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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I ought to be tired, yes," he tells Sherlock, eyes opening at the first brush of his hand...and then again when it stops. He'd been contented in between those times. It's not often someone has sought to comfort him physically in his adult life. Not Sarah, not any of his other girlfriend. Lestrade, on a few occasions where he felt the need to pat his back. But otherwise, and for the last year or so, John had been physically isolated.

It hasn't done wonders for him in the end. He's not the same person as before and while that's a good thing on some level...he still really wishes that Sherlock would have kept it up just that. That small grounded touch.

John's got no problem with being a touchstone.

The flounce of long limbs behind him, however, is cause for a smile and John gives Sherlock as much space as he'll need, even if there's a chance of the curve of his back touching Sherlock's shoulder or arm.

"These last few days have been painfully long."

Sherlock lets out a few noises of frustration until he finally finds a reasonably comfortable position. Only one of his feet is sticking out from the bottom of the blanket and he kicks at it until it's properly covered. When he's finished, he treats himself to a huffy sigh.

"These last few years have been painfully long," Sherlock corrects as he stretches out and lets his body relax. In the process, he lets his entire upper arm fill the space between his side and John's back.

He's not going to be able to give John as much room as the other man would probably like, since he doesn't want to pin his broken arm too snugly against the wall. It's bad enough dealing with an injury like this with nothing to numb the pain without putting too much awkward pressure against it.

It's not as if the space they are sharing is really made for two people. Beds in hospitals have traditionally been made for large patients, certainly, but only one of those patients at a time. John doesn't really mind Sherlock's presence, though.

He never has -- save for on his dates where the other man made it impossible for him to scare-- Oh, that brings a small chuckle to his lips. Sherlock Holmes, always in the way of him getting laid.

"I'd sooner forget these last few years even existed," John admits. "Are you sure you won't take anything at all for your arm? More muscle relaxants if nothing else?" He'd roll over to speak but-- Well, Sherlock's spread himself out.

Sherlock would move his arm up and under his head if John asked him to. At least he's very thin and John's not very much wider than he is. As long as he doesn't try to curl up, they should be able to manage without him pushing John off the bed and onto the floor. But with this small space? John's nightmares might end with Sherlock getting an elbow hard in the nose or gut. A risk he's willing to take.

When his friend starts to laugh, Sherlock turns to look at the back of John's head. Whatever's tickling him is something in his mind and he starts to ask what it is, but John beats him to breaking the 'silence'.

"I'm fine," Sherlock tells him stubbornly. A muscle relaxant might be nice, but he doesn't want to get used to that relief because it wouldn't do well for going into areas infested by the Infected. "I might take an aspirin tomorrow," he agrees, but it wouldn't do much for the pain. It might cut down the mild fever he can't seem to shake, though.

"Right." Just let him try to take care of you for a little while, Sherlock. Please? John sighs through his nose at Sherlock's stubbornness but ultimately lets it go. He has some sleep to catch up on and he must admit, the presence and warmth of another person at his back in really quite a lovely one to fall asleep to. He yawns into the pillow and tugs up his knees and without much more of a whimper, falls asleep.

Roughly ten minutes later, whether Sherlock is awake enough to hear it or not, the faint sound of footsteps pause at John's door and try the knob. Technically, it's the way it's meant to go and the night guard does check that all of the rooms (save for Sherlock's, but it's difficult to get in the habit of that when Sherlock's room is not in the same block as the rest of them). The person outside, however, lingers.

Waits.

And then moves on. There's no light in the hall for a shadow and even Sherlock might only guess at who had been there and if it was duty or some other reason that left them sigh.

As expected, the nightmares do come. John has never been without them. Sherlock, Bill...Lestrade. Even Anderson makes a cameo. It's not wholly pleasant in the slightest.

He's tired. He really is, but pain isn't something he enjoys, despite being able to handle it well enough. And John next to him is a comfort, regardless of it. His friend is enough to keep him relatively relaxed and his eyes close as he goes into a partially meditative state. Not quite in his Mind Palace, because that would just keep him awake, but zoning out nevertheless.

The sound of footsteps in this place isn't unusual, but he doesn't like the way the door knob jerks. He opens his eyes and sits up partially, staring over toward the door.

Waiting? Why would the guard wait for John, especially? (He'd done the same thing at John's door several nights since he's been here.)

Is it Bill or someone else?

After the footsteps disappear down the corridor, Sherlock lies back down. He extends his right arm this time and lets the whole length of it rest against John as he closes his eyes again.

