substituteskull | (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

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