(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

[substituteskull]

"How did-- Yes, Sarah," John agrees. He ought to know better than to ask. Perhaps she breaks the yolks a certain way or gets shell in it -- how Sherlock could taste that, he doesn't know. Maybe he'd just remembered the assignment board. He's about to put on his second sock when the innuendo comes and... John decides just to back up to the meal with Sarah at it's head because he can remember last night all too well and he would very much to give Sherlock that reason every night they're both awake to have it.

He wets his lips, imagining he can taste Sherlock there when all it is is the toothpaste he'd used in the bathroom that morning and nothing else. Pity.

"Well I might have a deduction myself as to why your porridge is terrible," John says, teasing lightly as he checks his shoes for bugs that might have crawled inside. Yes, he's been out of Afghanistan for years and yet he still has his rituals from that arid, rocky country. "If Sarah heard you, and chances are she did, you probably broke her heart."

John's not all that sad about it. Pulling those noises from Sherlock had been one of the finer moments of his life thus far.

"Sorry about that. I'll save you an egg next time the chickens bother to lay any?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock just smiles when John is at a complete loss on how he'd made his deduction about the identity of the chef. He likes to keep some things to himself because it keeps an air of mystery about him. It's not directly related to anything important, anyway.

He takes all of five very large bites of his porridge before he can't seem to swallow anymore of it down. The soy crumbles make it taste too salty to someone unused to that much dietary sodium. But, he's not wasting the entire bowl, so he shouldn't annoy too many people by not having all of his breakfast.

"Really?" Sherlock asks when John announces his deduction. Oh, so a romantic rivalry. Are people so petty? Wait, no. He doesn't need to ask that to know the answer.

"She's a minor. And, for God's sake, I'm over twice her age," he says, shaking his head with his eyebrows drawing together and nose lifting. It crinkles the skin there in the centre of his forehead. "And up until last night, I wasn't exactly interested in sharing that sort of activity with anyone."

Will having sex with John make things difficult to keep up the charade of pleasantries so he can keep that lab?

[substituteskull]

"She's a teenager," John says casually. "Most teenagers fancy rockstars are one point in time." After everything John's told this group about Sherlock, he is the only living rockstar this world could well have to offer. Or, at least, Europe. John leans back on his elbows to watch Sherlock make faces at his breakfast. Perhaps adding a bit of sweet would have helped a bit, but it's a little too late now to change the menu. They ought to not eat too heavily any way. They have a great deal of exertion head of them and, let's be honest, running about with large meal in their stomachs isn't going to help in the slightest.

The good mood seems impossible to break, even after he and Sherlock head down the front stairs to the A & E lobby to make the trek across the street. Sherlock with his sword and John, his crowbar with a backup revolver, are equipped to handle most of what may lay inside.

The sentries have not yet made it over to the building yet, and that will certainly be a good thing on their part. John, vigilant but still distracted by Sherlock, nearly misses the telltale scape of feet behind the front door.

He pauses, hand on the door.

"You didn't chain up the back entry did you...?" he asks, exasperated but certainly not angry. His hand tightens on his bludgeon of choice.

[consulting_freak]

As fun as flirting is, as soon as John and Sherlock are outside the safety of their sectioned off home in Bart's, the detective goes into business mode. He spares glances at John only briefly as he scans the area around them for any sign of life. Infected or otherwise. If the disease can be spread to cats, there's a chance it can jump species again. And, he knows at least one of them is on the shit list of at a certain human entity.

When they hesitate at the door, Sherlock glances at his friend and thinks back to the day before whn he'd come here. He'd been in such a bad way after everything was said and done that it takes a moment to actually remember.

"I left the patient room door open. There were no chains in the monitoring corridor, so I left that as it is. I didn't chain up the main back entrance, but I also didn't open any of the other patient rooms. The smell and noise might have attracted others, but only if there were some nesting nearby," Sherlock explains, being as thorough as he can and also as quiet as he can.

