Fic: Let This River Flow; John/Sherlock, Dean/Castiel; NC-17 - Part 5/5
Title: Let This River Flow (5/5)
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 next morning, John wakes up in Sherlock’s arms in their small cot - they’ve moved into a cell just across the hallway from Harry, both of them crammed into the small bottom bunk - and feels safe and content in ways he hasn’t for longer than he cares to think about. Sherlock, even, doesn’t seem keen to leave their bed, despite the fact that they have an entire shelter to keep exploring; and they only finally get up when Charlie comes by to tell them that Dean’s back from a supply run, and could probably use some help getting everything sorted out. She smiles at the sight of them, there - curled up in a bunk that was never meant to fit two fully grown adults - and John thinks there might even be something fond in her eyes as she looks at Sherlock, despite the way they’ve done nothing but snarl at each other since they first met, and John has a moment of hoping that the two of them might eventually be able to come to some kind of understanding.
Whatever the case, John and Sherlock eventually end up in front of the prison, at the bottom of the steps, with a tarp stretched across the ground, and the sun burning bright overhead, heating up the concrete and gravel around them until the courtyard feels like an oven. Dean and his team had been able to bring back weapons and food - and John has yet another moment of marvelling at the way Dean has no qualms about regularly putting himself in the firing line - and John had offered to help sort through the ammo; something that’s making him feel useful, at least, even if Sherlock and Dean haven’t stopped arguing since the moment John and Sherlock walked outside.
“You could always help us sort this shit, you know.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re annoying.”
“This from the man who tried to turn left at -”
“Hey, just because you’ve lived in this city for years -”
“I trust that, from now on, you will allow me to plan your supply mission routes beforehand?”
“Actually, as pain in the ass as you are, I was hoping you two’d come with me on my next run.”
Judging by the way Sherlock’s face twists, it’s not exactly the response he had been hoping for, but John just shoves a bit closer to him - Sherlock is sitting on the steps, glowering, still wrapped in that damn coat despite the insanely hot sunshine, while Dean and John are sorting through the packages of ammunition, dividing everything up by type of bullet - and lets their knees bump together as he dumps another bag onto the tarp, several bullet packages landing around his boots.
“So, we passed the test, then?”
“Your boyfriend here knows every alley, and you’re one of the best shots I’ve ever seen. Course ya did.”
Dean says it like it’s an obvious thing, finishes the sentence on a bit of a snort, but John still can’t quite stop the flush of pleasure, much the same as when Charlie had complimented him on the exact same thing. It’s clear that Dean’s an old soldier - despite the way he’s quite obviously much younger than John - and John’s not gonna try to kid himself and pretend that the praise means nothing. He has a feeling that Dean’s not someone who hands out compliments lightly.
“So you want to keep dragging us along, then?”
“Hey, man. You’re the genius here. I’ve got an entire prison full of people to feed. And if you could get that stick out of your ass, maybe you’d see how desperately I need people like you.”
Sherlock makes a noise like he doesn’t even know what part of that to respond to - whether he should be insulted, or whether he should be preening under Dean’s acknowledgment of his impressive brain - but John’s attention is more fixed on Dean, who suddenly looks exhausted. There’s still plenty of daylight left, and John can clearly see the tired lines on Dean’s face - it looks, somehow, like he just reminded himself of just how massive his task really is, and really doesn’t want to be dealing with that awareness right now - and John glances at the prison wall, feeling Dean’s sudden exhaustion creep in to join him, along with an unpleasant wave of unease.
“What are they, anyway? The creatures out there. We’ve been fighting them for months, but we don’t actually -”
“You really wanna know?”
“Of course we do.”
Sherlock’s voice is sharp, suddenly excited, his brooding demeanour completely gone as he leans forward on his knees to stare at Dean, and Dean raises his eyebrows at him before he dumps out another bag of ammo onto the tarp beneath their feet, kneeling down to start sorting through it.
“It’s not a pretty story. None of it.”
“Cas told me that he used to be an angel.”
“Course he did. Dude doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”
“I asked him for proof.”
“And?”
“He had nothing definitive to offer.”
“Yeah, well. I’d be telling you a lot crazier than that, and you’d have to just believe me.”
“Fine.”
Sherlock sounds impatient, now - looks like he’s barely holding himself still on the steps - and Dean scowls at him for a moment, glances at John, and then glances down at the piles of ammo.
“What else did Cas tell you?”
“That this virus is demonic in nature.”
“Yup. Croatoan. Nasty name, and everything.”
“Surely you -”
“Croats - those things out there - they’re real. Why not demons?”
“Next you’ll be telling me -”
“Ghosts. Ghouls, vampires, zombies - every urban legend you’ve heard? Most of them have truth to them. Remember the hook man? Yeah. Him. Then there are reapers. Vashta nerada. Wendigos. Anything that could possibly go bump in the night? It probably exists. Shall I go on?”
“I hardly believe -”
“How about the Devil? Ever believed in him?”
For all that the sun is still up, it’s like the temperature around them actually drops several degrees - John actually feels a chill slide across his body. In front of him, Dean’s gone very still, glaring at Sherlock, who’s staring back at him with a look that John can’t quite decipher. Can’t figure out if Sherlock is believing any of this. Can’t figure out if he, himself, is believing any of this.
“I’ve never -”
“Because I’ve met the Devil, buddy. Stood right there in front of him. And you know what? He’s walking the Earth right now. Sam and I locked the bastard up, but he’s out again, and the world’s going to hell all over again - so if you want to do anything to help, then you’d best get with the damn program and start believing.”
