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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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Sherlock leans over toward Sarah so he can read over her shoulder. This is not something he's doing intentionally to manipulate the girl. He's genuinely interested in what's written in the book and he wants to follow along with what's written there.

"Molly Hooper," he asks to confirm when Sarah starts speaking about her. So the group had been taking 'live' samples of the infected to study. At least, at first. He's glad that John hasn't given him much time to ask him about his own ideas. He'll devise a way to make sure that the infected don't get out. It can't be that hard with a mind like his. The thought of putting a face he knows and remembers well into the category of infected gives him an unpleasant jolt. A reminder that these things they're dealing with used to be human. Something he's forgotten after dismembering so many of them.

He takes note of the second spot that's been marked out. He'll ask her about it once they get to a point where he's no longer getting new information. What can be 'unimportant' for one person could be very important in the grand scheme of things.

From the context and the way the young girl evades the topic, he can safely assume that the 'something pretty bad' is both violent and sexual in nature. In a world of violence, sex is the only thing that can still be considered 'too much' for youth. And adults do love to keep children in the dark whenever they get a chance. In Sherlock's opinion, it's merely stunting intellectual growth.

"Capital punishment?" Sherlock hazards. Human nastiness begets human nastiness.

But why would these messages be scratched out and hidden from him? What could he learn through this book that he wouldn't be able to deduce with observation?

"What about the next one?" Sherlock asks, reaching down to flip through the pages for her.

The next one is a list and Sarah shakes her head before she really looks closely. "Ooh. Oh I think it's the people that died last year when the west wing of the hospital was over run? Or--" It's not actually, and when Sherlock really examines it, he'll see part of an m and a g's little tail after it. Ingredients? No, likely a list of chemicals. "There's a few pages missing so-- I don't know, I'm sorry."

The rest of the cross outs are only glanced over and Sarah can't do much with them. It's mostly names. Or dates. A scribbled out map.

Some of the names she gives Sherlock. At least one she's lying about not knowing. Her guilty tell is remarkable. She might as well have a neon sign advertising it! "It's sad, more than helpful I guess."

Sherlock's patience starts to run thin as the information does. There's something hidden in these pages and he's getting a very good idea of what it is. It's clear that there's been some experimentations going on with the infected - perhaps with non-infected as well. Deliberate dosing with the pathogen in order to test vaccinations perhaps. But why hide it from him when more than one person has mentioned him 'finding a cure' since his arrival.

Finally, when they get to the end of the book, Sherlock takes it from her and opens it to the page where the warning signs of her lying had shone the most.

"I see. What I don't understand is what you think you can gain from deliberately withholding information," he says, no longer using the sugar-coated voice from before. He doesn't take well to being lied to, especially not when it's something this big. He presses his finger over the tell-tale smudge of ink and turns the book toward her. "This. As well as the second large redaction."

Sarah doesn't mean to frown. Things had been going so well and frowning at Sherlock seems to be the wrong thing to do, but he's getting angry and she's not a fool enough to ignore that. Her heart just isn't in it any more. Sitting here is too painful.

So she doesn't try to grab the book back. She just stands. "Sometimes it's better to leave things alone," she says, her feet slightly pigeon toeing. Likely out of her own childishness upset. Her eyes dart past Sherlock to the door and then back to him again. "If you really-- Talk to Mr. Murray. He knows a lot more about it than anyone else. I'm sorry. I've got to go. It's my turn on the roof."

Sherlock takes the book and the name she's given him, but he doesn't try to stop her when she leaves. He's irritated that he'd let his own childish frustration get the better of him, but he's nowhere further from the truth after making her upset than he'd been before.

Murray. The name sparks his recollection. Bill Murray. That's why the man's face seemed familiar. He'd met the man once. One of John's old buddies from Afghanistan and out on the expedition of finding more food currently. They don't get along well, but he can handle and manipulate bad blood as easily as he can a girl's fragile heart.

