substituteskull | (no subject)

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

substituteskull

"Speaking of Siberia--" John should probably finish this (though he's skipped over that truly terrible second scribble for the time being simply because he can't manage it right now no matter how important the details might be-- "I've changed my mind. About Siberia." His whole posture has changed, though that doesn't really cause him to lean back against Sherlock. He just finds his nosiness comforting and comfortable and talking--

Yes, they should be talking. They should have never stopped talking. And he's curious as to how the man managed to learn swordsmanship without much of a teacher too! Yes, he's a genius, but the techniques certainly can't be picked up just by waving the thing around!

No. No, it doesn't occur to John that Sherlock had been proficient with the weapon before the trouble either. He'd known about the Judo, but not about Mr. Ninja Master.

"The kids could do with some new stories, besides."

From:

consulting_freak

Comfortable is good. It has a way to wash some of the emotional filth off so he can start to relax. Sherlock, as always, mirrors John's looser posture without him really noticing that he's doing it. Usually he pays attention to this stuff in order to appear to be interested and receptive toward a person, but since he's doing it without a conscious effort should alert him to... something. To what?

"You want to hear about Siberia?" Sherlock asks him, but it's an empty question. "I've already told you that's where I tracked the first of the three assassins. I'd heard names whispered in the underground and like any other trail, I followed it. Two of the assassins had already left London before I could find them, and I almost missed the third. I was deep undercover as an overindulgent drug addict at the time when I pick pocketed him. He'd been carrying a ticket from Heathrow to Bratsk for the following day as well as a substantial amount of cash. He retrieved it, much to my discomfort, but didn't recognise me."

He doesn't think that listening to his stories will make things easy for John's concentration, but it's not likely he'll forget what had been in the diary by taking a rest.

"I boarded the same flight in a new disguise," Sherlock continues. Having something to recall like this keeps his mind occupied and his voice seems to have some soothing quality for his friend. "A blonde lawyer from Nevada going by the name of Robert Tyler if you must know. From there, I tailed him until he lead me to his base of operations roughly two-hundred kilometres north-east of the city. I'm not stupid, so I didn't follow him into the compound. I returned to the city and checked into a hotel. I stayed low and worked with my contacts in London, Switzerland, and the United States for extended planning. A week later, I started hearing rumours about some plague in America. I wasn't interested in it at the time, even though the media was convinced it was some kind of Z-day apocalypse. Needless to say, my American associates became very difficult to reach.

"It must have been almost three weeks in Tsentralny before I made my my move against the small base. I'd visited there a half dozen times by that point in order to map out the layout and identify the men and women holed up inside. There were eight men and three women to worry about. I'd come prepared to dispose of all of them, but I was too late. That must have been the moment I started taking the plague seriously."

From:

substituteskull

"Blond?" So he's focusing on the physical, these things happen. John turns an incredulous look up to Sherlock who, then, had been more willowy, more soft in appearance with dark curls that didn't go past his ears and some sort of hair care regimen that John never discovered but probably had to be quite extensive to keep him from frizzing up each time the London weather turned nasty.

He's found Sherlock's appearance to be one of great interest. Ginger eyebrows, but he's never noticed any dye used in his hair. And that eye colour-- People don't typically have eyes so green they might as well be silver with gold flecks. So incredibly otherworldly is Sherlock and yet his brother--

Mycroft had been so typical. Weaselly, perhaps. Long nose, regularly placed cheekbones. Portly. John's head tilts back further, his own strangely coloured eyes scanning Sherlock's face before his own breaks out into another grin. John has such even, white teeth, even now. They're almost impossibly uniform.

"I really can't imagine you blond. Wig or did you bleach? You bleached didn't you-- I'm not sure how I feel about that!"

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock had ignored the first time John asked about the hair colour, instead choosing to continue onto the parts of his tale that he found more important. It had been easy enough to ignore how intensely John had been focusing on him through his speaking, since by speaking, he had half a foot into his Mind Palace to extract the details directly from the files there. No editing, no choosing the appropriate words. Just taking information and acting as a conduit for it, much like he treats any other kind of information. (The body is only transport.)

After he's come to a pause, John's gaze is much harder to ignore. It makes one eyebrow quirk upward. A slight tilt of his head. He almost asks if he's got something on his face.

"You're still on about that?" Sherlock asks incredulously when John brings up the hair colour again. He can't tell whether he should feel amused or flabbergasted. Amused. Yes, that's much better for the moment, and it's hard not to be with John looking so young compared to how he's been.

"You didn't listen to a word I said after blond, did you?" he shakes his head in mock disappointment. "And, you're right. I bleached it. Had to. Wigs are far too obvious and easy to remove. I straightened it too. That took about as long as the bleaching."

