(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]

It hadn't been John's intention to alienate Sherlock, but he can't deal with Bill and laundry and Sherlock and so his friend will just have to wait until the rest of his chores are done. He'll make it up to him with...hair samples or something. Maybe that thought shouldn't make him smile, but it does. Just the thought of Sherlock's full, beautifully curved lips on his own make him smile.

The roof is likely the last place John and the rest would go to find Bill, and that, of course, is just where Bill is, sitting on the edge of the cornice. Waiting.

The shadows conceal the nature of the weapon in his hand for just a moment, but Sherlock can tell a man with a gun when he sees one, even if anyone else might just assume he was empty handed.

"Didn't think you'd be alone," Bill says.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't know Bill's sulking habits, so he doesn't expect to find him up on the roof. His intention had simply been to get away from everyone else for a moment so he could have himself a private thought. But, he's not disappointed to find Bill. It means John's party won't be the one to do it. Safer that way. For John.

It only takes a moment for him to analyse the situation. Bill's got a gun and Sherlock is completely unarmed. Stupid move going off on his own in the midst of the zombie apocalypse without a weapon, but it would put his back to Bill to turn around to go back downstairs.

"Alone was my intention," he responds with a tightness in his voice.

Should he mention he knows about the gun? It would take the surprise out of things for Bill. He'll feel more in control if Sherlock doesn't know, which will make him less likely to pull the trigger. Probably best to keep quiet.

He takes a few steps closer to Bill, fixing his eyes on the view past the other man, but his peripheral vision is watching Bill very closely for any movements consistent with aiming the gun.

"John and the others are looking for you. They're worried, I think."

[substituteskull]

"Worried? Yeah, probably should be." Bill snorts. "I'm tired of playing nice. People change, I know that. You know that. The core of a person, even when nothing major happens, changes constantly. It's how people survive the day to day. Read that once." He gives a shrug, not really looking at Sherlock. "Thing is, I've been trying so hard to keep us afloat but you know what? We're not meant for it. This happened for a reason."

He made a gesture, the moonlight catching off of the gun.

"I mean, look up! You can see stars now. Stars! In London! Humanity had it's turn. Now it's time it gets wiped out. We all start over again." There's just a moment of silence as Bill's head tilts down. "Now, I'm not like those religious crazies or anything. I don't believe we deserve it or anything. Dinosaurs didn't deserve that asteroid. But yanno what? Shit happens. Earth moves on. I'm tired of everyone clinging to life. This isn't a life."

It's not hard to make out gun shots, though they're muffled.

Bill smirks. "Just a matter of time now and we'll all be like them."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock turns his attention to Bill as he speaks. This is the same man who'd attacked him in the locker room, which incidentally lead him directly into the position he'd wanted to prevent. Sherlock supposes he should thank him for that, but there's too much danger in the air for him to do it now. With his injuries and his training, Sherlock has no doubt he could come up on top in a hand-to-hand fight. But not this. He's going to have to wait for a moment of weakness to disarm Bill and to do that, he needs to keep his injuries in mind. Narcotics would help with the pain, but not with his movement fluidity.

"Biologically, human beings are just like any other animals. As a species we're driven by survival. And maybe you're right and we're all just delaying the inevitable for a few days or a few months. But you know what? That's just what people do," Sherlock explains. Touch and go. Keep him talking. The others would find them eventually.

"I've gone over the research Doctor Roderick did regarding a potential cure for affliction let loose upon the world and I'm confident I can make it work. I might not be able to cure it right away, but I can make a vaccine."

[substituteskull]

"A cure? They're dead, you know? And we're just waiting to die. Going through the motions." There's another gun shot and Bill laughs softly. A third follows. That's all the bullets John had if Sherlock had noted it when he checked the clip before leaving the kitchen. "What if you do cure them? Are they going to want to be alive after all of that? What if they remember running after people and snacking on their kids? It sounds pretty bloody awful if you ask me."

Bill stands, which might be the wrong move on his part, especially as he starts to head away from the door leaving back inside of Bart's.

"But maybe it's the same for you. You died. Jumped from this very roof. Figuratively, you sort of ate John alive too. He's not the same, you left him dead too, and then came back. Like Jesus!" It makes him laugh, actually belly laugh, the kind of laughter that brings tears to people's eyes.

He turns suddenly and points the gun at Sherlock.

