(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]

Anyone under ten barely remembers the time before the world went to hell and have learned to survive accordingly. Child labour laws don't exist and every able set of eyes is important in the new regime of small bands of survivors. It doesn't matter how Sherlock looks. Alive or a host for the virus, anyone approaching the hospital is equally as dangerous and treated as such.

Two squirrel-like children peek from the top of the very roof that Sherlock toppled himself over three years before, visible from the direction Sherlock travels even though the St. Barts' band have set up a volley of parked cars, long drained of petrol, to act as a choke point along the street and sidewalks. The hospital has been otherwise boarded up, crude metal portcullis doors covering the glass A&E entry way. As first one child and then the other dart away, eyes from across the road settle on Sherlock. Through his pain, he might not realize it, but that's just as well. Determining that he is alive only takes a glance -- infected do not use tools, let alone swords. Aligning the blow dart up to the back of his neck takes only a few seconds more.

By the time John gets back from a decent haul -- and the knowledge of an emptied out underground station where several small shops are still well stocked in canned goods -- and lays his bag down for Gracie to set away in the guarded larder, he's already been filled in on their guest. "No bites. We have him in the morgue."

John nods. "I'd really like a shower--"

"I'm sure he'll keep for a few more minutes," a dark skinned man with soft brown eyes tells him and John goes to get cleaned up. Cup of weak coffee in hand, John heads to the morgue three hours after Sherlock's capture and peeks through the glass into the ill lit room. All he sees is a dark haired, blood soaked man, bandaged up, bound to a table. He lightly knocks on the door, just so he won't startle the captive if he's awake by barging in.

"Hello. I'm Doctor Watson. I know you've been skimmed over but I thought I'd take a look. Do you mind?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock had come across several bands of survivors through his journey. Some were paranoid - those would have a good chance of further survival - and some were relieved to see a human face and human mind. Even his lack of typical social skills seemed to go unnoticed. He'd traded some food items or ammunition for information and a safe place to sleep and he'd always left before dawn.

This particular group is different from the others. Paranoid would be an understatement. A militaristic feel with the sort of anarchy only a post-apocalyptic world could run by.

He'd seen the children on the roof, but he'd missed one important detail. The dart. Even through his drug tolerance, he found himself brought to his knees just seconds after feeling the sting on the back of his neck.

Voices surrounded him. Adults mostly and he was jerked to his feet with the support of two men's shoulders after being stripped of all of his weapons and supplies. He tried to speak with them, but they didn't listen or talk to him. Duty performers. They were the two that had lied him down in the morgue on the autopsy table. It was there that he drifted off into a short nap.


Even drugged, his instincts are that of a soldier in enemy territory, so the sound of the knock has his eyes open wide. Where..? He doesn't need to ask. One look around the room, even with the odd lighting and angle, tells him exactly where he is. He almost expects to see Molly Hooper standing over him with a scalpel and her scrunched up apologetic face 'Sorry, but can you hold still a bit?'

It's not Molly's voice he hears, though.

"John," Sherlock mutters, trying to sit up against the restraints. He doesn't get very far before collapsing down onto his back once more. The room twists around in an odd sort of way from the movement. Either a side effect of the drug or possible ear damage. His fever shouldn't be high enough to make him dizzy.

[substituteskull]

Molly Hooper is a person that John hasn't seen in two years. Her death had been pointless. Then again, so had everyone's these days. John shut himself off after that, though. He smiled, he talked. He was a calming presence to many. But like most of the dangers outside of their last home on Earth, he knew himself to be dead. Dead and still walking.

He sets the clip board down before he hears his name. The voice is no longer familiar. Voices fade quickly from memories after all, long before visual stimuli. It's why John's nightmares tend to lack sound. And sometimes colours.

He immediately misunderstands the word spoken to. 'John,' he assumes, is the man's name. It makes him smirk. "Still quite the popular name. It's mine too," John says as he sits down lightly on the wheeled stool. There are tape marks on the floor and John knows not to go past them. The reach zone. He's not put on gloves or his armoured arm and neck guard yet. "You'll feel dizzy for another hour or so before you fully metabolize the sedative. Apologies. We use more than we likely ought to but judging body size at a distance is difficult at best and not all of us are...or were...physicians. Care to tell me what happened to you?"

[consulting_freak]

It's funny in a way. How Sherlock had grown so much more humanity through this plague and everyone he's met had lost so much of theirs. He'd been hoping John would be different, but the way he doesn't respond to his voice - the way he doesn't even look over at his 'patient' - tells Sherlock that he'd been mistaken to put so much faith in his friend's resistance.