He's able to get a short nap in before the inevitable movements and gasps jerk him out of his own more abstract and less frightening dream.

A nightmare. For a moment, Sherlock regrets the decision of staying. He's groggy and his head hurts from a disrupted REM cycle. But this is exactly why I wanted to stay, he reminds himself. His works his arm out between them to lightly stroke at his friend's shoulder.

No violin. Maybe the touch will be enough. If it isn't, he'll probably try singing.

It's strange to come out of sleep to the sound of such a deep, rumbling voice singing like that, near his ear, but John, not quite sweating uncomfortably, finds himself not jerking away to nightmares, but rather called peacefully from them. He's never, incidentally, heard Sherlock sing before. For a man already musically and mathematically minded to be good at rhythm and meter with his own voice is not surprising and yet John, he turns on his back now to blink haphazardly through the darkness at skin so pale Sherlock might as well glow, is still surprised.

He draws up a hand, his left, chilled from being over his side rather than beneath it, lifts to touch Sherlock's face as the man's full lips come into view, peeking out of the glow of his flesh. John's eyes close again and he blinks twice, quickly.

John has calloused hands. Work, manual labour, they've done so much to toughen up his palms and fingers. It's not just where he'd hold the tools of a surgeon, or those of a soldier, any more. His entire swath of skin has thickened. It seems a terrible shame to touch something so soft -- stubble aside -- with something so rough. John does not drop his hand.

"Sorry-- Sorry." For the dream, only the dream. His eyes are liquid black and shimmering white in the darkness. "What were you singing?"

Sherlock can tell at once that the musical sound is reaching his friend in his dreams much the same as it's always done with the violin. John's muscles start to twist less violently until the other man stills for the few seconds before he wakes completely. Maybe he should have stopped singing as to let John rest?

It's only when his friend reaches up to touch his face that he stumbles over the next note, which puts an abrupt end to the song altogether. Did he miss a note? That's got to be a first in his life. He doesn't miss notes. He's got absolute pitch.

And John's callouses? He'd already taken note of them when he'd first arrived. It's not like his cheeks have got the right sensitivity to analyse such things, but he can appreciate it.

"No," Sherlock whispers, shaking his head in a shallow gesture. Just enough to get the 'no' across without pushing his friend's hand away. "It's nothing. I was making it up as I went," he confesses. The same as when he played the violin really, only this time he'd been adding words to it. Meaningless words, really, since lyrics aren't his speciality. He'd be marginally embarrassed if John recognised the words to be from an Agatha Christie novel.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asks him, trying to ignore the fact that his face feels far too warm. The fever? That's what he'll blame, anyway.

Sherlock's face is incredibly warm and ever the doctor, John's fingers slip up his cheek to his hairline. His thumb and the web of connective tissue between it and his forefinger are what press to Sherlock's forehead. The first of his hand is more or less lost to silken curls that allow him to appreciate the use of the conditioner now. His fingertips rest along the curve of Sherlock's skull but he's not that sensitive to heat as he might otherwise wish himself to be.

"I'm all right. Dreams." Yes, John, everyone knows about your dreams. The rats that have started to move back into the city after the infected started going dormant even know.

He does take the time to sit up, however, and the hand that had already traveled from cheek to forehead slips down to Sherlock's ear. John's eyelashes absorb any moisture on his eye lids and a sheepish smile replaces his worry.

"Did I bash into you all?"

It's similar to when John had been tending to his hair. Light gestures. Soft. Affectionate. And something Sherlock Holmes hasn't had a great deal of. Even as a child, his mother had spent most of his life very young life ill and his father absent. And Mycroft? Well, you could imagine how touchy-feely he got. Which is to say hardly at all.

He's getting the distinct impression that the heat in his face isn't so much fever. His feet are too cold for that to be the case.

"No, I managed to catch it before it got too violent," Sherlock tells him, watching the other man from his spot on the bed. He's not sure if he wants to sit up too or if he wants to stay right where he is. It's pleasant to have John's idle touch on him and he doesn't feel like interrupting it.

"Did you want to sleep more?" Well, obviously he would sleep more eventually. He doesn't think it's been all that long since they'd lied down. But, John could want to go wash his face or get a drink of water.

"I ought to," John concludes, removing his hand almost immediately from Sherlock's hair as if that last request was mostly a hint that he'd gotten a little too touchy for what John assumes is a more physically closed off man. He touches his own cheek instead, even presses his tongue against it from inside his mouth, and then pulls off his shirt.