"Get back inside, Sherlock Holmes. You're not going to want to miss this."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock counts the third gunshot and understands what it means. John's out of ammunition. Unless someone else has got a gun, it means the fighting will get a lot tougher for the soldier. One-on-one, these wraiths are easy enough to subdue without getting a bite. If John's using his gun, there's more than one at a time. He can calculate the distance and location of the shots by the sound. He needs to get there.

"I could cure one of us before it's got to that point," he responds, but it's clear that Bill isn't going to listen to reason. He should be used to it, since no one ever does.

He shows no fear as Bill pulls the gun on him. He's not going to shoot. Yet.

Sherlock doesn't care whether Bill Murray lives or dies. It might make things safer for everyone if he were to die, but John would feel some ill-placed sense of moral responsibility. It would hurt him and Sherlock knows from experience that John's gone through enough already.

"Don't do anything you'll regret, Bill. I'm not your friend, but I am John's and for some idiotic reason, he considers you his," with that, Sherlock takes a step toward the stairwell.

[substituteskull]

Behind Sherlock is one more gun shot, one more ping in the night. Bill's gun, not aimed at the detective, but himself. From the sound of it, not a headshot either. The idiot wants to come back...but he doesn't want to be as he had been. The stomach wound will be fatal enough. John might be able to save him-- But John's three stories down, hands full all ready.

Handsful indeed, the doctor is trying to get Gabrielle back through the double doors and get them closed off when the others catch up with them. The back door had been left wide open. It's happened before, twice, but the amount of infected wandering around has been miniscule in these parts. There were gates and precautions used... John doesn't understand how there could be so many flooding into their home--

Not unless it had been deliberate.

As Gabrielle slides through the doors, John slams his weight into them, trying to thread bike chains through the handles. It won't hold for long, they'll need more reinforcement.

And a clean up crew.

Their quarters are completely over run.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock only takes a second to glance back at Bill when he hears the shot in the dark. All he needs is that second for the epiphany to start rolling in. All that talk about it only being a matter of time before they would all come back as those infected things. His stomach sinks as the gravity of the situation falls on him.

"John," he mutters before turning tail and leaving the roof. As a precaution, he locks the roof door behind him before hobbling down the stairs as fast as his gimp leg will let him.

Once he's on the main floor, he starts to call out for John. Any of the others might hear his voice and come to him, but his mind is on one man alone. Unfortunately, it's not just the living that have the sense of hearing. The sound of shuffling alerts Sherlock to one of the intruders. It's coming from his lab.

His bag. He needs his weapons. Guns, ammunition, his sword. He should have given John more bullet cartridges. Too late to regret it. He considers closing the lab door, but the Infected is already in the doorway. He recognises the face from somewhere. Across the street. Someone let them all out.

He goes the opposite direction toward their rooms where he grabs the whole bag and only takes the sword out of it to defend himself on the way to the others. This is something he's done for two years, but it's the first time it's mattered.

He kills three on the way down to the ground floor and leaves four others. There's probably more that he hasn't run into.

"Guns," he tells the others. He's out of breath and covered in blood that isn't his own, but that doesn't stop him from shrugging off his bag. "They're upstairs, too. Bill's dead on the roof, but not for long. He's been infected deliberately or otherwise. It was all him."

[substituteskull]

"Jesus," is the mutual consensus of the others, what little there were, and though a slow sweep of the building was protocol at this particular point, protocol tends to go very quickly by the wayside when all is said and done, when there are people you care about missing.

John ends up trapped with Gabrielle between the wings and while that's not typically a problem for someone who is resourceful and has learned to swallow up every last bit of fear he's faced with, it's not looking good.

There's no where to go. One door is secure but the other... There's no latch, no lock. If they're quiet, they won't be discovered. For now. But how long will that be?

He's never been so unarmed before. Bludgeoning infected isn't easy to do with the handle of a pistol after all! He looks at Gabrielle as they crouch in the dark and watches her shake. A hand to her shoulder gets a violent reaction and a sob slips from her throat.

There's blood on her hands-- Not the black blood that comes from infected, but red, fresh blood. It's all over her shoulder too. John's eyes melt and his eyebrows bunch. Not much time now at all. He decides to take the risk, crab-walking through the unsecured doors and motioning the whimpering woman to follow.

There's more commotion a flight up. He can hear it, hear Sherlock call for him. There are infected between him and that voice, however. As happy as he usually is to repeat the shout?

Not this time.

