substituteskull | (no subject)

Three years since the outbreak and John Watson still doesn't know what to make of it. Like all doctors, he'd heeded the call of city and country as England did what all smart island nations did the moment the moment WHO released a statement that the virus had spread outside of America through international travel. It shut down completely. He'd not paid attention to the politics of it, hadn't bothered so much with the news. John had his work to do, people to treat, safety and quarantine to enforce. His world because St. Barts'.

At first, isolation seemed to work. Patriots were forced to stay outside of the relative safety of Great Britain as the airports and the Eurostar stations shut down. Ferries between the islands were discontinued.

The problem was that no one could isolate whatever it was causing humanity to change. The virus didn't seem to kill the host's brain, just every other part of their systems. A day post infection, the victim would become feverish. Two days later, they'd succumb. And after that...nothing short of dismemberment could stop them. It wasn't airbourne. And not in the blood either. Just the saliva. John had never seen anything like it. The internet called it a zombie plague, but that wasn't quite right either.

It took six months for everyone worldwide to realize that quarantine wouldn't help. Infections sprouted up for no discernible reason. People turned in the Underground, in shopping centres, on the playground. London, and the country, didn't stand a chance. The government fell overnight. Society followed.

And John just stayed on at St Barts'. He stopped trying to do the most good. And just attempted to survive.

It's not easy, even for an ex-soldier. There's no heading down to Tesco's any more. Ammo is impossible to come by. But if John, and the others holed up in St. Barts' still want to eat, someone has to go out. And that someone is almost always John.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

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?"

From:

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.

From:

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.

From:

substituteskull

And he just washed his hands. Sighing, John is careful with removing Sherlock's glove, disposes of it, and runs the water again. He's going to be so tried out and chapped in the next week or so it won't be even remotely funny. He thinks about about putting lotion on the supply list before glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock. "A live-- No, Sherlock, no."

They did that before. They can't do that again. That's why killed Molly, not the bite, but the way that thing had ripped her open and-- And John had no choice but to end her suffering with a bullet in the head.

He's still not proud of it. It still doesn't sit will with him. And he's not going to let Sherlock--

John sighs. "If I tell you no, you'll do it yourself."

Damn it.

"We can't bring any of them here. But I'll help you set up a lab. In the other building. Tomorrow. After you eat." It's too dark. It's too dangerous to do it tonight.

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock is glad John knows him well enough to predict his actions. Yes, if he hadn't gotten permission to bring a live Infected over to Bart's, he would have done it himself. He knows where the MRI scanners are and enough about electricity to shunt a few kilowatts over to that area to use it. He's also sneaky enough to do it with no one the wiser.

So, when John gives him the defeated look that lets Sherlock know he's won, he grins. "Thank you, John," he says, grabbing at John's shoulder (had he washed his hand yet? No, but he didn't tear the glove so it should be uncontaminated) and bending down to give the other man a firm kiss on the mouth.

He pulls away before the kiss can be productive. His good mood shows in the way he bounces to the sink to give his hand an awkward, but thorough scrubbing.

"Dinner, then?" Now he's in the mood to play nice and listen to his growling stomach. He's still got a lot of thinking to do tonight and they need to dispose of the rest of the body, but John's making it very clear that eating is one of the conditions for his help in this.

From:

substituteskull

It's strange and wonderful and heating to have Sherlock be so close and willing to kiss him that John is understandably quiet for some handful of seconds even after his friend has pulled away. It's got nothing to do with romance or even animal magnetism that roots him to the spot-- It's that Sherlock has returned to the centre of his world so completely that it still leaves his head spinning.

The 'thanks' gets a smile, flat, even white teeth flashing before he's off to follow Sherlock out of the lab and down the corridor to the cafeteria. Dinner sounds bloody fantastic, actually, and there's a little extra spring in his step that has more to do with being involved in the whirlwind that is one of Sherlock's cases than anything else.

They're a bit late for the meal, but as usual, a few stragglers drinking very watered down coffee are still there to greet the pair. It's obvious that they've been talking, even John notices, but he sits down to have a lukewarm meal just the same, between Gabrielle and Andrew.

