be unable to answer for a long time and problems not even Sherlock can deduce. Time's the culprit, but it will also be the doctor.

"You could have picked any number of rooms, you don't have to stay in this one," John says, not exactly annoyed-- But, well, it's Sherlock. More often than not, it's impossible to figure out any of the man's motivations save for, one, it leads him to a little less boredom and two, he's insane.

There is a noted lack of answer about John's position outside in the hallway. He doesn't fill the need to fill Sherlock in on how he's trying to keep himself together. Or how much he still wants to hit the other man. Honestly, the public school prat deserves it more than most!

"If you'd like crutches, we've a few sets left of those too."

Sherlock takes the cane without comment. His steps will be off balance since the foot injury is on the right side and the arm injury on the left, but he'll somehow manage with what he's been given. It will make it easier to walk when there's no wall easily available for support.

"This room suits me," he tells John. The parallels between his 'suicide' and the previous owner of the room's suicide don't go unnoticed. He's not tender about the subject of his suicide.

Sherlock hasn't had much time over the last few years for boredom, other than during injury recovery. It's only a matter of time before being stuck in Bart's will start to drive him to fits of agitation and anger. For now, he hasn't gotten a chance to get to that point. Any time he's spent by himself has been used for thought and rest, both of which he needs.

"The cane's fine, John. I doubt crutches will do much good with a broken arm," he points out, using that same know-it-all tone of voice John should remember well. It's the kind of voice that says 'why would you bother asking such a useless question' without him having to put it into actual words.

He's starting to get fed up with how emotionally off and confused John seems. Worrying about it in his seclusion has done nothing to soften the concern he'd been feeling. And, like most other emotions that he has to process in a subjective way, it's gotten jumbled around until it's a confused and uncomfortable mess of turbulence. For now, he's able to keep it mostly to himself, but there will probably be a few unpleasant words exchanged and perhaps a blow thrown by the time their tour is up.

John's eye roll is typical, a left over impulse from when the world still made sense and people didn't try to tear each other apart each time they got the flu. He says nothing about the insult because it feels oddly right to be insulted and leans back against the door to usher Sherlock out of the room.

They start on the current floor, which is luckily where most of the activity takes place. Despite Sherlock's familiarity with Bart's, it's transformation might seem out of place. The cafeteria, for example, no longer is used for meals. The kitchen, however, is. Tables fill spaces where useless equipment (like deep fryers and rows of microwaves) once stood. Now, the cafeteria is part of the quadrangle and used for cultivation. The floor to ceiling glass around the atrium makes it ideal for some plants by the windows. Spaces further off have root vegetables growing. A quick calculation shows that the crops are not nutritionally well rounded, but they're not farmers. And they're doing their best with pilfered library books.

Next are the labs. Two of them have power, but John explains that they rarely use them. "We'd a pair of electricians here for awhile that managed to rewire the useable parts of the hospital for us. You can use this one here. Equipment is upstairs. Not sure how well they're still working, you might need to have Andrew help you tinker with them."

The gym is fairly crowded, eight people using the facilities -- pretty much anyone not on guard duty.

"Most people spend all of their time here. It's not as crowded as it use to be." There's also the morgue downstairs and the main pantry upstairs, but somethings John's opted to keep close to his chest.

Old habit.

A moment of familiar ground seems to be beneficial for both of them, as John's response just feels so John. Sherlock's irritation is still just barely under his skin, but he gets some of it out by pointing out little things that he notices as inefficient as they make a slow lap around the facilities.

Water treatment could be facilitated much quicker in the labs through distillation. The windows shading the plants are coated with UV protective film - scrape off the film, you get better sunlight. Add some used coffee grounds to the soil to add nitrogen. Sherlock doesn't know much about gardening vegetables, but he has an abundant knowledge of poisonous plants and the basic botany required for those things.

When they get to the labs, Sherlock takes more time than he's done for the other rooms. He steps into the room that John says he can use. He takes note of what equipment he's got access to and what he will need to have brought down for him. He flips a switch in one of the chemical hoods just to make sure that it's functional. There's a large enough space to fit a metal stretcher in the room comfortably in case he needs quick access to one of his future specimens.

"Yes, I think I can make do with this. You said the equipment is upstairs, but what of the chemical stores? I'd like to have a 'fresh' set of whatever's available brought down here as soon as possible so I can start going through and disposing of what's expired," he tells John as they're leaving the lab.

Sherlock takes a look at the gym and the eight faces around. He recognises one of them from the group of four earlier - the kinder gentleman with the scars on his face. "I'll remember to avoid it," he comments, proving that he values human company as much as he's always done. John's the exception... and without Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, or Mycroft; he assumes that John will be the only exception from now forward.

He can tell that John's leaving some things out. Whether it's for his good or because of the lack of trust, he's not sure of. But, he figures he'll have a chance to look through the entire area once his ankle is easier to walk on. Whether John comes clean with him before then or not is yet to be seen.

"That's it?" Sherlock asks, turning to face John once they'd reached the end of the tour.