From:

substituteskull

"I listened!" John says defensively, his nose wrinkling still. He shouldn't be staring but he has very vivid memories of Sherlock staring at him at all hours of the day and night and for a variety of reasons only half explained in any logical (to him at least) manner. Wetting his lips, he does take the time to glance away if only because he's trying to recall -- and spit back -- facts about the plane ride. And the American contacts.

And the drug addict-- And yes, yes, all right, Sherlock, that came before he mentioned being blond but--

A movement explained only by the fact that John's regained his comfort with Sherlock sends John's hand up to pull lightly on one looser curl so that it straightens out. He's seen Sherlock's hair wet and scraggly, but never completely straight.

"That's it, I'm getting the scissors. I can't think of you as blond with straight hair. I just can't." He slides back into his shoes and leaves the room before ducking back into it a moment later. "And for god's sake, eat your dinner."

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock isn't so sure that John's being honest with him when he claims to have listened. He waits for whatever 'proof' John can come up with for his attention. It's easy to be patient when he doesn't feel offended, so he only gives another shake of his head when John gives him disjointed bits and pieces of his story. "I never said I was in first class during the flight. You filled that in yourself," he corrects.

His eyes fall to John's hand as it comes toward his face. No, not his face. His hair.

"Hair cut?" he asks, craning his head more to one side. Scissors don't have any direct connection to straight, blond hair, but it's not too difficult to work out what John wants to use the scissors for. (And thank God for that. His hair's been a total mess to comb out every morning. Especially with only one arm to work with.)

"You might want to bring a sheet to catch the hair," Sherlock tells his friend when he returns with the message to have his dinner. It's advice he'll follow. He's not very hungry, stomach still upset from everything else in the day, but he's got to keep his strength up for tomorrow's errand.

From:

substituteskull

Gabrielle doesn't question John's search for scissors. He tends to go to her when he needs his hair shorn off and he doesn't care to dull his own surgical set because he's having issues with Sherlock's physical appearance due to a story that happened years ago. He gives him a bemused look and hands over a comb as well. "If it's for your friend, wet the hair first or you'll never get it even."

John gives her a quick salute and stops off in the locker room to find a few fresh towels and a spray bottle to fill with some water. It takes a bit of time and he's happy to see Sherlock not-so-eagerly munching on a piece of cornbread made from slightly off freshness tinned cornmeal that had been stale, but not gone bad. John'd liked the taste anyway. Something new, something different.

There's a great flourish of the sheet on the floor by the small desk and John uses that surface to hold his things while he wheels the squeaky chair over.

"Are you sure you didn't say first class?" he asks because-- Because why not? "I suppose that's what you get for not having me make the reservations." Oh Sherlock. He'd thought you would be so useless on your own, no matter how you managed for thirty-odd years without him anyway.

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock's break from John is a quiet one. The threat of brooding isn't quite out of his system and without his friend in here with him, his thoughts naturally go toward Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft. Not morbid thoughts, this time, but recollections of events that had happened while they were still living. Good things and bad. (More bad than good with his brother because of the second half of his life so far.)

The dinner tastes reasonably good compared with what he'd been living off of before. Much like the baby food on his first day here, it leaves his mouth watering despite the heavy feeling in his stomach. He's able to get several bites of canned yams down as well as half of the canned stew concoction before John returns.

"I'm sure I didn't say it," Sherlock tells John around a mouthful of cornbread. There's something he doesn't quite like about the flavour, but no one's been complaining of a sour stomach yet. "I rode first class. Obviously, being a lawyer and all, but I'd left it out in the telling."

From:

substituteskull

"And this is exactly why I write up your cases. You leave out most of the important bits." Not that flying first class is important at all but he's just trying to save a little face. And Sherlock's corrections feel like home again. He waits for Sherlock to finish the seriously bland piece of bread (no oil, stale cornmeal, it's bound to taste off) before he motions his former flatmate into the chair.

That they can have domestic moments like this, when the world is gone to hell and the dead -- or not quite dead -- wander around with parasites in their heads, is something of a necessity.

A touchstone.

Jill Roderick said that to him once. That he had to find a way to keep him human, if only for a little while.

He's very glad Sherlock found him again.

Getting use to working a comb and scissors at once, and keeping the hair damp enough, takes practice. Luckily, there will be no photo ops in the near -- or likely distant -- future.

From:

consulting_freak

"You and I have a clear difference in what each of us finds important," Sherlock says off-handedly as he uses the cornbread to sop up some of the gravy from the stew. He doesn't particularly like soggy bread, but this piece had been tasting too dull and flat.