"Has Bill been by?" he mentions halfway through, spoon poised to shovel another helping past his lips.

The others glance at one another. "Honestly, mate, haven't seen him all day."

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock gets himself a few questioning looks from the remaining members of their party still having their dinner break. He doesn't usually show up for meals and when he does, it's usually once everyone besides the person on clean up duty have gone their separate ways. Still, he's a welcome face and after the confusion passes, he even gets a few smiles.

He has to serve himself up a plate since no one's bothered to do it for him. He doesn't worry too much about proportions.

John's sitting between two other people. He hovers at the table for a moment, feeling awkward and out of place until he settles down across from John and next to the formerly obese woman. He's quiet as he listens to their conversation. He'd promised to behave himself, so he keeps his comment about how useless Bill is and that they shouldn't worry over him to himself. But, he wouldn't be Sherlock if he kept completely quiet.

"He's probably put off by the fact that he still wants you sexually and you've chosen me as a partner instead," he offers. Isn't this the kind of thing normal people talk about?

From:

substituteskull

The spoonful doesn't ever reach John's mouth and there's at least one person literally doing a spit take. All eyes rove, some more slowly than others, to Sherlock and then to John. It's not as if they hadn't known about John and Sherlock, the noise had given it away, but Bill had been another story to some of them. Not only that, but to have Sherlock speak so freely about it is somewhat unnerving.

Slowly, John sets his spoon back into his bowl before he laughs. "Not good," he tells Sherlock, though his smile at least sets everyone else more or less back at rest and the uncertain gasps have turned into somewhat awkward tingling. "Someone needs to find him. He could be hurt. After dinner, let's set up a search."

Back to business. It has to be business or else John might be forced to answer questions he's much better just ignoring.

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock's smile falters when he doesn't get the response he's expecting from the others. He'd been trying to do the 'small talk' thing and it's always seemed to him that people spend far too much time and energy worrying about who's sleeping with whom.

"Ah," he clears his throat and has the decency to look both confused and apologetic. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to this... socialising thing," he admits and then turns his attention to his dinner while John dusts his conversational blunder under the rug. He's not sure which part had been the 'not good' part. Is it Bill, because Bill's missing? It's not like they should be grieving him - he's a complete dick - and he hasn't been gone very long.

He glances up when John mentions setting up the search party.

"Laundry," he says, blinking a few times. Isn't that what's on the schedule? It's not a good idea to go out this late, and maybe Sherlock's being a bit protective toward John.

From:

substituteskull

"Laun--" John stares across the table at his friend and puts his spoon safely down. "Laundry is going to have to wait." If Bill has been hurt, they need to get to him. If he's been bitten or compromised, they need to get to him. Though chances are that he's just sulking somewhere. "It's better to be safe. Finish eating. Andy and Pauline, take the top two floors, Gabrielle, let's check the rest."

John's way of life for the last three years just can't be put on hold because Sherlock would rather take up all of his time. He did promise to help with the infected. Tomorrow. Laundry can be done then too. It's already been put off far longer than it ought to have been.

John checks the rounds in his gun (a whopping three, they really need to find more ammo, and quickly) and that his knife is still in place before he heads to the door.

It's nothing to really worry about. He's sure they'll find Bill in his room or in storage.

From:

consulting_freak

Sherlock's lips threaten to twist into a full grimace, but he stills them after a few twitches. Promised to behave. Why the hell would he make a stupid promise like that? Not only does John insist on going to look for the pile of rubbish named Bill, he's completely neglected to give Sherlock a job.

"I am finished," he says coolly. (Well, coolly in tone. Really, he's acting the role of a petulant child. Like usual.) He pushes the plate away for whatever lucky sod has to clean the dishes. He's barely taken a half dozen bites. So much for the appetite he'd worked up with his sudden good mood.

Before John has a chance to finish his meal or start on his rounds, Sherlock's already excused himself to go off and have a sulk of his own.

He's not going to a room or storage, though. Lab would be too obvious, too. He's going up to the roof.