(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]

"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.

[consulting_freak]

"We're also not sure if these parasites will be compatible with sheep's blood," Sherlock points out. The human blood agar would tell him if they need complete tissue or not based on where they will find the flukes on the plates later. If they can survive off blood, it will be much easier to harvest them for further research.

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!

[substituteskull]

"I think you've lost enough," John says with a smirk and fetches a clean syringe. He'd rather not just cut himself. Open wounds are dangerous and painful. There's no nee to waste plasters this way. Sitting back down once he's drawn his blood and just before he begins to prepare it for the dish, John glances up at Sherlock and frowns.

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

[consulting_freak]

"I haven't lost any since the blow to my nose last night. I'd say you lost more than me," Sherlock points out, but he doesn't look over at his friend. He trusts John to know what he's doing and if he prefers to take his own blood, why should Sherlock try to stop him?

"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.

[substituteskull]

It's strange how little John minds that Sherlock is bossing him around. If anything, it would be weird otherwise. "I'll get you the keys on the way back," he promises, already standing up now that Sherlock can take over the rest. There's some corpses to bring back and no one's going to be happy about that.

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.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock looks up from his work long enough to watch John leave. There's no goodbyes exchanged between them, but there never are. It's more natural this way and to him, that last look is just as good. Subconsciously, it's a way to memorise John just how he is before the next time they meet up. In case something bad happens? Maybe, but it's more of a constant need to update his Mind Palace.

Left alone, Sherlock waits for the agar to cool before separating out six parts of the tissue. One part per plate. After, he goes through the organisms and sections young males, middle males, adult males, young hermaphrodites, middle hermaphrodites, and adult hermaphrodites into individual plates. The hermaphrodites will proliferate, but the males won't be as productive.

When done with that, he cleans his station and starts to read the reports. As he does, he idly doodles on a nearby paper - a memory trick to utilise both hemispheres as he takes in the data.

Half an hour into his work, he hears Sarah approach his lab. He waits for her to leave, but she doesn't. When he looks up, she says she's sorry but leaves before he has a chance to ask why she's apologising. He assumes it might have something to do with the completely awful breakfast she'd served him.

For the rest of the time John's gone, Sherlock is studying. He's got his mobile phone out and both notebooks spread open in front of him when he hears the excitement approaching.

John's back. Good.

He looks up when he hears the first set of footsteps back into his lab. It's Josie. John must be holding the other side of the corpse. It doesn't stop with just two men entering the lab. When people get excited, they crowd and push.

"All right, everyone whose name isn't John Watson needs to turn around and take a step out the door."

[substituteskull]

"Actually, John Watson has laundry duty," John says as he muscles his way through the small crowd. He and Josie hoist the corpse onto the back table and carefully fold one arm over the partial torso. He shakes out his own arms and turns back to watch the others file out.

He really ought to go, but he has to wash up and he can do that here for a few minutes. Besides, he wants to watch Sherlock work for just a little while longer. Call him strange, but he misses reading the paper in a gas mask while Sherlock plays with his chemicals. And he misses being half dragged out of bed to see some new and exciting result he only half understands.

John closes the door with his elbow as he arches an eyebrow at his friend. "Do you need me to do more than play fetch or should I just get on with my work?"

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock deflates a little when John reminds him of the laundry duty. He waits until the other man's ushered everyone out of his lab before he says what's bothering him, though. Maybe he's finally starting to learn some timing.

"If you've got laundry, who's going to help me with the autopsy?" Sherlock asks him, grabbing a few empty vials to collect the salivary glands from this one. He'll heat up the rest of the agar and distribute it when they're done here. The most important thing is to make sure he gets the samples before the 'meat' spoils.

Doing the extraction with one hand is hard. Cutting and removing a rib cage will be practically impossible without assistance.

[substituteskull]

Really, Sherlock? Guilt? John rolls his eyes and glances at the door. The laundry can wait for a few hours. The sun is already setting so it won't dry until tomorrow anyhow. The corner of his mouth lifts and he laughs softly before heading back to the box of gloves.

Yes. Sherlock Holmes wins. As usual.

"You'll be helping me with the laundry," he says with a mock grump. It's not like he'd mind the extra time with Sherlock. Even doing something mundane is well worthwhile. John snaps his gloves into place and takes his place at the far end of the table. He has a feeling he'll be doing to majority of the dirty work.