Sherlock picks up the sweet when he's done picking at everything else on his tray. He'll carry that with him over to the chair John's set out for the task and he'll eat it as the other man wets his hair. He's already predicting another shower after this and maybe finding somewhere else to spend the night. (Unless John volunteers to sweep up any stray hairs that get out of the sheet, anyway.)

"Why do I get the feeling there's a reason you didn't go into hairdressing?" he asks rhetorically, having to close his eyes when John plasters his overgrown fringe to his face with a few spurts of water. He's not expecting his hair to look good by any means once John's finished butchering it, but it can't be as bad as the mess he's let it get into.

From:

substituteskull

There's always been a difference in their storytelling styles. Sherlock skips every part he assumes should be obvious. Even the ones that could only be obvious to him. John's never minded, no matter how he use to screw up his lips and take the brunt of the intelligence jab. Well, all right, he usually had minded.

And he notes, strangely enough, that none came with this one. Yes, Sherlock pointed out his assumptions but without the typically meanness that had once accompanied any short coming on John's part.

For good measure at the hairdressing remark, John adds extra water to Sherlock's overgrown sideburns. It's childish but he thrives off of childish sometimes.

Sue him.

"It's actually a painful story. I wanted terribly to be a doctor but my parents assumed I'd be a barber. I had to sneak into the army too. It was nearly the last straw and they were so devastated by my career path that they refused to tell any of their friends." At least John is gentle once he forgoes the comb for his fingers.

From:

consulting_freak

There's just something still off about Sherlock's mood that keeps him from bristling too much. A depressed undertone instead of the manic one that usually accompanies him. Having the 'case' helps. Having John helps. But, he'll need more than just a few hours and laughs to get over this afternoon.

The water is starting to tickle at his forehead and neck as it dribbles down in thick droplets. It sends a chill that starts at the base of his back up to his shoulders.

"It's always hard being the family embarrassment," Sherlock mutters. It might be hard to tell how much of that is purely joking around considering how much of a black sheep he'd been for the Holmes estate. Then again, John might not know much about those things. "To think. Having a doctor and a soldier for a son. What a travesty."

He feels ridiculous sitting here with his hair drenched like this. Like a soggy cat. He's not relaxed at all and he's sorely tempted to shake his head and spray water everywhere.

From:

substituteskull

It ought to be apparent that John, at least, is trying. Hair cutting is an art and John is absolutely not an artist (unless one admits that suturing is an art and in that case, John has a fine hand and an eye for detail). Right now, however, he's got his tongue out slightly, between his teeth, and he's trying to get the tufts of hair he's pulling from Sherlock's head as even as possible.

It's going to be a mess, though as Sherlock's hair holds a natural curl to it, it shouldn't show as much. At least, that's John's hope as he bends down to work the scissors around one ear. Dark tufts fall to the sheet spread on the floor as John shuffles from side to back.

"It's no wonder they all stopped talking to me," John says, face screwed up comically in concentration. "Stop scowling like that. You could always do it yourself if you'd rather. Or I could fetch a razor." Or not. Bald Sherlock is worse than blond Sherlock!

From:

consulting_freak

"You think I can cut my own hair with one hand?" Sherlock scoffs at that. There's no way he'd be able to do it without someone else holding the comb for him. That part is really what decides how the hair cut will play out, not the scissors.

"Cut at an angle, John," Sherlock instructs, starting to sound mildly impatient. "Comb out a section as long as you'd like it, hold that steady, and make the cuts perpendicular so it's not a bunch of horizontal lines. The strands should be roughly even, but not exactly so. I doubt you've got what it takes to texture and layer, so we'll go with something simple." This doesn't come from someone who's cut hair for a living. This comes from someone who's spent far too much time sitting around in Salons getting his hair trimmed.

"And, don't you dare take a razor to it unless you're edging." The way he fusses about his hair might trigger the memory of Sherlock's first meeting with Moriarty.
'With that level of personal grooming?'
'Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?'

From:

substituteskull

Having years more than Sherlock stick in barber chairs, John does actually know sort of what he's meant to cut and how he's meant to hold the scissors. But just barely. He's not an expert by any means and his hair has been kept incredibly short for the last three years. Much better for facing things likely to grab at you.

It's why he's also done away with larger clothing. The tighter his shirts, the better he'll be at getting away. Winters, however, still leave room for him to layer up on his gran-jumpers.

Taking up the comb again, John is in mid-snip when Sherlock delivers his warning. He ducks around to catch Sherlock's gaze and then backs up, hand with the comb across his eyes and the one with the scissors on his hip.