His grip shifts on the hilt of his sword and he presses his back against the wall next to the door. Hopefully the shuffling inside is the same as he'd heard before. Coming from the patient rooms where it's nice, cosy, and safe for them. If not, he'll go point and take out or distract any infected. Let's face it, he's got better reflexes that John even with his injuries, and John's skills lie with crack shooting. A good combination as long as John doesn't get it into his head to be overprotective.

[substituteskull]

John cared for many people in his life, and though he cared for Sherlock like no other -- song be damned -- he has no intention of being over protective. The battlefield slips back in to his mindset as he readgusts the grip on the crowbar. It's dark here, but darkness doesn't matter. They can't see any better than he can. It's noise and scent that attracts them more than anything else. Scent is not something they can mask. He's tried, but nothing works. Noise-- Well, it hasn't heard them yet.

A glance to Sherlock signals that he's ready and the muscles of his legs tighten as he rocks back on the heels of his feet to yank open the door.

He won't fight Sherlock for taking the lead. He knows his limitations. Height, shorter limbs -- He's better as a clean up crew than most. With four bullets in his gun, he'd rather not use them if possible either.

Scant light filters through grimy, gummed up windows as three people, none of whom he knows, turn to look in their direction. Teeth bare with infection and their shambling turns to mindless rage focused in their direction.

Sherlock can get two easily. John is already planning on whacking the third. The nameless ones don't get the care that his friends did, set in rooms around the central corridor. Perhaps that's cold. Cold is just something you have to accept during war.

[consulting_freak]

There's a moment as he's standing against the wall and waiting for John to open the door that the thought of these pitiful creatures still having some of their humanity and cognitive function threatens to paralyse him. All of this time, he'd been so sure that he was killing mindless creatures no more human than a rabid dog.

Maybe it makes him soft. (Funny how that works out, isn't it?)

But, it's an Us versus Them situation. If there were only one infected waiting for them, he could have disabled it and ushered it into a locked area with the others. But three means fighting - and killing - is not optional.

Sherlock lures the fastest infected to the side, using her charging speed against her as he easily throws her onto her back. The sword makes a clean strike across the second creature's neck and it sends the elderly man into a staggering daze before he finally falls. He severs the first creature's head while she tries to lunge at his ankle.

One glance over at John tells him that his friend is making clean work of the last of the aggressors.

There's a sound down the corridor that sounds an awful lot like approaching shuffling. Just one more creature, this one slower than the rest. A dragging sound sends his brain right back to the day before when he'd fought off Mycroft. And Sherlock completely freezes at hearing it, even though the creature that rounds the corner is a child with festering legs dragging herself with her hands across the floor.

[substituteskull]

There is no easy way to deal with the children that have been infected and John needs to dig into the places he never wants to be again to muster up the courage for it. He waits for a moment to see if Sherlock will take a step towards the girl, but he doesn't. In fact, he seems almost shell shocked to see her.

John is a smart man -- Sherlock would want his company far less if he was not -- but he doesn't equate the girl's dragging leg for the trauma he'd put up with the afternoon before. There's no snap, no 'ah-ha' moment.

And yet...and yet Sherlock must have done this before. Must have run across infected children. Does this have to do with John's assertion about their life signs?

John lowers his crow bar and checks that his arm guards are strapped down before he strides passed Sherlock.

They need a mobile infected to draw out the parasites, right? Well, children are easier to deal with and wrangle than the larger ones. From the sounds of it, she's the last anyhow.

[consulting_freak]

It's John walking by his side that snaps him out of his momentary paralysis. Sherlock watches the back of his friend's head as he continues onward. He pushes the door behind them almost closed with the back of his foot - this way, they will hear it in case there are others lurking in the shadows that might become alerted to their presence and decide to investigate.

Now that the girl is subdued, he's no longer reminded of Mycroft. He won't talk about it unless asked specifically. He's not the type to seek counselling and therapy.