Once he hears her footsteps disappear down to the corridor, Sherlock turns the pages in the diary to the chemical list and tries to make as much sense as he can from it. Next, he looks at the crossed out map. He may not be able to read the labels, but he can deduce where the rooms are.

He pockets the book and starts to make his way to the stairwell. He'll go and have a look around the next level up at some of the rooms John had failed to mention to him during their tour.

The three return home with satisfied looks on their faces and only one limping. It's been an exceptionally good trip and even if Josie had fallen down the stairs while running from a group of infected and came back limping, their packs are full and John's planning on going back again tomorrow. There are giant cans of food, some of which are past their expiration, but they can usually tell which is still safe to eat and which they should just toss. The jerky is something he's happiest about and he can't stop grinning as he pulls the injured man up to the portcullis and waits for the people on guard duty to let them in.

"Has Sherlock been out of the lab at all today?" he asks the moment he sees Gabrielle and hands off his pack to her as he continues to take the injured man to the medical lab for an examination to be on the safe side.

She grins and shakes her head. John just rolls his eyes.

Of course, they have to pass the lab to get to his own and Sherlock isn't actually in there. Bathroom break? John tells himself it doesn't matter and tends instead to his injured man.

The whole of their little part of the hospital is abuzz when Sherlock emerges from the chemical supply closet, well stocked and carefully hidden. John's brought back food. No wonder he's their leader.

Sherlock had lost track of time in his exploration upstairs. He'd meant to do a preliminary examination of the area, make a few deductions about things, and then go back downstairs with no one the wiser. But, he'd been first distracted by a rather extravagant barricade leading to the west wing of the hospital.

Sarah had mentioned the west wing had gotten overrun, but he doesn't hear anything from the other side of the barrier. Not a living (or unliving) soul.

He'd messed with a few of the objects blocking the way, but he couldn't do much with a broken arm.

He'd found where they kept spare weapons, including several live grenades and enough C4 to blow the hospital off the map (in case of an extreme emergency, he guesses). He'd also found the main food storage. Most importantly, he'd found the chemical storage area in the very last corner of the floor farthest from the stairs and tucked away past an ominous looking ransacked room.

That's where his time had gone. And he finds himself still looking through each label carefully. He'd found a plastic bin in the barricade and he's filling it up with every solvent, metal, salt, and whatever else he can get his hands on. As the lead chemist of the facilities, he's feeling both betrayed and irritated that no one - John - had thought to tell him about this.

Feeling that he's done something They don't want him to be doing, he takes a detour on his way back to his lab. Stealth is the key and avoiding to be seen is imperative. It's something he's always been fairly good at, so he uses those skills in order to make it back to his lab where he can temporarily hide his haul in drawer at the secondary lab bench. The same one the stool he'd been using at first usually stands in front of. Once finished with that, he takes out a few slides he'd already looked at and pretends to be observing them under the microscope for when someone comes to retrieve him.

John again. Tray in hand. He's showered and collected something for them both to eat. Bill hadn't been happy to see John going, but sometimes Bill is just a little too intense and as much as John owes the man his life for dragged him into the pit after he'd been shot, he's been wanting to hit him a lot lately. It's better this way. And John is starting to feel homesick for the first time since the mess came.

No. Since Sherlock jumped from the roof. Sherlock had saved him just as clearly as Bill did, but in a very different sort of way.

"Are you busy or can you have some bean soup with me? We've some bread as well, fresh made. No milk, but the powdered creamer works fairly well." He's not good at small talk with Sherlock. They've always just fell into easy patterns but John can't blame Sherlock for this one.

This bed is his own doing.

"I thought we could talk."

Funny how it's as soon as Sherlock's starting to feel the most betrayed by John that the other man seeks him out for the first time in almost a week. He doesn't look up from his microscope when he clearly hears John enter the room. Right now, he doesn't really trust what his face might give away.

It's about 'powdered creamer' that Sherlock finally moves his head away from the oculars and allows himself to look at John. Sherlock probably looks tired. Still somewhat upset, too.

