Fic: Let This River Flow; John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel; NC-17 - Part 1/5
Title: Let This River Flow (1/5)
Crossover: Sherlock
Type: Slash, Gen
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel, Sam, Kevin, Charlie, Harry, Mycroft, OCs.
Warnings: Violence, sex, language.
Author's Note #1: Post-Reichenbach, and set post-S8 of Supernatural.
Author's Note #2: Title comes from ‘Let This River Flow’ by Soilwork.
Author's Note #3: Written for sncross_bigbang. Link to the gloriously wonderful artwork by the talented finnickodair can be found here. Thank you again, m’dear. ♥
Summary: In the year 2014, after an unknown disease decimates most of humankind, John and Sherlock are left doing their best to just stay alive, scraping out an existence in the quarantined city of London - until they stumble into the lives of two brothers and a fallen angel, who talk of the Devil as though he’s a real being, and who have a name - Croatoan - for the virus that’s torn the planet apart. From then on, John and Sherlock find themselves caught up in the epicenter of the battle, and it’s going to take everything they have to make it through with their humanity intact.
- - -
The attacks in London start less than six months after Sherlock has returned from the dead.
Mycroft and Sherlock, of course, cotton on to the disease long before it even reaches England, but there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it. Even Mycroft, with all his power, doesn’t have the ability to shut down international transit in and out of the city, and it doesn’t take long before reports start to spring up everywhere, as ordinary people turn into monsters and start tearing each other apart. It’s beyond terrifying, actually - the way there are no external signs of the disease, and the way the creatures seem to keep vestiges of their humanity, in that they can still speak and use weapons and scheme and plan just as well as any healthy human - and Sherlock, naturally, spends a good deal of his time running around the city, with John hot on his heels. It tests their abilities in ways that even Moriarty didn’t, but even when they manage to bring in one of the creatures alive, there’s nothing to be done but to finally put a bullet in its brain, despite the way it gets down on its knees and pleads for mercy. Sherlock spends most of his time in a lab, and Mycroft brings in every scientist and medical specialist he can think of, but the verdict is always the same.
Blood-borne disease. Incurable.
After that, John tries to convince Sherlock to stop going out, terrified beyond belief that a single scratch could take Sherlock away forever - and when there’s a sudden upswing in disease reports, Sherlock even starts to listen to him. Neither of them have any desire to become one of those creatures, and they more or less barricade themselves into their flat - Mrs. Hudson, by some miracle, had left the place untouched, and John leans quickly that the miracle’s name is Mycroft - and slip into a bizarre mixture of past and present, in which John finds himself drowning in memories from before Sherlock’s death, even as their current situation becomes increasingly real and dangerous. There are monsters trying to break down their front door, and John and Sherlock spend a good deal of their time pouring over medical reports and disease analyses and archaic texts, attempting to find anything that Mycroft’s experts might have missed.
That, and they have sex against every surface in their flat.
It’s - John’s never had anything like this. Didn’t even imagine he could feel the way he does. He had long given up hope of Sherlock ever returning the way John’s spent years aching to be closer to him, and when Sherlock comes back from the dead, it takes them about a month of screaming matches before something seems to snap in Sherlock, and John only realizes he’s being kissed when he’s already been lifted up against the kitchen wall with his legs going tight around Sherlock’s waist and his heart slamming almost hard enough to choke his breathing, as something inside him seems to slot into place in a way that feels like finally, finally, coming home.
After that, they finally establish something that resembles functional communication methods. There are apologies from Sherlock - actual, genuine apologies, and it’s obvious that he’s terrified that John is still planning to leave him, after everything that Sherlock has put him through - and there are more than a couple of declarations of love from John - all those things he never got the chance to say before Sherlock’s death, and they’re most often answered by Sherlock pulling him in close and kissing him until he can’t breathe, stripping him naked and dragging his mouth over every inch of John’s body, until John is begging and desperate and feeling safe and cared for in a way he’s never been before - and they more or less spend several months either hunting monsters or reaffirming the fact that Sherlock is alive, and that neither of them are going anywhere. It’s painful, actually, the intensity of what they have, and John really shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock is as all-or-nothing in this as he is in everything else he does. Sherlock has never done things by halves, and when John finds himself being owned and wanted and clung to and worshipped in a way that leaves him shaking, it gives him the freedom to do the same in return, and they spend more than a few nights wrapped around each other in silence, just breathing each other in, as the war outside their flat gets a bit worse with every passing day.
Of course, they eventually have to leave London.
The city is falling down around them, and they haven’t found any way to stop it - and when Mycroft offers them transit to a safe house outside of the city, they finally agree to take it. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly all elect to come with - Lestrade’s wife had been killed in the first attacks, and neither Molly nor Mrs. Hudson have family in the city, so nobody has anyone to stay for - and the five of them eventually find themselves flown to a walled-in compound in rural England, with running water, electricity, and enough canned food to hold them over for several years.