For a second, nobody moves. John realizes he’s barely breathing, can’t get enough air, because - jesus, Dean believes this. Say it like it’s one of the most truthful things he knows. And with the way the world has, indeed, crumbled - with the fact that there are monsters roaming the streets; and the fact that Dean and Cas seem like the ones who actually know how to fight them; and the fact that, christ, Sherlock had found sulfur in the blood samples he’d been testing - well. Maybe John needs to start reconsidering Cas’ claim of having been an angel. Maybe he needs to take Dean’s words for what they’re worth and start figuring out how to kill things that go bump in the night - and maybe he needs to consider the idea of the Devil being more than a horror story. Watches as Sherlock seems to come to a similar conclusion, frowning a little bit harder at Dean.
“You’re serious.”
“Like a heart attack. And your giant intellect won’t save you if Satan comes knocking.”
“Is that why you’re in London?”
“Yeah. Heard that he’d made some kind of base here. Never found the bastard, though. And then we ended up trapped here, same as you two. Figured we’d save as many people as we could.”
“And that - that meteor shower. Six months ago. The one that couldn’t be explained -”
“Cas told you it was angels falling?”
“He did.”
“Yeah. The guy gave up everything to stop this future - and here it is, anyway. Waiting out there to drag us all down, while we hide in here, trapped, rationing our precious canned food. No angels left, the virus running rampant, and the Devil walking the Earth. Still glad you asked?”
Dean’s not looking at them anymore - seems very intent on the bullets he’s gone back to sorting - and John realizes he’s been kneeling in the same place, holding the same package of bullets, for longer than he knows. Glances at Sherlock - who, somehow, looks almost helpless, suddenly, as though he has no idea what to do with this new flood of information - and then puts the bullets down. He doesn’t know Dean well enough to put a hand on his shoulder, but he can use his words, at least. Can try to stave off the anxiety he can feel trying to work its way across his body, because the minute he starts thinking about what Dean’s saying, it’s going to really hurt.
“Why don’t you - it’s Sam, right? Your brother? Why don’t you go find Sam and Cas and Charlie and just - take a break, for the evening, or something. Sherlock and I can finish up here.”
Sherlock, even, doesn’t make any kind of protesting noise - just sits in silence and watches them - and Dean looks up from the ammo to frown at John, and then glances at Sherlock, and then at John again, as though that is not exactly the reaction he’d be expecting - as though he’d been expecting them to run away screaming, or something - but whatever his response was going to be, it’s cut short when Sherlock suddenly makes a noise like he’s been punched, his mouth dropping open, and John spins around wildly to see what Sherlock’s staring at. There’s a group of new people being let through the prison guardroom - walking across the courtyard, the crunch of their feet across gravel as they near the prison, some of them barely staying upright, and most of them covered with blood and dirt and god knows what else, a swarm of exhausted faces -
With Mycroft Holmes at the head of the group.
For a moment, it doesn’t process. And then Sherlock’s on his feet and down the stairs, and John races after him, skidding to a halt behind him as Sherlock and Mycroft meet in the middle of the courtyard, and other people just keep on moving around past them, barely glancing at them. Mycroft is covered in blood and looking less put together than John’s ever seen him, a gun on one hip and a knife on the other, wearing jeans and a sweater, no hint of a fancy suit in sight; and John knows he’s gaping, can’t seem to shut his mouth, but from the way Sherlock’s doing the same, it’s quite obvious that John’s not the only one who feels like he’s been hit over the head.
“But - what the hell are you doing -”
“I need to see the people in charge.”
“I want to know why you’re -”
“That is a conversation best had not in front of other people.”
Mycroft’s voice is low, barely audible, exhausted, and - even though he’s not sure what Mycroft means, John still feels the words rub against his every nerve in all the wrong ways, even as
Sherlock stops talking and just stares at Mycroft, that silent communication that John doesn’t have a hope of deciphering - and then Sherlock swallows, hard, opens his mouth to speak, and Mycroft shakes his head, his eyes darting around to the crowd that’s almost finished swarming past them - but then Dean’s there beside John, squeezing his way in through the crowd, scowling at Mycroft and looking for all the world like he wasn’t just spilling his soul on the prison steps.
“Who are you?”
“I need to see the people in -”
“I am the people in charge. And something ’bout you has got Sherlock here all in a tizzy, so -”
“I am - or rather, I was - a senior member of the British government.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“The government making house calls, now?”
There’s no humour in Dean’s voice, though, and Mycroft doesn’t even bother scowling at him - glances around, instead, obviously making sure that they’re alone, the crowd of people having reached the prison - and then Mycroft hesitates, swallows hard, and - christ. This is worse than if Mycroft was outright yelling. The last time John saw him like this, he had been chewing him out for betraying Sherlock - and, wow, that is a memory that he really doesn’t need right now.
“Sherlock can vouch for the veracity of what I’m about to tell you.”
“Dammit, would you just -”
“Mycroft is my brother. And, indeed, he would not be here if it wasn’t true.”
“Christ, if what wasn’t -”
“My superiors have deemed London to be a threat to the rest of the country.”
Mycroft’s voice is mostly steady, but John thinks he hears something shaky there - and then the words actually sink in, and it’s like all the air has been punched out of John’s lungs. He steadies himself with a hand on Sherlock’s arm, god, jesus, no, and watches, dimly, as Dean just stares at Mycroft. Stares at him, his expression blank, and doesn’t say a word - until he finally rubs a hand across his face, and takes a moment to stare at the ground before he looks up at Mycroft again.
“How long?”