He slips his hand into his pocket and retrieves his freshly made tool pack. A glass vial for the sample. A jaw brace to prevent biting, pliers, a long scalpel, and a pipette with a broad opening. Wide enough to get the parasites in without trouble.

"Pull her head back," Sherlock instructs, setting his tools down and picking up the brace first. Once he's got her mouth open, he can worry about the rest.

[substituteskull]

Old times, minus infected children, plus a new appreciation for pale skin and maybe a slightly hazy afterglow he'd very much like another go at and-- John is only paying a quarter attention to Sherlock. Typically, this would be a mistake. The girl is secure and from what he can hear, they're otherwise alone. That doesn't give him the right to carry on in a romantic haze when it could get them both injured.

No more afterglow, buddy. No more nothing.

Wetting his lips, John forces his mind back on the work. Extracting the parasites is...difficult. Holding a writhing girl who doesn't understand the concept of anything but infecting others leaves his arms exhausted and his chest covered in rot.

They're eventually successful, but John's muscles are strained and there is still quite a lot to do. First, they need to get the girl into confinement. After, they have to sweep the rest of the building.

"I think I'm going to single handedly use up the remaining storage of shower water at this rate,' he tells Sherlock as he leans against the door. The girl has already stopped thrashing now that she's lost sight and scent of them beyond the hallway.

[consulting_freak]

Science is disgusting work sometimes, but right now the necessity of getting samples outweighs the need to feel clean. The girl is bitey, so it makes his job of putting the brace on his job a challenge. But after that, it's a matter of getting the right angles. Since he only has one arm to work with, it's time consuming and frustrating work. Eventually he's able to take four flukes through the pipette and a small section of her submandibular gland to keep the parasites fed. Then, he closes up the vial and helps John usher her into the room Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson are in. As much as it pains him, he doesn't remove their bodies. They would only attract more infected to the area if they aren't locked away.

Unlike John, Sherlock's mind can't be farther from romance. Camaraderie, yes. But so much disgusting bodily fluids are a good repellent for such distracting thoughts.

"You're going to share is what you're going to do," Sherlock corrects. There's no way he isn't going to spend a good amount of time scrubbing himself clean, even if he isn't quite as saturated with rot. He's got a good deal of blood from the first two infected he's killed on him and he's worked up a good sweat from all their efforts.

"Ready to finish up?" Sherlock asks as soon as he notices John's breathing steadying out to normal. They've just got half the building left to look through. With any luck they won't find anymore infected.

[substituteskull]

"No," John says with every honest bone in his body. His hand falls from the handle and he steps back to pop his neck into place. "But we don't have a lot of choice." He'd gotten use to sharing everything with Sherlock, including sleepless nights and hours meant to be spent at the clinic. Or with girlfriends. Or meals Sherlock never ate but indulged John in. He runs a hand over his head and heads back down the hallway.

They'll do a full sweep, just to be utterly careful, and luckily, there's nothing lurking in the dusty, candle nub riddled darkness to get them.

Josie is just getting to his post when he spots the two coming up the stairs and frowns over a cup of watered down coffee. "Visiting? Shit, you look horrible. Breach?" he asks, seeing John's clothing.

John shakes his head. "Went collecting. Sherlock is going to finish Jill's work. Or try to."

Now Josie blinks before he claps Sherlock on the back. "Well all right man. All right. Listen, you need anything from me, I'll be here til sunset."

John glances at Sherlock as they head back out into the sun. Imagine that. It only takes the world ending for Sherlock to get some praise.

And, you know, a potential death threat thanks to Bill.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock can't blame John for wanting to delay the inevitable. This will be the smaller man's third day in the lion's den and as therapeutic as the night before had been for both of them, it ate into their recharge time. And, humans tend to obey Newton's first law of motion, especially when faced with exhausting tasks.

His steps are unsteady and favouring his left leg when they meet up with Josie. He lets John do most of the talking, trying to push out any bad mood the pain's giving him to remain pleasant to speak with. When his friend announces they're collecting, Sherlock's hand moves over the pocket he's carrying the vial in to make sure it's still there. It should be warm enough against his skin to keep the parasites satisfied.