Rib cracking use to be something of a specialty anyway.

"Put on a mask. Just in case."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't hide the triumphant grin on his face when John agrees to the favour. He takes a bit longer to work a clean glove onto his hand, but he gets it without the need for assistant. "Fine. I'll..." his eyebrow crinkle up a bit. How does someone do laundry, anyway? "I'll put the soap on or something." Mostly, he would keep John company while doing paper work and planning for the rest of his week in the lab.

Mask. Right. He plucks one from the carton and works the elastic loops over his ears, then pinches the metal band over his nose.

Before they start, Sherlock sets his phone on a nearby table and turns on the voice memo recorder. He'll remember everything he needs to about the autopsy, but this way he won't have to write down his notes in case John wants to put his medical degree to use.

"Samples first," he says. He grabs one of those vials and holds it out toward John, then palms the other. He opens it with one hand on his way to get the dissection supplies. A scalpel for each of them and a couple more of those wide-rimmed pipettes.

The autopsy itself will most likely take up all of three hours. While they work, Sherlock mutters his deductions out loud and lets John take care of more of the clinical observations. Organ weights, organ appearances, things like that. The sound of footsteps passing by outside doesn't go unnoticed and several times people pause in front of the door. Probably trying to get a glimpse of them through the mostly obscured door window.

[substituteskull]

During there work, there's rarely a world outside of Sherlock. John isn't one to ignore others that might need them, he certainly doesn't ignore his own bodily functions, and when Sherlock is at his most insufferable, sometimes John needs to just leave. However, this particular work is ground breaking and very likely the key for their survival. Canned goods will only last so long. Petrol too. The futures of these children are bleak as it is. And watching Sherlock's hand work in conjunction with his own gives him hope.

When there is little more to be discovered from the body, when the remaining parasites have been extracted, most of them dead, and when John really would just like to sit, he shirks his gloves and drops onto one of the wheeled stools. Dark blue eyes track Sherlock's progress across the room.

Other than the data collected and the parts of this corpse needed for storage, John knows he's going to have to gather the rest into trash bags and dump it a few blocks a way.

It's dark now, but some things can not wait until morning.

"I'm starved. It's nearly dinner. Wash up a bit-- Sherlock, you do need to eat. You can lay about tonight and think if you must."

[consulting_freak]

Where John sees that there's not much knowledge to be gained from the autopsy, Sherlock is under the complete opposite assumption. There's a smorgasbord of data to be analysed in terms of these things' progress through the body.

"This is too interesting for me to eat," Sherlock tells John. He knows it will be argued against, but right now he's on the verge of a breakthrough.

"You should know that most flukes venture out of their niche - either for mating purposes or for different stages of the life cycle - but these don't," Sherlock explains. "There's absolutely no damage to blood vessels or any tissue besides the salivary glands. Most importantly, there's no damage to the brain. So how are they controlling their hosts?"

[substituteskull]

John would very much like to be interested, Sherlock, but his stomach is cross with him and while it's not like they have the most delicious food known to man waiting for him, but it will at least stifle the roaring. "Chemical signals?" John asks, only half heartedly. He is interested in Sherlock's 'breakthrough' but he's really hoping for more cornbread and that has most of his attention. He knows dinner will be waiting no matter what, but he'd like for it to be warm.

And not picked through. The kids have grubby little hands and not the world's best hygiene!

"Secretions cause mutations? Perhaps the rest of the body doesn't have the proper ph balance?" It could be so many things. John's rattling off of explanations is mostly to get Sherlock to give him the 'aha' moment they both need to enjoy dinner.

Yes. His priorities aren't entirely straight these days.

And, amusingly, neither is he.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock can see right away that John's head is not in the game. His friend is only giving the problem surface level attention when it deserves much more than that. This is life and death, not simply Sherlock wanting to run around London searching for clues. This could be the making or breaking of the future of the entire human race. And then there's John, looking for a bite to eat instead of focusing on what's important.

"We would have seen some evidence of deterioration with the mutation, but the brain is in better condition than the rest of the body," he tells John impatiently.

He holds his hand out toward John. He usually uses his teeth to take off the glove, but the nature of the autopsy means there's not a large enough clean area for him to risk it. "We need more samples, John." It's dangerous and stupid, but it's what they need. "Bodily fluids at the very least, but what I really need to see is a functional, infected brain under an MRI."

It's not going to go over well with John, let alone the rest of the people here.