(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 glances over at John when he's got his items picked up, then he watches the last part of Bill's retreat. He feels a bit proud of himself for getting the upper hand and now that there's one less man in the locker room, he might accidentally let some of that show.

With a heavy sigh and a rotation of his neck and shoulders, Sherlock turns the valve so that water starts to come down. It's cold at first, but that hot water John mentioned is not far behind.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asks over his shoulder, meaning John's face. He's not considering his friend's emotional level through all this. There's still a lingering buzz of adrenaline coursing through his system and it's the next best thing to turning to morphine or cocaine when he's gotten himself into a slump as bad as he'd been in before his talk with John.

[substituteskull]

Is he all right? No. No, he doesn't think he is. John clings to the sink to keep himself upright and ignores the sting in his cheek. He doesn't have the right medications or large enough plasters. This is going to scar. He probably ought to give at least one stitch to the middle scratch too and then hope that Bill's nails were clean and he won't have to tap into antibiotics.

Waste is...just waste.

"You wanted him to attack you," John says, glancing over his shoulder as well to catch Sherlock's gaze. He's only partially able to do so before he swings his own head back down and starts to laugh. "You might literally be the death of me, Sherlock Holmes," he says.

Of course, Bill had just outed him about the suicide bit but-- Let's not bring that up. It's been too enlightening of an evening.

"Could you not, you know, start fires next time?"

[consulting_freak]

"Good," Sherlock tells John when his friend deduces correctly about his motives. "I'm not sure how much you heard, but I had my reasons. He approached me first and I thought the boost of adrenaline would be more socially acceptable and less wasteful than taking a withdrawal from the Vicodin supply," he points out. He knows that Mycroft's told John about his 'danger nights', so there's no reason to beat around the bush with it.

"Now, will you help with the shampoo? I pulled my right shoulder during that scuffle," Sherlock says to him, picking up the bottle and holding it at a low angle, since he really had done some minor damage to the muscle there. It would be fine in the morning once it's had a chance to recover with minimal impairment.

He mostly just wants John not to leave him to shower alone.

[substituteskull]

"Have you-- Have you honestly injured both of your arms now? And you're the bloody genius!" Well, they've always been strange ducks, haven't they? Always enjoyed, for lack of better words, the strangest of things. A fist fight in the bathroom with Sherlock nude over John's supposed friendship? It's not reality. This is not his life now.

John sighs, poor, hard pressed John Watson, and removes his shirt and his trousers before stepping into the water. Still quite warm, he's rather pleased to find.

Having to do Sherlock's hair, however, will be a difficult endeavor. "You'll have to bend a bit," he mentions. "It's not my fault that my genes did not favour stature, do not even start with me." He's not as generous as Sherlock might like with the shampoo but... Well, no one in the world is left making shampoo either.

While Sherlock is bending, he might notice a whole array of interesting, lovely scars that John's managed to get. Of course, his crowning glory is still his shoulder. And his face is still weeping blood too.

There's not many places he's not scarred up, incidentally.

[consulting_freak]

"The right arm is only a minor injury," Sherlock points out, but he doesn't seem very embarrassed by it. If anything, he's amused. Unlike John, he hasn't grown out of finding pleasure in the simple things life throws at him. Crime scenes are few and far between these days, so he's got to stay entertained some way.

He bends forward as John instructs him. He definitely takes the opportunity to glance over his friend's body like this. He can put stories and specifics to many of the scars he sees on his friend, simply because that's what he does. He's more familiar with fresher wounds, but it's all similar.

"Do you need help patching up your face?" Sherlock asks him, closing his eyes when some of the shampoo dribbles down his temple. "I won't be much help, I imagine, but I might be able to hold things for you while you suture yourself up. As I said before, you don't need to worry too much about the penicillin. I can make more easily and I shouldn't have to explain to you that prophylactic treatment is more conservative than treating a full infection."

[substituteskull]

"I can handle my face," John mentions with a laugh. Sherlock's ability to turn doctoring into a 'I know more than you' sort of scenario always amuses him. Always had amused him. Always will amuse him. He likes that sort of thinking so much more.

A good scratching to Sherlock's scalp and he assumes the other man can do the rinsing under the spray himself while he soaps up the back of his neck and his shoulders.

