(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 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.

[substituteskull]

This is on the case Sherlock, jotting down notes and-- Jotting down notes? No. Sherlock is more cerebral. He lays. He listens. He thinks. He does not sit up with ink and paper, scribbling away. John's half smile drops as he steps into the room. He's got a terrible feeling in his stomach, but even Sherlock couldn't have figured it out a day.

John still has time to close off the observation room. He thinks he does, at least.

John sets down the tray and then turns back to Sherlock. "You need to eat. You haven't eaten all day according to Sarah." Sarah might be Sherlock's only current fan here. She knows most of his movements, at least as far as his journey to and from the living quarters to the kitchen.

It only takes a moment more for John to get a glimpse of the notes trolling across the page in the diary for his own dinner to feel like it's about to come back up. He swallows thickly and it's unpleasant.

Sherlock doesn't typically write music. In fact, he'd known only one time that the great consulting detective actively composed.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock still doesn't look up at John. If anything, this is how he'd always treated Mycroft whenever the elder Holmes had come to the flat. A presence that's more of an annoyance than anything else. He doesn't know how to handle being in the same room with John right now. He knows that John is the only one who'd gone to and from that basement across the street in the last month. He'd turned on his torch on the way back to the stairs, no longer worrying about alerting the captive infected to his presence. The footprints were easy enough to identify with only fifteen to 'match' with.

He notices that John's gotten a glimpse at his work, so he snaps the book closed much like John had done the night before when they were speaking. "I wouldn't go across the street for a few days if I were you."

His voice is as cold as ice when he speaks. He knows there's a reason. There has to be a reason, but right now he's struggling to cope with grieving for people he'd been sure he was finished mourning. "Leave the drink, but take the rest. The smell is making me sick."

[substituteskull]

Watching John literally deconstruct is interesting, Sherlock, and a pity you don't bother to watch it. It starts in his fingertips, twitching behind his back as he holds them there. The posture shifts next, shoulders first slumping before there's a conscious raise to them, like he's attached ropes to his body to pull himself upright. His head tilts down but eyes remain fixed on Sherlock, washes of tears causing the shade of smoky quartz sapphire to edge more towards blue in the light. When he exhales, John is almost sure he'll collapse.

The strangest, and not visually observable thing about Sherlock's potentially former friend is the break in his voice.

"What did you do?" There's the under current of panic there, a gripping of his throat. The emotion is so convoluted that it's impossible to fully name all of the parts. Despair? Anger? Anguish? He might even start to laugh as a certain quality of madness reaches him.

The words repeat. This time at a yell and with the added benefit of the soldier turning from a man lying in controlled wait to one on the attack. He decends upon Sherlock, fisting his coat.

"What did you do!?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't want any hurt or harm to come to John, even though he's confused by and hurt by what he'd seen in the office building. Pain is not his goal and never could be when it comes to John. So, no. He doesn't watch his friend unfold under the knowledge that his secret is out. That Sherlock had done something down there that John might not approve of.

He doesn't even look up the first time John asks him what he's done. The sound of John's voice cracking isn't a pleasant thing. I'm the cause of it is the first thing Sherlock can think of. But that's unfair, isn't it? He hadn't been the one to ask John to do something so abhorrent.

"They were family, John," Sherlock admits, finally bringing his gaze up to John's eyes. Pain. That's what he can see in the forefront. Then behind it, panic and devastation. John is probably lost in his own emotions to notice the pain being mirrored right back at him.

He hasn't suffered loss like this since he'd been twelve-years-old. He doesn't know how to suffer this gracefully.

[substituteskull]

"They are family!" John yells, shaking Sherlock even if the back of his head might hit the wall. John honestly doesn't care right now. He wants to hurt him, wants to make him understand what all of this had been about until that stupid woman killed herself.

The tears flow freely, though John ignores them.

"They are our family and for God's sake, Sherlock, they all have brain waves!" Click-click-click. The pieces should fall so neatly into place now that the terrifyingly emotional man and his genuine ability to do Sherlock harm might as well fall into an interesting second place in the grand scheme of things.

The brain functions. And if the brain functions, revival might in fact be possible. Oh, John knows how slight the risks are, but he'd done his best to keep the ones that he loved safe once Roderick and Molly first discovered the initial strains and separated them for study. They'd been so excited in the beginning when John let teams out to find family members, to make them safe.

Even if so many survivors had died on that particular quest when it was still so uncertain out there. When the cure was just a happy myth everyone clung to.

There's not many people left that know of that struggle.

John's grief quiets as he half leans against Sherlock's chest. His knuckles ache, white and hot from contraction.

[consulting_freak]

The only thing Sherlock does to lessen the impact of assault is to tilt his head forward so his skull doesn't take as much force from the wall as John shakes him. He doesn't lift his hand or try to push him and it takes all he has not to join him in the throes of despair. In his mind, he's ended the suffering of two of the very few people he's ever actually cared about.

