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

"We're also not sure if these parasites will be compatible with sheep's blood," Sherlock points out. The human blood agar would tell him if they need complete tissue or not based on where they will find the flukes on the plates later. If they can survive off blood, it will be much easier to harvest them for further research.

He twists around in his chair to grab at the notes before John can move them away. "If you'd prefer my blood, you can take it while I read the lab notes from before."

The thing about this sort of research - even if he could probably come up with a good plan of action from scratch, absorbing all the information available to him would be a more fruitful course of action. What he'd been doing when John came in to see him was more or less done to pass the time. He'd never seen one of these things under a microscope before.

"Oh, do you think your power of influence will be enough to convince a few of your men to collect a couple of the infected we killed earlier today and bring them to the lab? I'd like to run a full autopsy." He assumes John can be the one in charge of most of the autopsy while Sherlock spots and observes, but if the duties are shirked onto him, he can take full responsibility for it.

"I think you've lost enough," John says with a smirk and fetches a clean syringe. He'd rather not just cut himself. Open wounds are dangerous and painful. There's no nee to waste plasters this way. Sitting back down once he's drawn his blood and just before he begins to prepare it for the dish, John glances up at Sherlock and frowns.

He can't ask Bill. Andrew's depth perception is non-existent and-- "I'll grab Josie before dark and we'll bring you one," he tells his friend. "The parasites should still be active for a few hours if that's what you wanted." He's not sure he really wants to know what Sherlock is planning, though. Being kept in the dark, he's found, has its advantages.

John is delicate with the agar, moving the dish carefully to Sherlock's station before he sits near him again. The drawing of the parasite is still off-putting.

"You'll take every precaution, right? Goes without saying, yes?"

"I haven't lost any since the blow to my nose last night. I'd say you lost more than me," Sherlock points out, but he doesn't look over at his friend. He trusts John to know what he's doing and if he prefers to take his own blood, why should Sherlock try to stop him?

"Mmm, you may want to get a move on it then. You can bandage up my ankle and arm when you get back. No use being stupid and risking getting stuck out there after dark." Sherlock flips through the pages of Molly's work without doing more than skimming what's there. The same goes for Jill's research. Once he gets an idea of what he has to work with, he'll start at the beginning and give each a thorough read.

With the agar ready, he sets the notebooks down to distribute it between a half dozen Petri dishes. "Good idea, I could always use more samples of parasites," he comments as he sets each disk to the side to cool. "Yes, of course. I'm not stupid," Sherlock tells his friend. "I'll need your established authority to make sure no one comes into this lab besides you and me. If you've got the key to this room, that might be a good thing to give me sooner rather than later."

It's strange how little John minds that Sherlock is bossing him around. If anything, it would be weird otherwise. "I'll get you the keys on the way back," he promises, already standing up now that Sherlock can take over the rest. There's some corpses to bring back and no one's going to be happy about that.

Not even for a possible cure. Not even if they're dead. At least Sherlock hadn't asked for the little girl. Though she possess a much smaller risk than say, Lestrade, he really doesn't want a repeat of what happened last time.

Something always happens.

You can't account for every portion of human error. In his experience, there's an awful lot of that too.

Once Sherlock is left to his own devices, John heads back over to the office building with jam on toast to sweet talk Josie into helping him bring back the upper half of the woman Sherlock had diced apart that morning. Needless to say, it takes more than just a little jam to do it, but John still had enough weight with the group to sway things his own way.

"Do you really think your friend can do it?" the younger man asks as he and John carry the corpse down the stairs. "Cure them, I mean."

John doesn't smile to smile quite like that, but he can't help it. "If anyone can, it's Sherlock. Watch the left, we're nearly there."

They've quite the procession on the way to the lab, unfortunately, but no Bill. There's always such a relief for small favours.

Sherlock looks up from his work long enough to watch John leave. There's no goodbyes exchanged between them, but there never are. It's more natural this way and to him, that last look is just as good. Subconsciously, it's a way to memorise John just how he is before the next time they meet up. In case something bad happens? Maybe, but it's more of a constant need to update his Mind Palace.

Left alone, Sherlock waits for the agar to cool before separating out six parts of the tissue. One part per plate. After, he goes through the organisms and sections young males, middle males, adult males, young hermaphrodites, middle hermaphrodites, and adult hermaphrodites into individual plates. The hermaphrodites will proliferate, but the males won't be as productive.

When done with that, he cleans his station and starts to read the reports. As he does, he idly doodles on a nearby paper - a memory trick to utilise both hemispheres as he takes in the data.