Everyone has a different way of surviving and coping.

"It's not my name," Sherlock tells him, letting his head roll to the side.

He's shut himself out so much that he doesn't recognise my voice, he decides. Reading people is one of the skills he'd had to learn and make room for in the rubble of his former Mind Palace. Forensic science had been pushed aside and stored in rooms further back where skills he could use for survival had taken over the prime locations. One specific area had been left unaltered, though. Sentimental as it is, the place where he stores information on John, Mrs. Hudson, and the other few people he'd been wanting to come back to is still in tact and unchanged over time.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asks rhetorically. "I approached Bart's and got shot in the neck with a poisoned dart. Barbiturate of some sort, possible traces of narcotic. Not particularly good for my history, but I'll forgive the transgression due to the circumstance."

[substituteskull]

It's not the voice that does it. Not is it the face. Blood covered and pale, John would never recognize a man he'd seen most often pristine (minus the small issue with the harpoon, and John still tells that story for morbid laughs). The normal cues get no notice but the way Sherlock talks-- now that is ingrained in the deepest parts of John's mind, locked away with all of the little things he wanted to never forget.

Hats. Small magnifying glasses. Eye balls in a microwave safe contain used specifically for eyes. Strains of bacteria next to the milk. Gas masks over the paper.

John's head whips around so fast it's a wonder it doesn't fall off and roll under the examination table for some sorry soul to collect later. He stands, quickly. The stool clatters over.

He's finally gone mad-- Madder than he'd been at Sherlock's grave begging a dead man for a resurrection. "Sherlock. Dear God."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock waits for it. The moment of recognition when John will look at him and know who he is. He'd long since determined that predicting his best friend's - no, his only friend's - behaviour, so he doesn't know what to expect. Anger? Fear? Happiness? Disbelief?

Disbelief, it is.

"About time," he says, expression softening at the way John looks at him. "Sorry I'm late. Got a bit hung up in Siberia."

Sherlock's mobility is severely limited by the restraints put around his wrists, ankles (ouch, thanks a lot for that one), neck, and torso. It doesn't keep his hand from twitching over toward the recoiling doctor. "Oh, and I should mention. You're not insane. It's me and I'll explain everything once the room's stopped spinning."

[substituteskull]

John can't remember when he last cried but the sting in the corners of his eyes is ghostly and familiar as he holds back the lump in his throat, likely a sob, from turning into anything more than something to be swallowed down. Feverishly, John's hands tug on the restraints before he finds the buckles, most of the padding done away with. He's not shaking, his fingers as skilled as ever as he works open each and every one down the line.

Hurry. Hurry for what? Sherlock won't likely turn to sand or water and slip away from him again. The world isn't that cruel.

"Good. Yes. Right. Good. Fine. Stop talking. No. No. Keep talking but don't or else you'll further dehydrate yourself--". The moment the last restraint is off, John just stands. Waiting. "Three years late! Welcome home."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock watches John carefully to take in how he responds to the news. It's the same look he'd always gotten when observing a crime scene, even if it's masked behind dirt and caked on blood. Relief. I'd think he'd be angry with me.

Only when the majority of the restraints are opened he averts his eyes away from John's face. John might notice the swelling in his upper left arm from the simple fracture. If they get his shirt off, he'll see the skin dark and inflamed around the break. He'd been lucky that it had been a simple fracture and not a compound one.

"You're rambling, John," Sherlock tells him, but there's a softness in his voice as he speaks. Three years since the plague, and just a month longer than that since he'd jumped.

Using his right hand, he pushes himself into an unsteady sitting position. "Tea would be good, I think. A shower even better," he tells his friend in an attempt to dissipate some of the charged energy between them.

[substituteskull]

Rambling? Bloody hell, of course he's rambling! There's so much to tell Sherlock. They've been apart for so long that yes, he's rambling. And it feels so good too, just to talk to someone that he knows knows him! He's known, lost, and lived with the men and women at St. Barts' but no one has ever, or could ever, be Sherlock.

He feels a bit giddy. Still prone to those creeping tears, too, which likely is the start of some sort of mania. The moment he finds himself alone, John already knows that the leaking facade he is putting up will rupture and his heart will give out. But first--

"You're not having tea. It will just dehydrate you further." And they've been without tea for almost four months. Life is difficult sometimes. "But I'll get you water," he promises. And then just stands there. Oh right. He'll need to actually leave. "And after you've a drink, I'm going to set your arm. Try to lay still, please. Not everyone here will understand why I don't have you under lock as it is."