And isn't this a very odd thing to be doing? Probably, but Sherlock's arms are roughly useless at the moment and it's no different from a sponge bath.

Or so he tells himself.

It's all very cursory at least and then it's to his own body. John doesn't bother with shampoo, it's all hand soap, lathered up quickly. Rinsed off just as quickly.

He'll leave Sherlock to the rest. He really should see to his face. It will not be the first nor last time he must stitch himself up.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock turns everything into an 'I know more than you' scenario. If he doesn't have the knowledge to back it up, he gets defensive and claims that he doesn't know it because it's not worth knowing. It's true, but it still makes him ruffled when John treats political gossip as important information. Not that they'll have much of that to worry about these days.

When Sherlock's finished rinsing his hair, he'll pick up a bottle of conditioner and hand it to John. It takes as long for him to do a quick rinse as it takes John to wash half his body.

"You know... I'm trying to figure out how you've always managed to smell fine despite throwing soap on yourself without so much as using it to wash," Sherlock says, giving John a bit of an amused look again. He's not completely satisfied with John's job of washing his shoulders and back, but this is his third shower today, so he can't be too worried about being thorough.

I keep promising myself no phone tags... ><

[substituteskull]

Conditioner? "Sherlock, you--" You hardly have any hair. Oh well. John sighs, lets the criticism about his washing go without comment, pours an ample amount of conditioner in the centre of his palm, and beckons Sherlock closer again. Yes, his cheek is bleeding and yes he has better things to do with his evening. But this is soothing. Being with Sherlock is a balm.

John is a little more thorough this time, running his fingers through the silky black strands carefully to coat them from root to end. Lovingly. Yes. He smiles to himself and then tilts Sherlock's head back, pushing himself on his toes to be just a bit taller. It's a little more difficult to rinse out conditioner, he figures, so rather than have Sherlock do it himself, he helps. And all right. Yes. He very much enjoys Sherlock's hair. Perhaps he can find a way to stroke it when it's curly again? And wouldn't that just make the other man grumble! Such a grumpy house cat in a muffler.

But for now--

He really needs to get himself situated.

"Finish up wasting the water," John jokes as he steps out of the spray and towels off. "I'm going to sew up my face in my room."

You can follow him when you're ready.

It's hard not to phone tag. You caught me right as I was sitting down XD

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock just gives a half shrug at John's half uttered question. Of course he uses conditioner in his hair. As John thought to himself earlier, without taking the precaution of conditioner, his hair would end up a frizzy mess by noon. Tangles, loose bits shooting everywhere; and with the frequency of his showers, his hair would be completely stripped of any oils.

He finds it very pleasant to have his friend take care of his haircare. He'd never thought about this sort of thing before and how much nicer it would be to have a friendly presence take care of things like this than a hairdresser. It's just comfortable. Fitting in with John's cat analogy, he shuffles his feet a little so he could crane his head to either side to make sure he's properly pampered from all directions.

When his friend drops his hands, he sighs. One hand pushes his fringe up and over his forehead with the muted coordination of a sore shoulder. "And you'll take the antibiotic?" Sherlock asks him, for now watching the smaller man instead of moving to finish washing himself off.

He'll follow John, but it will be a while. He's going to have a hard time putting his pyjamas on and moving his stuff back into the locker.

[substituteskull]

"I'll take it before I put on the gloves," John says agreeably, somewhat lazy in his own approach to dress and head out of the locker room. He should stay and give Sherlock a hand-- But he'd rather operate on his face alone. And he needs a few minutes to himself. After what Bill said--

And Sherlock's denial of caring for him-- Not caring, love. And that's fine. No, Sherlock. No one listens to you. Not all the way. But that's just human nature, isn't it?

It takes some time for John to find the alcohol, to heat his needles, to thread the suture gun. It takes no time at all to push the needle through his cheek twice. He doesn't even flinch any more.

John's completely dry when Sherlock is back and his cheek is plastered accordingly. No ugly black strings showing for now.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock wouldn't have told Bill how he felt about John anymore than he'd already done. John is his friend. His only friend. And, to Sherlock, there's nothing more important than that in his life. Tonight, he hadn't confirmed or denied Bill's accusations because he knows how he feels about John and he knows that there are just too many limitations in words like love and caring to cover it all.

Love, in the way most people mean it, is just too skin-deep. It's thrown around here and there with no regard to what it actually means.

