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Oct. 30th, 2013 01:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
substituteskullThree 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.
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.
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Date: 2013-11-12 08:57 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-12 09:13 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-13 12:27 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-13 01:20 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-13 03:52 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-13 04:12 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-13 06:39 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-13 07:06 pm (UTC)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."
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Date: 2013-11-13 09:19 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-13 09:31 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-14 12:36 am (UTC)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!
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Date: 2013-11-14 12:52 am (UTC)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.)
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Date: 2013-11-14 01:20 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-14 02:37 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-15 12:03 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-15 12:23 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-15 02:11 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-15 02:49 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-15 03:47 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-15 04:14 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-15 06:03 pm (UTC)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.
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Date: 2013-11-16 03:28 pm (UTC)He twists around in his chair to grab at the notes before John can move them away. "If you'd prefer my blood, you can take it while I read the lab notes from before."
The thing about this sort of research - even if he could probably come up with a good plan of action from scratch, absorbing all the information available to him would be a more fruitful course of action. What he'd been doing when John came in to see him was more or less done to pass the time. He'd never seen one of these things under a microscope before.
"Oh, do you think your power of influence will be enough to convince a few of your men to collect a couple of the infected we killed earlier today and bring them to the lab? I'd like to run a full autopsy." He assumes John can be the one in charge of most of the autopsy while Sherlock spots and observes, but if the duties are shirked onto him, he can take full responsibility for it.
Hurray! Tags!
Date: 2013-11-19 06:02 pm (UTC)He can't ask Bill. Andrew's depth perception is non-existent and-- "I'll grab Josie before dark and we'll bring you one," he tells his friend. "The parasites should still be active for a few hours if that's what you wanted." He's not sure he really wants to know what Sherlock is planning, though. Being kept in the dark, he's found, has its advantages.
John is delicate with the agar, moving the dish carefully to Sherlock's station before he sits near him again. The drawing of the parasite is still off-putting.
"You'll take every precaution, right? Goes without saying, yes?"
Taaaags! 8D
Date: 2013-11-19 06:19 pm (UTC)"Mmm, you may want to get a move on it then. You can bandage up my ankle and arm when you get back. No use being stupid and risking getting stuck out there after dark." Sherlock flips through the pages of Molly's work without doing more than skimming what's there. The same goes for Jill's research. Once he gets an idea of what he has to work with, he'll start at the beginning and give each a thorough read.
With the agar ready, he sets the notebooks down to distribute it between a half dozen Petri dishes. "Good idea, I could always use more samples of parasites," he comments as he sets each disk to the side to cool. "Yes, of course. I'm not stupid," Sherlock tells his friend. "I'll need your established authority to make sure no one comes into this lab besides you and me. If you've got the key to this room, that might be a good thing to give me sooner rather than later."
Screw work, I miss tagging yoooou.
Date: 2013-11-22 01:41 am (UTC)Not even for a possible cure. Not even if they're dead. At least Sherlock hadn't asked for the little girl. Though she possess a much smaller risk than say, Lestrade, he really doesn't want a repeat of what happened last time.
Something always happens.
You can't account for every portion of human error. In his experience, there's an awful lot of that too.
Once Sherlock is left to his own devices, John heads back over to the office building with jam on toast to sweet talk Josie into helping him bring back the upper half of the woman Sherlock had diced apart that morning. Needless to say, it takes more than just a little jam to do it, but John still had enough weight with the group to sway things his own way.
"Do you really think your friend can do it?" the younger man asks as he and John carry the corpse down the stairs. "Cure them, I mean."
John doesn't smile to smile quite like that, but he can't help it. "If anyone can, it's Sherlock. Watch the left, we're nearly there."
They've quite the procession on the way to the lab, unfortunately, but no Bill. There's always such a relief for small favours.
;A; I miss tagging you, too. This is one of my fav. threads.
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