It isn’t much. But it’s better than being in the city, where people are literally turning into monsters, chasing down their own friends and family members, or setting off bombs in public places and then deliberately infecting the remaining survivors. The only person stubborn enough to stay behind is Harry - desperate to find Clara - but John doesn’t give up on convincing her to leave. Their mobiles still work, despite the insanity around them, and not a day passes that he doesn’t send a message, needling her to come join them - until the day she stops texting back, and it’s like John can feel the world constricting around him. He gives her twenty-four hours, and then he goes to Sherlock and tells him that he’s returning to London, and, for the love of god, to please not follow him - to just stay where it’s safe - and Sherlock gives him a look that says he’s too stupid to live, and then goes to pack his things. The next morning finds John in one of Mycroft’s helicopters, with Sherlock sitting close beside him, his gun holstered and his expression pulled too tight, and the helicopter goes in low and does a sweep over Harry’s street -
Which has been destroyed. Decimated. Everything is rubble. Harry’s apartment is mostly gone. People - probably infected - are crawling all over the broken buildings, and John only realizes he’s leaning out far enough to fall when Sherlock yanks him back, yelling in his ear, but everything seems hazy, too far away, and - then the helicopter’s leaving, banking away, and no amount of cursing from John can convince the pilot to turn around, I have my orders, and we’re not to stay. By the time they get back to the safe house, it’s dark outside, and John immediately goes to their bedroom, throws the necessary supplies in a backpack, and slips out the window - but he barely makes it to the driveway before Sherlock catches up, a pack on his back and a gun on his belt. And while John puts up a fight - things like suicide mission and I’m not going to get you killed - Sherlock gets his way eventually, and ten minutes later they’re outwitting the guards and driving down the deserted country road in one of Mycroft’s vehicles.
And that’s how their descent into Hell starts.
They don’t find Harry, of course. After three weeks of furtive searches across the city - Sherlock still has some semblance of a homeless network, even with the city falling into ruins - John’s about ready to try to convince Sherlock to go back to the safe house, and to set up permanent camp in London by himself - and then the unthinkable happens, and neither of them have a choice about staying.
The city gets quarantined. A giant fence - well-guarded, with the kind of powerful weapons John doesn’t fancy going up against - goes up around the entire city, and the skies above are deemed a no-fly zone. The order comes from someone even higher up than Mycroft - Sherlock gets a frantic call from him only hours before the military surrounds the city, and it’s not enough time to make it out - and then John and Sherlock spend the first few days huddled together in some rundown flat, Sherlock looking just as dazed as John feels, until they finally rouse themselves enough to take stock of what they have, and to start planning how they’re going to acquire everything they need. Their first task is to find somewhere to set up a home base - somewhere defendable, where they can sleep in safety - and then they slip into a desperate routine of raiding grocery stores and military surplus outlets, of fighting their way through swarms of monsters, and of spending every moment watching out for the next creature that wants to tear them apart.
- - -
By the end of month one, what they have isn’t fancy, but it works.
They’re close to Regent’s Park station, and it’s a third-story bachelor flat - high enough off the ground that monsters aren’t likely to come in through the windows. There’s a decent-sized mattress on the dirty floor, along with a couple of old sofa chairs, and they even occasionally have the luxury of a working toilet, when they’re able to spare some of their precious water to flush the damn thing. Mostly, though, John just cares that the door locks, and that they’ve been able to board up the windows, and that the fire escape gives them a second exit if they can’t go out the main door.
They have a gas-run camping stove, too, along with a store of batteries for their lamps, and they even manage to find some candles and matches, which John feels much better about using, since he wants those batteries to last as long as they can. Their cell phones have long since died, but they manage to amass enough canned food and bottled water to get by for a few months, and they also establish a small arsenal of weapons that makes John feel a bit better about their chances of one day fighting it out of here - of making it to the fence and finding some way to get through. And while their car had been stolen on their first night in London - disappearing, incredibly, right in the middle of a firefight with a swarm of monsters, and John wants to find whoever stole it and bash them over the head - John still hasn’t given up hope of getting them close enough to the fence to find a way through. It might take some time - there’s no way he’s leaving without Harry - but they’ve stuck it out for this long, and they’ve definitely got enough supplies and weapons to tough it out for as long as it takes to come up with a viable escape plan.
The one thing they don’t have, though, is running water - and even if they did, John wouldn’t trust it. He knows damn well that the disease is blood-borne, and given that he could never be sure of where his water would be coming from, he has no desire to tempt fate. And by the third month of nothing but sponge baths - using some of their precious bottled water to scrub themselves down, when they get too rank for either of them to deal with anymore - John is pretty sure he might actually kill someone for the chance to have a proper shower. They have toothbrushes, at least, but John is sick of feeling filthy, and sick of being in the same room as Sherlock and barely even being able to touch him. Even if either of them were in the mood, there’s no hiding the fact that neither of them have seen running water for months, and while they still spend the nights wrapped up around each other, often clinging tight enough to hurt, John desperately misses being able to strip Sherlock naked and suck bruises into his skin until Sherlock’s shaking and desperate underneath him. Even beyond how much less agonizing their situation would seem if he could have that chance, there’s also the fact that it would provide a distraction for Sherlock, and -
Yeah. John really wants to be that distraction. Because Sherlock - unsurprisingly - does not deal well with the end of the world. Sure, he arms himself to the teeth - gone are the days, apparently, when John was the muscle and Sherlock was the brains - and navigates the crumbling city with a surety that boggles John, but he just - he still isn’t doing well with it. It’s like John is watching, in slow motion, as Sherlock’s mental health - never good - begins to crumble, and John doesn’t know what he can do to stop it. They’re either trapped in their flat or out fighting for their lives, and unlike when they were working cases together, there’s no end game. There’s nothing for Sherlock to figure out - no great secret for him to deduce and unveil. There’s simply blood and terror, day in and day out, intermingled with the kind of boredom that even John can barely deal with, and when he eventually starts catching a look on Sherlock’s face that seems so far beyond bored and looks more like absolute fucking desperation, John knows he needs to do something. Sherlock - ever impeccable - has become just as rundown as John, with his dark curls plastered greasy to his head, and his big damn black coat covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else, hanging limp around his body. He’s just as armed as John, too, with his handgun and his knives, and he looks, for all the world, like any other poor schmuck, trapped as they all are in this city -
And John hates it. Fucking hates it. Hates that he dragged Sherlock into this mess. Hates that he only just got Sherlock back, and now he’s spending every day desperate to keep him alive. When people get turned, there’s no cure, and John knows damn well that, if he ever has to put a bullet in Sherlock, his next step will be to put a gun in his own mouth. Knows that he’d never be able to live with himself. He can survive a lot - he survived the three years he thought Sherlock was dead, though it’s debatable how alive John really was - but he knows damn well that he’d never survive having to kill Sherlock. Doesn’t think Sherlock could survive John getting turned, either, and god, he hates that they’re even trapped here in the first place. If only John had fought harder to stop Sherlock from coming, Sherlock would still be safe at Mycroft’s compound, and John wouldn’t be living with the constant knowledge that one tiny mistake could take Sherlock away from him forever.