It's warm, he finds, sleeping so close to someone. He doubts Sherlock would mind. John did wash his hair for him and yes, he'd requested Sherlock to stay the night, but this shouldn't be out of the realm of what's right or decent for friends to endure.

In the darkness, the scars across John's skin stand in an interesting relief across hi chest and shoulder, especially after he lays on his back. There's a tilt of his head in Sherlock's direction and a muted yawn against his own shoulder.

"I'll try to keep more quiet," he tells his friend. It's a little harder to fall asleep this time, however. He does truly wish he'd been allowed to stroke Sherlock's hair a bit more. There's a reason pets are brought to the hospitalized and the elderly... They serve as comfort when stroked. Sherlock, oddly enough, is the same way.

Sherlock manages to keep any hint of disappointment off his face when John moves his hand back, but he does sigh in a quiet way. Oh well. It had been nice while it lasted, if a bit of an oddity between the two of them. They've spent more time touching each other tonight than a month back in Baker Street. Well, most of the touch was John touching him. He'd only returned it in a few short intervals.

"Do you always yawn in your bedmate's face?" Sherlock asks him, after John lets out the yawn. He'd seen the effort to cover it and he's not exactly offended from it. But, maybe all that singing nonsense has woken him up a bit.

After a few moments of lying shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock rolls onto his side to face John. He bends his right arm sharply between them and uses it more or less as a pillow. It's somewhat uncomfortable, so he shifts around until he sneaks it under their pillows where it will be out of the way. His healing arm stays in place against his side.

"Do you want me to keep singing?" Sherlock asks him after a moment. He'd played John to sleep with his violin on a few occasions. The first specifically being to prove he could do just that.

"Sometimes," John confides, laughing just under his breath again. "Sometimes, but only to the very understanding." He lets Sherlock shift, the old bed agonizing about the way he rolls to and fro, and does his best not to yawn again. Ultimmately, the attempt is a failure. John's hand covers up any escaping breath, however and his body shudders slightly.

He's not surprised to find Sherlock so close, but those eyes, taken out of context, are enough to make anyone blush. John's not sure what to make of that.

His overly affectionate few hours with Sherlock have been a way to reassert a bond that's never been physical... And it's helped to calm some of the touch starvation that John's been experiencing since breaking off the obviously destructive relationship with Bill.

He's use to more comforting company. He's use to having someone beside him. He doesn't want to stop touching Sherlock either, just to be sure that he's really there and--

And he needs to stop thinking now. He needs to hope Sherlock is too tired to deduce the frankly impossible thought that entered his head to stop being prudish and just allow Sherlock to be his everything.

John closes his eyes, locking away his dilated pupils, and clears his throat. "Yeah, actually, would you mind? It's nice."

Sherlock notices at once the way John starts under his gaze. Pupils dilating. He doesn't need to take a pulse to know John's heart rate is elevated, because he can deduce that from the change in his respiration. He'd been being very vague and general using the word 'love' in association with these symptoms years ago with Miss Adler. Lust is a closer definition. A physical desire.

And, Sherlock doesn't know how he feels about that. He might be exuding his own similar list of symptoms back at John. Heat. Intensity. And his own fairly dilated pupils. But it is dark in here, isn't it?

"And, do you have any requests?" he asks, searching what he can see the parts of John's face that he's not trying to hide.

Would something like that work? A physical relationship with John Watson. The thought had never once crossed his mind until just now. It's not just John, either. He's never really thought of anyone like that. Not even Miss Adler and her all too apparent advances in that area.

And maybe, he's leaning a little closer than before. Inviting? Perhaps. He won't make the first move because he's hesitating.

John's aware of the breath against his face and does his best to clench his jaw. There are no thoughts about how fair this is, no memories of how many times he so often, and sometimes venomously, denied being anything more than Sherlock's friend. Colleague. Dear god, he's doing it again. He's falling into patterns he shouldn't. He's letting his loneliness make him see what had never been there--

Well, who the hell is he kidding? It's always been there. It's why he's always been almost frantic to pull a girlfriend time after time, though so willing to let them go. He'd never been heart broken at their departure, just pleased to start the chase again, to reaffirm his heteronormity.

"Do you know anything by the Beatles?" John asks, chancing a damning glance upwards. What would the harm be, breaking through the veil?

It could cost him his best friend.

Oh, he's not sure he could stand that.

"The musical group, not the insect," he says as a bad joke and immediately follows that up by: "Can I ask you something...objectively?"