Half an hour into his work, he hears Sarah approach his lab. He waits for her to leave, but she doesn't. When he looks up, she says she's sorry but leaves before he has a chance to ask why she's apologising. He assumes it might have something to do with the completely awful breakfast she'd served him.

For the rest of the time John's gone, Sherlock is studying. He's got his mobile phone out and both notebooks spread open in front of him when he hears the excitement approaching.

John's back. Good.

He looks up when he hears the first set of footsteps back into his lab. It's Josie. John must be holding the other side of the corpse. It doesn't stop with just two men entering the lab. When people get excited, they crowd and push.

"All right, everyone whose name isn't John Watson needs to turn around and take a step out the door."

"Actually, John Watson has laundry duty," John says as he muscles his way through the small crowd. He and Josie hoist the corpse onto the back table and carefully fold one arm over the partial torso. He shakes out his own arms and turns back to watch the others file out.

He really ought to go, but he has to wash up and he can do that here for a few minutes. Besides, he wants to watch Sherlock work for just a little while longer. Call him strange, but he misses reading the paper in a gas mask while Sherlock plays with his chemicals. And he misses being half dragged out of bed to see some new and exciting result he only half understands.

John closes the door with his elbow as he arches an eyebrow at his friend. "Do you need me to do more than play fetch or should I just get on with my work?"

Sherlock deflates a little when John reminds him of the laundry duty. He waits until the other man's ushered everyone out of his lab before he says what's bothering him, though. Maybe he's finally starting to learn some timing.

"If you've got laundry, who's going to help me with the autopsy?" Sherlock asks him, grabbing a few empty vials to collect the salivary glands from this one. He'll heat up the rest of the agar and distribute it when they're done here. The most important thing is to make sure he gets the samples before the 'meat' spoils.

Doing the extraction with one hand is hard. Cutting and removing a rib cage will be practically impossible without assistance.

Really, Sherlock? Guilt? John rolls his eyes and glances at the door. The laundry can wait for a few hours. The sun is already setting so it won't dry until tomorrow anyhow. The corner of his mouth lifts and he laughs softly before heading back to the box of gloves.

Yes. Sherlock Holmes wins. As usual.

"You'll be helping me with the laundry," he says with a mock grump. It's not like he'd mind the extra time with Sherlock. Even doing something mundane is well worthwhile. John snaps his gloves into place and takes his place at the far end of the table. He has a feeling he'll be doing to majority of the dirty work.

Rib cracking use to be something of a specialty anyway.

"Put on a mask. Just in case."

Sherlock doesn't hide the triumphant grin on his face when John agrees to the favour. He takes a bit longer to work a clean glove onto his hand, but he gets it without the need for assistant. "Fine. I'll..." his eyebrow crinkle up a bit. How does someone do laundry, anyway? "I'll put the soap on or something." Mostly, he would keep John company while doing paper work and planning for the rest of his week in the lab.

Mask. Right. He plucks one from the carton and works the elastic loops over his ears, then pinches the metal band over his nose.

Before they start, Sherlock sets his phone on a nearby table and turns on the voice memo recorder. He'll remember everything he needs to about the autopsy, but this way he won't have to write down his notes in case John wants to put his medical degree to use.

"Samples first," he says. He grabs one of those vials and holds it out toward John, then palms the other. He opens it with one hand on his way to get the dissection supplies. A scalpel for each of them and a couple more of those wide-rimmed pipettes.

The autopsy itself will most likely take up all of three hours. While they work, Sherlock mutters his deductions out loud and lets John take care of more of the clinical observations. Organ weights, organ appearances, things like that. The sound of footsteps passing by outside doesn't go unnoticed and several times people pause in front of the door. Probably trying to get a glimpse of them through the mostly obscured door window.

During there work, there's rarely a world outside of Sherlock. John isn't one to ignore others that might need them, he certainly doesn't ignore his own bodily functions, and when Sherlock is at his most insufferable, sometimes John needs to just leave. However, this particular work is ground breaking and very likely the key for their survival. Canned goods will only last so long. Petrol too. The futures of these children are bleak as it is. And watching Sherlock's hand work in conjunction with his own gives him hope.

When there is little more to be discovered from the body, when the remaining parasites have been extracted, most of them dead, and when John really would just like to sit, he shirks his gloves and drops onto one of the wheeled stools. Dark blue eyes track Sherlock's progress across the room.

Other than the data collected and the parts of this corpse needed for storage, John knows he's going to have to gather the rest into trash bags and dump it a few blocks a way.