"You're babbling, John," he tells him as he clicks the switch to turn the microscope off. He'll leave the slide in place since it won't cause any damage to the instrument. No one's likely to come in here without his express permission after he'd blown up at the youngest boy for doing just that after the fact. (He'd also proven he could do 'magic' in terms of observation and deduction that morning.)

Babbling and awkward. He still gestures with his good hand toward an empty spot on the lab bench. It's an invitation for John to sit down and an acceptance of the offer of a hot meal. He'd skipped lunch that day and no one had thought to deliver food without John there to worry over it.

"I think talking would be good. I have a few things I need to address as well; but since you brought it up, you go first," he tells him with a few of his defences up in place. It's how they'd been when they first lived together in that strange period where they were just starting to become real friends.

He hadn't been babbling but this needs to end and so he lets Sherlock get his sharp words in. Being patient had always been just the thing when dealing with Sherlock and John's needed these few days, and this afternoon's win, to get him back into that mindset. Worrying about losing Sherlock again would help no one.

He sets out the two plates carefully so as not to spill anything and takes up his spoon before he can collect his thoughts entirely. It occurs to him that this part isn't necessary. Sherlock can, and will, fill in the details he glosses over for when he actually starts to babble.

"Nothing stopped when you died," he tells the other man over the steam, not looking up. "I thought it might, but it just kept coming. I thought the morgue was the worst bit. But the funeral-- You'll be happy to note that I gave Mycroft a black eye at it--" Sherlock probably knows. Sherlock might have even been there to watch John try not to fall apart. John bites down his anger at that. "Right, so I did my best to visit your grave. To tie up your loose cases. Managed to get DI Les--" And how easy it is to just say his name sometimes!

John clears his throat and drops the unused spoon.

"The point is, I keep treating you as if you're dead. I need to apologize for that. I don't-- What I mean to say is that--" John lowers his head. "I'm just glad you're here."

Sherlock stands near the microscope until John's sitting down with his soup. He doesn't feel like taking a seat just yet, but he hasn't gotten restless enough to start pacing, either. As John expects, Sherlock is able to piece a lot of John's story together that he's not saying in words. Gestures, where his eyes fall, and his own memory. He had attended his funeral, unnoticed and in the corner, dressed as an elderly homeless woman. So out of the way no one had made 'her' leave.

As John's words - briefer than he'd expected - come to a close, Sherlock takes the seat offered him at the beginning. He picks up his spoon, but he doesn't eat just yet.

Things hadn't been easy for him, either. He'd pretty much lost everything when he jumped from that rooftop. Including John. Sure, he knew he was alive, but that only lasted for a few months before he lost touch with his contacts in London. Afterwards, there'd always been the not knowing. Sometimes dark moods came to him, as they'd always done, and he'd think to himself that he was doing all of this for nothing and that John would be dead by the time they could reunite. He won't say any of this to John, at least not in so many words. He's not the type to dwell on past suffering.

"I'm glad you're here, too," Sherlock says after too long of twiddling his spoon and looking at his untouched soup. "And, I don't think a week of being ignored is enough to tip the scales in my favour."

He dips the spoon into the beans and takes the first bite. Communion. Isn't that what John's offered him?

Now, it's his turn to talk. "I think someone here is trying to hide something very big from me, John. Do you know anything about it?" Sherlock asks him and for the first time since sitting down, he looks directly at his friend. John, you won't lie to me, will you?

Ah, so this. John sets down his spoon and frowns at Sherlock. "I didn't want you in our supply closets," John says immediately, missing the point of what Sherlock had been getting at. "I am very well aware of your habits and we simply do not have all the supplies in the world for you to use them at your fancy."

Strangely, John feels better about coming clean on this respect. Walking on eggshells around a man perfectly capable of discovering all of his sordid past can easily figure out that he's been trying to hide their supplies.

