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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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.

It'd never occurred to him to have someone remove the UV film from the windows. Or to enrich the soil with the used coffee grounds. He'd told Sherlock they did plant the egg shells from the chickens, but that'd gotten him just a look as if he was still so stupid. Not that he could help it-- So maybe pity? With the urge to smack Sherlock rising (and for the right reasons this time, which leaves John's stomach warm with familiarity) and the others in their little group so easily dismissed as secondary accessories, John doesn't take too kindly to being ordered around.

When you spend as long as he has at the top of the chain of command, even risen from the dead best friends don't get to give you orders any more.

"What do you need and I'll have it brought down to you," he says tightly. John might not be a chemist by trade but he knows his way around chemicals. Not like Sherlock does, certainly, but some of his ego is trying to reassert itself itself here. It's a typical Alpha Male issue and one that John has more or less been forced to reclaim as his leadership became essential to his own survival. "And yes. Actually, yes, this is it. You'll find it's a lot better than what most people get to have these days." And he should know. He's raided enough small hole-ups abandoned to infection to know just how good he has it.

Sherlock has no interest in a battle for territory, but he's never taken orders from anyone in his life. Even as a child, he'd always had a problem with authority figures. Sure, he quietly obeys when it suits his purposes, but otherwise he does things how he wants, whether or not anyone around him sees his methods as conventional.

So far, John hasn't done anything that's transgressed into something for Sherlock to scoff at. It would go over poorly for both him and John if it gets to that point. Others would see someone questioning John's authority which would possibly have bad repercussions for his friend's position on the top. Without John's position, Sherlock doesn't get what he needs, either.

"Since I doubt you'll be able to remember everything - and even if you could, the idiot you have gathering the materials probably won't - I'll write out a list of chemicals and equipment I'll need," he concedes. It's not how John asked for the information, but it's an objectively better method, even if his tone is a bit guarded when he says it.

The comment about the tour being thorough just earns John a slightly uncertain look from his friend. He knows one place that he's seen people that John's failed to mention. The rooftop. That, as well as other rooms he's sure would be used for guard duty.

Edited 2013-11-03 19:39 (UTC)

For all intents and purposes, there is no roof top. John has never gone there and he doesn't plan on leading Sherlock up there either. He doesn't want to view to place his friend jumped from. His dreams of it as vivid enough from the ground floor to bother with getting a bird's eye view of the pavement long since scraped of blood and coated with more and washed away again. And the guard rooms-- Well Sherlock doesn't need to know about the spaces in the other building and what they're used for either. Not right now. Secrets are not something John expects to keep from Sherlock for very long, but in all honestly, he'd never thought he'd have to either.

"All right, I'll find you a working pen. You'd not believe how difficult that's going to become in a few more years. Returning to quill and ink is going to be a set back that I hope I'm not around for." And back to joking? No. It's for show as they leave the gym. The smile is dropped almost right away the moment they cross the threshold and the doors swish quietly shut behind them.

Hiding from Sherlock is impossible and John is too tired to try it.

"I'm going to start you on a vitamin regimen like the rest of us. It's funny what looters will leave behind during an initial panic. The B-12 is only in chewables, though. Dinner ought to be in two hours back in the kitchen. It's Gabrielle's turn to cook so we'll likely be having something with beans and frost bitten meat."

Business, business.

"Until your ankle heals a bit, try to stay off the stairs, will you?" The way he's speaking, it's as if John intends to leave Sherlock on his own. And yes, that is indeed what he'd planning. The trouble is, they've had so much time apart all ready and-- "I'll meet you in your room as soon as I find a pen, all right?" As much as John seems to want to be alone, he also can't stand the thought.

Edited 2013-11-03 19:58 (UTC)

John's false joviality falls extremely flat with Sherlock. When the two of them had joked around before, it always had a propagating effect. One would smile and the other would follow. When one of them laughed, the other almost always joined in within seconds. But this time, Sherlock has no desire to so much as soften his expression.

"I think quill and ink would be the least of your worries. A minor set back compared to the dwindling human race. It's only a matter of time before the medications expire. And, the food," Sherlock mutters on their way past the gym. It's a test of the waters, that. He'd made sure his voice hadn't been loud enough to carry to anyone but John. Just how much was he going to insist on the front before it just gets to be too much weight to shoulder?

The vitamin regimen sounds like a good idea and one he'd been attempting through those powdered shakes (though, there might be a few deficiencies because those shakes don't have all essential nutrients within them.) His only comment about the idea is the off-handed remark that chewable B-12 can't be as bad as powdered milk substitute reconstituted with water. And there's no comment at all about the extremely high protein meal he has to look forward to.

