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

"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.

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock can sense Bill going rigid behind him. He can only see a distorted reflection on the aluminium bar separating the chrome coated stall walls coming together at a 90 degree angle around the shower head. He can also hear the shift in his stance. He sets his basked on the shelf for soaps, widening his own stance just in case, but also taking care to look like he's relaxed.

"Yes, I've told him," Sherlock tells Bill plainly as his hand hovers over one of the knobs for the water. If he turns the water on, things will be slippery which will further his disadvantage. He needs all the grounding he can if he wants to throw his weight.

He turns his head over his shoulder, finally looking at the larger man directly. "You didn't think my friendship with John was rubbish enough to be tossed in the bin from a miscommunication, did you?" Just a tiny bit more pressure and Bill will snap under it. He'd be lying to himself if he claimed to not be looking forward to this. A release of his tension and aggression. To put some of his grief into his actions and have Bill take the brunt of it.

From:

substituteskull

"I don't know what you do to him to make him think that you shit gold bricks," Bill says dangerously, "but I've had enough of you. You are bad for him. You are bad for all of us. I saved him from bleeding out in Afghanistan. I saved him from taking a gun to his head when you told him you were a fake. I was here when the world went to hell. Me. Not you. You were a year of mistakes and I'm not going to let you fuck him up again."

At this point, John would normally have pulled himself into the fight -- it's his fight, he's not some prize if Bill is thinking just that.

"I might have understood if you loved him, but you pretty much told me you don't." No one ever listens, do they, Sherlock? "That means you're using him. We need him more than you. You're no longer welcome here. I want you gone by breakfast."

From:

consulting_freak

It hasn't gotten physical yet. Sherlock feels his agitation starting to rise even before Bill starts to rub salt into the wounds that the idiot probably doesn't even realise are there. The Afghanistan thing he disregards entirely. That had happened before he'd known John. But the thought of John Watson contemplating suicide makes his stomach turn and lights a very dangerous fire behind his eyes.

"And, what? You love him? Is that what you think this is?" Sherlock asks, deciding to go for the emotional throat. "And your love for him. Is that what made you take the diary his colleague had used to chronicle the work she'd done here? That hurt him, you know. And is it your love for him that told me to go to the office building across the street? No. You're trying to hurt him by using me and I won't allow that to happen, Bill. Your venom won't work on me and John might not be as clever as I am, but he won't fall for your games. You're losing him and it hurts. And, I'd suggest if you want to repair the shreds you're leaving of your relationship to him, back off."

From:

substituteskull

"Hurt him? I'm trying to show him how destructive you are and what do you know! You take a gun to those poor people over there!" Bill steps closer. It's not a good day at all for anyone, especially because Bill really did think that this Sherlock problem was going to be completely done with by the end of the bloody week!

Obviously, he'd thought wrong.

"I would never hurt John. I just needed to show him that you are exactly the way everyone said you had been. You might as well have chained him up in the cellar the way you were always on him. Never let him sleep. Kept him away from his mates."

John's hand is on the door now. He shouldn't let this get much further.

"I won't let you poison him again. You leave, or we'll have a problem."

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock turns completely toward Bill. He watches his movement and predicts several possible ways a physical assault will go based on how the other man is standing currently. He can overpower him through skill where he lacks the physical strength to do it. It won't be a problem for him.

"You've hurt him. I've hurt him, too. At least I can admit it," Sherlock says, lip curving upward to the side in a snarl. "You're a coward that's convinced you can do no wrong when all you do is stomp about like an infant throwing a tantrum."

He can no longer claim the moral high-ground as he's intentionally baiting Bill. John won't be pleased by this.

"If you ask me to leave, you're asking me to hurt him again. That's something I won't do. I'm staying and if you've got any sense about you, which is very doubtful at this point, you will turn and walk away. You and the rest of this lot don't have a chance of long-term survival without someone here bright enough to work out a cure for this parasite."

Those are bills choices. Hurt John and damn everyone or turn around with his tail tucked between his legs like a whipped dog.

From:

substituteskull

A few nights of weakness here or there hadn't meant to turn Bill to anything more than a friend. They've all done things against their character in this new world. You have to if you want to survive. Society and morality are not things that can come away unscathed.

But they agreed -- They agreed that physical comfort had not been something that would change their relationship. John ought to have known better. He ought to have seen it. In small bands like this, sexual relationships do not just define place, but status.

And Bill feels as if his own is being jeopardized by Sherlock's return. John rolls his eyes. Will no one ever believe that two men can simply be just friends?

Then again... Sherlock is never 'just' anything.

"It looks like you're about to have an unfortunate fall in the shower," Bill says. A whisper. John doesn't hear it. But the scuffle to follow? That's hard to miss.

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock sees the darkening look in Bill's eyes and he tries not to let his mirth show as he rotates his shoulders and gets ready for the blows before they fall. That comment about an unfortunate fall? Well, that's completely unnecessary, since body language gives so much more away so quicker.

Bill is more than a little bit taller and thicker than Sherlock. And he's got some armour in terms of clothing, but all that bulk just makes him slower. Sherlock steps back when the first blow is thrown, allowing Bill to get a firm grasp on his freshly cut hair so he can bring his palm up and into Bill's nose.

He's always been on the thin side and he'd been the target of many bullies much larger than he is, so this is familiar ground. He has no qualms with taking cheap shots - throat, feet, shins, genitals - which Bill will discover if this fight continues very long.

From:

substituteskull

It's not until he heard the sound of agitated water and skin to skin contact that John finally bursts into the locker room. He says nothing at first, watching Sherlock with his still painful ankle and his broken arm manage to get the better of a man literally trained for unarmed, hand to hand combat.

He's always found Sherlock something beautiful to watch, though at the moment, John's got a pained, incredulous sort of expression on his face and stands, door half open, with his head cocked to the side.

"Are you two mad?!"

Bad question. One is likely clinically mad and the other...had certainly grown that way.

"Stop!" He's not going to get in the middle of them, but he would very much like to not clean up blood today, thanks!