He doubts anyone here would really welcome Sherlock at all. Most people want to punch him. Actually. John would very much like to punch him now too.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock's slightly baffled at all the mixed signals John's projecting through his actions. The tears. The look on his face. The almost anxious note in his voice. The way he moves, looks at him, speaks. Everything. It's almost like John's dropped whatever emotional response he feels like giving against the table without a care to where each individual droplet will find itself.

Like my mind gets when I have nothing to focus on.

"Water then," Sherlock agrees, giving John a confused look when he doesn't leave immediately to get the water despite saying he will. It's somewhat concerning that his friend has taken on some oddly eccentric behaviours since they'd last spoken. But the times have changed.

He won't lie still as John asked him to, but he won't get up and wander, either. It had taken a lot of effort for him to sit in the first place, so he should make the best of it. In this case, he can start the agonising work of shedding his clothes from the waist up so John can set the bone like he'd offered. If he'd been on his own, he could think of several less pleasant ways of getting the bone back into place.

[substituteskull]

John himself is baffled himself and after letting the door to the morgue close behind him, he catches himself stealing a glance at Sherlock as the man immediate does the exact opposite of what he'd requested. Panic attacks are not something he's dealt with save for waking up from a nightmare and even those have more or less fallen by the wayside, their repeated, horror laden content simply thickening his skin or leaving him listless for a few moments before he would force himself to get up and live another day keeping his own brand of status quo. The way his heart races as he backs down the hallway is something nearly forgotten and John bears down until his head begins to throb. Sometimes it pays to be able to diagnose the signs properly. There's a reason John has survived this long when so few have not.

In the hallway upstairs, he runs into one of old hospital administrators, a really lovely bloke named Clyde, who is missing a few fingers, his entire family, and still keeps smiling. "I heard they caught a live one."

John nearly puts him in a headlock. All of his muscles tighten before he tells himself to calm down and put on his own sham. "I'm seeing him. Just getting some water and bandages. Don't let the kids down there, all right?"

"Absolutely."

They part ways and John quickens his step.

He's not at all surprised to find Sherlock the way he is when he returns. The posture. The bruising-- That unnatural smile is still on his face but it's his eyes that matter the most and they shine with relief to see Sherlock still here. "They told me you had a sword. A sword, Sherlock, really? Drink all of this, but slowly. When's the last time you've properly eaten?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock keeps his eyes trained on John as the other man turns his back on him and goes out into the hallway. A lot had happened to both of them in the last three years and it would take time for them to get used to the changes they've gone through. Sherlock hadn't allowed himself to think much on how things would change while he had been making his way halfway across the world to get back home. He'd been too busy focusing on what would be the same.

John. The ever-steady soldier, doctor, and blogger. The man who'd somehow gotten under his skin in a way that he hadn't really minded.

While John's away, Sherlock somehow manages to get his coat off. A heavy duty trench coat he'd gotten from an abandoned military surplus store before others came up with the same idea. It was where he'd gotten a lot of his arsenal as well.

After that comes his button down shirt. The thing that hurts the most in removing is the under shirt, since it requires lifting his arm up over his head. Luckily, John's not in there with him to hear him hiss and grunt with the effort.

Sherlock looks up warily when he hears the door start to open. John might notice the distrust and guarded expression that paints his face for a second before recognition settles in and he realises that it's just John coming back. His features relax again, but his eyes are still as intense as they've ever been as he once again takes in his friend's appearance.

"Swords don't need to be reloaded," Sherlock points out with a slight smirk. "And, I don't think I've ever told you, but I'm an expert in fencing and several styles of Judo, some of which include sword-wielding." He takes the cup of water and takes a moment to smell the contents. John wouldn't drug me. He could have left me restrained. A hesitant first sip, then he takes the rest in greedy gulps.

"I've been sure to regulate my caloric intake as well as maintain my body's need for essential vitamins and minerals," he explains. One doesn't live this long by forgetting to eat - he'd had two close calls because of it. "But I haven't had much in terms of solid food outside processed sweets in almost a year."