He'd die for John. He'd live for John. And everything else in between, but no one needs to know that but him. He sure as Hell won't be telling Bill Murray any of it.


Sherlock's dressing and trip to John's room goes uninterrupted. He's not sure where Bill is, but one glance at the other man's room tells him that he's not there. He doubts he'd have overnight patrol two nights in a row with two days of food retrieval between.

He doesn't knock before trying John's knob. For the first time, the door opens instead of remaining firmly locked. Why had he gone to John's room instead of his own?

"The sutures went fine," Sherlock says, glancing at John's cheek. Should he go then or stay? He can't decide, so he just hovers in the doorway.

[substituteskull]

John motions for Sherlock to come all the way into the room as he stands from the small desk and rips off the gloves. They get binned and John leans behind the still hovering Sherlock to lock the door.

There are protocols. He set them up. He has to uphold them. Then again-- "Are you staying?" He feels somewhat awkward now. "You don't have to but I'm not sure I'm quite ready to go back to being alone."

They don't have to talk. Actually, it might be better if they don't. Rehashing today's trauma isn't important. He just wants to be with his friend. He wants to watch him think again.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock looks at the gesture John makes and he steps into the room now that he has an overt invitation to do so. He shuts the door behind him, but doesn't think to lock it until John tells him to. He never locks his own door when he sleeps and so far no one's given him a problem for it.

"I'll stay for a while," Sherlock tells him. He isn't going to commit to staying the entire night, but it's a possibility at this point. He's had to listen to his friend's nightmares with none of his usual ways to remedy them over the last week and he doesn't like the idea of being caught outside the door again. There's also a suspicion in the back of his mind that he might suffer from his own nightmares tonight if he tries to sleep alone. And, sleep will be essential with how little he'd had the night before.

He takes a moment to look around, then he decides to sit on the far end of John's bed in the corner against the wall with one foot drawn close. The pain in his right ankle has come back since the fight in the shower and he leaves that leg extended.

[substituteskull]

John just lightly bats at that one foot as he tumbles into bed properly. He's made a nest of the thing. Despite his outward neatness, There are two decent sized pillows and the rest of the blankets are twisted. John never makes his bed until it's time to change the sheets. At the moment, he doesn't need them. The old hospital is naturally cool so while his toes might require a bit of cover, nothing else really does. Small as he is, John Watson runs hot.

He lays in quiet for some time before his eyes open again and he seeks out Sherlock's outline in the periphery of his vision.

"No more encouraging fights until that leg heals completely." But that's not what he really wants to say. "And let me handle Bill."

[consulting_freak]

Sitting like this is both familiar and terribly new. Back in Baker Street, they'd sometimes sat on the sofa together. Not often, but whenever one or both of them were feeling hurt or lonely in a way the other perceived. An offer of closeness without it appearing to be that. It worked for both of them very well.

This right here? This has been touched on in words. They'd shared something earlier that day they'd never shared before. Raw emotion. Tears. (Okay, Sherlock's shared some raw emotion back in Dartmoor and the tears before his jump; but they hadn't been reciprocated in kind during those instances of weakness.) When John had invited him into the room, he might as well have been saying 'I need you with me tonight' and by accepting it, he'd been saying the exact same thing.

So, at first, he's understandably tense as he sits there on John's bed watching as his friend makes himself comfortable. Over the next several minutes, some of that tension dissipates, but his mood is still quiet as he's gone back to cataloguing the information he knows about viruses. He's made three sections based on other information he knows: possible, impossible, and unsure. He'll test them accordingly. Escherichia coli shouldn't be difficult to isolate and cultivate. He can use the bacteria's short life cycle and plasmids to his advantage in replicating viral nucleotides. With that, he can make a suitable intramuscular or intravenous vaccine that will prevent viral mutation within the host.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looks down at John. The look on his face should tell his friend that he hasn't been listening to him. "Bill? Oh, right. If he leaves me alone, I'll leave him alone. If not, I'd be more worried about him than me." Then again, Sherlock knows when to stop, so Bill's life won't be the one in danger.