“The first strike is scheduled for tomorrow. I arrived here as quickly as I could, but -”
But Dean’s already moving, spinning away and heading towards the prison at a run, not stopping to answer the questions that get shouted at him as he barrels into the building. For a second, John, Sherlock and Mycroft just watch him go, and then Sherlock’s fingers slide down to tangle into John’s, holding his hand tight between them, and John swallows hard, and chokes against the burn in the back of his throat. Tries to not think about the hundreds of people in this shelter who won’t even have time to make it to the fence - let alone figure out a way to get through. Tries to not think about the fact that Harry and Sherlock are just as trapped as everyone else.
“I don’t suppose you have some kind of magical answer.”
“My superiors deemed my entrance to London a suicide mission. I have nothing to offer.”
John just nods - he had figured as much, and it’s all too much, right now; numbing, even, though it’s gonna hurt something awful when that numbness wears off - but then Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his own, and Sherlock rounds on Mycroft, his expression lighting up in that way it only does when he’s solved a case.
“Yes you do.”
For a moment, Mycroft just frowns at him - and then Sherlock glances at the river, raises his eyebrows, and it’s like John can see the moment when their brains sync up, back to that silent communication that John has no hope of figuring out - but whatever it is, it’s gotta be better than sitting around and waiting to die, and John is therefore all for it.
- - -
In the end, Sherlock and Mycroft’s plan is certainly better than nothing, even if it’s crazy; and by the time the sun’s going down, Dean and Cas and Charlie have left the prison to work on their part of the plan - to acquire a large boat of some kind from a nearby shipyard, and to bring said boat down the river, so that everyone from the prison can load up. John and Sam, for their part, have been put in charge of getting everyone ready to go; and John doesn’t envy Sam as Sam gets up in front of the crowd in the main hall, where everyone has congregated. Sherlock and Mycroft are nowhere to be seen - probably off planning what, exactly, Mycroft`s going to say to get them through the dam at the edge of the city - but Harry’s by his side, pale and silent. John’s already told her what’s happening, but the rest of the crowd has no idea, and there’s an uneasy stirring as Sam climbs up on a table and raises a hand, waiting for everyone to fall silent before he speaks.
“I’m not going to sugar coat this. We have a problem.”
Any remaining murmurs come to a stop. Even the dogs and the babies are quiet, the entire shelter seeming to collectively hold its breath, and John swallows hard as he glances around him. Takes in the frightened faces, the parents clutching at their children, and then looks back up at Sam, who looks just about as bad as John feels, his expression twisting a bit before he speaks again.
“The government has ordered the bombing of London. We’re working on a plan to -”
Mayhem.
John nearly gets knocked off his feet as the crowd scatters, breaking out in every direction, some heading back to their cells, others running for the doors - and John can hear Sam yelling, can just seem him through the crowd, trying to get people to calm down, but it’s no good. Catches sight of Harry’s wide eyes, and then she’s grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the swarm, both of them pressing up against a wall - and then Sam’s jumping off his table and jogging over to them, weaving his way through the crowd until he’s in front of them, looking more than a bit frazzled.
“John - dammit. I need - can you go to the guardhouse? If they break into the quarantine area -”
John just nods, and Sam nods back before he’s gone again, and John glances around one last time for Sherlock before he and Harry head for the doors at a run, tearing out across the gravel, everyone still clearly visible in in the dim light from the setting sun. People are already at the guardhouse door, banging and yelling and trying to get through to the outside world, trying to push into the quarantine zone, and John can see the wide eyes of the guards inside as they glance around, trying to figure out what to do, looking at the quarantined people and then back to the swarm inside the walls - and he shoves his way to the front, Harry at his side, and puts his face up against the metal gate, but none of the guards are paying any attention him - turns around to the crowd again, a mess of yelling and screaming and shoving. Watches at someone literally gets knocked over, half-trampled, and dives in with Harry to pull the guy back to his feet before John steps back against the gate, grits his teeth, and pulls out his gun, pointing it up at the sky and having a moment of feeling like he’s in some B-rated horror movie before he pulls the trigger.
It does the trick.
With screams and shouts, the crowd scatters backwards, tripping over each other, falling silent save for murmurs as everyone stares at him, a mess of angry and terrified faces - and John swallows hard as he keeps his gun up high in the air, making sure to point it very firmly away from the people in front of him. Beside him, Harry has gone very still, her hand on the knife at her belt as everyone in front of them goes quiet, and John takes a deep breath before speaking.
“Sam and Dean have a plan to get you out of here. If you’d only listen -”
“Who are you to tell us what do?”
It’s a yell from the crowd, a young man who looks more frightened than angry, way too young with wide eyes and his arm wrapped around an even younger kid, and John raises his hands a bit higher - gun still pointed away from everyone - as the crowd stirs again, barely staying in place.
“Listen to me, alright? The first strike is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Even if you could reach the edge of the city by then - which you can’t - you would still be killed at the fence.”
“You don’t know -”
“I do know that - and so do you. If you leave now, you’ll never leave this city alive, and you all damn well know it, so - just let Sam and Dean help you, alright? The same way they’ve been doing all along.”
He keeps his voice as level as he can - has no idea what he’ll do if they start pushing again - and then holds his breath as the crowd stays in place, people glancing side-long at each other, shifting uneasily but not making any attempt to move forward. Behind them, more people are coming, slowing and stretching to see over the crowd to what’s happening up front, and John takes a deep breath and raises his voice to almost a yell, hoping desperately that everyone will be able to hear.
“So here’s the plan, alright? Dean is acquiring a boat to take everyone in this prison to the dam, and there is a man in this shelter who worked for the British government. If anyone can talk us out through the dam, it’s him - but on your own, if you leave now, you have no chance, so. How about we all go back inside and gather our things for when Dean gets back here with that boat?”