"My god, you are vain! I'd have thought you'd be much too invested in...in laying about thinking or deducing to worry about how you look-- But it makes sense now. Designer suits, the fabrics-- Your bloody sock drawer!"

He might start crying again, out of sheer inability to stop laughing.

"I'll do my best to pretty you up then, as you're so worried!"

From:

consulting_freak

One look at Sherlock's wardrobe when he'd come in should tell John that he's had no trouble with his billowy clothing. In fact, he uses it at a weapon at times, letting the infected use their own weight against them as he whips them closer for the final blow. Adaptability and using his surroundings had been imperative to survival.

Sherlock feels the hesitance leading to John stopping just before it happens. He looks up at his friend as he walks round to the front to get a look at him. Frustrated? Amused? An odd combination of both, actually.

"I'm not vain," Sherlock counters. But, he's also giving John tips on how to do his hair so he won't look stupid. And he pulls his coat collar up intentionally. He's always pristine in his hygiene and throws out 'perfectly good' clothes as soon as there's one loose thread or knot. Fashion he could care less about, but he does care about how he perceives himself in his clothes regardless of what's fashionable.

Well, that's not true. That's him of three years ago. The same him that John's pulling right back out into the open, for better or for worse. (Probably for worse, actually.) This new him wears whatever is available. Eats whatever he can get his hands on. Lets his hair grow too long before lopping it off all at once and showering only when convenient. At least that's how it had been before coming to Bart's. He's gotten his hygiene routine back down to an art and now John's grooming his hair. Now, if only he could get his hands on his old wardrobe, all would be right in the world.

"Just cut the hair, John," Sherlock tells him, looking to the side and frowning a bit. Okay, so maybe he's a bit vain, but John knowing it bothers him. He'd always been so careful to make sure his posh look came across as completely effortless.

From:

substituteskull

It's so rare that John 'wins' against Sherlock that the soldier continues to cluck to himself about it while he finishes up to cutting. He gets fairly good at it, only spritzing hair enough to wet it without letting it roll in streams down Sherlock's back. He makes several passes over an area, trimming here and there until it looks as even as he can possibly make it. He knows better than to make the whole of it too short, as it will appear shorter once the curls are back.

He fluffs it up as he goes along too, fingertips with short-shorn nails massaging Sherlock's scalp as he goes. Perhaps, perhaps this whole ordeal is lasting a bit too long. Perhaps he's being a little too familiar here. Overt touching had never been part of their friendship, no matter the way Sherlock would tug him around by cheek or hand.

Those things had served purposes.

John's touches since Sherlock's arrival at Bart's has had very little purpose other than his own personal comfort.

"I think that might just about do it," John says, brushing short fingers through the re-curling fringe over Sherlock's pale brows.

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock allows John to pamper him without complaint. He's a bit more tender with this than any hairdresser he'd had before, which is odd since it's coming from an army doctor. Maybe he doesn't know what's necessary or maybe he just wants to share something with him. Neither of those things bother him, so he accepts it.

By the time John's finishing up, Sherlock's managed to find himself quietly relaxing under his friend's care. "Done already?" he asks as John comes round front again. He lifts his hand up to touch the back of his hair. It doesn't feel terribly off and it's much lighter on his head. That's to be expected with the 8 cm semi-thick locks scattered across his shoulders, lap, and the ground under the chair. Both him and John are covered in snippets from the trimming and touching up. It will be itchy if they don't wash it all off.

"Shower," Sherlock says as he stands up and wipes some of the remaining chunks of hair off of himself.

From:

substituteskull

John's lips purse in thought. Ought it have taken longer? Would a professional take longer? Well, likely. There would be product put in it, hair dried and styled-- They don't really have those sorts of luxuries... Though John already has it in his mind that, on the next mission out, he'll try to find Sherlock some mousse or gel and nicer things to wear.

That's what friends do, give each other small gifts. Especially after traumatising them with having a ward full of infected one hopes may eventually be cured.

"There might even be some hot water left if you're lucky."

John doesn't move to follow Sherlock as the other man decides that he must take a shower at that very moment. He figures he'll clean up a bit. Picking a curl off of his chest, John scoots the chair over the sheet and then bends to gather up the ends. He's quite proud of this little accomplishment and perhaps Sherlock will once again appear as himself soon!

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock hadn't been timing John. He'd simply been enjoying the experience, so it felt too short. On his way to the small pile of clothes he'd claimed for himself out of the other unused rooms, he runs his hand over his hair. It feels much better to have his hair this length. More natural for him, as it's a similar length to how he's always had it now.