- - -
By the end of month two, John’s nightmares have changed.
They used to be what he’d expected - Afghanistan, or the memory of Sherlock jumping to his death. Now, though, a third component has been added, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. For all that Harry and him have had their differences, and for all that they’ve spent most of their teenage and adult years fighting, she’s still his sister, and he still loves her, and when his nightmares start working her in, it’s a whole new level of torment. Some of them are expected - visions of the city, of Harry trapped somewhere, of her being killed by the creatures that have taken over London - but the others are more memories of their childhood, of them playing in the sandbox together, or of them walking in a forest, or of her pushing him on the tire swing in their childhood backyard - but, every time, they get twisted. The monsters show up, even in these memories, and they tear her apart, as a child, right in front of him, and he’s helpless to do anything but scream - has no weapon, and is a defenseless child again - and John takes to waking up shaking more than usual, nausea rolling through him. Sherlock, for his part, normally stares at him for a moment from where he’s standing guard by the door or the window - they sleep in shifts, of course - before he comes to sit beside John, hand on his shoulder and his gun in his lap, until John manages to grit his teeth and close his eyes again. Regardless of what his sleeping mind might be doing to torment him, he knows damn well that, the more sleep he can get, the better equipped he’ll be to find his sister before any of those nightmares come true.
- - -
By the time month three is drawing to an end, John and Sherlock have gotten hold of an old map of the tube, and divided the city into sections in their search for Harry. John, of course, has a personal investment in the whole matter, and Sherlock - in addition to caring about John, even if he’s never given a damn about Harry - seems to regard the search as the closest thing to a case he’s going to find, because he’s never stopped throwing himself into the search with the same zeal he used to give to psychopaths and serial killers. It almost hurts to watch, actually, even if John appreciates the help.
“We haven’t checked Westminster yet.”
Sherlock - the tube map is spread out on the kitchen table, and he’s leaning over it, reading it by candlelight - doesn’t look at him, but John doesn’t need him to. He might not be able to read minds like Sherlock can, but he can read Sherlock, and he knows Sherlock is weighing the odds. There are parts of London that are still relatively safe, but the closer one gets to the Thames, the greater the danger becomes, as too many desperate people try to get near the water - and John knows damn well that going anywhere near Westminster would involve venturing into areas of the city that have more or less become monster territory.
“If she’s there, the chances of her still being alive -”
“Please don’t.”
Sherlock makes a face that seems disgruntled - a face that seems to say, facts are facts, John, and you need to accept this - but John can’t be arsed to care. Doesn’t want to hear that this entire endeavour might be useless. Instead, he rests his finger on the Westminster dock, tries to picture the real world equivalent in his head.
“It’s almost a direct line from us to there.”
“I’m well aware -”
“I don’t want you to come with me.”
It’s a conversation they’ve had a few times before, and John barely gets the words out before Sherlock shoots him a glare and straightens up, pulling his coat tighter around him as he does so - and John would normally accuse him of theatrics, but, yeah, it’s fucking cold in the flat, and if Sherlock wants to wear his coat inside, then John really can’t think of any good reason for him not to.
“Your white knight routine is becoming tedious.”
Sherlock all but spits out the words, and John just glares right back. He knows it’s not a fair thing to ask of Sherlock - not with all the times John nearly got himself killed while chasing Sherlock around on cases - but all it takes now is one tiny scratch, and Sherlock shouldn’t even be here.
“If I - if anything were to happen to you -”
“You were always Moriarty’s trump card. Don’t think I don’t understand what guilt feels like.”
The words feel much like being punched, and John knows he’s gaping, but he can’t seem to do anything about it. In the dim light, with that damn black coat and his cheeks hollowed to a point that looks almost painful, Sherlock looks, suddenly, like the very incarnation of how absolutely wretched John feels - looks like the last few months have been leaving a mark that won’t ever get the chance to heal - and, god, John needs to get them out of here. Needs to figure out some way to get them out of this horrible city before something happens and he loses Sherlock forever.
“The weapons need to be checked. I’ll plan our route.”
Apparently content to ignore the meltdown happening in John’s brain, Sherlock leans over the map again, very pointedly not looking at him, and John stares at him for a moment longer, before he takes a deep breath and goes to check on the weapons. If they’re actually going to be doing this, then the least he can do is make sure that they have plenty of bullets to deal with the monsters that are going to be trying to tear them apart.