For a moment, he doesn’t think it’s going to work. Then, one by one, people start to break off, turning and heading back to the prison, and John stays right where he is as the swarm gets smaller and smaller, until there are only a few people hanging around, looking desperate and confused - and Harry glances at him before she walks over to one of them, her voice low and soothing as she starts to talk, and John takes a deep breath and lowers his gun, leaning back against the gate and letting it hold him up, closing his eyes until he hears someone clear their throat behind him. When he turns back around, he finds, to his surprise, the young man who’d drawn his blood the first night he had come to the shelter. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, his dark hair is a mess on his head, and there’s gratitude written across every inch of his face.
“Thanks, man. I don’t know what we’d have - but did you - did I hear you say -”
“Yes. The government - yes. Starting tomorrow afternoon, we’re - Sam tried to tell the crowd -”
“And it went over fantastically, apparently.”
His voice is shaky, though, and the colour has drained from his face, and John swallows, glances around to make sure that everyone’s still keeping away from the gate, and then sticks a couple of fingers through the wires, a mockery of a handshake that the man nevertheless tries to return.
“Kevin Tran.”
“John Watson. Are you - Charlie mentioned a Kevin. Said -”
“Yeah, that’d be me. She’s wicked with a gun, and I’ve got two years of volunteer paramedic training, so. I’m the one who gets to draw blood, while she’s out gutting Croats and kicking ass.”
His smile’s as shaky as his voice, though - it hurts to look at, actually - and John simply nods, takes a moment to glance around for Harry - she’s talking to a young boy, tears down his face, and with no sign of a parent around - and then turns back to Kevin, who doesn’t seem to be regaining any of his colour. Manages a smile, somehow, though he doubts it’s very convincing.
“I’ll stick around. And you had best keep working on those blood tests. Once Dean gets back -”
“Right. Of course.”
If anything, Kevin goes even paler at the realization - anyone who hasn’t been tested isn’t getting on that ship - and then spins back around to what he was doing, sitting down at a table in front of his microscope, and John ponders his options and tries to figure out what to do. By the time Harry comes back over, he’s made up his mind, and he lowers his gun and turns to her.
“I need to help with the tests. Can you -”
“S’all good, John. I’ve got this.”
She smiles at him as she says it - indeed, there aren’t many people around; certainly not enough to break their way into the guardhouse - and John smiles back before he turns back to the gate.
“Kevin? If you’d like any assistance, I’m a doctor, so -”
“Oh, god - yes, please. I’m so not qualified for this job, you don’t even - just. Yes, thank you.”
And then Kevin’s up on his feet and opening the gate, looking incredibly grateful - Harry puts a hand on her knife and keeps an eye on the remaining people as the door opens, but nobody moves - and John slips in to the guardroom, holstering his gun with a sudden and unexpected wave of gratitude. Apparently, after several months of fighting for his life and killing monsters, it’ll be good to spend some time as a doctor, again; and he pushes away thoughts of the outside world as he sits down beside Kevin, who stares at him with an almost questioning expression, and - it takes John a second to realize that Kevin’s waiting for instruction, waiting for John to set the stage here, and then he can’t stop an actual smile. The first genuine smile he’s had in a while.
“Why don’t you take the remaining samples while I start testing?”
And when Kevin simply nods and smiles back, scooting his chair over so that he can be beside the slot in the fence, where people are waiting to put their arms through, John steadies himself, pulls the microscope closer, and hopes like hell that all the results will be negative for sulfur.
- - -
By the time Kevin and John have taken the last samples, it’s somewhere past three in the morning, and there’s still no sign of Dean and Cas and Charlie.
John has taken to pacing the guardroom - there are only three quarantined people left; a mother and her two children - in a futile effort to make the time go by faster. Upon joining Kevin, he learned that the virus only shows up about four hours after someone becomes infected, which means that they have another hour to go before they can check the samples for this mom and her kids - and John is damn well ready to chew his nails off. Tries to not think about Dean and Cas and Charlie out there, somewhere, trying to fight their way through an infested shipyard. Tries to not think about what they’ll do about this mom and kids if Dean and Cas and Charlie get back before John and Kevin can check the last three remaining blood samples. Damn near paces a hole in the floor as Kevin sits in the corner and reads a book, Harry still sitting up against the other side of the gate, though most everyone in the shelter seems to have settled in to packing and relatively calm acceptance - but by the time five in the morning comes and goes, and the mom and her kids have finally been let into the shelter, there’s still no sign of Dean and Cas and Charlie, and John is starting to feel sick. Has a moment of desperately wanting to be close to Sherlock - wonders where he is, exactly; though at least he can be sure he’s still within the prison walls - and then jumps when suddenly Dean is there, hanging off the fence in the quarantine room, covered in blood and dirt and looking like he’s just been to hell and back again.
“Dean!”
Kevin’s across the room, pressed up against the barrier, and Dean coughs and shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment before he fixes his gaze on John, looking furious with himself.
“We could only get a small boat. Cas and Charlie are guarding it.”
“You mean -”
“Take Mycroft and Sherlock. Go to the dam and plead our case. There weren’t any - not a single damn barge left, and all the yachts long since sunk, and - go, alright? Sam and I’ll stay here.”
“But -”
It’s Kevin who tries to interrupt, sounding more than a little frantic, suddenly, but Dean’s already shaking his head again, even as he starts rolling up his sleeve, ready to slide his arm through.
“You’re going with them - and no arguments, you got it? Charlie and Cas can’t, cause for all John knows, they’ve been exposed, and I know damn well that Sam’ll be way too fucking stubborn to listen to me - but you, at least, can get out of here, okay?”
“Dean -”
“Someone’s gotta stay with these people, in case the bombs start falling - but that someone ain’t you. You’ve done your part, Kev. Now take your fucking sample so I can get back into the damn shelter.”