"The Beatles?" Sherlock asks him, quickly going through his mind to find any information he can. "I've heard of them, I think." He admits that much, but it doesn't say too much about how he'd be able to reproduce any of their music. He'd most likely need to ask John to sing a bit of a song and if he recognised that, he would be able to sing the entire thing without a problem.

But, that's not really the point of this conversation. Not anymore. At least not for the moment.

"Objective or subjective. You've always been free to ask me anything," Sherlock tells John. It's true, even if he's got a history of being less than kind whenever he hears the 'stupid questions'. And, at times he's scoffed at things the other man had felt important.

John is not going to hum Across the Universe for Sherlock, even if he's sang before -- and often -- in the shower and his voice isn't all that terrible. Sherlock is right about the subject of the conversation splitting, however. John's interest is something else entirely and the way he turns his face away from Sherlock -- while letting his gaze at his profile -- ought to be more or less revealing of the difficulty John is currently facing with this.

There's some uncomfortable silences here.

"You told me a very long time ago that you're married to your work, that you've no time for relationships, that you were...what was it? Flattered that I'd shown an interest but--" Flattered he'd shown an interest. Just something for flatmates to say to one another?

Get it together!

"You don't necessarily have your work anymore. Right, yes, the cure, that's certainly important and perhaps a case, but--" Do not call him out for babbling again. "I mean to say, have you bothered, these last three years, finding anyone to share time with? Like a girlfriend? A boyfriend?"

Sherlock watches John's internal struggle. He can pick up glimpses of what must be going on in his friend's mind, but nothing he can put specific detail to. He's good, but he's not that good.

The 'oh' makes it to his lips, but it passes over the larynx complete so it's not audible. With the palpable atmosphere between the two of them, he shouldn't be surprised to hear this question. In fact, he'd expected something along these lines, just not so specific. Not in the way that reminds him of that first meal they 'shared' together. Waiting for killer cabbies and chasing them across London just to prove to John that he's got something in life worth looking for. No need to cater to a depression-induced disability.

"No," Sherlock tells him once John's stopped tripping over his words. That's the short answer. "I haven't had the time or desire for any of that. Up until my last week, my 'work' had been finding my way back home." Read: Finding you.

Boyfriend. Girlfriend. He doesn't have time in his life for that. He's just got one friend and that's all he needs.

"And now, my work is finding a cure for this plague. And, as far as I'm concerned, besides myself there's only one thing in common between all three." Does John need him to be more straight-forward than that?

No, he understands, Sherlock. He just understands wrong. And the smile, because he feels he must give one, is filled with sort of internal acceptance of his lot in life. He's found someone perfect for him in absolutely every way save one...and that one thing is what he really needs most right now. Even so, it's not a deal breaker. He'll never leave Sherlock, not voluntarily.

He's never wanted to leave Sherlock, not since that horrible text summoning him to Baker Street to find the man with three nicotine patches spread out on the sofa.

He knew it. Knew then. Knew he'd never be the same.

"I'm sure I don't count," John says to himself and it's almost whimsical in it's sadness. "But I'm glad to help you this time. I am always glad to help you and I will always be...here." It's been such an emotionally draining night. This isn't helping.

This is the second time Sherlock's heard someone tell them they don't 'count' in this hospital. Molly Hooper had been mistaken. John Watson is just entirely wrong.

"John," Sherlock starts, then stops speaking. His eyebrows furrow together as he looks for words that would come easy to him if he were explaining the difference between diethyl ether and chloroform in the role of a non-polar solvent. Or if he were deducing where a victim had been hours before their death by the layers of soil on the bottoms of their shoes.

He can't move his left arm very well. It hurts and even wiggling his fingers pulls at the biceps and triceps brachii, which just irritates the area surrounding his break. He does it anyway, though. Reaching out to touch John's arm lightly because he doesn't know what he wants to say or how to say it.

"You count, John," he starts again, then frowns. "I guess... what I'm trying to say is that you're part of my work."

He knows that has to hurt and yet, John can't help but smile. Something real, something genuine this time. He grins wide and proud and reaches up to press back on Sherlock's chest before he hurts himself even more. It means... Everything. Maybe he'll just start to sob again because of it and wouldn't that be something to discuss later? Such a child, is he.

Sherlock is delicate right now, but it feels right to do so and therefore, John embraces the taller man somewhat awkwardly as he half lays, half lounges over him.

