(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]

Funny how it's as soon as Sherlock's starting to feel the most betrayed by John that the other man seeks him out for the first time in almost a week. He doesn't look up from his microscope when he clearly hears John enter the room. Right now, he doesn't really trust what his face might give away.

It's about 'powdered creamer' that Sherlock finally moves his head away from the oculars and allows himself to look at John. Sherlock probably looks tired. Still somewhat upset, too.

"You're babbling, John," he tells him as he clicks the switch to turn the microscope off. He'll leave the slide in place since it won't cause any damage to the instrument. No one's likely to come in here without his express permission after he'd blown up at the youngest boy for doing just that after the fact. (He'd also proven he could do 'magic' in terms of observation and deduction that morning.)

Babbling and awkward. He still gestures with his good hand toward an empty spot on the lab bench. It's an invitation for John to sit down and an acceptance of the offer of a hot meal. He'd skipped lunch that day and no one had thought to deliver food without John there to worry over it.

"I think talking would be good. I have a few things I need to address as well; but since you brought it up, you go first," he tells him with a few of his defences up in place. It's how they'd been when they first lived together in that strange period where they were just starting to become real friends.

[substituteskull]

He hadn't been babbling but this needs to end and so he lets Sherlock get his sharp words in. Being patient had always been just the thing when dealing with Sherlock and John's needed these few days, and this afternoon's win, to get him back into that mindset. Worrying about losing Sherlock again would help no one.

He sets out the two plates carefully so as not to spill anything and takes up his spoon before he can collect his thoughts entirely. It occurs to him that this part isn't necessary. Sherlock can, and will, fill in the details he glosses over for when he actually starts to babble.

"Nothing stopped when you died," he tells the other man over the steam, not looking up. "I thought it might, but it just kept coming. I thought the morgue was the worst bit. But the funeral-- You'll be happy to note that I gave Mycroft a black eye at it--" Sherlock probably knows. Sherlock might have even been there to watch John try not to fall apart. John bites down his anger at that. "Right, so I did my best to visit your grave. To tie up your loose cases. Managed to get DI Les--" And how easy it is to just say his name sometimes!

John clears his throat and drops the unused spoon.

"The point is, I keep treating you as if you're dead. I need to apologize for that. I don't-- What I mean to say is that--" John lowers his head. "I'm just glad you're here."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock stands near the microscope until John's sitting down with his soup. He doesn't feel like taking a seat just yet, but he hasn't gotten restless enough to start pacing, either. As John expects, Sherlock is able to piece a lot of John's story together that he's not saying in words. Gestures, where his eyes fall, and his own memory. He had attended his funeral, unnoticed and in the corner, dressed as an elderly homeless woman. So out of the way no one had made 'her' leave.

As John's words - briefer than he'd expected - come to a close, Sherlock takes the seat offered him at the beginning. He picks up his spoon, but he doesn't eat just yet.

Things hadn't been easy for him, either. He'd pretty much lost everything when he jumped from that rooftop. Including John. Sure, he knew he was alive, but that only lasted for a few months before he lost touch with his contacts in London. Afterwards, there'd always been the not knowing. Sometimes dark moods came to him, as they'd always done, and he'd think to himself that he was doing all of this for nothing and that John would be dead by the time they could reunite. He won't say any of this to John, at least not in so many words. He's not the type to dwell on past suffering.

"I'm glad you're here, too," Sherlock says after too long of twiddling his spoon and looking at his untouched soup. "And, I don't think a week of being ignored is enough to tip the scales in my favour."

He dips the spoon into the beans and takes the first bite. Communion. Isn't that what John's offered him?

Now, it's his turn to talk. "I think someone here is trying to hide something very big from me, John. Do you know anything about it?" Sherlock asks him and for the first time since sitting down, he looks directly at his friend. John, you won't lie to me, will you?