“You can’t just -”
“Now, Kevin.”
Dean sounds like he’s grinding his teeth together, glaring at Kevin through the fence, and Kevin wavers for a second before he curses and spins around to grab a clean needle - and John watches them for a moment, before he turns and enters back into the courtyard, where Harry’s wide-eyed.
“Did you -”
“Heard everything. Mycroft and Sherlock -”
“I’ll find them. You need to get anything else?”
She shakes her head, and John squeezes her elbow for a second before he tears up through the courtyard, chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with his sprint across the gravel. Gets up the stairs and into the prison - and damn near plows right into Sherlock, who steadies him with a hand on each elbow, staring at him with an expression that says he already suspects the worst.
“Are they -”
“Could only find a small boat. Us, Harry, and Mycroft - we’ve gotta go. Make it to the dam -”
“And ask the government to delay the strike.”
Mycroft has appeared beside Sherlock, still looking as calm as he ever does, although his expression is one of distaste; and John stays long enough to nod before he tears jogs to their cell and grabs his bag, wanting to have his medical kit, at the very least. By the time he gets to the prison guardhouse again, Sherlock and Mycroft and Harry are all waiting at the side door to the outside world, the hallway that bypasses the quarantine zone; and the four of them look at each other for a moment before Sherlock pushes the door open, and they all file out, Kevin not saying a word as he shuts the door behind them. For a second, John thinks that will be it - and then he hears Dean cursing, along with what sounds a lot like something punching a rather solid wall.
“Dammit, Kevin -”
“I’m staying.”
“You -”
“Get out of here, guys.”
Kevin manages the tiniest of smiles through the grill of the door he’s just closed, and then he’s gone again, and John - needs to not be worrying about him right now. Pulls out his gun, Sherlock and Mycroft doing the same, while Harry’s got her knife in her hand, and John pauses long enough to meet Dean’s eyes through the guardhouse gate - stares at him for a moment, feels a little sick at the anger and helplessness he can see there, and then Dean grits his teeth and nods, not saying a word, and John nods back and turns away, his stomach pulling all tight and his chest aching unpleasantly - and then they’re gone, scrambling down the riverbank to where John can see Cas and Charlie standing beside a motorboat. John keeps his gun on them - hates that there’s no way to know for sure; hates that there’s even the tiniest chance that any of this could be a ruse - but Charlie and Cas simply move away, Charlie managing a pained smile as John, Sherlock, Mycroft and Harry all climb into the small boat, Harry sliding over to take control of the motor.
“Well, I guess this is it, then.”
“Charlie -”
“Nah, just - you guys just pull out your very best sweet-talking skills, alright?”
“We’ll do everything we can.”
John’s voice is almost lost - Harry barely waits for him to finish speaking before she starts the motor again - and Charlie nods at him before she steps away, leaving Cas to stare at them for a second before he does the same, moving away from the bank and not saying a word - and then the boat starts to move, water spraying up all along the sides, and John watches as Cas and Charlie get smaller and smaller on the bank, until he can just barely make out Charlie’s red hair and Cas’ trenchcoat - manages to turn around, tries to push them out of his mind, tries to not think about everyone they’re leaving behind, and finds Mycroft looking even grimmer than normal as Harry pilots the boat. Swallows hard, puts his gun beside him, and raises his eyebrows.
“Well?”
“In all likelihood, we will be eliminated before we get anywhere near the dam.”
“But there’s a chance -”
“I will stand at the front of the boat. If someone recognizes me in time - but it is not likely.”
“And if -”
“If they start shooting, we can take to the water, but we will not get far.”
Mycroft says it as calmly as he says everything, but there’s a twist to his expression, and John glances over at Harry - sees her very determinedly concentrating on steering the boat, and not looking at Mycroft - and swallows down the helplessness as he shakes his head, suddenly angry.
“No. This is not how this ends.”
“John -”
“We run up the white flag. Use my cardigan. Makes ourselves as human as we possibly can.”
“It will not -”
“Hell, the entire damn country knows Sherlock’s face - and he was cleared of everything, even as the attacks began, remember? So even if the frontline soldiers might not recognize you -”
“It will not make any difference. The orders will be to kill anyone who approaches.”
“Even if that anyone is Mycroft Holmes, or London’s great Reichenbach hero?”
“Even if.”
He smiles a bit as he says it - a sad looking little thing, but more emotion than John normally sees on him - and Sherlock’s face twists a bit, before he pulls his coat tighter around him and hunches down a bit, glaring down at the boat below his feet. For a moment, nobody says anything - there’s nothing but the sound of the water and rushing wind, nothing but the sight of London’s ruins sliding by on either side, buildings falling down and people scrambling madly about on the far banks - and then Sherlock shakes his head and straightens up a bit more again.
“No. John’s right. There must be something more we can do.”
“If there was, dear brother, you and I would have already thought of it by now.”
The sad finality there is actually chilling - makes John literally feel cold from the inside out - and John turns away to watch the ruined banks of London sliding by, no longer able to look at anyone else. Goes over an increasingly number of desperate plans in his mind - anything that could get them out alive, even though he’s well aware of the truth to Mycroft’s words - and by the time they’re within sight of the dam - a dangerous continuation of the fence, with tanks and soldiers stationed all along the top of it, and bodies floating around in the water below it - he’s come up with nothing more. Stares at the dam, completely impenetrable, and then turns to watch Sherlock, who’s scowling at the dam as though he can get through it with the sheer force of his will. For a moment, nobody moves - and then Mycroft turns to Harry, who’s looking sick.
“Hold the boat steady for us.”