It's dark now, but some things can not wait until morning.

"I'm starved. It's nearly dinner. Wash up a bit-- Sherlock, you do need to eat. You can lay about tonight and think if you must."

Where John sees that there's not much knowledge to be gained from the autopsy, Sherlock is under the complete opposite assumption. There's a smorgasbord of data to be analysed in terms of these things' progress through the body.

"This is too interesting for me to eat," Sherlock tells John. He knows it will be argued against, but right now he's on the verge of a breakthrough.

"You should know that most flukes venture out of their niche - either for mating purposes or for different stages of the life cycle - but these don't," Sherlock explains. "There's absolutely no damage to blood vessels or any tissue besides the salivary glands. Most importantly, there's no damage to the brain. So how are they controlling their hosts?"

John would very much like to be interested, Sherlock, but his stomach is cross with him and while it's not like they have the most delicious food known to man waiting for him, but it will at least stifle the roaring. "Chemical signals?" John asks, only half heartedly. He is interested in Sherlock's 'breakthrough' but he's really hoping for more cornbread and that has most of his attention. He knows dinner will be waiting no matter what, but he'd like for it to be warm.

And not picked through. The kids have grubby little hands and not the world's best hygiene!

"Secretions cause mutations? Perhaps the rest of the body doesn't have the proper ph balance?" It could be so many things. John's rattling off of explanations is mostly to get Sherlock to give him the 'aha' moment they both need to enjoy dinner.

Yes. His priorities aren't entirely straight these days.

And, amusingly, neither is he.

Sherlock can see right away that John's head is not in the game. His friend is only giving the problem surface level attention when it deserves much more than that. This is life and death, not simply Sherlock wanting to run around London searching for clues. This could be the making or breaking of the future of the entire human race. And then there's John, looking for a bite to eat instead of focusing on what's important.

"We would have seen some evidence of deterioration with the mutation, but the brain is in better condition than the rest of the body," he tells John impatiently.

He holds his hand out toward John. He usually uses his teeth to take off the glove, but the nature of the autopsy means there's not a large enough clean area for him to risk it. "We need more samples, John." It's dangerous and stupid, but it's what they need. "Bodily fluids at the very least, but what I really need to see is a functional, infected brain under an MRI."

It's not going to go over well with John, let alone the rest of the people here.

And he just washed his hands. Sighing, John is careful with removing Sherlock's glove, disposes of it, and runs the water again. He's going to be so tried out and chapped in the next week or so it won't be even remotely funny. He thinks about about putting lotion on the supply list before glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock. "A live-- No, Sherlock, no."

They did that before. They can't do that again. That's why killed Molly, not the bite, but the way that thing had ripped her open and-- And John had no choice but to end her suffering with a bullet in the head.

He's still not proud of it. It still doesn't sit will with him. And he's not going to let Sherlock--

John sighs. "If I tell you no, you'll do it yourself."

Damn it.

"We can't bring any of them here. But I'll help you set up a lab. In the other building. Tomorrow. After you eat." It's too dark. It's too dangerous to do it tonight.

Sherlock is glad John knows him well enough to predict his actions. Yes, if he hadn't gotten permission to bring a live Infected over to Bart's, he would have done it himself. He knows where the MRI scanners are and enough about electricity to shunt a few kilowatts over to that area to use it. He's also sneaky enough to do it with no one the wiser.

So, when John gives him the defeated look that lets Sherlock know he's won, he grins. "Thank you, John," he says, grabbing at John's shoulder (had he washed his hand yet? No, but he didn't tear the glove so it should be uncontaminated) and bending down to give the other man a firm kiss on the mouth.

He pulls away before the kiss can be productive. His good mood shows in the way he bounces to the sink to give his hand an awkward, but thorough scrubbing.

"Dinner, then?" Now he's in the mood to play nice and listen to his growling stomach. He's still got a lot of thinking to do tonight and they need to dispose of the rest of the body, but John's making it very clear that eating is one of the conditions for his help in this.

It's strange and wonderful and heating to have Sherlock be so close and willing to kiss him that John is understandably quiet for some handful of seconds even after his friend has pulled away. It's got nothing to do with romance or even animal magnetism that roots him to the spot-- It's that Sherlock has returned to the centre of his world so completely that it still leaves his head spinning.

The 'thanks' gets a smile, flat, even white teeth flashing before he's off to follow Sherlock out of the lab and down the corridor to the cafeteria. Dinner sounds bloody fantastic, actually, and there's a little extra spring in his step that has more to do with being involved in the whirlwind that is one of Sherlock's cases than anything else.