[substituteskull]

Ah, so this. John sets down his spoon and frowns at Sherlock. "I didn't want you in our supply closets," John says immediately, missing the point of what Sherlock had been getting at. "I am very well aware of your habits and we simply do not have all the supplies in the world for you to use them at your fancy."

Strangely, John feels better about coming clean on this respect. Walking on eggshells around a man perfectly capable of discovering all of his sordid past can easily figure out that he's been trying to hide their supplies.

"Now don't be cross about that and don't say that I'm working on three year old information. I'll make sure you've access to everything you need, but I don't want you latching on an idea about how to properly clean the vegetables using all the rest of our petrol!"

He's exaggerating, and not just for effect. Sherlock's genius, and his boredom, have let him to odd but amazing discoveries.

Sherlock's stoic face, however, draws John back. "That's not what you meant," he voices out loud. "What... Are you thinking on?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't so much as look over at his secret haul from the supplies closet. He'd only taken the items that hadn't been given to him so he'll have access to them. He doesn't have any plans for extracurricular experimentation for the moment, but he's also not fighting boredom yet.

It's easy for him to see that John's convinced that the 'something big' is just the chemical stores. Sherlock had known the supplies existed, even before stumbling across it this afternoon, so it seems an awfully mundane and small matter.

"I've already been upstairs and I've taken what you failed to mention having," he says plainly. And, as John's notice, his face is still very serious.

The diary is on his person. He slips his hand into his breast pocket (why yes, he'd had his hunting coat cleaned) and removes the smallish book. He sets it down on the lab bench between their bowls of soup. "Someone redacted quite a bit of information - ink was fresh when I found it. Less than six hours old. Most death accounts were redacted as well as one page listing dosing details. Several pages after that were completely torn out. What I don't understand is why leave the diary in my possession yet bother to remove so much detail?"

[substituteskull]

Roderick's diary. Now, it's John's turn to have any good will, or any annoyance at Sherlock's not-quite-thievery be replaced by that coldness again. He'd taken it from the doctor's room just after she died, not to have passes crossed out or pages removed, but to keep it from everyone else. To keep it for himself. Some of the accounts--

Slowly, John turns pages that Sherlock's fingers have recently rifled through. He knows each of the pages by heart and to see them scratched out just gets him angry. It's strange to watch John's face be so devoid of any feeling at all, especially when he gets to the second passage even Sarah wouldn't discuss.

His blood just runs cold and he wipes his hand across his lips. There's no sign of a tremour. With a precise hand, he snaps the diary closed and hands it back to Sherlock.

"Don't ask me, Sherlock. And don't go looking for answers. This isn't a case. If you need one of those, how about a cure? Or if not that, a way to keep ourselves alive when the food invariably runs out? Or even a way to stretch out drug supplies."

He's not trying to be closed off. He's trying not to be hurt.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock watches John's face more than the book as he looks through the diary. He's already got everything that's legible memorised enough to be able to recreate it word for word, so he doesn't need to look down at all. John's face tells him a lot. It says that John's offended someone's defaced this diary, so he hadn't known about it before Sherlock's just showed him. That's troubling on a different level, since John is supposed to be an authority figure and these things are happening right under his nose without him so much as getting a whiff.

Again, it's the second redaction that has the strongest reaction. Sherlock's eyebrows furrow when John closes himself and the book up before he can get the answers.

"This is being hidden from me personally, John. I want to know why and I will find the answers. With or without your help," Sherlock tells him coolly as he takes the diary back from his friend. It's soured the mood between them all over again, and it's sparked his interest even further.

John should know that when Sherlock takes an interest in something, it becomes an obsession. It's how he'd always treated cases as well as experiments.

"A cure can wait until I've solved this." He's serious with that. As for the drug supplies, that's easy enough to remedy. All he needs is the right solvents and reagents and he can recreate most of the pharmaceuticals they'd need for survival. (The only thing he'd need is the 3D image of the molecule for that.)