If only Gabrielle hadn't been making so much noise, though. John exhales as blood shot eyes turn towards them in the dark corridor. He curses under his breath. Hand to hand with these people isn't usually met with a happy ending.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock questions the few people barricading the front door where John is, but no one knows. Without a commander, people tend to let themselves huddle up in their self-defeating fear and laziness. He's not shy to say as much and with a little convincing, he arms the adults and sends them on their way to do their bloody jobs.

Sarah and the children stay at the front door. It's still securely shut so the likelihood of them meeting their ends is substantially less here than by going upstairs. Sarah's doing all she can to not lose her composure because she's their guardian in this. Sherlock eventually convinces them to be silent while he takes a moment in his Mind Palace to calculate John's position based on each of the gunshots he's heard. There's a short path to go by, but he can guess at the rest of John's journey from those sounds and where he would be now.

He digs through his bag and hands Sarah one of his best guns with a silencer attached to it - he'd been carrying this one since Serbia - then he takes a second gun for himself and a handful of cartridges for John's. She begs him not to go, but he doesn't have ears for it. 'Someone needs to protect the children,' is her argument.

"That's what you're here for, Sarah. I'll be back... half an hour tops. Don't let anyone through that door and watch the stairs."

Back upstairs and into the thick of things.

Another infected down and there's at least a half dozen more he can spot either with sight or sound between him and John's expected location. It's not exactly the smartest move, but Sherlock calls out again, "John! I'm still on the hospital side. Trying to lure them this way so you can get back here!"

Luring them with a voice works for the closer ones, but the smell of fresh blood has the attention of the the closest to John and Gabrielle.

[substituteskull]

Damn it, Sherlock! Sometimes, more often than not, John wants nothing more than to wrap his hands around that scrawny neck and-- Cutting his thoughts short, he simply rolls his eyes and holds a hand out to command Gabrielle to wait for a moment while he checks around the corner. Bad move.

Down on the ground, prone and trying to keep from being bitten, John struggles with something that use to be a girl, breaking a brittle arm in the process before he managed to crack it's head on the floor. The struggle just called more towards his location and the scrapping, shuffling sounds of feet finally forced him to give up the silence.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, hoping they could somehow meet in the middle. "I hope you have a gun!" Otherwise, he was just as dead as Gabrielle was. No need to think about that now, however. He tugged himself to his feet and turned his pistol around. His arms and the reach of the weapon are painfully short, it's just the best he can do on short notice.

Getting to Sherlock now a top priority, and with Gabrielle trialing him, John just goes for it. By the time he meets up with his friend again, he's bloody, heaving, and looking--

Looking entirely too bad arse for words.

[consulting_freak]

Relief pours over him when he hears John's voice calling back to him. He's alive, thank God. But now the two of them are playing tug of war with a half dozen zombies. "I have, and I've got enough ammo in my left pocket for you to reload," he calls out and aims his gun toward the nearest Infected. There's still a bit of distance between himself and his target, so he misses the head shot. A neck wound slows what used to be an elderly gentlemen enough for the second shot to hold true.

Sherlock keeps moving forward, using only the gun since he can't dual-wield with his arm in a cast. Before long, he sees John and Gabrielle making a break for it. He provides what cover he can from this distance and the nature of the weapon he's using. He's not a crackshot like John, but he's a good distraction and slows a few of them down enough for Gabrielle to make it through.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," he tells John with an appraising glance that might have been a few seconds too long to be appropriate for this situation. "Have you been bitten?" he asks, but the question is directed to Gabrielle. The fresh blood worries him.

[substituteskull]

It's never quite the same without Sherlock. Coming out a little beaten up but not beaten down from a fight and seeing those unearthly silver eyes focused in his direction gives John's heart a little jump. He might be a little too hyper focused on the detective, a little less focused on the danger they are still likely in, and probably could spare a little more for the woman scared and very possibly headed to her grave.

John's smile falls from his lips before it can fully form and he turns to put a hand on Gabrielle's shoulder. She isn't answering Sherlock, so John does for her. "She's been bitten." He can't see it exactly, but her actions and the amount of blood on her arm is telling. "We need to get her upstairs."

To what? To lab? Most of his supplies are locked in there with the infected. Clearing them out could well be impossible, even with the ammo in Sherlock's pocket (which he fishes out, thank you). They just don't have the man power. The don't have the resources.

John doesn't bother to ask Sherlock for some better news. He's shifting back into doctor mode, for better or for worse, though regrouping with the rest of his people does force him to be their leader again.