There it is. Another dismissal. Not entirely unexpected, but he still doesn't want to hear it. He'd rather spend his time gritting his teeth and feeling unsettled with John by his side than alone in his room. Or worse, with some of the other people around here bothering him.

"Fine," he says through clenched teeth as he turns to face John. He's still got his size and his intensity to stare his friend down with. "Since it's so difficult being in the same room with me, I'm sure I can go quietly back to the corner. As for the pen, I've already located one, so don't bother. I'll give you the list at dinner."

In a way, Sherlock's dismissive words hurt more than John believes he can bear and yet, he does bear it as he has learned to do over the years. He'd been alone before Sherlock and alone after him. Why not learn to be alone with him too?

As much as John knew about the medical supplies, about their lack luster and expendable food sources, he'd not needed to hear it from Sherlock too. Many, many nights had been spent listening to the howling, madly infected people still roaming the streets and sitting with Bill discussing just where it is they can search next for a new source of food, for entertainment, for something to keep their dwindling band of survivors alive long enough to see one more day.

Sherlock's tongue cuts him to the quick. He has so many things to snarl at a man he never wanted to leave him but instead, and so very true to form, he holds it in. Shoulders straighten and John turns from Sherlock without a goodbye.

Nothing can be the same and to think it might have been for even a moment here or there today had been a mistake. And one John won't make again.

For the next few days, they see each other for meals that Sherlock bothers attending. John has those he misses delivered to his room or to the lab. Most of the children are ready volunteers. Bill is tasked with playing go-for for the brilliant detective, though John doesn't realize how much Bill's animosity grows because of the constant trips to the store rooms.

On the fourth day since Sherlock's arrival at Bart's, John prepares for an early morning scouting session. He plans to hike across the Waterloo bridge and if he can make it, break into the Tate Modern to see if he can retrieve any canned goods or sweets from the cafeteria or the gift shop.

It's a long day, but he doesn't go alone. The job is too big for that. Bill and Josie leave with John and none of them bother with goodbyes. It's not worth it. At least without the two ex-Army at the camp, Sherlock finds himself far more free with his wanderings. And, perhaps, far more free with his questionings too.

Sherlock hadn't meant for John to take his dismissal so poorly, but he'd done nothing to stop his friend from retreating away from him. It was the last time he'd had a chance to speak with him one-on-one since arriving and he still wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

He'd gone back to his room straight away to get the pen he'd noticed tucked away in the spine of a writing book the other physician had been using as a diary. He'd ripped a blank sheet near the end of the book and wrote down his request, then took the book to start reading through. The handwriting was sometimes shaking and hard to read, but he managed to read thirty pages before dinner on the first night.

Throughout the next few days, Sherlock didn't approach John, nor any of the others. He remained evasive with his answers and eventually began being short with people. It was enough to push most of them away from trying to establish any meaningful connection to him. Well, the adults, anyway.

He got what few answers he could get through the physician's diary at night while he stayed in bed and didn't sleep until the small hours. Insomnia had once again taken him now that he was staying in one place and not expending as much energy. He read about the various people who had once been part of the lock down, including Molly Hooper and her unfortunate demise. Lestrade had been around too, in the beginning. There were several places in the book that had been scribbled over beyond recognition. Both sides of the paper so he couldn't make out what was written even with his forensically suited mind. It gave him a bad feeling and left him with so many questions.

He'd wanted to ask John about them, but the other man's cold shoulder made him bristle so much that he started to skip meals just to avoid being in the same room as him. He'd taken food in the lab more often than not.

Work in the lab was slow, but it was a good distraction. He'd set up the distillation station in the other lab with a direct feed from the sink for a constant supply of water. Every few hours, someone had to come and switch out the collection containers before they overflowed. It had substantially increased the rations for drinking water for everyone in the compound, which made most of the adults welcome him as an official part of the 'team'.

In the morning a few days later, Sherlock notices Josie packing up in preparation for something and follows him until he overhears the three men discussing their plans for scouting for foodstuffs. He doesn't interrupt and leaves before being noticed. After returning to his lab, he stays by the window long enough to observe John and the others leaving. He assumes that it will be three hours at minimum and eight maximum (they wouldn't risk returning after the sun goes down).

Any government leaders should know not to send away the two highest ranking 'officials' at the same time. Sherlock won't complain, since it suits him well.

No longer needing the cane for his movement, he makes a quick trip to his room to pick up the diary before seeking out Sarah. She's the one person he knows will wag her tongue with a few kind words which makes her the easiest target for finding a few answer. Like - why would someone go through a diary to mark out long passages? (He'd deduced that the ink used to write the entries is consistent with the pen he'd found in the diary, but the ink used to scribble out key information had been several shades darker.)