[substituteskull]

"And...if I were to ask you to leave?" What could be so important to John to throw Sherlock out over it? And again, why would he pseudo-threaten him when they both know that John would never actually do that. Turning Sherlock out is an impossible thought, but he may have Sherlock restrained. Or locked up. That wouldn't go well for their strained relationship but this is starting to overwhelm John.

He opens his mouth as if to retract his last statement, but he can't. Lips closed again, John stands, a meal sorely needed after today's exertions going untouched and likely wasted. His appetite has simply vanished.

John will leave without a word, leaving the door open on his way out. He isn't sure what to do. Confining Sherlock will never work. The man has likely grown far more resourceful in their time apart. But John feels trapped.

He secures the lock on his door that evening. He already knows the nightmares will come. They will not be of the war. Or of Sherlock's silvery-green eyes staring upward, face bloody.

They'll be of Greg Lestrade instead.

[consulting_freak]

John's response surprises him in the worst way. He knows deep down that John would never send him away, because that would mean sending him to a fate worse than death. But, the threat is still there. And the resulting expression on Sherlock's face is one he's never looked at John with before. Moriarty, yes. Mycroft, yes. But not John. Cold and challenged.

"I'd leave," Sherlock says without looking up at the door as John leaves. He knows that John's heard him, but there's a lingering silence as soon as the door closes.

For lack of anything else to do, Sherlock continues eating his soup. It's tasteless and feels like he's eating lead instead of food, but it's liable to be the only thing he'll have access to eat until breakfast.

Anything he assumes about the blacked out passage is nothing but conjecture and bias. He needs answers. He won't be able to sleep until he finds them. Especially not after how John's reacted to him. No. He'll think of John later. He can't afford to let residual sentiment cloud his judgement. Right now, he's got to focus on the problem.

Bill Murray. That's who he needs to see. He finishes his soup and puts both bowls back on the tray. The tray is heavy and awkward in one hand, but the thought of rotten bean smell invading his lab is an unpleasant one, so he carries it to the kitchen to deposit for cleaning.

Once he has Bill's location, he heads directly to speak with him.

[substituteskull]

To say that Bill hadn't been expecting Sherlock would be false. He's on duty, patrolling the hallways. There's always a few screams at night, but that's from the nightmares and they're fairly each to deal with. You just check the doors. If they're locked? The people inside are safe. And if they aren't, they'll figure that out in the morning and dispose of them once they break down the door after breakfast.

Bill watches Sherlock approach with a frown on his face and turns, knowing the other man will follow him. "Still don't know why you'd come back. From what I saw, you always treated him like shite on your shoes."

But what's Bill to know?

"I was there when you left him. Faking your death like that isn't something a sane bloke does. You should have stayed away."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock can see the change in Bill's posture as soon as he's noticed. He doesn't do anything to hide his presence nor does he do anything to rise to the provocations. That's all they are, since Bill Murray doesn't mean anything to him personally. He'd protect him in a pinch, but not at the expense of his own safety, just because that's what people do.

He matches pace with Bill, keeping just a short distance behind. This will be tricky. Slippery. However this conversation ends, he might find himself kicked outside anyway, restrained, or beaten up. Or, he could find a new ally.

"I doubt you'd believe me, but I assure you that I did want to fake my death nor did I want to hurt John. I did what I did because it was necessary and because if I didn't, then John's life would have ended instead," he explains. It's none of Bill Murray's business and he doesn't like to tote on about heroics, but establishing himself as someone with John's best interest in mind is necessary.

[substituteskull]

"Interestin' that you didn't answer me on why you came back." Actually, it's not that interesting at all, but Bill still wants to hear what he knows Sherlock won't say. There are many, many sorts of madness that can happen when people are cut off from each other, and many more when they are allowed to be too close.

The scenarios ought to play out for Sherlock now, though how he deduces them likely will be a mystery for everyone involved. Bill's jealousy is sexually seated. Had he and John had an affair? Perhaps. Bill at least had wanted one and still wants one. John had either denied him outright or had stopped it along the way for whatever reason.