"You guess," he says, just by Sherlock's ear, meant to be a happy sort of sound. "You never guess. So yes. All right then. I'm part of your work." The world's gone to shit but at least there's this little beacon of hope out there.

John sets his forehead to Sherlock's. Still smiling, still in his happy place. Perhaps his breath isn't all that fresh but does that really matter?

"John," Sherlock says his friend's name. How many times has he said John's name in the last thirty or so seconds? Three. An average of once every ten seconds. He's starting to sound redundant, but that's what happens when great minds get confused. And, the change of expression going over John's face adds to his confusion. He looks happy. Severely happy. But then there's water forming in the corners of his eyes, which is what sparks that questioning.

But, it's good. John's moving closer and it just feels... good.

"I do sometimes," Sherlock admits about the guessing. Much like he'd guessed with the pills, but he's still adamant about 'not guessing' there. His face is starting to feel too hot again. It's not the fever. Fevers don't come and go depending on how close your friend is.

John is all smiles, but Sherlock isn't. He's enjoying this a lot, but he's also testing the waters in an area he's insecure with. He's got no knowledge of things like relationships and it's hard enough managing a friendship. He'll step on John's toes and they'll fight. It'll be worse than when they were just flatmates. And, then there are certain other aspects of relationships that he's very unfamiliar with in any sense other than forensic. Moriarty had been very right when he'd dubbed him 'The Virgin'.

As far as breath freshness goes? It would matter more if his breath weren't equally effected by sleep.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

John snorts through his nose. "Yeah," he replies softly, pulling his head back. He's not the expert at reading people like Sherlock is, but he's pretty sure he's not reading Sherlock's reactions poorly either. John makes himself comfortable because he knows Sherlock can't and he's nearly sure that he's not going to be pushed away.

Everything ended for him when Sherlock was lost. Everything...including the world. If that hadn't been a sign, no matter how superstitious John Watson simply isn't, he wouldn't know what was. There's nothing left. He'd had no one but Bill and these few people left over that managed to stay smart and stay alive.

And then Sherlock came back. At the low point. All over again.

"I just wanted to be sure that you wouldn't morally object." So yes, he's so very sure now. John's had a great deal of practice with this particular thing and Sherlock will get the benefit of an expert here. A twist of the head to avoid the collision of noses and John presses warm, rough lips from too much tongue wetting against very full, very soft ones.

It sort of makes this whole end of the world scenario worth it.

John is reading him very well. Ever since his friend's face found the place just a breath away from his, there's been one thing on his mind. An odd thing for him, considering kissing in general always seemed like such a waste. A disgusting exchange of bodily fluids that he'd rather just keep to himself. But that's not how he feels currently. He's imagining pressure and John's breath against his upper lip.

There's something else too. The warmth isn't limited to just his cheeks. And after John's admission of 'yeah', Sherlock shifts around under the blanket. Does he want it off? Does he want it on? On seems safer right now, so that's how he'll leave it.

A few times before John finally takes the plunge, Sherlock gives little half attempts to close the distance between their mouths. He second guesses himself, moves back, tries again. It's a pleasant kind of torture he's inflicting on himself. It's more than enough movement and gesturing for John to know exactly what he wants.

"No objections," Sherlock whispers at his friend. He's done enough to work himself up for this over the last couple of minutes to make it better for the wait.

John's lips are slightly rough. A little bit too dry. Sherlock doesn't mind so much, but he instinctively wants to moisten them. Like with any other social protocol, he doesn't take into consideration that the use of a tongue in a kiss means something more than just a dry kiss.

There is nothing more surprising than having Sherlock kiss him back. He's not talking about the moulding of mouth to mouth, the parting of lips, the sharing of breath-- The introduction of tongue and moisture makes the older of the two shiver as if he's back in secondary again and doing this for the first time with an aloof but attractive classmate who is way too smart for him.

If Sherlock is noting heat elsewhere, it's probably not just him. John is almost coming apart at the seams. He gently touching Sherlock's cheek, not quite so gently threads through his hair, and pulls back to follow the path Sherlock's tongue had taken over his own lip.

It just lasts for a second, that blinking wonder.

His own name had been said quite a few times and it's about now that he ought to express his own appreciation of the name his best friend had been given. It suits him so well. "Sherlock..." He just wants to check here before there's another kiss to be had.

This one will be with a great deal more tongue, perhaps some teeth, and the solid muscle of John Watson, soldier and doctor and in fantastic shape for his age, pressed firmly against the leaner, lankier form beneath him.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Your icon....

Take this one too!