- - -
In the end, they do manage to make it to the Westminster area - mostly thanks to Sherlock’s knowledge of exactly which roads and alleys to take, and which buildings to scale - but it’s one of their most harrowing searches yet, and they barely make it back out alive. By the time they get back to their flat, John still hasn’t stopped shaking - too many close calls, way too many close calls, and, christ, he needs to find Harry, but he can’t keep dragging Sherlock along into these warzones, he can’t - and he’s barely made it into the flat - locked the door and put his gun on the table - when Sherlock’s on him, grabbing him and shoving him up against the wall, and John kisses back like he’s depending on Sherlock to keep him breathing. Kisses and licks and scratches his way as close as he can, and they’re both smelly and covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else, but he needs - he needs - claws at Sherlock as Sherlock gets a hand into his trousers and strokes him, hard, has John writing and bucking against the wall in seconds, biting at Sherlock’s lips as he tries to shove himself even closer, and when John comes all over Sherlock’s hand it’s to the sound of Sherlock’s voice in his ear, I can’t lose you, I can’t, John, I -
John ends up spinning them around, shoving Sherlock up against the wall, and jerking him off until Sherlock’s shaking against him, clinging to him, his face buried in John’s neck as he makes noises that sound more like pain - and by the time Sherlock trips over the edge, his cock jerking hard in John’s hand and his come spreading hot and wet between them, John’s legs are barely holding him anymore, and they end up on their knees, wrapped tight around each other, both of them panting and christ, John cannot lose Sherlock. Can’t ever lose him. Needs Sherlock more than he needs to breathe.
- - -
A week later John wakes up to find Sherlock sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring down at him and clutching hard at John’s legs. There’s a look on his face that John doesn’t like at all, and John’s up on his knees as quick as he can be, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock stares at him with that same haunted look.
“Hey, shh - what is it? Sherlock, whatever it is -”
“I need - my head. There’s too much noise. I need a case. I need - focus. I can’t focus. I -”
The desperation there is like a punch to the ribs, and John can feel himself floundering, has nothing to offer, no way to distract Sherlock - does the only thing he can do, and Sherlock makes a low, pained sound as he lets himself be tugged down against John, John’s arms wrapped tight around him, and before John can say anything, Sherlock starts speaking low and fast against his shoulder.
“I almost left. I almost - I needed out. Needed to - find something. A distraction of some -”
“Jesus, Sherlock.”
“- but I knew you’d be upset, so I stayed. But my head, I can’t -”
John kisses him. Can’t not. I knew you’d be upset, so I stayed - christ. Too close. Way too fucking close. And Sherlock’s still talking against his mouth, shaking against him, and John does what he can, kisses Sherlock until Sherlock stops talking and starts just breathing into John’s mouth, clutching at him until John finally pulls away to look at him. Sherlock’s looking no less frantic, though, and John runs a gentle hand down his back, wishes that they had a shower and a clean bed, so he could at least come up with a few ways to keep Sherlock distracted from his own head.
“So talk to me. Analyse me, if it’ll help. Or, I don’t know - tell me your virus theories. Again.”
“You don’t understand -”
“Sulphur, right? So, then - tell me how that’s even possible. Give me your craziest theories.”
“John -”
“Or tear apart my life history, even. Tell me about cases I wasn’t around for. Whatever you -”
“What I need is to get out of this city.”
Sherlock all but snarls it against John’s shoulder, clutching tighter at John as he presses his face further into John’s sweater, and John closes his eyes against the low burn of guilt. Hates himself, for a moment, with a fierceness that’s almost frightening. If it weren’t for him, Sherlock would be safely tucked away in Mycroft’s compound, pouring over blood samples - not lying here in this filthy old flat, clinging to John like he’s the only thing keeping Sherlock from flying apart.
“I’m going to get you out of here.”
“You won’t leave without your sister.”
“I -”
“And I won’t leave without you.”
Sherlock says it like it’s simple fact - like John’s decisions aren’t holding their lives in balance - and John can’t stop a hurt noise. His skin feels too small, suddenly, and the room seems to be shrinking in on them, and all he can do is hold tighter to Sherlock as they both slide into silence, Sherlock still shaking against him and John feeling like something’s breaking apart inside him.
- - -
After that night - neither of them had slept much, and Sherlock had been twitching the entire time John was awake - Sherlock makes a point of avoiding him, as though he’s embarrassed, or something equally stupid, and god, they should be so far past this point, so far past the point of awkward silences, but John knows damn well that pushing Sherlock when he doesn’t want to talk is like hitting a bear with a stick, so he lets it go. Spends three painful days watching Sherlock claw the walls, as John pours over their map and tries to figure out which convenience stores and military surplus outlets they haven’t raided yet - and then, on night three, he wakes up to find Sherlock imitating a whirlwind in their small flat, yelling at John as he ricochets around the room, grabbing backpacks and water bottles and bullets and weapons.
“Get up, dammit, get up -”
“Sherlock, what -”
“One of my network located her. Now get -”
There’s a ringing in John’s ears, and he’s already on his feet, scrambling for his backpack and his gun. They barely stop long enough to plan out their route before they go, and John is pretty sure his heart’s going to slam straight out of his chest. They had brought photos of Harry with them when they came back to London, and - once they’d been trapped in the city, and had established a base - Sherlock had handed them out to his crumbling homeless network and told them where to report, if anyone saw her - but nothing had come of it. There had been sign of her.