She simply nods, not saying a word, and John watches as Mycroft stands, moving to stand in the bow of the boat, his back straight and his expression completely blank. After a moment, Sherlock moves to stand beside him, hands held loose at his sides as he glares at the dam, and John slides off his cardigan, steps up to stand beside Sherlock, and raises the white material as high as he can, holding it above his head. Sherlock glances at him, glare melting into something that looks almost helpless, before he grabs John hand in between them and squeezes. Doesn’t say a word - John’s not sure what either of them could even say, at this point, that they don’t already both know - and then closes his eyes before turning back to the dam, holding tight to John’s hand -
And that’s how they approach. Harry holding the boat steady, and Mycroft, Sherlock and John standing at the front of the boat, Sherlock and John’s hands clasped together, and John using his other hand to hold the cardigan above his head. There’s nothing but the sound of the water, for a long moment, as they get closer and closer, until John can just begin to make out the individual faces of the soldiers - and then there’s a voice booming out across the water, loud and horrible.
“Turn around, or we will shoot.”
“Cut the motor.”
Mycroft’s voice is a hiss, and Harry scrambles to comply, the motor falling silent behind them as they gradually slow down, drifting only with their lingering momentum - and then there’s a hail of bullets into the water in front of them, and John flinches, grinds his teeth, hears Harry make a terrified sound behind him, and raises the cardigan higher, waving it furiously and god, please -
“This is your final warning. If you do not turn around -”
“You know me, Sanders!”
“ - we will kill you.”
“Dammit, Sanders, at least let us talk!”
Mycroft’s words are a weak shout in comparison to the booming megaphone, and John waves his sweater some more, sweat beading on his skin and fear turning his stomach over - tries to ignore the bodies bumping up against the boat as they drift closer - tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand, still standing steady and silent beside him, and, christ, John dragged him into this, he should have never - should have somehow gotten Harry and Sherlock out sooner - blinks back sudden tears, regret burning foul in his mouth and his entire body bracing for the impact of bullets -
But there’s nothing. No bullets. Just the slow slide of water until they’re within about fifteen feet of the dam, close enough that John can see the wide-eyed, shocked expressions on the soldiers’ faces - imagines what they look like, the Reichenbach hero and his faithful blogger, and prays that it’s enough; prays that whoever Mycroft’s talking to will have mercy - and then a new solider appears on the dam in front of them, rifle pointed at Mycroft and his expression pained.
“Goddamn you, Mycroft Holmes. You have two minutes to convince me to not kill you.”
The relief is so great that it nearly takes John’s knees out from underneath him. Sucking in a steadying breath and tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hand, he closes his eyes as Mycroft begins to talk.
- - -
Epilogue
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 next morning, John wakes up in Sherlock’s arms in their small cot - they’ve moved into a cell just across the hallway from Harry, both of them crammed into the small bottom bunk - and feels safe and content in ways he hasn’t for longer than he cares to think about. Sherlock, even, doesn’t seem keen to leave their bed, despite the fact that they have an entire shelter to keep exploring; and they only finally get up when Charlie comes by to tell them that Dean’s back from a supply run, and could probably use some help getting everything sorted out. She smiles at the sight of them, there - curled up in a bunk that was never meant to fit two fully grown adults - and John thinks there might even be something fond in her eyes as she looks at Sherlock, despite the way they’ve done nothing but snarl at each other since they first met, and John has a moment of hoping that the two of them might eventually be able to come to some kind of understanding.
Whatever the case, John and Sherlock eventually end up in front of the prison, at the bottom of the steps, with a tarp stretched across the ground, and the sun burning bright overhead, heating up the concrete and gravel around them until the courtyard feels like an oven. Dean and his team had been able to bring back weapons and food - and John has yet another moment of marvelling at the way Dean has no qualms about regularly putting himself in the firing line - and John had offered to help sort through the ammo; something that’s making him feel useful, at least, even if Sherlock and Dean haven’t stopped arguing since the moment John and Sherlock walked outside.
“You could always help us sort this shit, you know.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re annoying.”
“This from the man who tried to turn left at -”
“Hey, just because you’ve lived in this city for years -”
“I trust that, from now on, you will allow me to plan your supply mission routes beforehand?”
“Actually, as pain in the ass as you are, I was hoping you two’d come with me on my next run.”
Judging by the way Sherlock’s face twists, it’s not exactly the response he had been hoping for, but John just shoves a bit closer to him - Sherlock is sitting on the steps, glowering, still wrapped in that damn coat despite the insanely hot sunshine, while Dean and John are sorting through the packages of ammunition, dividing everything up by type of bullet - and lets their knees bump together as he dumps another bag onto the tarp, several bullet packages landing around his boots.
“So, we passed the test, then?”
“Your boyfriend here knows every alley, and you’re one of the best shots I’ve ever seen. Course ya did.”
Dean says it like it’s an obvious thing, finishes the sentence on a bit of a snort, but John still can’t quite stop the flush of pleasure, much the same as when Charlie had complimented him on the exact same thing. It’s clear that Dean’s an old soldier - despite the way he’s quite obviously much younger than John - and John’s not gonna try to kid himself and pretend that the praise means nothing. He has a feeling that Dean’s not someone who hands out compliments lightly.
“So you want to keep dragging us along, then?”
“Hey, man. You’re the genius here. I’ve got an entire prison full of people to feed. And if you could get that stick out of your ass, maybe you’d see how desperately I need people like you.”
Sherlock makes a noise like he doesn’t even know what part of that to respond to - whether he should be insulted, or whether he should be preening under Dean’s acknowledgment of his impressive brain - but John’s attention is more fixed on Dean, who suddenly looks exhausted. There’s still plenty of daylight left, and John can clearly see the tired lines on Dean’s face - it looks, somehow, like he just reminded himself of just how massive his task really is, and really doesn’t want to be dealing with that awareness right now - and John glances at the prison wall, feeling Dean’s sudden exhaustion creep in to join him, along with an unpleasant wave of unease.