"Now don't be cross about that and don't say that I'm working on three year old information. I'll make sure you've access to everything you need, but I don't want you latching on an idea about how to properly clean the vegetables using all the rest of our petrol!"

He's exaggerating, and not just for effect. Sherlock's genius, and his boredom, have let him to odd but amazing discoveries.

Sherlock's stoic face, however, draws John back. "That's not what you meant," he voices out loud. "What... Are you thinking on?"

Edited 2013-11-04 15:25 (UTC)

Sherlock doesn't so much as look over at his secret haul from the supplies closet. He'd only taken the items that hadn't been given to him so he'll have access to them. He doesn't have any plans for extracurricular experimentation for the moment, but he's also not fighting boredom yet.

It's easy for him to see that John's convinced that the 'something big' is just the chemical stores. Sherlock had known the supplies existed, even before stumbling across it this afternoon, so it seems an awfully mundane and small matter.

"I've already been upstairs and I've taken what you failed to mention having," he says plainly. And, as John's notice, his face is still very serious.

The diary is on his person. He slips his hand into his breast pocket (why yes, he'd had his hunting coat cleaned) and removes the smallish book. He sets it down on the lab bench between their bowls of soup. "Someone redacted quite a bit of information - ink was fresh when I found it. Less than six hours old. Most death accounts were redacted as well as one page listing dosing details. Several pages after that were completely torn out. What I don't understand is why leave the diary in my possession yet bother to remove so much detail?"

Roderick's diary. Now, it's John's turn to have any good will, or any annoyance at Sherlock's not-quite-thievery be replaced by that coldness again. He'd taken it from the doctor's room just after she died, not to have passes crossed out or pages removed, but to keep it from everyone else. To keep it for himself. Some of the accounts--

Slowly, John turns pages that Sherlock's fingers have recently rifled through. He knows each of the pages by heart and to see them scratched out just gets him angry. It's strange to watch John's face be so devoid of any feeling at all, especially when he gets to the second passage even Sarah wouldn't discuss.

His blood just runs cold and he wipes his hand across his lips. There's no sign of a tremour. With a precise hand, he snaps the diary closed and hands it back to Sherlock.

"Don't ask me, Sherlock. And don't go looking for answers. This isn't a case. If you need one of those, how about a cure? Or if not that, a way to keep ourselves alive when the food invariably runs out? Or even a way to stretch out drug supplies."

He's not trying to be closed off. He's trying not to be hurt.

Sherlock watches John's face more than the book as he looks through the diary. He's already got everything that's legible memorised enough to be able to recreate it word for word, so he doesn't need to look down at all. John's face tells him a lot. It says that John's offended someone's defaced this diary, so he hadn't known about it before Sherlock's just showed him. That's troubling on a different level, since John is supposed to be an authority figure and these things are happening right under his nose without him so much as getting a whiff.

Again, it's the second redaction that has the strongest reaction. Sherlock's eyebrows furrow when John closes himself and the book up before he can get the answers.

"This is being hidden from me personally, John. I want to know why and I will find the answers. With or without your help," Sherlock tells him coolly as he takes the diary back from his friend. It's soured the mood between them all over again, and it's sparked his interest even further.

John should know that when Sherlock takes an interest in something, it becomes an obsession. It's how he'd always treated cases as well as experiments.

"A cure can wait until I've solved this." He's serious with that. As for the drug supplies, that's easy enough to remedy. All he needs is the right solvents and reagents and he can recreate most of the pharmaceuticals they'd need for survival. (The only thing he'd need is the 3D image of the molecule for that.)

"And...if I were to ask you to leave?" What could be so important to John to throw Sherlock out over it? And again, why would he pseudo-threaten him when they both know that John would never actually do that. Turning Sherlock out is an impossible thought, but he may have Sherlock restrained. Or locked up. That wouldn't go well for their strained relationship but this is starting to overwhelm John.

He opens his mouth as if to retract his last statement, but he can't. Lips closed again, John stands, a meal sorely needed after today's exertions going untouched and likely wasted. His appetite has simply vanished.