Either way, it's a problem. Bill is attached to John.

Attached enough to steal something John held personal, crossed out passages, and evidently had been clever enough to hope that Sherlock would be forced to leave once John discovered he was pushing mysteries and tearing open old wounds.

[consulting_freak]

Possessive. Sherlock had already noticed that sort of thing coming from Bill before this conversation, so he's not surprised. He's testing the waters, trying to see if Sherlock is some sort of competition for John's affections.

He's not interested. Sex and romance have never interested him, but he's got his own protective streak when it comes to John. He doesn't want to see his friend hurt, especially not through someone's attempts at using him. Moriarty had done enough of that, so once he realises the deepest seeds of motivation, that will be a breaking point.

For now, he just notices territorial behaviour. Arrogance. Pride - but pride in what, exactly?

It's not hard to associate the marked passages and Bill. Sarah had sent him to ask Bill, so it's likely she might suspect as much. But, he won't act on half-formed notions simply because intuition tells him to. That's bias and something he's never accepted in his work. He has an observation, a question, a hypothesis, and all he needs left is to run the experiment.

"He's my friend," Sherlock says plainly. "Isn't that reason enough?" It's as much detail as he'll give Bill.

He keeps his eyes on the other man as he takes the diary out of his pocket. He extends it out to the Bill's hand, while taking specific interest in the emotions that will cross over his face. Was it you, Bill?

[substituteskull]

Bill's eyes harden. It's extremely dark in this part of the hallway. He's holding a candle, something they make here at camp, because batteries are too precious to waste on patrol. The infected have distinct sounds and are attracted to brightness. Having one's torch out unless absolutely needed, even in the safety of this space, is unwise.

"No it's not reason enough," Bill says, not taking the offered diary. "Stupidest thing I've ever heard. You don't come back for a near impossibility. Not even for one of your men, not this far into enemy territory. Certainly not if you aren't even sure if they made it. Chances are, he wouldn't have made it. So you love him then?"

He's much less careful than Sherlock when looking for information.

[consulting_freak]

That's it. So it had been Bill who marked the diary, which means he's gotten himself into a very dangerous situation. Alpha male (because, let's face it. John's 'alpha', but Sherlock is even more 'alpha') against beta male. He'd win on cunning alone, but they're a bit too far from camp, his arm is still unusable, and he's facing a man both possessive enough and defensive enough to be a physical threat.

"You don't understand," Sherlock starts, sliding the diary back into his pocket now that he has his answer on the 'who'. It leaves the questions of 'why' and 'what's still hidden' left. "John is my only friend."

'Love' or not, Sherlock isn't going to label how he feels toward John in such simplistic terms. It cheapens things and doesn't quite cover all of the details.

[substituteskull]

John's never expressed his own set of feelings towards Sherlock because they are so contradictory. Love? Absolutely, he loves his former flatmate. Was it romantic love? It certainly wasn't like the love he sought out from his various girlfriends, but none of them could ever hold a candle to Sherlock. Complicated as it may be, complicated as it still is now, there's nothing about it that Bill can ever understand.

It's obvious that Bill doesn't understand the difference, or what 'friend' means to Sherlock. He can't wrap his head around the idea of 'soul mates' without there being a physical relationship involved. He's like most people in that regard, one who has never experienced being connected the way Sherlock and John had been.

Not that Bill needs pity. The man is on guard duty. He's armed. He's very capable of overpowering an injured Sherlock.

"You really shouldn't have come here, but now that you are... What do you want from him? He's not your anything."

[consulting_freak]

For the first time since they'd started speaking, Bill manages to say something that makes Sherlock react. It's a small thing. His eyes widening slightly, then narrowing, and glancing to the side. 'He's not your anything' is what had done it.

Whether or not he feels the same, Sherlock still considers John his best and only friend. And as such, he'll make sure that he's safe from anyone who means him harm. Including old war buddies from Afghanistan with a twisted sense of affection. He's still not sure of what the purpose of Bill's behaviour is, but it's not good and it had obviously hurt John a great deal when Sherlock brought it up.