Until now, apparently. And like hell is John going to lose her again.
- - -
Chapter Two
Crossover: Sherlock
Type: Slash, Gen
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel, Sam, Kevin, Charlie, Harry, Mycroft, OCs.
Warnings: Violence, sex, language.
Author's Note #1: Post-Reichenbach, and set post-S8 of Supernatural.
Author's Note #2: Title comes from ‘Let This River Flow’ by Soilwork.
Author's Note #3: Written for sncross_bigbang. Link to the gloriously wonderful artwork by the talented finnickodair can be found here. Thank you again, m’dear. ♥
Summary: In the year 2014, after an unknown disease decimates most of humankind, John and Sherlock are left doing their best to just stay alive, scraping out an existence in the quarantined city of London - until they stumble into the lives of two brothers and a fallen angel, who talk of the Devil as though he’s a real being, and who have a name - Croatoan - for the virus that’s torn the planet apart. From then on, John and Sherlock find themselves caught up in the epicenter of the battle, and it’s going to take everything they have to make it through with their humanity intact.
- - -
The attacks in London start less than six months after Sherlock has returned from the dead.
Mycroft and Sherlock, of course, cotton on to the disease long before it even reaches England, but there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it. Even Mycroft, with all his power, doesn’t have the ability to shut down international transit in and out of the city, and it doesn’t take long before reports start to spring up everywhere, as ordinary people turn into monsters and start tearing each other apart. It’s beyond terrifying, actually - the way there are no external signs of the disease, and the way the creatures seem to keep vestiges of their humanity, in that they can still speak and use weapons and scheme and plan just as well as any healthy human - and Sherlock, naturally, spends a good deal of his time running around the city, with John hot on his heels. It tests their abilities in ways that even Moriarty didn’t, but even when they manage to bring in one of the creatures alive, there’s nothing to be done but to finally put a bullet in its brain, despite the way it gets down on its knees and pleads for mercy. Sherlock spends most of his time in a lab, and Mycroft brings in every scientist and medical specialist he can think of, but the verdict is always the same.
Blood-borne disease. Incurable.
After that, John tries to convince Sherlock to stop going out, terrified beyond belief that a single scratch could take Sherlock away forever - and when there’s a sudden upswing in disease reports, Sherlock even starts to listen to him. Neither of them have any desire to become one of those creatures, and they more or less barricade themselves into their flat - Mrs. Hudson, by some miracle, had left the place untouched, and John leans quickly that the miracle’s name is Mycroft - and slip into a bizarre mixture of past and present, in which John finds himself drowning in memories from before Sherlock’s death, even as their current situation becomes increasingly real and dangerous. There are monsters trying to break down their front door, and John and Sherlock spend a good deal of their time pouring over medical reports and disease analyses and archaic texts, attempting to find anything that Mycroft’s experts might have missed.
That, and they have sex against every surface in their flat.
It’s - John’s never had anything like this. Didn’t even imagine he could feel the way he does. He had long given up hope of Sherlock ever returning the way John’s spent years aching to be closer to him, and when Sherlock comes back from the dead, it takes them about a month of screaming matches before something seems to snap in Sherlock, and John only realizes he’s being kissed when he’s already been lifted up against the kitchen wall with his legs going tight around Sherlock’s waist and his heart slamming almost hard enough to choke his breathing, as something inside him seems to slot into place in a way that feels like finally, finally, coming home.
After that, they finally establish something that resembles functional communication methods. There are apologies from Sherlock - actual, genuine apologies, and it’s obvious that he’s terrified that John is still planning to leave him, after everything that Sherlock has put him through - and there are more than a couple of declarations of love from John - all those things he never got the chance to say before Sherlock’s death, and they’re most often answered by Sherlock pulling him in close and kissing him until he can’t breathe, stripping him naked and dragging his mouth over every inch of John’s body, until John is begging and desperate and feeling safe and cared for in a way he’s never been before - and they more or less spend several months either hunting monsters or reaffirming the fact that Sherlock is alive, and that neither of them are going anywhere. It’s painful, actually, the intensity of what they have, and John really shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock is as all-or-nothing in this as he is in everything else he does. Sherlock has never done things by halves, and when John finds himself being owned and wanted and clung to and worshipped in a way that leaves him shaking, it gives him the freedom to do the same in return, and they spend more than a few nights wrapped around each other in silence, just breathing each other in, as the war outside their flat gets a bit worse with every passing day.
Of course, they eventually have to leave London.
The city is falling down around them, and they haven’t found any way to stop it - and when Mycroft offers them transit to a safe house outside of the city, they finally agree to take it. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly all elect to come with - Lestrade’s wife had been killed in the first attacks, and neither Molly nor Mrs. Hudson have family in the city, so nobody has anyone to stay for - and the five of them eventually find themselves flown to a walled-in compound in rural England, with running water, electricity, and enough canned food to hold them over for several years.