They're a bit late for the meal, but as usual, a few stragglers drinking very watered down coffee are still there to greet the pair. It's obvious that they've been talking, even John notices, but he sits down to have a lukewarm meal just the same, between Gabrielle and Andrew.

"Has Bill been by?" he mentions halfway through, spoon poised to shovel another helping past his lips.

The others glance at one another. "Honestly, mate, haven't seen him all day."

Sherlock gets himself a few questioning looks from the remaining members of their party still having their dinner break. He doesn't usually show up for meals and when he does, it's usually once everyone besides the person on clean up duty have gone their separate ways. Still, he's a welcome face and after the confusion passes, he even gets a few smiles.

He has to serve himself up a plate since no one's bothered to do it for him. He doesn't worry too much about proportions.

John's sitting between two other people. He hovers at the table for a moment, feeling awkward and out of place until he settles down across from John and next to the formerly obese woman. He's quiet as he listens to their conversation. He'd promised to behave himself, so he keeps his comment about how useless Bill is and that they shouldn't worry over him to himself. But, he wouldn't be Sherlock if he kept completely quiet.

"He's probably put off by the fact that he still wants you sexually and you've chosen me as a partner instead," he offers. Isn't this the kind of thing normal people talk about?

The spoonful doesn't ever reach John's mouth and there's at least one person literally doing a spit take. All eyes rove, some more slowly than others, to Sherlock and then to John. It's not as if they hadn't known about John and Sherlock, the noise had given it away, but Bill had been another story to some of them. Not only that, but to have Sherlock speak so freely about it is somewhat unnerving.

Slowly, John sets his spoon back into his bowl before he laughs. "Not good," he tells Sherlock, though his smile at least sets everyone else more or less back at rest and the uncertain gasps have turned into somewhat awkward tingling. "Someone needs to find him. He could be hurt. After dinner, let's set up a search."

Back to business. It has to be business or else John might be forced to answer questions he's much better just ignoring.

Sherlock's smile falters when he doesn't get the response he's expecting from the others. He'd been trying to do the 'small talk' thing and it's always seemed to him that people spend far too much time and energy worrying about who's sleeping with whom.

"Ah," he clears his throat and has the decency to look both confused and apologetic. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to this... socialising thing," he admits and then turns his attention to his dinner while John dusts his conversational blunder under the rug. He's not sure which part had been the 'not good' part. Is it Bill, because Bill's missing? It's not like they should be grieving him - he's a complete dick - and he hasn't been gone very long.

He glances up when John mentions setting up the search party.

"Laundry," he says, blinking a few times. Isn't that what's on the schedule? It's not a good idea to go out this late, and maybe Sherlock's being a bit protective toward John.

"Laun--" John stares across the table at his friend and puts his spoon safely down. "Laundry is going to have to wait." If Bill has been hurt, they need to get to him. If he's been bitten or compromised, they need to get to him. Though chances are that he's just sulking somewhere. "It's better to be safe. Finish eating. Andy and Pauline, take the top two floors, Gabrielle, let's check the rest."

John's way of life for the last three years just can't be put on hold because Sherlock would rather take up all of his time. He did promise to help with the infected. Tomorrow. Laundry can be done then too. It's already been put off far longer than it ought to have been.

John checks the rounds in his gun (a whopping three, they really need to find more ammo, and quickly) and that his knife is still in place before he heads to the door.

It's nothing to really worry about. He's sure they'll find Bill in his room or in storage.

Sherlock's lips threaten to twist into a full grimace, but he stills them after a few twitches. Promised to behave. Why the hell would he make a stupid promise like that? Not only does John insist on going to look for the pile of rubbish named Bill, he's completely neglected to give Sherlock a job.

"I am finished," he says coolly. (Well, coolly in tone. Really, he's acting the role of a petulant child. Like usual.) He pushes the plate away for whatever lucky sod has to clean the dishes. He's barely taken a half dozen bites. So much for the appetite he'd worked up with his sudden good mood.

Before John has a chance to finish his meal or start on his rounds, Sherlock's already excused himself to go off and have a sulk of his own.

He's not going to a room or storage, though. Lab would be too obvious, too. He's going up to the roof.

Because we broke the comments

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(no subject)

no subject

Hurray! Tags!

Taaaags! 8D

Screw work, I miss tagging yoooou.

;A; I miss tagging you, too. This is one of my fav. threads.

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