"I think I can manage without --" he catches John's gaze, then stops mid-sentence. "Sorry. What I mean is... ah, thank you. I'll keep that in mind," he amends, giving Josie a smile that will probably look natural enough to anyone who doesn't know him as well as John.

Praise is a good thing, but Sherlock isn't used to dealing with it. He has a service and he will fulfil the requirements of said service with or without the open consent and pleasure of the people he's working with.

"I'm going to put the sample in the 37 degree storage, then I'm going to have a shower."

[substituteskull]

"You made me promise to share," John points out, "so you have to too." And he doesn't want a repeat of last night. He has to go and find Bill, they need to have one of those discussions that John is never pleased to be forced into. There's just no help for it. Not this time.

First, though, he needs to put on something clean. And he'd very much like to smell of something other than rot and body odour.

Sherlock naturally walks a bit ahead of him, longer stride, longer legs, but the limp does allow John to keep up easily without forcing himself to speak up. There are always pluses to every negative, he's found, if you really look at it.

"I'll wait for you in the locker room," he tells Sherlock, not seeing anyone in the corridors. There's so few of them that there are always chores to be done. John has some this afternoon as well: laundry duty. Not one of the finer tasks but it's better than worrying about well rounded meals or scrubbing the common areas.

John pulls his shirt over his head the moment he hits the locker room and then sinks onto one of the benches, just to relax for a few minutes. No one is here. The world is quiet.

His laughter is slow. Soft. Happy. Things feel right again.

[consulting_freak]

"If I don't share, there's no way you could share," Sherlock points out to John, letting a little of his grin show through. Now that the harder part of the day is over, he's looking forward to a relaxing afternoon in the lab working with his new find. It's the only place in this new life he feels completely and totally at home. Other than in John's bed, at least.

Sherlock looks his friend over as they part ways. It's that time of day where everyone's busy. Even the children have their assigned duties. Two on the roof at any time, and one shadowing one of the adult members of the team.

Sherlock washes his hands in the lab after depositing the sample, then he types in a combination that he'd reset so no one accidentally tampers with it. (Either Bill - who he doesn't trust - or one of the younger, more restless team mates.) The last thing they need is to have someone accidentally infect themselves by poking about in the wrong place.

He'll pick up a change of clothes and then go straight to the shower room to meet up with his friend.

[substituteskull]

John glances up as the door opens and for a moment, all of the muscles in his bare shoulders and arms seem to tighten and then relax against just after. He looks relieved and smiles with his lips together. "You'll let me have at that ankle after this," John says. "It's about time we wrapped it. You can keep it elevated while you work, all right?"

John will help with that, run the lab errands back and forth after his trip to do the laundry. Sherlock is use to that any way. Lazy. It's a wonder he didn't turn out like his brother, honestly!

Maybe there's something in the water or maybe John's just use to wanting to be physical with people he's already established that relationship with or maybe Sherlock just looks like home, but John certainly lets his desire to touch get the better of him as his hands find the other's hips. And then his fly.

What? He's just helping undress him is all!

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock won't complain about taking the weight off his ankle, so he gives his friend a nod. He could go days like this, but why? Having John's assistance in the lab will be a familiar and pleasant thing and it will allow him time to concentrate without his thoughts getting interrupted by the need to get a reagent or other supplies.

He takes the time to go to his locker to set his clean clothes inside for while he's showering. John's hands find his hips shortly after, so he turns to face the smaller man with one eyebrow raised.

They've never been very physical in their friendship, but he doesn't shy away. He's curious and right now in a good enough mood to be open to the idea of touching and being touched. He'd caught a few of the glances John had been giving him while they were across the street.