He finds himself a new pair of pants, sweatpants, and a t-shirt. Pyjamas for him, since it's late enough to warrant that much.

"There won't be any left for you if you take too long with that," Sherlock points out as he makes for the door. An invitation and a warning all at once. With that, he leaves John to the cleaning and makes his way down to the locker room in much higher spirits than he'd been earlier in the day. Hell, he's in a better mood than he's been since coming back.

He'd done some horrible things today, but he's also got his best friend back. Truly this time.

From:

substituteskull

"Huh? Oh, yeah, give me a moment." Hair first. Shower second. Technically, John'd had one after returning from the haul but he is absolutely covered in bits of drying hair and it's bound to get uncomfortable or have him banished away from Sherlock. Such a fickle thing. He ought to have been born a grumpy house cat all along.

The sheet will be dragged outside tomorrow and shaken off...just before the nasty business over in the other building. No one will likely care to hear about it, so it would serve them better to get it done before even breakfast is served.

The logistics of it seem better off largely unthought of. John enjoys a plan of action, but he's with Sherlock again. And Sherlock comes up with the plans.

Before John heads off to the locker room, he decides to return the comb and scissors back to Gabrielle and fetch a pair of sleeping trousers to get changed into. As such, he misses Bill entirely, en route from John's room towards the bathroom. Where else would the man be?

He's surprised, then, to see Sherlock, broken arm and shortened hair. Unless the man attached himself with scissors... Who would he have asked to trim him? Gabrielle? Bill doesn't really think on it.

Instead, he just smirks. "Seen John yet?

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock is already nude and gathering his toiletries from his locker. He'd procured a plastic basket similar to the one he'd confiscated the chemical goods for his personal items so he wouldn't have to make multiple trips. He's mostly finished with it when he hears the door open. He's smiling when he turns his head over his shoulder, but the look falls flat as soon as he notices who's standing there.

"Bill," Sherlock greets coldly, eyeing the other man up and down. "Been masturbating? John's room or yours?" He asks, turning his attention back on his own task. He keeps his attention behind him on Bill, since he's very much at a disadvantage for a fight being naked and injured.

He thinks it's obvious that he's seen John, so he doesn't answer the question directly as he starts his route toward the showers. He'd be happier if Bill just turns and walks away, and if he doesn't... well, there might be words exchanged that Bill won't be too pleased with.

From:

substituteskull

Bill isn't sure what to make of that and for a moment, there's confusion that crosses his face before it turns to anger. Bill isn't a hard man to read. Obsessive people rarely are. He's looking for a fight and if Sherlock means to be crude, then he'll be crude back.

"Why would I need to?" Bill asks, nasty. He watches Sherlock-- No. He's openly looking him over. "John and I take care of each other."

His implications are false. It's been some time since John's had sex, no matter what Bill may or may not wish. Sherlock, of all people, would know that.

"I guess I didn't have much to worry about after all," he smirks, mocking Sherlock's looks.

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock just shakes his head, turning in such a way that Bill will get a look at the smirk on his face. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought we were talking about the real John. Whatever the one in your fantasies does to take care of you must certainly be quite enjoyable to substitute for actual human touch."

Maybe it's a bit below the belt and childish, but he wants Bill to know that the lie won't get past him. As for his looks, Sherlock can't be bothered to care what Bill thinks. He's too thin and too pale and that's something he's not ignorant over. He also knows he looks great in a custom-tailored suit. (Not that he has access to those kinds of luxuries at the moment.)

"Oh, and I suppose I should really thank you," he's got his back to Bill again as he chooses his usual shower stall, throwing his towel over the top edge so it won't get too wet. This gesture proves that he isn't scared of Bill or whatever threats he poses. Alpha male through and through, and now that he's got his friend supporting him, he doesn't have to be as careful letting it show. "You might have gotten your way by having me kill what was left of my family, but you've also brought me and John closer through it." Bill can deduce whatever he'd like out of that small piece of information.

From:

substituteskull

The posturing has changed. No longer does Bill seem to want to one-up Sherlock, to amuse himself by trying to pry out the jealous man he is sure lies beneath the scars and the pale skin and the somewhat feminine features. He's about ready to wrap his hands around that long neck of his, at least in desire. It likely won't take long for desire to move into action, however.

Especially since Bill is a short fuse. Especially since Sherlock is exerting his own power and agency over him. Bill doesn't like being usurped.

"You killed--" Well that hadn't been what was suppose to happen. "Did you tell John that, you fucker? You should just leave. Just fucking leave!"

Outside, John pauses at the door but doesn't push it open. He knows he shouldn't just eavesdrop but-- He also knows Sherlock can care for himself.