"Nothing," Sherlock says. It's not true, though. He wants a lot from John - acknowledgement, trust, friendship, laughter. He wants things to be how they were.

"But, since I am here, I'll be watching. Him, you, the others. And, if I don't like what I see, I'll act on it." It might not be the cleverest thing to say to someone who's got the physical advantage, but if it starts an altercation, Sherlock can still walk away with the upper hand. He's got training that fits with his natural grace and dexterity instead of brute force.

[substituteskull]

Go on. Walk away. Bill doesn't plan on stopping Sherlock. He doesn't have to. The point had never been to kill Sherlock -- which would just drive John away from him. The point is to make sure John stays as emotionally detached from Sherlock as he possibly can.

"Just one more piece of advice," he calls into the darkness as Sherlock leaves. "You really should take a good look at the offices across the street."

There's your final clue, Sherlock.

Likely to do with that marked off passages in that diary that no one will talk about. "Ask John sometime. I'm sure he'd love to give you the tour."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock does take that silent stare between them as his cue to leave. He turns his back to Bill and walks away. He listens to both pieces of advice, but he will only take the first one. To go to the offices across the street. John doesn't need to be involved in it, since it's clear to him that John doesn't approve of him looking into this.

He'll go tomorrow. He'd overheard them mentioning sending a second expedition to gather more of those canned goods, so it would be an ideal time to go out when no one will miss him. His personal items had been returned, so he has more than enough fire power to keep the infected off his back. He'll only take one gun with a full magazine and his sword, since he'd found that to be a better weapon against these things, anyway.

The trip back to the rooms is dark, but Sherlock's eyes adjust to it easily. He'd learned to use his other senses when sight is limited - another thing needed for both forensics and survival. When he gets to the rooms, most people have their doors closed. Indicating sleep, he'd learned after the first day.

He stops in front of John's door. He can hear the creaking of the bed inside. Nightmares. He tries the knob, but it's locked. Giving up, he walks to his own room and shuts the door. He'll lie down for a few hours, but sleep won't come to him. He'll eventually shower and go to do some work in the lab (under minimal lighting) until John's party once again leaves Bart's.

[substituteskull]

It's difficult to apologize. It always has been. John wants to go to Sherlock, to work this out, to explain-- But he can't explain. There's a deepseated shame in it, a person inside of him he doesn't like to acknowledge. John on the battlefield has absolutely no place with John in every day life. He'd always been able to separate those parts of himself. With his unit, during downtime, he'd been fun to have around. But out there, he'd been cruel in his convictions, eager in his shots, and absolutely remorseless in who he killed...or who he left to die.

That's important for a soldier and for a triage surgeon. It is not, however, good to bring into the daily lives of others. Sherlock had understood, however. Sherlock knew him, deep down, within the first ten minutes of their second meeting.

He just finds himself afraid of never getting to really talk to Sherlock again. To let their feelings lie unsaid. It's unacceptable when death is so certain now, but alas, John leaves his goodbyes by the wayside.

Even if he does stop to look up at where he knows Sherlock's window is, the glare of the sun keeping him from seeing if the other is at the window or not.

John's group of three from yesterday has doubled to six. The atmosphere is fairly light. The promise of large quantities of food will do that. It does nothing but help Sherlock as he leaves the hospital. Today, there are no guards in the other building at all. The ones that had shot him with sedative have all gone out with John and in the early mornings, the guards on the roof are still at breakfast.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't go to the kitchen for breakfast. He'd had one of those powdered shakes still in his bag. He hadn't bothered handing those or the guns over officially, and he's glad for it. After yesterday and what he will be doing today, he's not sure he will be a welcome presence among John or his team members.

He's at the window as John is leaving. It's not a sentimental reason, but because it's necessary. For just a moment as John's walking away, he thinks that he's been spotted. The way John looks up toward his window. His friend is squinting, shielding his eyes, but his gaze is on the window next to him and not the one he's sitting at. He doesn't move as John turns around and leads his group off to fill the coffers with something more valuable than any currency.