John will leave without a word, leaving the door open on his way out. He isn't sure what to do. Confining Sherlock will never work. The man has likely grown far more resourceful in their time apart. But John feels trapped.

He secures the lock on his door that evening. He already knows the nightmares will come. They will not be of the war. Or of Sherlock's silvery-green eyes staring upward, face bloody.

They'll be of Greg Lestrade instead.

John's response surprises him in the worst way. He knows deep down that John would never send him away, because that would mean sending him to a fate worse than death. But, the threat is still there. And the resulting expression on Sherlock's face is one he's never looked at John with before. Moriarty, yes. Mycroft, yes. But not John. Cold and challenged.

"I'd leave," Sherlock says without looking up at the door as John leaves. He knows that John's heard him, but there's a lingering silence as soon as the door closes.

For lack of anything else to do, Sherlock continues eating his soup. It's tasteless and feels like he's eating lead instead of food, but it's liable to be the only thing he'll have access to eat until breakfast.

Anything he assumes about the blacked out passage is nothing but conjecture and bias. He needs answers. He won't be able to sleep until he finds them. Especially not after how John's reacted to him. No. He'll think of John later. He can't afford to let residual sentiment cloud his judgement. Right now, he's got to focus on the problem.

Bill Murray. That's who he needs to see. He finishes his soup and puts both bowls back on the tray. The tray is heavy and awkward in one hand, but the thought of rotten bean smell invading his lab is an unpleasant one, so he carries it to the kitchen to deposit for cleaning.

Once he has Bill's location, he heads directly to speak with him.

To say that Bill hadn't been expecting Sherlock would be false. He's on duty, patrolling the hallways. There's always a few screams at night, but that's from the nightmares and they're fairly each to deal with. You just check the doors. If they're locked? The people inside are safe. And if they aren't, they'll figure that out in the morning and dispose of them once they break down the door after breakfast.

Bill watches Sherlock approach with a frown on his face and turns, knowing the other man will follow him. "Still don't know why you'd come back. From what I saw, you always treated him like shite on your shoes."

But what's Bill to know?

"I was there when you left him. Faking your death like that isn't something a sane bloke does. You should have stayed away."

Sherlock can see the change in Bill's posture as soon as he's noticed. He doesn't do anything to hide his presence nor does he do anything to rise to the provocations. That's all they are, since Bill Murray doesn't mean anything to him personally. He'd protect him in a pinch, but not at the expense of his own safety, just because that's what people do.

He matches pace with Bill, keeping just a short distance behind. This will be tricky. Slippery. However this conversation ends, he might find himself kicked outside anyway, restrained, or beaten up. Or, he could find a new ally.

"I doubt you'd believe me, but I assure you that I did want to fake my death nor did I want to hurt John. I did what I did because it was necessary and because if I didn't, then John's life would have ended instead," he explains. It's none of Bill Murray's business and he doesn't like to tote on about heroics, but establishing himself as someone with John's best interest in mind is necessary.

"Interestin' that you didn't answer me on why you came back." Actually, it's not that interesting at all, but Bill still wants to hear what he knows Sherlock won't say. There are many, many sorts of madness that can happen when people are cut off from each other, and many more when they are allowed to be too close.

The scenarios ought to play out for Sherlock now, though how he deduces them likely will be a mystery for everyone involved. Bill's jealousy is sexually seated. Had he and John had an affair? Perhaps. Bill at least had wanted one and still wants one. John had either denied him outright or had stopped it along the way for whatever reason.

Either way, it's a problem. Bill is attached to John.

Attached enough to steal something John held personal, crossed out passages, and evidently had been clever enough to hope that Sherlock would be forced to leave once John discovered he was pushing mysteries and tearing open old wounds.

Possessive. Sherlock had already noticed that sort of thing coming from Bill before this conversation, so he's not surprised. He's testing the waters, trying to see if Sherlock is some sort of competition for John's affections.