They're afraid, he understands that. "I need a single floor. I need all exits barricaded. We have to wait out the night." Part of him was worried about Bill, too. He figured his old friend was dead..and if not yet, he would be soon.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock's face sobers for a moment as he considers Gabrielle's situation. These organisms have a reasonably moderate gestation period. She'll be fine for a few days as long as she can hold her body together. If she dies, then there's no chance at all for her. John's the doctor and Sherlock is just the toxicologist, so he'll follow whatever John decides. If he notices Gabrielle acting strangely, he won't hesitate to make a head shot if it means the safety of himself, John, or the rest of the group.

"Sarah and the other children are guarding the front door, everyone else have dispersed into teams of two to sweep the main level," Sherlock explains, then ushers John and Gabrielle past him.

"There's no barricade on this side. Four hostiles remaining. You need to get Gabrielle to safety. I haven't gotten a chance to isolate the viral organism we need for a cure, but there might be a way to slow the progress of the disease," he explains and furrows his brow as he shoots another Infected coming their way. This time the first shot does the trick. "I've got fourteen rounds left in this magazine. I'll be fine taking on three. Now go."

Maybe he does have a thing for being the hero, after all. John's the one that started it so long ago by treating him as such.

He doesn't turn his head to look back at John when he starts to walk forward once again. "Bill's on the roof. I locked him up there... he's infected himself deliberately or incidentally. If you're looking for someone to blame for this mess, he'll be waiting there for a bullet to the brain either by your hand or mine."

[substituteskull]

John wants to protest but there's entirely too much going on right now to do it. Watching Sherlock walk away from him is difficult, but John grits his teeth to do his work with Gabrielle, to get back to the kids and to hopefully rendezvous with everyone else. Hand on Gabrielle's arm, he pulls her away from Sherlock, sparing the other man one last look.

It's a long night. There are horrible arguments about Bill (whom John does in fact take care of the moment he's able to), about what to do with Gabrielle, about their immediate safety-- John squashes them as they come up until he is forced to pull rank, forced to play Leader even when he hates it. He's a soldier. He runs better on orders than on giving orders.

They need him, though, and while John bitterly realises he only needs Sherlock, these people have spent the last three years with him. He's obligated to protect them.

Gabrielle is bandaged up and resting. The kids are all asleep. The others talk with themselves. John stands by the stairway. He recognizes the shape of the shadow approaching the glass panel in the door and clutches the handle. "Tell me some good news, Sherlock," he nearly begs. Even 'I got two headshots' would be good now.

[consulting_freak]

The state his flat had always been would say otherwise, but Sherlock is a meticulous and thorough person when he chooses to be. After he subdues all three remaining hostiles, he combs the area for anymore. Outside the chained up doors, he can hear more of them. Sometimes they try for the doors and sometimes they just shuffle past. The smell of blood and the sounds of violence have alerted them to this location. With a city like London, there must be thousands of them within a mile radius. If too many notice Bart's, they'd be overrun in a matter of hours.

What takes him the longest is moving the bodies away from the barricaded door. They'll dispose of them - probably in a fire or by scattering them elsewhere as a lure - in the morning, but they come to the smell like moths to a flame.

Once they're all piled up just inside the stairwell, Sherlock heads back to the the rest of the group.

He's limping more and has a few new injuries - no bites - when he finally regroups. "Water," is the first thing he says to John, since if he doesn't have something to drink, he's not going to be much help in explaining the situation. When he's had the drink, he will go on to explain, "I secured the area best I could. We're going to need to send someone up to dispose of the bodies and chain up the doors. And I might need a tetanus jab."

It's seriously like I come home and sleep. HEY BODY STOP THAT

[substituteskull]

"We'll deal with the lockjaw when and if it happens," John says with a sigh. If they're quiet, even if the infected get through the barricade, they should be all right. For now. Even if it seems like they're going to have to find a new place, and soon, to live. John doesn't want to think about it right now, not about the store rooms downstairs, not about the lab. Not about all of the little things he's kept over the years gone by way if the infected.

Sarah had filled him in, a bit, on what Sherlock said about Bill. He doesn't want to talk about that either, though. What happened with Bill, what happened tonight, is his fault. He takes responsibility for it. And he'll come to terms with that too.

Later.

With just enough blankets to go around, face still splattered in blood and Gabrielle shaking by herself in the corner as the others keep a tentative eye on her, John leans his head back on the wall and carefully takes Sherlock's hand under their shared quilt.