He waits just long enough to make preparations. Weapon's check. One of those overly sweet processed pastries in his pocket. And, then he's off toward the main doors. He's recognisable enough, so even if there were people watching, he doubts they would kill him on sight.

He doesn't run into any trouble, animal or infected, on his way to the private offices across the street. Not knowing what he's looking for, he takes a good look at the outside of the building before entering. It's worn from the weather and ransacked. It's hard to tell what's important and what's incidental, so he lets himself in quietly.

[substituteskull]

Moran once sat in a window there, rifle at John's head as Sherlock jumped. That they still use this building, barricaded, but not as perfectly as the hospital, is something that must have pained John. There had once been all sorts of medical personnel that would work here, back when healthcare was a thriving business and when doctors typically were overpaid and there needed to be entire floors of accounting staff to process it.

Now, there's nothing but dead space and completely cleared out rooms and the ends of hallways stacked high with unused furniture not dismantled and repurposed. The electricity doesn't extend this far, the grid is small, but there are candles that lead the way to a guard station and deeper into the building. Much deeper.

Down to the basement. One that Sherlock likely is fully aware connects to the hospital via an underground parking structure that had once been used as bomb shelters during the war.

The way might have creeped out most people, especially passing double doors heavily lashed together with thick chains and padlocks. Could there be infected inside or was this a precaution against people wandering where they could get hurt? Given Sarah's explanation as to why the hospital's west end had been closed off, it's likely the former. Candles, half melted, are stuck to the tops of door handles or on the floor. They've not just been abandoned there. They've been placed for use. Repeated use.

There is one door with no barricade at all. One door without chains. There's no warning sign. No mention of what might be beyond.

No indication as to how far a person Sherlock cares for might have sunk at the worst times of his life.

The shuffle just inside is strangely uncomfortable but still something anyone alive at all understands. There are infected here, but not maddened. There's no screech when one hears the doors open. No sudden surge forward to attack their guests. And that's because this had once been a psychiatric evaluation room. The glass in here is one sided. And the people -- the former people -- in each of the windowed rooms can not see, nor hear, Sherlock approaching.

Many of them are people Sherlock will not recognize.

But some--

Mrs. Hudson ought to be the one that Sherlock would spot right away, standing in the corner, one shoe missing. Mycroft is here too, unable to move at all for lack of a leg. It's rather fitting that he must crawl about should he want to move, but the absence of stimulus keeps him stationary.

Lestrade is in the far room. Alone. There's remains of a meal in there, long since decayed. A tray is there on the window sill. The bed inside looks like it had been used a very long time ago. There is a shaving kit at the sink, turned over.

Lestrade is different from the rest and the reason is simple: he'd not been infected when he was locked away like much of the rest.

John's little secret is his nostalgia.

And what does that speak of his physiological state after all?

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock takes his time in his exploration. He's not easily 'creeped out' by dark, eerie places. He doesn't believe in ghosts and demons, but monsters are now a concern that he can't deny. He's careful and quiet as he makes his way through the offices and eventually down to the basement level.

Candles and evidence of paths in the laid out dust are what lead his way. These halls had been walked many times over and he's certain that the one doing the walking is his only friend back at the hospital.

Sherlock takes note of the barricaded doors and considers opening them, but self-preservation instinct remains in tact and he chooses not to risk it. At least not for today. There's one route that he finds unbarred and inviting. He pauses outside the door, since he can hear something just inside. Movement. Not exactly human movement. He rests his pistol in his left hand for easy access and draws his blade before carefully and quietly pushing the door open.

The light shines in from the windows outside the patient rooms and through the one-sided glass. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sudden presence of light - he hadn't been using his torch, because it's safer to be caught blind than to be in a spotlight.