[substituteskull]

John's smile mellows out and his gaze returns to the ceiling, to the edge of a blacked out window facing the interior courtyard, and finally the insides of his eyelids. "It's not you I'm worried about," he confesses. Sherlock has been more or less on his own, living without much of anything, for three years. Now, the man is the ideal person to be left to his own devices in an apocalypse of this magnitude, logically and physically prepared, mentally conditioned, but John is not going to say that Sherlock's survival is more than just a simple miracle and finding each other... Well that's more of a miracle still.

Even if Sherlock goads, even if he pushes buttons, even if he manages to piss everyone off this side of civilisation, there's very little that John would think he could not handle on his own.

"In all this time, we've never had to deal with someone showing aggression towards one of our own." John isn't a leader. He might have been forced to that position, and he might need to find control where it's possible, but he's a soldier and soldiers typically are trained to follow.

He turns onto his side, facing away from Sherlock, but that's only due to the plaster over his cheek. John's real worry is that this has become personal. He's the sort of man to let small -- or large -- slights go. Bill, however, is holding too much to the past.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock can't help but smirk a little when his friend agrees that out of him and Bill, the obvious superior force is him. He likes being superior. Unlike John's torn role of half leadership, half duty follower; Sherlock is entirely leader in terms of how he handles things. He's never liked authority figures and he only follows the rules when they suit him. He's had a history of taking law into his own hands on several occasions, either by letting criminals go when he finds their circumstance and crimes not worth the punishment they would receive as well as intentionally adding discomfort and harm to those he believes deserve harsher punishment. (Irene Adler and Operative Neilson, respectively.)

Unfortunately, he's late to the game and the group has already established dynamics and someone who questions authority doesn't quite belong. Either the group will adapt to him or he will be forced to go on his merry way like Bill is pining for.

"And you're worried about how the rest of the group will react to what's happened," Sherlock predicts as he looks down at the back of his friend's head.

"I don't plan on pressing charges or trying to convince people to choose sides. As far as I'm concerned, it's over. He doesn't matter," Sherlock tells his friend. When he'd gotten those few blows in, he'd gotten over the deliberate miscommunication. And when Bill struck John, he felt like he'd taught the man a lesson that couldn't be conveyed in words. He's not the type to hold grudges except in rare circumstance. But, if he catches Bill trying to hurt John through him again, he will retaliate.

[substituteskull]

Once again, Sherlock is completely on the money. John isn't sure if he should be amused or scowl. Smiling to himself, visible over his shoulder from Sherlock's angle above him, John's choice is probably easily determined. He can't help himself. Sherlock can do plenty of wrong, but he always makes up for it. Or perhaps John is just broken and Sherlock's got the pieces that make his gears work again, even if not so perfectly.

"Of course I'm worried-- Sherlock, I've known these people for years. They've known Bill. They respect Bill. I don't want this to turn into having to choose you or them."

They both know who John will choose. Who he always chooses. Just think back to all of those relationships he's let slip through his fingers for the chance to spend an evening with his crazy flatmate?

"I'm not asking you to change, but I've seen you sham people for weeks at a time. Just-- try. Outwardly. Even if you don't care for them, or find their habits odd. We have some work to do and we need these labs." In other words, he'll follow you anywhere after this, just let him help you keep the lab.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock does see the look on John's face. Well, what he can see from this angle. It does enough to comfort some fear he hadn't realised had been there. John would choose him, even if it makes every bit of sense for him to want to stay in the relative safety of this group. Just like Sherlock would choose John if their roles were reversed.

"You won't mind if the feelings are insincere and they're hurt in the end?" Sherlock asks, just so he knows exactly where John stands on the issue. He sweet talk and manipulate easily, but John's always been the one to remind him just how not good it is. He knows he could get Sarah on his side and the three children without much effort. Then, there's the protein fanatic and the plump woman who've taken a neutral pleasantness toward him.

"Fine," he says after a moment of deliberation. "I'll play nice. I've already got a name for myself with the water supplies and the quadrangle, so that will help. I'll make sure they think I'm as pleasant as I am clever until this blows over."

On a completely objective scale, Sherlock brings more to the team than Bill could. That has to count for something.

[substituteskull]

"I will mind," John says with a sigh. "But some things can't be helped and I believe everyone will be better off if you smile more and refrain from discussing how their evenings went by the tangling patterns in their hair." Of however else Sherlock does it. As amazing as it is, it always draws ridicule.

And no one but John ever appreciates it. Then again... Sometimes John himself doesn't appreciate it either.