It isn’t much. But it’s better than being in the city, where people are literally turning into monsters, chasing down their own friends and family members, or setting off bombs in public places and then deliberately infecting the remaining survivors. The only person stubborn enough to stay behind is Harry - desperate to find Clara - but John doesn’t give up on convincing her to leave. Their mobiles still work, despite the insanity around them, and not a day passes that he doesn’t send a message, needling her to come join them - until the day she stops texting back, and it’s like John can feel the world constricting around him. He gives her twenty-four hours, and then he goes to Sherlock and tells him that he’s returning to London, and, for the love of god, to please not follow him - to just stay where it’s safe - and Sherlock gives him a look that says he’s too stupid to live, and then goes to pack his things. The next morning finds John in one of Mycroft’s helicopters, with Sherlock sitting close beside him, his gun holstered and his expression pulled too tight, and the helicopter goes in low and does a sweep over Harry’s street -
Which has been destroyed. Decimated. Everything is rubble. Harry’s apartment is mostly gone. People - probably infected - are crawling all over the broken buildings, and John only realizes he’s leaning out far enough to fall when Sherlock yanks him back, yelling in his ear, but everything seems hazy, too far away, and - then the helicopter’s leaving, banking away, and no amount of cursing from John can convince the pilot to turn around, I have my orders, and we’re not to stay. By the time they get back to the safe house, it’s dark outside, and John immediately goes to their bedroom, throws the necessary supplies in a backpack, and slips out the window - but he barely makes it to the driveway before Sherlock catches up, a pack on his back and a gun on his belt. And while John puts up a fight - things like suicide mission and I’m not going to get you killed - Sherlock gets his way eventually, and ten minutes later they’re outwitting the guards and driving down the deserted country road in one of Mycroft’s vehicles.
And that’s how their descent into Hell starts.
They don’t find Harry, of course. After three weeks of furtive searches across the city - Sherlock still has some semblance of a homeless network, even with the city falling into ruins - John’s about ready to try to convince Sherlock to go back to the safe house, and to set up permanent camp in London by himself - and then the unthinkable happens, and neither of them have a choice about staying.
The city gets quarantined. A giant fence - well-guarded, with the kind of powerful weapons John doesn’t fancy going up against - goes up around the entire city, and the skies above are deemed a no-fly zone. The order comes from someone even higher up than Mycroft - Sherlock gets a frantic call from him only hours before the military surrounds the city, and it’s not enough time to make it out - and then John and Sherlock spend the first few days huddled together in some rundown flat, Sherlock looking just as dazed as John feels, until they finally rouse themselves enough to take stock of what they have, and to start planning how they’re going to acquire everything they need. Their first task is to find somewhere to set up a home base - somewhere defendable, where they can sleep in safety - and then they slip into a desperate routine of raiding grocery stores and military surplus outlets, of fighting their way through swarms of monsters, and of spending every moment watching out for the next creature that wants to tear them apart.
- - -
By the end of month one, what they have isn’t fancy, but it works.
They’re close to Regent’s Park station, and it’s a third-story bachelor flat - high enough off the ground that monsters aren’t likely to come in through the windows. There’s a decent-sized mattress on the dirty floor, along with a couple of old sofa chairs, and they even occasionally have the luxury of a working toilet, when they’re able to spare some of their precious water to flush the damn thing. Mostly, though, John just cares that the door locks, and that they’ve been able to board up the windows, and that the fire escape gives them a second exit if they can’t go out the main door.
They have a gas-run camping stove, too, along with a store of batteries for their lamps, and they even manage to find some candles and matches, which John feels much better about using, since he wants those batteries to last as long as they can. Their cell phones have long since died, but they manage to amass enough canned food and bottled water to get by for a few months, and they also establish a small arsenal of weapons that makes John feel a bit better about their chances of one day fighting it out of here - of making it to the fence and finding some way to get through. And while their car had been stolen on their first night in London - disappearing, incredibly, right in the middle of a firefight with a swarm of monsters, and John wants to find whoever stole it and bash them over the head - John still hasn’t given up hope of getting them close enough to the fence to find a way through. It might take some time - there’s no way he’s leaving without Harry - but they’ve stuck it out for this long, and they’ve definitely got enough supplies and weapons to tough it out for as long as it takes to come up with a viable escape plan.
The one thing they don’t have, though, is running water - and even if they did, John wouldn’t trust it. He knows damn well that the disease is blood-borne, and given that he could never be sure of where his water would be coming from, he has no desire to tempt fate. And by the third month of nothing but sponge baths - using some of their precious bottled water to scrub themselves down, when they get too rank for either of them to deal with anymore - John is pretty sure he might actually kill someone for the chance to have a proper shower. They have toothbrushes, at least, but John is sick of feeling filthy, and sick of being in the same room as Sherlock and barely even being able to touch him. Even if either of them were in the mood, there’s no hiding the fact that neither of them have seen running water for months, and while they still spend the nights wrapped up around each other, often clinging tight enough to hurt, John desperately misses being able to strip Sherlock naked and suck bruises into his skin until Sherlock’s shaking and desperate underneath him. Even beyond how much less agonizing their situation would seem if he could have that chance, there’s also the fact that it would provide a distraction for Sherlock, and -
Yeah. John really wants to be that distraction. Because Sherlock - unsurprisingly - does not deal well with the end of the world. Sure, he arms himself to the teeth - gone are the days, apparently, when John was the muscle and Sherlock was the brains - and navigates the crumbling city with a surety that boggles John, but he just - he still isn’t doing well with it. It’s like John is watching, in slow motion, as Sherlock’s mental health - never good - begins to crumble, and John doesn’t know what he can do to stop it. They’re either trapped in their flat or out fighting for their lives, and unlike when they were working cases together, there’s no end game. There’s nothing for Sherlock to figure out - no great secret for him to deduce and unveil. There’s simply blood and terror, day in and day out, intermingled with the kind of boredom that even John can barely deal with, and when he eventually starts catching a look on Sherlock’s face that seems so far beyond bored and looks more like absolute fucking desperation, John knows he needs to do something. Sherlock - ever impeccable - has become just as rundown as John, with his dark curls plastered greasy to his head, and his big damn black coat covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else, hanging limp around his body. He’s just as armed as John, too, with his handgun and his knives, and he looks, for all the world, like any other poor schmuck, trapped as they all are in this city -
And John hates it. Fucking hates it. Hates that he dragged Sherlock into this mess. Hates that he only just got Sherlock back, and now he’s spending every day desperate to keep him alive. When people get turned, there’s no cure, and John knows damn well that, if he ever has to put a bullet in Sherlock, his next step will be to put a gun in his own mouth. Knows that he’d never be able to live with himself. He can survive a lot - he survived the three years he thought Sherlock was dead, though it’s debatable how alive John really was - but he knows damn well that he’d never survive having to kill Sherlock. Doesn’t think Sherlock could survive John getting turned, either, and god, he hates that they’re even trapped here in the first place. If only John had fought harder to stop Sherlock from coming, Sherlock would still be safe at Mycroft’s compound, and John wouldn’t be living with the constant knowledge that one tiny mistake could take Sherlock away from him forever.