[substituteskull]

Food is the one most lingering concern. London isn't known for it's farm life or it's top soil and while the hospital has nice quadrangle on the grounds, protected and open to the air, it isn't near enough to grow everything they need. Tomatoes and peppers have been the mainstay of their fresh vegetables. A lucky run in with a looter carting around half a dozen chickens has provided them with eggs. Mostly, they do supply runs. The last major haul had cost them two mouths to feed, putting their group just over a baker's dozen.

This time last year, they'd had three times as many people. Now, it's mostly down to children and the people that had taken care of their home. John's not exactly the sole bread winner, but sometimes it feels that way.

He produces two small jars from his pockets. Baby food isn't high in calories, but it's easy to digest and the vitamins alone ought to help/

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock's supplies had been taken when he'd been captured, along with a box containing 42 health shake packets and those high calorie snacks he'd mentioned. He won't be surprised if he doesn't see any of those things again. The way he sees it, he's already paid his first month's rent by supplying John's group with weapons, though it hadn't been his intention.

He looks down at the two bottles of baby food. The most disturbing thing about the whole ordeal is that the thought of eating puréed - what is that? - 'turkey and gravy' with 'peas and carrots' on the side is enough to make his mouth start to water. John might as well be offering him a steak dinner.

"You got these while you were out earlier," Sherlock deduces from the debris under John's fingernails (much harder to remove than by a simple shower), and he reaches for one of the jars to look it over. Enough preservatives to last another several months, but not as much as salted, canned food would. "I don't suppose you've got a spoon."

[substituteskull]

Staring again, eyebrows scrunching up and eyes wider than usual, John fades out slightly after the deduction while his heart leaps up into his throat. He can't afford to be sentimental any more. This is war time, though it's clear that his side has lost, and he has people to take care of even if he refuses to let himself genuinely care for them. This has nothing to do with nice guys finishing last or even fear of loss. Loss is inevitable. John's learned that the hardest way possible.

"What? Oh, right, of course. Here." The spoon is nothing to write home about, bent but luckily still serviceable for this particular task.

Medical supplies have managed to stretch as less and less people genuinely needed them. The hospital had been one of the only public buildings not to be overrun, a strange occurrence given how many had been infected here, though he and Greg had managed to hold back much of the tide, enacted their own security protocols with the CID stationed here, and thus, John's been in a better position than most over the long, difficult years.

Using some disinfecting wipes, therefore, is less wasteful than the drinking water they have learned to purify. John pulls a few packs from one of the drawers and drags over his medical bag while Sherlock eats. He's gentle, not surprisingly, as he starts with Sherlock's face, the side of his neck. Dirt, blood, and who knows what else are easily dabbed away.

"I don't want to know," he says, and then pauses to clear his throat, "how you survived. Or why you were in Siberia. Just-- Why did you come back here? And to Bart's of all bloody places? There's nothing here, Sherlock."

[consulting_freak]

It's unnerving watching John like this. There's something broken and not quite right in his friend's demeanour and the way he processes information. How many 'friends' had John buried in the last three years? I'm one of them.

The most significant difference between Sherlock and John over the last three years was a goal. John and his rag-tag group are essentially a military squad behind enemy lines trying to survive until tomorrow. Sherlock, on the other hand, had a tangible goal to work toward. As sentimental as it had been, his goal had been to find John. Now that he's done that, he doesn't know where to go from here.

Sherlock sets one of the jars down on the table next to him and holds the other firmly between his knees so he can open it with his good arm. The left one is practically useless in its condition and will remain so until the bone mends. Quite a bit longer than if he'd broken it five years ago, he imagines. Healing takes a certain amount of nutrition. He repeats the process with the second jar, then balances both of them in the space between his thighs so he has less of a chance to spill it everywhere.

He eats quickly, shovelling spoon after spoon of the tasteless mush into his mouth. He might have even let out a few appreciative 'mm' sounds in the process.

He doesn't mind John cleaning him off with the sanitary wipes. It won't be the first time John's had to doctor his injuries, though a blanket bath usually doesn't come with it. He won't complain, since being cleaner is something highly desirable for him.

"I came here to look for you," Sherlock tells him plainly. The question is an easy one to answer, because it had been his motivation for years. "Now that I've found you, we can decide what we do next." He scrapes the spoon along the inside of the jar, getting every last bit of food out. He'll lick the spoon clean before setting his finished meal off toward the side.

"So, what do you know about the pathogen?"