“What are they, anyway? The creatures out there. We’ve been fighting them for months, but we don’t actually -”
“You really wanna know?”
“Of course we do.”
Sherlock’s voice is sharp, suddenly excited, his brooding demeanour completely gone as he leans forward on his knees to stare at Dean, and Dean raises his eyebrows at him before he dumps out another bag of ammo onto the tarp beneath their feet, kneeling down to start sorting through it.
“It’s not a pretty story. None of it.”
“Cas told me that he used to be an angel.”
“Course he did. Dude doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”
“I asked him for proof.”
“And?”
“He had nothing definitive to offer.”
“Yeah, well. I’d be telling you a lot crazier than that, and you’d have to just believe me.”
“Fine.”
Sherlock sounds impatient, now - looks like he’s barely holding himself still on the steps - and Dean scowls at him for a moment, glances at John, and then glances down at the piles of ammo.
“What else did Cas tell you?”
“That this virus is demonic in nature.”
“Yup. Croatoan. Nasty name, and everything.”
“Surely you -”
“Croats - those things out there - they’re real. Why not demons?”
“Next you’ll be telling me -”
“Ghosts. Ghouls, vampires, zombies - every urban legend you’ve heard? Most of them have truth to them. Remember the hook man? Yeah. Him. Then there are reapers. Vashta nerada. Wendigos. Anything that could possibly go bump in the night? It probably exists. Shall I go on?”
“I hardly believe -”
“How about the Devil? Ever believed in him?”
For all that the sun is still up, it’s like the temperature around them actually drops several degrees - John actually feels a chill slide across his body. In front of him, Dean’s gone very still, glaring at Sherlock, who’s staring back at him with a look that John can’t quite decipher. Can’t figure out if Sherlock is believing any of this. Can’t figure out if he, himself, is believing any of this.
“I’ve never -”
“Because I’ve met the Devil, buddy. Stood right there in front of him. And you know what? He’s walking the Earth right now. Sam and I locked the bastard up, but he’s out again, and the world’s going to hell all over again - so if you want to do anything to help, then you’d best get with the damn program and start believing.”
For a second, nobody moves. John realizes he’s barely breathing, can’t get enough air, because - jesus, Dean believes this. Say it like it’s one of the most truthful things he knows. And with the way the world has, indeed, crumbled - with the fact that there are monsters roaming the streets; and the fact that Dean and Cas seem like the ones who actually know how to fight them; and the fact that, christ, Sherlock had found sulfur in the blood samples he’d been testing - well. Maybe John needs to start reconsidering Cas’ claim of having been an angel. Maybe he needs to take Dean’s words for what they’re worth and start figuring out how to kill things that go bump in the night - and maybe he needs to consider the idea of the Devil being more than a horror story. Watches as Sherlock seems to come to a similar conclusion, frowning a little bit harder at Dean.
“You’re serious.”
“Like a heart attack. And your giant intellect won’t save you if Satan comes knocking.”
“Is that why you’re in London?”
“Yeah. Heard that he’d made some kind of base here. Never found the bastard, though. And then we ended up trapped here, same as you two. Figured we’d save as many people as we could.”
“And that - that meteor shower. Six months ago. The one that couldn’t be explained -”
“Cas told you it was angels falling?”
“He did.”
“Yeah. The guy gave up everything to stop this future - and here it is, anyway. Waiting out there to drag us all down, while we hide in here, trapped, rationing our precious canned food. No angels left, the virus running rampant, and the Devil walking the Earth. Still glad you asked?”
Dean’s not looking at them anymore - seems very intent on the bullets he’s gone back to sorting - and John realizes he’s been kneeling in the same place, holding the same package of bullets, for longer than he knows. Glances at Sherlock - who, somehow, looks almost helpless, suddenly, as though he has no idea what to do with this new flood of information - and then puts the bullets down. He doesn’t know Dean well enough to put a hand on his shoulder, but he can use his words, at least. Can try to stave off the anxiety he can feel trying to work its way across his body, because the minute he starts thinking about what Dean’s saying, it’s going to really hurt.
“Why don’t you - it’s Sam, right? Your brother? Why don’t you go find Sam and Cas and Charlie and just - take a break, for the evening, or something. Sherlock and I can finish up here.”
Sherlock, even, doesn’t make any kind of protesting noise - just sits in silence and watches them - and Dean looks up from the ammo to frown at John, and then glances at Sherlock, and then at John again, as though that is not exactly the reaction he’d be expecting - as though he’d been expecting them to run away screaming, or something - but whatever his response was going to be, it’s cut short when Sherlock suddenly makes a noise like he’s been punched, his mouth dropping open, and John spins around wildly to see what Sherlock’s staring at. There’s a group of new people being let through the prison guardroom - walking across the courtyard, the crunch of their feet across gravel as they near the prison, some of them barely staying upright, and most of them covered with blood and dirt and god knows what else, a swarm of exhausted faces -
With Mycroft Holmes at the head of the group.
For a moment, it doesn’t process. And then Sherlock’s on his feet and down the stairs, and John races after him, skidding to a halt behind him as Sherlock and Mycroft meet in the middle of the courtyard, and other people just keep on moving around past them, barely glancing at them. Mycroft is covered in blood and looking less put together than John’s ever seen him, a gun on one hip and a knife on the other, wearing jeans and a sweater, no hint of a fancy suit in sight; and John knows he’s gaping, can’t seem to shut his mouth, but from the way Sherlock’s doing the same, it’s quite obvious that John’s not the only one who feels like he’s been hit over the head.