The first several patient rooms hold men and women he doesn't recognise, but he can tell at once that they're trapped in their isolated communities. The windows are too high for them to reach and the the walls are padded. It's like looking into a macabre portrait of modern psychosis.

At the third window, Sherlock stops dead in his tracks at the familiar faces. His blood goes completely cold when the recognition finally hits. Mrs. Hudson. His brother. He'd assumed both to be dead. Perhaps Mycroft could have gotten away with his resources. But this?

He doesn't get sick when he sees crime scenes. He's killed the infected with no remorse. But right now, his liquid breakfast creeps up on him in a wave of nausea. This is what John had been hiding from him. Sherlock could forgive the other man for holding infected. He could forgive him for anything. But, this? There's no words to describe how disgusted he feels to have two people so important to him housed behind glass in this mockery.

I can take two of them on. Myc--the male one won't be able to move fast, so I can kill the female one quickly before moving to the next. An end to this joke. Or I could just burn the whole building.

There's an unfamiliar sting in his eyes as he looks away from his family locked up behind the glass. Well, what's left of his family. He continues down the hall until he reaches the farthest room. At first, seeing Lestrade doesn't surprise him. He'd been one of the 'survivors' at Bart's in the beginning. But, his eyes scan the room out of habit and he notices all the tell-tale signs of conscious life. The warning of some people doing stupid things plays in the back of his mind.

Angry, sick, and something else, Sherlock makes his way out of the corridor and back into the rest of the underground base. The barricaded doors are the ones holding the 'patients' inside. He counts the doors and double-checks it with the map in his head until he gets to that third patient room. He goes over Mrs. Hudson's and Mycroft's locations before he makes quick and quiet work with the padlock bolting the door.

He'll be clean and he'll be 'merciful' as he personally ends the misery of two of the people he'd cared for back when things were normal. Once he's done with the job, he collapses against the wall and sinks down to the floor. The sounds of these two and the smell of putrid blood alert the other infected, which give a disturbing ambiance to his grief.

It's two hours before he can pull himself together enough to bring himself back to his feet. One more old acquaintance to visit, but it will have to wait for another day. Right now the infected are too riled up and even though he's in despair, he's not suicidal.

Stained with blood and tears, Sherlock makes his way back up to the ground floor and he crosses the parking lot to Bart's. "I'm clean," he calls out to the roof when he sees one of their sentinels standing guard above. He won't be in any mood to explain where he'd gone or why. He won't speak with anyone, but if they insist on checking him over for bites, he won't fight it. As soon as he's left alone, he'll go straight to the showers.

[substituteskull]

The day has been a success from John's end. They only ran across one small pocket of infected that had wandered into the hastily shut museum. No one was hurt and they've cleaned out everything of value. The sun is just setting as they maneuver their wagon around the cars specifically parked in the street to make this very thing a difficult hassle. There's a lot of whooping and hollering inside and everyone -- minus Sherlock it seems -- has come to help go through the food. John hands each of the children some sweets and gives the rest to Gabrielle to put away for later.

Dinner becomes an understandable feast and John seems his old self, happy and laughing and joining with the others in telling jokes about one mishap or another.

"Do you want me to take Sherlock his dinner?" Bill asks him towards the end of the meal and John sighs, really thinking about it.

"No," he mentions. "I'd better do it." The lab will be John's first stop, tray laden with more food than usual, including a small chocolate nugget filled with creme. If Sherlock isn't there, he'll head to his room.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock has been making himself even more absent than usual since his return. He's found himself in a dark sort of brooding mood. If his arm weren't broken, he would have asked around for a violin. He doesn't need the instrument to compose music, though.

John will find Sherlock reclining in bed with the diary propped open on his knees. He's got it opened to a blank sheet and he's written in some music staves and he's silently writing a duet piece. An organ and a flute, odd combination but fitting considering who the elegy is being written for.

He doesn't look up when John brings him his dinner. "Not hungry," is all he says when his friend enters. His writing becomes a bit more firm and his bottom lip twitches up a few times.