[substituteskull]

It's difficult to tell Sherlock's injuries, not even with four, now five, dirty wipes laying on the examination table where his bag now rests. He's gotten most of Sherlock's face and ears and the left side of his neck. The rest will have to wait and he trusts Sherlock to inform him what, besides his arm, will need immediate attention just after. He doesn't want to exacerbate any wounds. Antibiotics are finite and a much more precious resource than towelettes. Still, the moment the jars are emptied, two tablets are pressed into Sherlock's hand.

He doesn't bother to tell the detective what they are. Even the untrained would know they'd been given anti-inflammatory medication and a pain killer. It's standard procedure.

John sits again, this time with every intent to check the arm, and watches Sherlock's slightly smeared but still nearly clear face a moment longer than he'd truly need to. It's back down to business as if they'd only parted for a moment due to a personal trip or a case. John's not sure if he's pleased about that, emotionally, but there's a greater sense relief he embraces instead.

"I know it's in the saliva," John says, feeling along Sherlock's arm for the break and trying to determine if he'll have to pop a break into place before he wraps it, first. "I know that if there's a bite mark, that's it. It's not a virus. People got that wrong before the power was more or less cut and wifi stopped functioning. It's worse. It's alive. We're just it's hosts."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock looks down at the pills in his hand as soon as John gives them to him. His hands are filthy, but he's eaten things far riskier than some dirt and a bit of blood. It's easy to recognise the pills and what they're for, so he sets the pain killer down to the side and takes the anti-inflammatory medication by itself. It only takes one dose to knock a recovering morphine addict back into old habits and the drug coating that dart already has him worried about such things.

"Simple fracture, 2/3 up from my elbow," he explains while trying to work up enough spit to swallow the pills\ by. "Possible concussion - parietal lobe, left side. Sprain in the right ankle. Everything else is superficial trauma that you needn't worry about aggravating."

It takes some effort to keep the pain off his face when John starts to touch the area surrounding the break. The nerves there are on fire under even the lightest touches. "Yes, it seems that the parasite kills the majority of the infected, but alters the behaviour of the survivors. Much like the Leucochloridium paradoxum that infects gastropods and alters brain activity, this parasite seems to do it on a larger scale for the human host. The salivary glands, submandibular specifically, only hold the parasite's sporocysts. Unfortunately for us, there doesn't appear to be any intermediate or vector species, though I've noticed a mutation along the way that allows infection in cats."

He's obviously been doing his homework during his travels. The first thing he'd done when he'd seen the plague in action had been to download as many medical texts in ebook format as he could. He'd also devised a way to recharge his mobile phone using both analogue batteries, and when those aren't available electrolytes in water.

[substituteskull]

Sherlock's style of speaking is soothing and maddening all at once and John smirks, eyes never moving now that he has a task to do. Patching Sherlock up has never been a burden. After all of their time together (which amounts to barely a sneeze in his life experiences if dissected apart), John's barely had to do much maintenance on the consulting detective. Only Sherlock's stubborness -- or the refusal to leave one of his thinking postures while suffering from a bleeding head wound -- would lead John to playing doctor with his flatmate.

This is different. This is so very different.

Noting the pain medication set aside when he stands up to find a medical splint in his bag, the doctor says nothing at all for a long moment until he does return to his seat. "Cats."

Well, that's something to keep on the look out for. They've been known to eat feral animals when scavenging turns out poorly. It's not the best life style, but they need protein and their small stock of chickens don't yield near enough eggs.

"This will hurt, I'm sorry," John tells Sherlock, tape in one hand, ready to snip off strips to prepare for the actual binding. "So you've not thought of a cure then?" Just conversation. Sherlock is a genius, not a miracle worker.

[consulting_freak]

"Yes, cats," Sherlock responds, thinking back to the moment he'd seen it first-hand. It was a small thing, adolescent house cat. It had a bell and everything. The way it walked was the same way the human hosts did. Swaying and unblinking. An intense stare of a functional mind behind whatever was controlling its behaviour. Clever, it had managed to get a pounce on a different human survivor he'd spent a few days travelling with. He'd killed the cat and within a four hours, the first symptoms started to show. He'd killed the man and went on his way - better than the alternative fate.

"It was in Germany about eight months back when I saw it. The pathogen can spread easily from cat back to human. I imagine the first cat infection came from the bite of one of the human hosts," he explains both because the information is important and also because he knows what's coming up in terms of bone setting.

