(no subject)

[substituteskull]

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.

Comments

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock had been abroad when he first heard of the stories of the 'zombie plague'. He'd scoffed at it, of course. And, he hadn't taken it seriously until he'd had a first-hand encounter. A small Siberian base containing roughly a dozen of Moriarty's assassins. He'd gotten information that the sniper assigned to Mrs. Hudson had been hiding out there, but when he arrived he'd found the entire place off. He couldn't say everyone was dead, but it was something close. Bodies twitching and groping. Cannibalism. Autophagy. People with dead eyes reduced to nothing but an insatiable hunger for just about anything. He'd even seen one man attempting to consume a fluorescent light bulb.

He'd only found one man still himself. He'd been scared beyond the ability to speak and he was feverish. Without receiving any answers, he'd torched the compound and went on his way.

Keeping up with the news had posed a problem as most of the media distributors died from the plague. After a few months, mobile service stopped working. Within a year, 80% of the population had succumbed to the 'virus'.

He'd tried to go back to London, but found that there was no transport. It had taken him nearly two years to make his way on foot and through various stolen vehicles to France. Travel was slow and difficult, since he spent the majority of his time finding new and creative ways to hide from the turned 'survivors' of the plague. (Most of the infected simply died within a week of infection after their bodies shut down, but some 10% were unlucky enough to walk around as little more than animated corpses looking for a meal.)

It had taken another six months to find a way across the small stretch of ocean to the UK.

By the time he found himself in Dover, he'd become very efficient with killing the turned survivors. Amputating the head was the easiest method, though firearms were good in a pinch and burning was the only way to ensure the plague wouldn't spread further. He'd also become quite good at first aid, though he never stayed with other human survivors long enough to administer it to anyone besides himself.

He'd discovered along the way that there were certain quarantine areas and medical knots throughout the broken country. If John were a survivor, he knew he would find him in one of those cells. There was one located at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, so that was his destination.

Unfortunately, he met up with a little trouble on the final stretch of his journey. An altercation with a group of four turned survivors left him tending to a broken humerus, a sprained ankle, and a mild concussion. No bites, thank God. No way to suppress the pain left him limping and swaying as he approached the hospital. From a distance, he would easily be confused as one of the turned - covered head to toe in dirt, dried blood, and the mild fever from a histamine response leaving him slightly dazed.

To the trained eye, one may notice that he was armed with a sword he'd picked up on the way as well as an arsenal of small firearms and ammunition in his backpack as well as bottled water and some powdered 'health shakes'.

Just a few more metres. If John's not here, I'll pilfer the supplies I need and go on my way.

[substituteskull]

It hadn't been John's intention to alienate Sherlock, but he can't deal with Bill and laundry and Sherlock and so his friend will just have to wait until the rest of his chores are done. He'll make it up to him with...hair samples or something. Maybe that thought shouldn't make him smile, but it does. Just the thought of Sherlock's full, beautifully curved lips on his own make him smile.

The roof is likely the last place John and the rest would go to find Bill, and that, of course, is just where Bill is, sitting on the edge of the cornice. Waiting.

The shadows conceal the nature of the weapon in his hand for just a moment, but Sherlock can tell a man with a gun when he sees one, even if anyone else might just assume he was empty handed.

"Didn't think you'd be alone," Bill says.