"I just don't want them to try to kick you out." You don't have to bake cakes or do their laundry, Sherlock. Just don't anger anyone else. Bill has his camp. His friends. Andrew, certainly, is one of them. Josie? Absolutely. There are not too many variables otherwise and John, for better or for worse, is still in charge. "Oh, and yes, right...the water-- I meant to say thank you. Well done."

He wriggles his toes under the blankets and closes his eyes. Tomorrow they will extract parasites. He will finish recording the missing places in the diary... And after that, Sherlock can guide the way.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock snorts at the comment about 'tangling patterns' in hair. "How creative, John. I never thought to connect how knots in hair tied to activity, but perhaps I could look into it," he says with a shake of his head. "Now, foreign matter in hair is another thing. Or hairs on clothing work too. Trace evidence, I've got an eye for it."

At some point, Sherlock's started to graze the knuckles of his right hand over John's back. A subconscious gesture to remind him that John's actually there with him. As soon as he notices he's doing it, the gesture comes to a complete stop.

A humming sound to acknowledge the thanks, but it's not something he feels is an impressive enough feat to take the praise seriously. John may as well be complimenting him on making a decent cup of soup straight from a can.

"You're tired," Sherlock points out. He looks at the door, but then decides he'll stay here the night after all. He'll disturb the bed for the next few minutes while he jerks the bedclothes around until he's able to lie down with the entire pile of blankets on top of him in an uneven layer. It's just hard work to straighten things out whilst on the bed and only able to use one hand to do it.

[substituteskull]

"I ought to be tired, yes," he tells Sherlock, eyes opening at the first brush of his hand...and then again when it stops. He'd been contented in between those times. It's not often someone has sought to comfort him physically in his adult life. Not Sarah, not any of his other girlfriend. Lestrade, on a few occasions where he felt the need to pat his back. But otherwise, and for the last year or so, John had been physically isolated.

It hasn't done wonders for him in the end. He's not the same person as before and while that's a good thing on some level...he still really wishes that Sherlock would have kept it up just that. That small grounded touch.

John's got no problem with being a touchstone.

The flounce of long limbs behind him, however, is cause for a smile and John gives Sherlock as much space as he'll need, even if there's a chance of the curve of his back touching Sherlock's shoulder or arm.

"These last few days have been painfully long."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock lets out a few noises of frustration until he finally finds a reasonably comfortable position. Only one of his feet is sticking out from the bottom of the blanket and he kicks at it until it's properly covered. When he's finished, he treats himself to a huffy sigh.

"These last few years have been painfully long," Sherlock corrects as he stretches out and lets his body relax. In the process, he lets his entire upper arm fill the space between his side and John's back.

He's not going to be able to give John as much room as the other man would probably like, since he doesn't want to pin his broken arm too snugly against the wall. It's bad enough dealing with an injury like this with nothing to numb the pain without putting too much awkward pressure against it.

[substituteskull]

It's not as if the space they are sharing is really made for two people. Beds in hospitals have traditionally been made for large patients, certainly, but only one of those patients at a time. John doesn't really mind Sherlock's presence, though.

He never has -- save for on his dates where the other man made it impossible for him to scare-- Oh, that brings a small chuckle to his lips. Sherlock Holmes, always in the way of him getting laid.

"I'd sooner forget these last few years even existed," John admits. "Are you sure you won't take anything at all for your arm? More muscle relaxants if nothing else?" He'd roll over to speak but-- Well, Sherlock's spread himself out.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock would move his arm up and under his head if John asked him to. At least he's very thin and John's not very much wider than he is. As long as he doesn't try to curl up, they should be able to manage without him pushing John off the bed and onto the floor. But with this small space? John's nightmares might end with Sherlock getting an elbow hard in the nose or gut. A risk he's willing to take.

When his friend starts to laugh, Sherlock turns to look at the back of John's head. Whatever's tickling him is something in his mind and he starts to ask what it is, but John beats him to breaking the 'silence'.

"I'm fine," Sherlock tells him stubbornly. A muscle relaxant might be nice, but he doesn't want to get used to that relief because it wouldn't do well for going into areas infested by the Infected. "I might take an aspirin tomorrow," he agrees, but it wouldn't do much for the pain. It might cut down the mild fever he can't seem to shake, though.