He's not interested. Sex and romance have never interested him, but he's got his own protective streak when it comes to John. He doesn't want to see his friend hurt, especially not through someone's attempts at using him. Moriarty had done enough of that, so once he realises the deepest seeds of motivation, that will be a breaking point.

For now, he just notices territorial behaviour. Arrogance. Pride - but pride in what, exactly?

It's not hard to associate the marked passages and Bill. Sarah had sent him to ask Bill, so it's likely she might suspect as much. But, he won't act on half-formed notions simply because intuition tells him to. That's bias and something he's never accepted in his work. He has an observation, a question, a hypothesis, and all he needs left is to run the experiment.

"He's my friend," Sherlock says plainly. "Isn't that reason enough?" It's as much detail as he'll give Bill.

He keeps his eyes on the other man as he takes the diary out of his pocket. He extends it out to the Bill's hand, while taking specific interest in the emotions that will cross over his face. Was it you, Bill?

Bill's eyes harden. It's extremely dark in this part of the hallway. He's holding a candle, something they make here at camp, because batteries are too precious to waste on patrol. The infected have distinct sounds and are attracted to brightness. Having one's torch out unless absolutely needed, even in the safety of this space, is unwise.

"No it's not reason enough," Bill says, not taking the offered diary. "Stupidest thing I've ever heard. You don't come back for a near impossibility. Not even for one of your men, not this far into enemy territory. Certainly not if you aren't even sure if they made it. Chances are, he wouldn't have made it. So you love him then?"

He's much less careful than Sherlock when looking for information.

That's it. So it had been Bill who marked the diary, which means he's gotten himself into a very dangerous situation. Alpha male (because, let's face it. John's 'alpha', but Sherlock is even more 'alpha') against beta male. He'd win on cunning alone, but they're a bit too far from camp, his arm is still unusable, and he's facing a man both possessive enough and defensive enough to be a physical threat.

"You don't understand," Sherlock starts, sliding the diary back into his pocket now that he has his answer on the 'who'. It leaves the questions of 'why' and 'what's still hidden' left. "John is my only friend."

'Love' or not, Sherlock isn't going to label how he feels toward John in such simplistic terms. It cheapens things and doesn't quite cover all of the details.

John's never expressed his own set of feelings towards Sherlock because they are so contradictory. Love? Absolutely, he loves his former flatmate. Was it romantic love? It certainly wasn't like the love he sought out from his various girlfriends, but none of them could ever hold a candle to Sherlock. Complicated as it may be, complicated as it still is now, there's nothing about it that Bill can ever understand.

It's obvious that Bill doesn't understand the difference, or what 'friend' means to Sherlock. He can't wrap his head around the idea of 'soul mates' without there being a physical relationship involved. He's like most people in that regard, one who has never experienced being connected the way Sherlock and John had been.

Not that Bill needs pity. The man is on guard duty. He's armed. He's very capable of overpowering an injured Sherlock.

"You really shouldn't have come here, but now that you are... What do you want from him? He's not your anything."

For the first time since they'd started speaking, Bill manages to say something that makes Sherlock react. It's a small thing. His eyes widening slightly, then narrowing, and glancing to the side. 'He's not your anything' is what had done it.

Whether or not he feels the same, Sherlock still considers John his best and only friend. And as such, he'll make sure that he's safe from anyone who means him harm. Including old war buddies from Afghanistan with a twisted sense of affection. He's still not sure of what the purpose of Bill's behaviour is, but it's not good and it had obviously hurt John a great deal when Sherlock brought it up.

"Nothing," Sherlock says. It's not true, though. He wants a lot from John - acknowledgement, trust, friendship, laughter. He wants things to be how they were.

"But, since I am here, I'll be watching. Him, you, the others. And, if I don't like what I see, I'll act on it." It might not be the cleverest thing to say to someone who's got the physical advantage, but if it starts an altercation, Sherlock can still walk away with the upper hand. He's got training that fits with his natural grace and dexterity instead of brute force.