"How bad do you think it is?" He knows his friend won't sugar coat it.

Sleep can be very good

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock scoffs at John's comment about his potential episode of lockjaw, "You say that like you're telling me what's for breakfast. You do realise that eating won't be an option at all if it comes to that," he quips back, but he'll drop the subject for now. It's evident that John doesn't have access to any tetanus vaccines or he would have offered him up one without hesitation. Goody for him.

Now that he's not working on playing pest control, he's able to think about Gabrielle and her condition. He has some vague ideas of what he could do to delay the turning process, but he doubts it will delay it long enough to do any good.

He disappears into his lab for half an hour before coming back and injecting the frightened woman with something he doesn't really explain. He gives her the advice to rest and maintain her body as best as she can - treat it like any flu - and he'll work as fast as he can for a true cure. He's convincing despite not being convinced himself, but he sees that he could possibly use her as a means to gather data. It will bring them steps closer to immunity.

After, he settles under the quilt with John. They're all sharing quarters tonight and there are a few people already sleeping. Some of the adult members of the crew that were able to conserve more energy than him and John are discussing who gets to sit guard first.

"Hmm?" John's voice shakes Sherlock from his thoughts and he turns to look at the other man. They're both filthy and there's nothing at all romantic about the situation, but he can't help but feel a certain fondness toward his first friend in that moment. "Not good, but it could be a lot worse. If you hadn't acted when you did and if I hadn't happened upon Bill, things might have gone differently. It's possible to maintain Bart's as a home, but it will take certain expenses of time and energy. We'll have to decrease the area we take for one, lock down the inner doors and huddle up tighter. Secondly, we'll need a way to lure the Infected away from us. I was thinking we could use the bodies of the other infected and perhaps that of Bill's, which will be significantly fresher, in order to set up as a sort of roach motel scenario in the building across the street. Open up one room, leave the corpses, then close the door behind them when there's enough inside. At some point, we should consider demolition charges, but for now confinement will be easier."

Sherlock's eyes glance over toward Gabrielle, then he lowers his voice so only John and anyone very close would be able to hear, "As far as a cure goes, it's still a ways off. I don't have access to the viral agent Doctor Roderick used, but I may be able to isolate it from the environment. I'm going to need to reboot some of the computer systems and software, but it's possible that I could have something ready to test in as short as four weeks. Three weeks if I'm quick and not distracted by anymore of these attacks, and two if I don't sleep. That's pushing it. As far as her condition goes, I'm not sure if I've got anything that will actually work at this point. I'm assuming she'll be turned in maybe... five days at most. But, she could help us solve this."

Until it is too much! Blargh

[substituteskull]

In that past, John would have taken each inch of Sherlock's dissection of timelines to heart, thought him cold, told him that human lives were never meant to be plotted out so stoically, but things change and he's changed, not fundamentally of course, but the undercurrent of his thoughts rests in war. Isn't that what this this, though? War?

John's lips purse as he gazes over the children, over the last four adults besides himself and Sherlock left uninfected. It makes his hand in Sherlock's tighten just a little bit. John isn't afraid. He's trying to calculate what to do for his injured, limping unit.

"Five days. Is five days going to be long enough?"

No whining about respect for the dying. No hard looks. John's too tired for that. He's not broken, but he has been beaten. A captain is in command of the ship, isn't she? When something goes wrong, it is the captain's fault. Perhaps he's taking it just a little bit too harshly.

He looks up once more to the expert.

"Let's see if we can stretch it a week. I'll take care of the infected tomorrow. What we need is to get our store room back. You just work on the science." It's not his best command, but they all have roles to play in this. Bill and Gabrielle are gone to them. The kids are only so useful...but at this rate, John doesn't think he can spare them. What a world.

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock expects to hear some protest from John or at least earn himself a cold look at his callous approach. He knows he's being callous and that he's disregarding the human life. John's supposed to be the one to remind him of it, so why does he feel like he's the only one under this quilt that gives a damn? And why is it Bill's voice in his head saying: 'People change, I know that. You know that. The core of a person, even when nothing major happens, changes constantly.'

Uncomfortable, he squeezes John's hand back. Don't you change on me, John. You're better than this. You're better than me.

"One week. I'll see what I can do... for now, I think sleep will be most useful," because after tonight, he might not be sleeping at all for the next few days.