He tilts his head down toward John in a not quite kiss when those knuckles brush (assuredly purposeful) against him. "You still smell like a corpse, John," Sherlock says to him. No, it's not romantic at all. Just stating a fact. And as unpleasant as the smell is, he doesn't seem to be too negatively effected by it. (No, he doesn't enjoy it either, no matter what Sally Donovan thought of his habits.)

[substituteskull]

John doesn't pull away at first. He just grins, flashing even white teeth up at the other. "You are--" Nope, he can't even say it with a straight face. Laughing, John leaves Sherlock unmolested and finishes undressing himself. He snags the little case of his soap and his razor from his own locker and heads into the showers to start the water. This will just be a cursory washing. Just to clean off the stench.

He'd rather not dry out his skin. Not with winter coming. The itching will be annoying and they've been out of lotion for a long while.

He makes a mental note on what to add to their supply run list over the next few days and ducks under the spray, scrubbing at his short, velvety hair, fingers running down the back of his neck as he lets the water pour over him. No matter how wasteful this constant shower business is, the heat is pleasant on his tired limbs.

And Sherlock will be joining him in a moment.

They've managed some good today. They will manage more tomorrow, surely. And maybe... Maybe they'll even put an end to this hell. If not, at least he'll spend it with the one person he can truly be himself with.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock hadn't meant to send John off with that, but it's what happened. They're both in good humour, so it doesn't seem to be a bad thing. There's a smile on his face as he watches John move around the room to get everything he needs all the while removing his clothes with every ounce of grace and dexterity one hand can manage.

With his shower supplies in hand, Sherlock finds himself with the last minute decision of stepping into John's shower or taking the one next to it. He starts to move toward the other shower, but changes his mind.

Sharing is the plan, isn't it?

As usual, he doesn't pay attention to the need for personal space when he steps into the shower behind his friend. He sets his basket on the small shelf for soaps. (This is a ladies shower room, after all). "You're already warm," he comments, pressing his still very cold hand on John's shoulder to leech some of that warmth for himself.

[substituteskull]

"And now I'm cold!" John says as he's brushed lightly out of the way. "You know, there are other stalls. One right there. And there as well." But he's fine with Sherlock's encroachment of his space. He just has to fuss about it. "Is this a not so subtle hint that you need your hair washed again?" Yes, John in overindulging. He's got a hell of a lot of time to make up for.

Washing is like a science that allows for a little fudging. Touches can linger and not be called into question. Banter can continue as normal. John might just be stalling. There's the worry that people might walk in, but he has every excuse to be in here and--

And it doesn't matter. He keeps telling himself that. He's allowed to be happy.

"Are you going right back to the lab?" He just wants to know where to find Sherlock if things go south with Bill. John's pretty much counting on it.

You can't just punch the leader in the face. It's bad for rank.

[consulting_freak]

"We agreed on sharing, didn't we?" Sherlock asks rhetorically to let John know that he plans on staying right where he is now that he's getting splashed with the warm water. He's a bit of a water hog, so John might feel cold in areas that aren't just his shoulder before too much time passes.

He won't argue with getting his hair washed again. The experience had been a nice one and things just feel natural between them. It also takes some of the strain off his arms.

He remains indifferent to the idea of anyone catching them in the shower. After the little show the two of them put on last night, he's certain everyone in Bart's knows about the two of them. And, he doesn't really care. He's not at all shy about it and he can't be bothered with what anyone (besides John) thinks about him. He'll continue with the pleasantries for the sake of keeping his work place, but that's about it.

"Yes. I've got a few ideas I need to test before I can start with the viral research. You'll bring by Molly's notes?" Sherlock asks him. It's the invitation to go along with John's comment about keeping his foot elevated earlier.

[substituteskull]

"And Jill's," John promises. "Just after an errand."

Still shivering and a little damp so that his olive green shirt sticks to his back between his shoulders, John heads down the hallway with a bruised face and aching muscles. Bill had better not want a fight. John doesn't have a lot of fight left in him.

