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.

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In that past, John would have taken each inch of Sherlock's dissection of timelines to heart, thought him cold, told him that human lives were never meant to be plotted out so stoically, but things change and he's changed, not fundamentally of course, but the undercurrent of his thoughts rests in war. Isn't that what this this, though? War?

John's lips purse as he gazes over the children, over the last four adults besides himself and Sherlock left uninfected. It makes his hand in Sherlock's tighten just a little bit. John isn't afraid. He's trying to calculate what to do for his injured, limping unit.

"Five days. Is five days going to be long enough?"

No whining about respect for the dying. No hard looks. John's too tired for that. He's not broken, but he has been beaten. A captain is in command of the ship, isn't she? When something goes wrong, it is the captain's fault. Perhaps he's taking it just a little bit too harshly.

He looks up once more to the expert.

"Let's see if we can stretch it a week. I'll take care of the infected tomorrow. What we need is to get our store room back. You just work on the science." It's not his best command, but they all have roles to play in this. Bill and Gabrielle are gone to them. The kids are only so useful...but at this rate, John doesn't think he can spare them. What a world.

Sherlock expects to hear some protest from John or at least earn himself a cold look at his callous approach. He knows he's being callous and that he's disregarding the human life. John's supposed to be the one to remind him of it, so why does he feel like he's the only one under this quilt that gives a damn? And why is it Bill's voice in his head saying: 'People change, I know that. You know that. The core of a person, even when nothing major happens, changes constantly.'

Uncomfortable, he squeezes John's hand back. Don't you change on me, John. You're better than this. You're better than me.

"One week. I'll see what I can do... for now, I think sleep will be most useful," because after tonight, he might not be sleeping at all for the next few days.

Sherlock doesn't want to know John's answer to his other solution to all this because he's afraid that he'll agree with him. Surprise me, John. Leaning in for a kiss on John's cheek - everyone already knows they're sleeping together, so why hide it? - he whispers, "And if things get too bad, you and I could split off just the two of us."

Well that gets Sherlock a look. The kiss aside -- and he's filthy so he doesn't think Sherlock should be planting his lips anywhere near him -- the idea of abandoning these people-- "Things were too bad two years ago," he mutters. You don't abandon your unit, Sherlock. You get everyone out as best you can. Will there be losses? Yes. God yes, too many losses. There's already been enough.

That doesn't mean he could abandon these people.

"I have a duty and responsibility and-- For God's sake, Sherlock, there's children." No, he doesn't realize that this had all been a test for his humanity, and no, he doesn't pull his hand out of Sherlock's either. But he does offer him quite the unappreciative look. "We all go together or we don't go at all."

Sherlock doesn't bother hiding his relief when John reassures him by reacting in the John way. He just gives his friend a smile and another kiss. "Good. I didn't have any intention of that without your express consent," he admits and the squeeze he gives John's hand this time is less desperate and more playful than the way he'd been gripping at him before.

They're numbers are down to ten after tonight and three of those are children, one is on the tightrope toward infection and then there's Sherlock, too injured to be doing just what he's been doing anyway. It's going to be a hard road to travel, but there's no other route they can take.

"Tonight, let's rest. Tomorrow we can take our assigned rolls and get things done. For everyone."

John still didn't understand Sherlock, not even a little bit, but that bemused look on his friend's face and his insistence on kissing him when covered in muck finally brings a smile from John too. He grins and nods. "Turn over a bit then." The floor is not exactly comfortable and it's quite cold, but Sherlock's heat, once John has his arm around him from behind, is good enough for now.

He gently presses his nose against the butchered duck tail he'd attempted to cut in his friend's mop and eventually, much sooner than he'd thought, passes out.

Morning comes too quickly but the moment John is roused, he sits up quickly enough and gazes at the group. Gabrielle has been isolated from the children but Sarah is sitting with her and John can't help but smile when the teenager glances up at him.

He claps his hands to draw his troops back from their naps. They all have their jobs and only Gabrielle, Sherlock, and the smallest girl will wait behind at Bart's. The rest will be working on an empty subject to clear their home.

Just before he leads his team to the stairs, John reaches up to stroke Sherlock's cheek. "Keep her hydrated. That's the most important thing. I'll bring up fresh water the moment we get to it."

Sherlock's body has a way of telling him when he's had enough. Back before the plague, it would happen after being on a case for a few days when the concentration-fuelled insomnia and fasting finally break at the end of his epiphany moments. It's always been one of those immediate processes where he'd turn to John and ask him if he'd like to eat or he'd walk into Baker Street and collapse in bed for fourteen hours without so much as getting up to use the toilet.

Tonight's little different. He's gone to bed filthy and as soon as he's on his side and the conversation's over, he falls right to sleep. He doesn't wake up with the others in the morning, giving John a few minutes to speak with the others before the voices eventually have him waking up, too.

Groggy. His head feels like it's in perpetual fog and his body is stiff and not rested as well as he'd like, but he still crawls out of the 'bed' and shuffles toward the locker room without more than a grumbled good morning.

A severely short wash later (ten minutes, record time for Mr. Hygienic) and he's back for whatever breakfast they've got. Not much, so he shares those horrendously unpalatable nutrition powder drinks that have been in his bag since he arrived. It's not much to go on, but it's good for both hydration and a few essential nutrients and calories.

The parting moment with John leaves him wanting more of his friend's company. It doesn't look possible in the near future with how much work they're all going to be doing. He steals a kiss on the mouth - again, giving an addict a new outlet. "I know. You may want to consider giving her an IV when you get back. I can't do it one-handed."

After parting ways, Sherlock takes Gabrielle and the youngest girl with him to his lab. He makes sure Gabrielle has enough water and paracetamol, then he covers her up with a blanket. She's going to have to make do with lying on the floor while he works, but since Sherlock's the one responsible for the three of them, he decides they all need to stick together. In order to entertain the child as well as work quicker, he takes her on as an assistant of sorts. She can bring him things, help him measure, and even collect a few samples for him. Fun work and it makes her feel important.

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Until it is too much! Blargh

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