Sarah is beyond thrilled to have Sherlock's attention and she offers him a small bit of the sweet she'd been eating. Chocolate is a rare commodity and she'd been saving it for some time. Halfway between being an adult and a child, in many ways, Sarah has it harder than either. She's the only person here of her age group. There are three children younger than her and the rest are all much older.

She's been willing to tell him a great deal all ready when he'll let her. She'd been here with her mother, dying of cancer, when the government shut down. While Gabrielle, Andrew and Josie had also all been here since the beginning, Sarah is likely the best possible source Sherlock could ever hope for.

She smiles up at him whether he takes the morsel of chocolate or not, sitting with the plants in the cafeteria where work on the UV removal has already been completed.

"You have Doctor Roderick's diary," she mentions, surprised. "You shouldn't be reading things like that. Gabrielle says it's rude."

Sherlock declines the offer for the chocolate. He's got a bit of a sweet tooth, but the way it's melting in her hands is not appealing to his appetite in any way. He's also under the impression that since she's so young, she's more entitled to having sweets. (Where had thoughts like that come from? Possibly because the only people he's bothered 'befriending' since his arrival have been the children. Funny, that.)

"So you recognise it?" Sherlock replies with an encouraging smile as he takes a seat next to her. It's fairly close and if any of the other adults were to walk by, it would certainly look odd. He has no romantic interest in the girl, though. Regardless of how she feels toward him.

"You're aware of what happened with her," Sherlock says, then he sets the book on his knee with his good hand and opens it up to a 'random' page that has several bits edited out. "Because of of that, I'm reading this as a memoir more than an invasion of privacy." A white lie, but it should make his intentions seem more noble than prying information that's obviously not meant for his eyes. With how fresh the darker ink is, he can only assume that certain information has been redacted with him in mind.

"Oh." Sarah turns back to her chocolate. "Well that's all right then," she mentions. "Maybe I'll read it when you're done. I really liked her." 'Likeable' in terms of 'being liked by Sarah' isn't a whole lot of information, but it's something to build off of at least.

She turns again to look at Sherlock and twists her whole body around until she's sitting cross-legged in front of him. Her lips quirk a little.

"But that stuff happens all the time. The suicides, I mean. Well, not since Doctor Roderick. She held out the longest I guess. Gabrielle said that either you learn to live without or you stop wanting to live all together. Some people just give up. I'm not one of those people."

Her smile falters ever so slightly.

"Sorry. Shouldn't speak ill of the dead and all that."

Sherlock turns slightly more toward her, making sure that his body language mirrors hers. It's a way to make it appear that he's open and interested in her and what she has to say. Well, he is very interested in her stories (when they don't end in babbling), but not so much her as a person.

"Here," he tells her when she says she'd like to read the diary. He hands her the book, having already memorised it for the most part. "There's a few spots that someone's marked out. Maybe you could fill in the missing details?"

He's giving her a way to offer him a favour. Much in the same way asking to borrow a pencil from someone can give a lasting increase in affection, so can outwardly asking for favours. It intentionally puts the other person in a position of being the 'good guy' and humans cling to the thought that they're doing good by their own rules.

"You shouldn't think you're speaking ill of anyone when you're merely giving an objective truth." And now, he's putting himself on her side in a personal matter. Really, John should be punching him right about now.

He's found it both fascinating and horrifying when Sherlock's put on a sham, but luckily, there's no one there to complain about the inhumanity the other man is using to coax answers out of a girl he knows fancies him. Using people had once been part of the 'not good' John'd often warned him about but lately-- Lately there's so much of this new, unlikeable John to deal with that who knows how true that can actually be any more.

Sarah takes the journal and sets it on her knees, flipping through the pages. "Her handwriting is a little hard to read but... Yeah, probably." She does want Sherlock to like her and this doesn't seem all that wrong.

"Oh, this is about Molly..." Sarah frowns. "She was really nice too. A little weird I guess. She had been watching the infected for awhile before-- Well, it's bad news to keep them. They find a way out. Bash themselves in the doors...or someone does something stupid. Doctor Watson had to shoot her. I think he fancied her a bit when he did it. He was sad for a long time after that."

Her fingers skim a few other pages and she pauses towards the next big second scribbled out and then flips over it as if it's nothing.

"Oh, and here..." She's onto the third redacted section now, looking uncomfortable. "She mentions Thomas so this is probably the-- He did something pretty bad to Gabrielle. That's why we have a no tolerance policy now. Doctor Roderick didn't like it."