He consults the job chart -- Gabrielle's idea -- and heads to the kitchen. Bill's on lunch duty and is suppose to be rearranging food in the pantries to be sure that they're getting rid of the stuff closest to spoiling while having a good balance to their diets. It's not easy, but they have another chart to follow for that. Molly's this time. There's kitten stickers on it. John doesn't like to look at it. It's probably why he never puts himself on this rotation.

Finding the kitchen empty, however, he walks the halls from post to post and...doesn't see Bill. "Bastard," he curses. Shirking his duty to pout? Well, John won't waste more time. He collects the notes he has on the previous cure and heads back down to the lab.

He'd rather be here with Sherlock any way.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock takes longer with dressing than John, just like the night before. They don't say goodbye when John leaves, but they never really shared goodbyes other than one exception he's sure John would rather forget ever happened.

When he's finished, he goes straight to the lab to get things set up for his research. He sets up between a dissecting microscope and a compound light microscope. A blank notebook, a pen, Bunsen burner, beakers, a plastic bin holding several bottles of reagents, tweezers, micropipettes, stirring rods, and some empty Petri dishes.

The first thing he does is sterilise the tweezers before removing a small sample from the salivary gland so he can look at it under the dissecting microscope. He assumes Molly or Jill would have thought to map out these creatures' life cycle, so he will compare the size and shapes of the ones he sees with the notes to know where he's working from. If they haven't, then he will take the time to do it himself.

If all goes well, John will find Sherlock hovering behind the microscope with pen in his right hand while he sketches out everything he sees without so much as looking at the paper while he does it.

[substituteskull]

Once again, John finds himself staring at Sherlock from the doorway, hip leaning against the frame before he shuffles in. He never knows when to expect that Sherlock is paying attention to him and when he isn't, but he doesn't try to announce himself. Instead, John puts on pair of gloves after stacking up the notebooks and files in his hand by Sherlock's drawing pad.

He's seen the parasites before and he doesn't like them any more than he cares for the kitten stickers on the dietary charts in the larder. John had never been a man with any trouble letting the world go until just before the world went on without him. He finds that irony to be like the porridge Sarah had given Sherlock for breakfast. It's sitting heavy and poorly in his stomach.

Wetting his lips, John takes a seat. That tends to be the moment when Sherlock wants something of him, so he might as well get the ball started.

He still has laundry duty.

Bill, and Bill's whereabouts, are the last thing on his mind.

[consulting_freak]

When Sherlock works, he gets completely engrossed in it. He would probably look up immediately if he heard Sarah or Bill or anyone else even approach the lab door, but John's footsteps just feel normal to him. Like the hum of the refrigerator back at 221B. He pays the same amount of attention to it as John walks around his lab and makes himself comfortable.

He's still got his eyes glued to the oculars when he asks, "John, do you know how to prepare blood agar?"

They can't keep the sample in an air-tight container, because then the parasites will all die. The blood agar won't be enough to support their dietary needs - probably - so he'll keep the salivary gland in tact and add it to the plate when the agar's ready.

He adds the finishing touches to his drawing and labels it with:
40X dis
Sal. Gland
1º sample
29/10/13

He moves back from the microscope and carefully moves the sample back into the initial storage container. It's hard work one-handed, but he careful enough that it isn't dangerous.

[substituteskull]

"Haven't done it since my lab courses in medical school but I have an idea," John says honestly enough, well aware that Sherlock will correct him a few hundred times and then take over. He doesn't care. Praise is not something he needs from Sherlock any more. Their relationship has gone beyond that measure to something else entirely.

And he's grateful for that. He doesn't need the place holder any longer.

"We don't have sheep blood handy. Am I assuming that I'll use my own?" John takes one of the Petri dishes from the neat stack by Sherlock's left hand and slides it somewhat down the table so he can have his own work surface. "I'm not going out to hunt for a cat either," he says, no matter what Sherlock might have said about the parasites jumping the species barrier.

He'd rather remove a few ccs of his own blood than herd already elusive animals into the task.