(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]

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.