Sherlock doesn't want to know John's answer to his other solution to all this because he's afraid that he'll agree with him. Surprise me, John. Leaning in for a kiss on John's cheek - everyone already knows they're sleeping together, so why hide it? - he whispers, "And if things get too bad, you and I could split off just the two of us."

[substituteskull]

Well that gets Sherlock a look. The kiss aside -- and he's filthy so he doesn't think Sherlock should be planting his lips anywhere near him -- the idea of abandoning these people-- "Things were too bad two years ago," he mutters. You don't abandon your unit, Sherlock. You get everyone out as best you can. Will there be losses? Yes. God yes, too many losses. There's already been enough.

That doesn't mean he could abandon these people.

"I have a duty and responsibility and-- For God's sake, Sherlock, there's children." No, he doesn't realize that this had all been a test for his humanity, and no, he doesn't pull his hand out of Sherlock's either. But he does offer him quite the unappreciative look. "We all go together or we don't go at all."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock doesn't bother hiding his relief when John reassures him by reacting in the John way. He just gives his friend a smile and another kiss. "Good. I didn't have any intention of that without your express consent," he admits and the squeeze he gives John's hand this time is less desperate and more playful than the way he'd been gripping at him before.

They're numbers are down to ten after tonight and three of those are children, one is on the tightrope toward infection and then there's Sherlock, too injured to be doing just what he's been doing anyway. It's going to be a hard road to travel, but there's no other route they can take.

"Tonight, let's rest. Tomorrow we can take our assigned rolls and get things done. For everyone."

[substituteskull]

John still didn't understand Sherlock, not even a little bit, but that bemused look on his friend's face and his insistence on kissing him when covered in muck finally brings a smile from John too. He grins and nods. "Turn over a bit then." The floor is not exactly comfortable and it's quite cold, but Sherlock's heat, once John has his arm around him from behind, is good enough for now.

He gently presses his nose against the butchered duck tail he'd attempted to cut in his friend's mop and eventually, much sooner than he'd thought, passes out.

Morning comes too quickly but the moment John is roused, he sits up quickly enough and gazes at the group. Gabrielle has been isolated from the children but Sarah is sitting with her and John can't help but smile when the teenager glances up at him.

He claps his hands to draw his troops back from their naps. They all have their jobs and only Gabrielle, Sherlock, and the smallest girl will wait behind at Bart's. The rest will be working on an empty subject to clear their home.

Just before he leads his team to the stairs, John reaches up to stroke Sherlock's cheek. "Keep her hydrated. That's the most important thing. I'll bring up fresh water the moment we get to it."

[consulting_freak]

Sherlock's body has a way of telling him when he's had enough. Back before the plague, it would happen after being on a case for a few days when the concentration-fuelled insomnia and fasting finally break at the end of his epiphany moments. It's always been one of those immediate processes where he'd turn to John and ask him if he'd like to eat or he'd walk into Baker Street and collapse in bed for fourteen hours without so much as getting up to use the toilet.

Tonight's little different. He's gone to bed filthy and as soon as he's on his side and the conversation's over, he falls right to sleep. He doesn't wake up with the others in the morning, giving John a few minutes to speak with the others before the voices eventually have him waking up, too.

Groggy. His head feels like it's in perpetual fog and his body is stiff and not rested as well as he'd like, but he still crawls out of the 'bed' and shuffles toward the locker room without more than a grumbled good morning.

A severely short wash later (ten minutes, record time for Mr. Hygienic) and he's back for whatever breakfast they've got. Not much, so he shares those horrendously unpalatable nutrition powder drinks that have been in his bag since he arrived. It's not much to go on, but it's good for both hydration and a few essential nutrients and calories.

The parting moment with John leaves him wanting more of his friend's company. It doesn't look possible in the near future with how much work they're all going to be doing. He steals a kiss on the mouth - again, giving an addict a new outlet. "I know. You may want to consider giving her an IV when you get back. I can't do it one-handed."

After parting ways, Sherlock takes Gabrielle and the youngest girl with him to his lab. He makes sure Gabrielle has enough water and paracetamol, then he covers her up with a blanket. She's going to have to make do with lying on the floor while he works, but since Sherlock's the one responsible for the three of them, he decides they all need to stick together. In order to entertain the child as well as work quicker, he takes her on as an assistant of sorts. She can bring him things, help him measure, and even collect a few samples for him. Fun work and it makes her feel important.