- - -
By the end of month two, John’s nightmares have changed.
They used to be what he’d expected - Afghanistan, or the memory of Sherlock jumping to his death. Now, though, a third component has been added, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. For all that Harry and him have had their differences, and for all that they’ve spent most of their teenage and adult years fighting, she’s still his sister, and he still loves her, and when his nightmares start working her in, it’s a whole new level of torment. Some of them are expected - visions of the city, of Harry trapped somewhere, of her being killed by the creatures that have taken over London - but the others are more memories of their childhood, of them playing in the sandbox together, or of them walking in a forest, or of her pushing him on the tire swing in their childhood backyard - but, every time, they get twisted. The monsters show up, even in these memories, and they tear her apart, as a child, right in front of him, and he’s helpless to do anything but scream - has no weapon, and is a defenseless child again - and John takes to waking up shaking more than usual, nausea rolling through him. Sherlock, for his part, normally stares at him for a moment from where he’s standing guard by the door or the window - they sleep in shifts, of course - before he comes to sit beside John, hand on his shoulder and his gun in his lap, until John manages to grit his teeth and close his eyes again. Regardless of what his sleeping mind might be doing to torment him, he knows damn well that, the more sleep he can get, the better equipped he’ll be to find his sister before any of those nightmares come true.
- - -
By the time month three is drawing to an end, John and Sherlock have gotten hold of an old map of the tube, and divided the city into sections in their search for Harry. John, of course, has a personal investment in the whole matter, and Sherlock - in addition to caring about John, even if he’s never given a damn about Harry - seems to regard the search as the closest thing to a case he’s going to find, because he’s never stopped throwing himself into the search with the same zeal he used to give to psychopaths and serial killers. It almost hurts to watch, actually, even if John appreciates the help.
“We haven’t checked Westminster yet.”
Sherlock - the tube map is spread out on the kitchen table, and he’s leaning over it, reading it by candlelight - doesn’t look at him, but John doesn’t need him to. He might not be able to read minds like Sherlock can, but he can read Sherlock, and he knows Sherlock is weighing the odds. There are parts of London that are still relatively safe, but the closer one gets to the Thames, the greater the danger becomes, as too many desperate people try to get near the water - and John knows damn well that going anywhere near Westminster would involve venturing into areas of the city that have more or less become monster territory.
“If she’s there, the chances of her still being alive -”
“Please don’t.”
Sherlock makes a face that seems disgruntled - a face that seems to say, facts are facts, John, and you need to accept this - but John can’t be arsed to care. Doesn’t want to hear that this entire endeavour might be useless. Instead, he rests his finger on the Westminster dock, tries to picture the real world equivalent in his head.
“It’s almost a direct line from us to there.”
“I’m well aware -”
“I don’t want you to come with me.”
It’s a conversation they’ve had a few times before, and John barely gets the words out before Sherlock shoots him a glare and straightens up, pulling his coat tighter around him as he does so - and John would normally accuse him of theatrics, but, yeah, it’s fucking cold in the flat, and if Sherlock wants to wear his coat inside, then John really can’t think of any good reason for him not to.
“Your white knight routine is becoming tedious.”
Sherlock all but spits out the words, and John just glares right back. He knows it’s not a fair thing to ask of Sherlock - not with all the times John nearly got himself killed while chasing Sherlock around on cases - but all it takes now is one tiny scratch, and Sherlock shouldn’t even be here.
“If I - if anything were to happen to you -”
“You were always Moriarty’s trump card. Don’t think I don’t understand what guilt feels like.”
The words feel much like being punched, and John knows he’s gaping, but he can’t seem to do anything about it. In the dim light, with that damn black coat and his cheeks hollowed to a point that looks almost painful, Sherlock looks, suddenly, like the very incarnation of how absolutely wretched John feels - looks like the last few months have been leaving a mark that won’t ever get the chance to heal - and, god, John needs to get them out of here. Needs to figure out some way to get them out of this horrible city before something happens and he loses Sherlock forever.
“The weapons need to be checked. I’ll plan our route.”
Apparently content to ignore the meltdown happening in John’s brain, Sherlock leans over the map again, very pointedly not looking at him, and John stares at him for a moment longer, before he takes a deep breath and goes to check on the weapons. If they’re actually going to be doing this, then the least he can do is make sure that they have plenty of bullets to deal with the monsters that are going to be trying to tear them apart.
