(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 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."

If you'd like! I'm just winging it. There's a few others too floating around.

[substituteskull]

A researcher? John already knows that isn't going to go over well with his people. In fact he can already hear the agitation. He finishes up what he's doing and swings around, constantly world weary and understandably tired. It's been a long day. He went out alone on a supply run, came back for a shower and ran into a ghost of a person who mattered so very much to him was lost just before the rest of the world went to shite too.

"This is Sherlock Holmes. I want his things returned. All of them. And though I know it's going to be difficult along the way, could you please try not to shoot him if at all possible?" He'd just got him back. John doesn't really expect himself to do well if he loses him again to this jumpy group or infected cats or what not.

The room stills. What John says goes. Pulling rank has evidently come in handy. John stands to rinse his hands in untreated water, good enough for washing but certainly not for drinking, and shakes his hands dry.

There are murmurs from the group but the young girl is the one who speaks next: "You mean, he's the one that road the tube with a harpoon?"

John's band of merry bandits. I don't know what they know/don't know. xD

[consulting_freak]

Researcher is the closest label he can come up with for what he'll be doing if he's accepted in John's group. He doesn't have an education in medicine and he won't be administering medical treatment to anyone outside of himself (and John if it comes to that), so doctor won't be a good title. Detective work is simply obsolete. Consulting researcher is meaningless without someone consulting him. 'Zombie exterminator' would work, but he'd rather stick to the lab if he can help it now that he's found his way back home.

John has a high rank. Possibly the leader, Sherlock notices when he sees the way everyone backs down as soon as John gives the word. He can see a wary look on the unscarred man's face. That one seems familiar, but Sherlock can't put his finger on where he'd seen the man before.

"You told them about that?" Sherlock complains, as soon as the girl breaks the charged atmosphere with the comment. Something in her voice is akin to hero worship, but he ignores it. It gives him the uncomfortable impression that John's been telling stories about him. The kind you tell around a camp fire about heroes of old. Just how many make believe images of himself will he shatter in the next forty-eight hours?

"He's the one that helped you look into Alex's killin'?" The older woman asks when it finally clicks. "He looks different without the hat..."

A scowl finds its way on Sherlock's face. The mention of the tube incident is fine. Even the comment about that God-forsaken hat, he can shrug off. But, having a group of people talk about him, but looking at John while he's in the room is maddening.

THAT LOOK. Beautiful.

[substituteskull]

John's got his own brand of hero worship when it comes to Sherlock but that tended to get stuffed aside each time he found something of his commandeered for an experiment or when Sherlock would forget he existed and leaving him standing by holding something of police interest. Oh. His once perfect record-- Not that it matters now, of course. There are no records. There are no anything. And John's had to do some much worse things in the last few years than having to visit a solicitor.

"That's only because his hair's a bit too long," John says, somewhat more jovially than he'd been putting on for Sherlock before, but that threat of possible sobbing keeps nearly bursting in the centre of his chest.

He has to school himself into breathing properly. Getting people worked up further is never a good thing to do and they look to him, sometimes falsely, to be strong for them.

Bill's eyebrows bunch together on his forehead and he tilts his head up to see Sherlock more clearly. He'd been at the funeral.

And the rest of them had read the sensational story about Sherlock in the newspaper. None had really recognized John at first when they came together, but that's all right. He'd done his work to get Sherlock off of what London thought of him just the same. It'd been his only real goal when disaster settled down. He couldn't clear Sherlock's name entirely -- But he could do his best.

He's a charmer

[consulting_freak]

John's change in attitude doesn't go unnoticed, but Sherlock sees through it as fake easily. Maybe he would have been fooled by it three years ago when he was less keen with these things. (Or maybe he wouldn't have simply because he'd gotten to know John on a personal level). Right now it's just telling him that John's been forcing himself to keep a front for these other people at the expense of his stability. And more of the puzzle pieces click together regarding his friend's troubling behaviour.

Other than the unscarred man, it seems that the knowledge of Sherlock's identity has settled the mood of the quartet. There's some resentment in that one's eyes that he doesn't much like, but it's nothing that will cause an immediate threat to him or John, so he disregards it. He'll remain wary, though.

"I'm in the room, you know," He interrupts, palming the pain killer at his side. He doesn't plan to take it, but he also doesn't trust people around him very easily. "If any of you have something to say to or about me, you can say it to me directly." That means you, too, John. "But, if you don't mind, it can wait. I'm not sure you lot noticed, but we were in the middle of an examination."

[substituteskull]

"Yes, it really can wait--"

"But you died!" the youngest of them interrupts, another step forward before Bill puts a hand on her shoulder and calls her name, Sarah, in a slightly warning tone. "How did you manage? How did you get here?" Groupie is written all over her face. Though the world has come to a disastrous new turn, teenagers are teenagers. Sarah's eagerness might be off putting but at least it's genuine.

The rest of them, John included, are just too guarded.

The former Army doctor and soldier does nod to the group. "I'm nearly done. I'll get him a shower after and we'll talk." It's not exactly democracy here, they tried that and it failed, but John still believes in talk before orders. "Would you mind shutting the door?"

It's Bill's eyes that still burn after the small group leaves and John deflates noticeably. "Sorry about that. We don't get guests all that often."

[consulting_freak]

'Off putting' is an understatement. Sherlock eyes the youngest warily when she speaks so bluntly. He's not used to that sort of thing and he's never been good with children. He respects children from afar, since they see the world in a much less biassed way than adults, but interacting with them on a personal level had always gotten him in trouble with their parental figures. Either for being rude and hurting their feelings or for giving them strange ideas.

Because of that, he lets the unscarred man control the situation. When their eyes meet before the small group leaves, there's a mutual dislike shared between the two of them.

"I can imagine what few visitors you do get, they end up dead or shunned more often than not," he says, voice sounding bitter as he speaks. If he could have his way, it would just be him and John in Bart's with no one else to bother them. But, seeing how badly off John is, he doubts solitude would have been as friendly to his disposition.