'They are family' just sounds like a man man clinging to the desperate hope of the past. Someone clutching tightly to a dream. No - Sherlock doesn't think a cure exits. He thinks a vaccine might be possible, but not a cure.

'They are our family and for God's sake, Sherlock, they all have brain waves!'

That one sentence would have his knees buckle if he were standing. These creatures couldn't possibly be alive in any other capacity than as transport. The same theory Sherlock's always given his own body, yet in a much more literal way.

"Brain waves," Sherlock mutters, leaning over John. He rejects the information, because if it doesn't, that means he's just...

"Electrical activity, you mean? A bowl of jelly can emit similar electrical impulse as a comatose human patient," he says, clinging desperately to the idea that this is wrong. Everything is wrong. So very, very wrong.

Numb, he lifts one hand up to John's shoulder. "Please John... tell me it's just electric impulse you've proof of." No speech. No recognition. No thought.

What have I done?

[substituteskull]

It's difficult to say if John is clinging to a truth that is likely false or if he, in fact, had proof. The blond -- former blond, perhaps, for John's grown rather gray around the temples, silver shot through his hair -- just mumbles something, the weight off of his knees and more onto one of his outer thighs. This is not cuddling, however. No matter how close. No matter how much they both might need the touch of someone else at the moment.

Sherlock's question goes unanswered for the moment because John has a few more questions of his own. They can discuss the science, the scans, and Molly's notes later.

If he being selfish? Yes, likely. Does he care? The cheek against Sherlock's shoulder might make an onlooker think so, but that can not be further from the truth. How many people does he have to lose and how many times did he have to lose each of them?

John pulls back quite suddenly, not just away from Sherlock's chest, but also from his touch. He itches. He aches. It hurts. As disgusted as Sherlock had been with John, John can't help but feel as if Sherlock has back from the dead simply to further punish him.

"How many... How many did you kill?"

John's voice is no where near calm at this point. It's true that they've always fed off of one another. And this is no different.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't push John away from him. He doesn't enjoy the touch, but he doesn't mind it either. He feels numb, so the physical touch is all but unnoticed. There's no answers for him. At least none that John's willing to share with him for the moment, so the world just stays open under his feet and keeps him dangling there and waiting to fall.

His hand slides off of John's shoulder easily as the other man pulls away from him. Sherlock probably looks pale and distant. He's thinking back on the moment several hours ago when he'd killed his own brother and substitute mother.

"J-Just. Just two," Sherlock tells John unsteadily, head lulling down as he pulls his knees up to his chest. He doesn't usually show this side of himself to anyone, but he also doesn't usually kill his loved ones. He wants his bedroom door closed, whether John stays or goes. For now, he's a welcome presence. He's already seen the shift in him and what's shattering all over again.

Would John know which two he'd killed? There'd been only one room with two inhabitants, so it would be an easy thing to deduce.

[substituteskull]

Just two. Just two. The two people Sherlock cared most about. The people he's writing the music for. Oh, don't worry about the door getting shut. John turns and slams it, facing away from Sherlock for a long, long time. He can't think.

The chances of Mrs. Hudson, of Mycroft, being able to come back from this is slight, at best. Their bodies have ceased to function, and yet, the parasites are somehow keeping their bodies alive, even at the cost of muscle tissue.

They don't decay, but not all of them survive. The hosts have died, sometimes in John's captivity. He's seen it happen. He's had to clear a few away.

But Mycroft... He's been there the longest. Still moving. John's even repaired his legs so he wouldn't lose blood when and if they could revive him. Now that had been a terribly harrowing surgery!

The sounds of John's acceptance follow. His shoulders stay lifted but his head drops.

"I'll bring you Molly's work tomorrow. I'd...wanted to ease you into it. It's not... It's not pleasant being there. I know."

[consulting_freak]

The door shutting is good. Sherlock wants the privacy right now, even if the act brings the tears back. A mess. That's what he's made of the situation and himself by going to that office building. If John turns around, it should be quite evident that even through all his goings on about how emotions and sentiment are below him and worth nothing, he's still very much afflicted by them.

He's never cried in front of John. Not like this, anyway. He'd summoned false tears on multiple occasions, but the only time they'd been real before now had been up on that rooftop just before he jumped.

Molly's research will come too late to do him any good. He'll accept it and use it, of course. But if he'd only known about everything before. If anyone in this damned place had thought to come clean to him, he would have been prepared for what he'd see and he wouldn't have resorted to execution.

"I killed them, John," Sherlock tells his friend, voice sounding desperate. The way a child would handle these things and nothing like the stoic and emotionally detached man John's known so well. "My own brother... and Mrs. Hudson, too. Oh God, what if they recognised me?" Surely if anyone could predict this side of him, it would be John.