When John warns him that pain is coming, he just shakes his head and probably looks much more indifferent than he feels. "No, I haven't had a chance to stay in one place long enough to test any potential remedies," he says and closes his eyes when he perceives John getting ready to do the snap. It will be quick, but excruciating. The rest of John's little compound will know exactly when John sets his bone, since he's not immune to crying out from sudden pain.

[substituteskull]

The sound of anguish is usually lost on John these days. You have to learn to shut these things off when you're in battle, to cover the guts of the wounded with your own body so dirt doesn't get into abdominal cavities and ignore screams when digging out shrapnel. Pain is fleeting. Shock is always a problem, but sometimes you have to ignore that too and just fill wounds with foam and move on.

It's not glamorous to be a surgeon. John might be personable at all levels -- or had been -- but during war, you have to learn to compartmentalize yourself. His training has come in handy at all fronts and leaders-- Leaders don't have the luxury of feeling too deeply for his unit mates.

But Sherlock--

That particular cry -- which has those not on guard duty running to the morgue -- wraps fingers around John's heart. He does what he needs to do and then places both hands, clean and warm, against either one of Sherlock's cheeks while he stoops to look into his face, to calm him again.

He doesn't apologize, but his eyes hold something secret. It will take time for John to learn this way again, to be always compassionate. To regain a humanity that military life drills out of you.

"Breathe. In, out. Breathe, Sherlock."

[consulting_freak]

Pain is something that's hard to get used to, but he's managed this long on his own and he's no stranger to it. Having someone else, even someone he literally trusts with his life, controlling when the pain is administered takes away a certain amount of control he'd always had on the situation before. It's harder this way and this particular injury had spent almost a full twenty-four hours healing improperly to make things more tender.

Panting, Sherlock doesn't seem to notice John's hands on his face for a good several seconds. His vision threatens to go black and he thinks he might pass out, but John's voice gives him something to focus on to keep him from doing just that.

"Fine," he says, head swaying forward and pupils finally starting to constrict to a normal level of dilation for the dim lighting. "I'm fine, John," this time it sounds more believable. He reaches up with his good hand and pats at John's forearm. "You might want to get that splint together now."

[substituteskull]

"Shut up," John commands with a ghost of a smile on his face and does as he's told. There are feet on the stairs and explaining all of this is going to be annoying at the very best. He tries to just focus on the arm -- which ought to be cleaned, but a little dirt will have to do for now -- and the bandage tape and the air cast. "This is going to be worse," he warns just as the doors are shoved open and four people start talking at once.

Yes. John is still smiling, his back to the group of people he will forever be reluctant to call his friends. There is a woman holding a gun, pale skin and blond, though her gray is showing. She looks soft around the middle, strange for people living on rations, unless one takes into consideration that she'd been heavier and this war has cost her some of her bulk and replaced it with extra skin. Behind, a younger girl, either just having hit puberty or nearly there. Her hair is red and her face fierce. Children always suffer the worst.

Two men bring up the rear. One had a shot gun but it looks old, likely hasn't been used in awhile. He's about John's age and hard eyed. If Sherlock's got a memory for John's friends, he'd recognize Bill Murray. Then again, Sherlock'd never gotten on with John's pub mates or old war buddies. The last man is in his twenties, missing an eye and scarred right down to the corner of his mouth. It's his voice most noticeably heard above the rest.

"Why did you unstrap him!"

John glances up at Sherlock again. "He's not a risk."

Did you want me to take on some of these random peeps?

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock hears the sound of approaching people. Four, judging by the sounds of the footfalls. Two men, two women (or perhaps smaller men). They're walking fast. Determined. He assumes it's got something to do with him calling out. He's an outsider. An unwelcome presence and it won't be the first time he'd been treated as such with groups of survivors.

"Worse is relative," Sherlock comments with a bit of a smirk himself. He's braced for whatever mistreatment John's group will give him. When they enter and fight over who gets to speak first, Sherlock takes a cursory glance around the room at all of them. He deduces a half dozen things about each of them by just that much, but he's learned not to open his mouth when someone's holding an armed pistol aimed in his direction. John might notice the scar of a perforating GSW on his side that had been the main focus of the lesson.

"I'm a researcher," Sherlock tells the scarred man - the one he'd determined to be the 'alpha' in the quartet - letting his gaze fall on his remaining eye. "And, a friend of John's. Now, if you're content with living like a group of scared animals, then I won't stop you. You could shoot me now or kick me out, keeping the supplies you've stolen from me. Or, you could allow me access to these facilities so that we might have a chance of finding a more permanent solution to this plague."