- - -
In the end, they do manage to make it to the Westminster area - mostly thanks to Sherlock’s knowledge of exactly which roads and alleys to take, and which buildings to scale - but it’s one of their most harrowing searches yet, and they barely make it back out alive. By the time they get back to their flat, John still hasn’t stopped shaking - too many close calls, way too many close calls, and, christ, he needs to find Harry, but he can’t keep dragging Sherlock along into these warzones, he can’t - and he’s barely made it into the flat - locked the door and put his gun on the table - when Sherlock’s on him, grabbing him and shoving him up against the wall, and John kisses back like he’s depending on Sherlock to keep him breathing. Kisses and licks and scratches his way as close as he can, and they’re both smelly and covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else, but he needs - he needs - claws at Sherlock as Sherlock gets a hand into his trousers and strokes him, hard, has John writing and bucking against the wall in seconds, biting at Sherlock’s lips as he tries to shove himself even closer, and when John comes all over Sherlock’s hand it’s to the sound of Sherlock’s voice in his ear, I can’t lose you, I can’t, John, I -
John ends up spinning them around, shoving Sherlock up against the wall, and jerking him off until Sherlock’s shaking against him, clinging to him, his face buried in John’s neck as he makes noises that sound more like pain - and by the time Sherlock trips over the edge, his cock jerking hard in John’s hand and his come spreading hot and wet between them, John’s legs are barely holding him anymore, and they end up on their knees, wrapped tight around each other, both of them panting and christ, John cannot lose Sherlock. Can’t ever lose him. Needs Sherlock more than he needs to breathe.
- - -
A week later John wakes up to find Sherlock sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring down at him and clutching hard at John’s legs. There’s a look on his face that John doesn’t like at all, and John’s up on his knees as quick as he can be, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock stares at him with that same haunted look.
“Hey, shh - what is it? Sherlock, whatever it is -”
“I need - my head. There’s too much noise. I need a case. I need - focus. I can’t focus. I -”
The desperation there is like a punch to the ribs, and John can feel himself floundering, has nothing to offer, no way to distract Sherlock - does the only thing he can do, and Sherlock makes a low, pained sound as he lets himself be tugged down against John, John’s arms wrapped tight around him, and before John can say anything, Sherlock starts speaking low and fast against his shoulder.
“I almost left. I almost - I needed out. Needed to - find something. A distraction of some -”
“Jesus, Sherlock.”
“- but I knew you’d be upset, so I stayed. But my head, I can’t -”
John kisses him. Can’t not. I knew you’d be upset, so I stayed - christ. Too close. Way too fucking close. And Sherlock’s still talking against his mouth, shaking against him, and John does what he can, kisses Sherlock until Sherlock stops talking and starts just breathing into John’s mouth, clutching at him until John finally pulls away to look at him. Sherlock’s looking no less frantic, though, and John runs a gentle hand down his back, wishes that they had a shower and a clean bed, so he could at least come up with a few ways to keep Sherlock distracted from his own head.
“So talk to me. Analyse me, if it’ll help. Or, I don’t know - tell me your virus theories. Again.”
“You don’t understand -”
“Sulphur, right? So, then - tell me how that’s even possible. Give me your craziest theories.”
“John -”
“Or tear apart my life history, even. Tell me about cases I wasn’t around for. Whatever you -”
“What I need is to get out of this city.”
Sherlock all but snarls it against John’s shoulder, clutching tighter at John as he presses his face further into John’s sweater, and John closes his eyes against the low burn of guilt. Hates himself, for a moment, with a fierceness that’s almost frightening. If it weren’t for him, Sherlock would be safely tucked away in Mycroft’s compound, pouring over blood samples - not lying here in this filthy old flat, clinging to John like he’s the only thing keeping Sherlock from flying apart.
“I’m going to get you out of here.”
“You won’t leave without your sister.”
“I -”
“And I won’t leave without you.”
Sherlock says it like it’s simple fact - like John’s decisions aren’t holding their lives in balance - and John can’t stop a hurt noise. His skin feels too small, suddenly, and the room seems to be shrinking in on them, and all he can do is hold tighter to Sherlock as they both slide into silence, Sherlock still shaking against him and John feeling like something’s breaking apart inside him.
- - -
After that night - neither of them had slept much, and Sherlock had been twitching the entire time John was awake - Sherlock makes a point of avoiding him, as though he’s embarrassed, or something equally stupid, and god, they should be so far past this point, so far past the point of awkward silences, but John knows damn well that pushing Sherlock when he doesn’t want to talk is like hitting a bear with a stick, so he lets it go. Spends three painful days watching Sherlock claw the walls, as John pours over their map and tries to figure out which convenience stores and military surplus outlets they haven’t raided yet - and then, on night three, he wakes up to find Sherlock imitating a whirlwind in their small flat, yelling at John as he ricochets around the room, grabbing backpacks and water bottles and bullets and weapons.
“Get up, dammit, get up -”
“Sherlock, what -”
“One of my network located her. Now get -”
There’s a ringing in John’s ears, and he’s already on his feet, scrambling for his backpack and his gun. They barely stop long enough to plan out their route before they go, and John is pretty sure his heart’s going to slam straight out of his chest. They had brought photos of Harry with them when they came back to London, and - once they’d been trapped in the city, and had established a base - Sherlock had handed them out to his crumbling homeless network and told them where to report, if anyone saw her - but nothing had come of it. There had been sign of her.
Until now, apparently. And like hell is John going to lose her again.
- - -
Chapter Two