“But - what the hell are you doing -”
“I need to see the people in charge.”
“I want to know why you’re -”
“That is a conversation best had not in front of other people.”
Mycroft’s voice is low, barely audible, exhausted, and - even though he’s not sure what Mycroft means, John still feels the words rub against his every nerve in all the wrong ways, even as
Sherlock stops talking and just stares at Mycroft, that silent communication that John doesn’t have a hope of deciphering - and then Sherlock swallows, hard, opens his mouth to speak, and Mycroft shakes his head, his eyes darting around to the crowd that’s almost finished swarming past them - but then Dean’s there beside John, squeezing his way in through the crowd, scowling at Mycroft and looking for all the world like he wasn’t just spilling his soul on the prison steps.
“Who are you?”
“I need to see the people in -”
“I am the people in charge. And something ’bout you has got Sherlock here all in a tizzy, so -”
“I am - or rather, I was - a senior member of the British government.”
“That so?”
“Yes.”
“The government making house calls, now?”
There’s no humour in Dean’s voice, though, and Mycroft doesn’t even bother scowling at him - glances around, instead, obviously making sure that they’re alone, the crowd of people having reached the prison - and then Mycroft hesitates, swallows hard, and - christ. This is worse than if Mycroft was outright yelling. The last time John saw him like this, he had been chewing him out for betraying Sherlock - and, wow, that is a memory that he really doesn’t need right now.
“Sherlock can vouch for the veracity of what I’m about to tell you.”
“Dammit, would you just -”
“Mycroft is my brother. And, indeed, he would not be here if it wasn’t true.”
“Christ, if what wasn’t -”
“My superiors have deemed London to be a threat to the rest of the country.”
Mycroft’s voice is mostly steady, but John thinks he hears something shaky there - and then the words actually sink in, and it’s like all the air has been punched out of John’s lungs. He steadies himself with a hand on Sherlock’s arm, god, jesus, no, and watches, dimly, as Dean just stares at Mycroft. Stares at him, his expression blank, and doesn’t say a word - until he finally rubs a hand across his face, and takes a moment to stare at the ground before he looks up at Mycroft again.
“How long?”
“The first strike is scheduled for tomorrow. I arrived here as quickly as I could, but -”
But Dean’s already moving, spinning away and heading towards the prison at a run, not stopping to answer the questions that get shouted at him as he barrels into the building. For a second, John, Sherlock and Mycroft just watch him go, and then Sherlock’s fingers slide down to tangle into John’s, holding his hand tight between them, and John swallows hard, and chokes against the burn in the back of his throat. Tries to not think about the hundreds of people in this shelter who won’t even have time to make it to the fence - let alone figure out a way to get through. Tries to not think about the fact that Harry and Sherlock are just as trapped as everyone else.
“I don’t suppose you have some kind of magical answer.”
“My superiors deemed my entrance to London a suicide mission. I have nothing to offer.”
John just nods - he had figured as much, and it’s all too much, right now; numbing, even, though it’s gonna hurt something awful when that numbness wears off - but then Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his own, and Sherlock rounds on Mycroft, his expression lighting up in that way it only does when he’s solved a case.
“Yes you do.”
For a moment, Mycroft just frowns at him - and then Sherlock glances at the river, raises his eyebrows, and it’s like John can see the moment when their brains sync up, back to that silent communication that John has no hope of figuring out - but whatever it is, it’s gotta be better than sitting around and waiting to die, and John is therefore all for it.
- - -
In the end, Sherlock and Mycroft’s plan is certainly better than nothing, even if it’s crazy; and by the time the sun’s going down, Dean and Cas and Charlie have left the prison to work on their part of the plan - to acquire a large boat of some kind from a nearby shipyard, and to bring said boat down the river, so that everyone from the prison can load up. John and Sam, for their part, have been put in charge of getting everyone ready to go; and John doesn’t envy Sam as Sam gets up in front of the crowd in the main hall, where everyone has congregated. Sherlock and Mycroft are nowhere to be seen - probably off planning what, exactly, Mycroft`s going to say to get them through the dam at the edge of the city - but Harry’s by his side, pale and silent. John’s already told her what’s happening, but the rest of the crowd has no idea, and there’s an uneasy stirring as Sam climbs up on a table and raises a hand, waiting for everyone to fall silent before he speaks.
“I’m not going to sugar coat this. We have a problem.”
Any remaining murmurs come to a stop. Even the dogs and the babies are quiet, the entire shelter seeming to collectively hold its breath, and John swallows hard as he glances around him. Takes in the frightened faces, the parents clutching at their children, and then looks back up at Sam, who looks just about as bad as John feels, his expression twisting a bit before he speaks again.
“The government has ordered the bombing of London. We’re working on a plan to -”
Mayhem.
John nearly gets knocked off his feet as the crowd scatters, breaking out in every direction, some heading back to their cells, others running for the doors - and John can hear Sam yelling, can just seem him through the crowd, trying to get people to calm down, but it’s no good. Catches sight of Harry’s wide eyes, and then she’s grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the swarm, both of them pressing up against a wall - and then Sam’s jumping off his table and jogging over to them, weaving his way through the crowd until he’s in front of them, looking more than a bit frazzled.
“John - dammit. I need - can you go to the guardhouse? If they break into the quarantine area -”
John just nods, and Sam nods back before he’s gone again, and John glances around one last time for Sherlock before he and Harry head for the doors at a run, tearing out across the gravel, everyone still clearly visible in in the dim light from the setting sun. People are already at the guardhouse door, banging and yelling and trying to get through to the outside world, trying to push into the quarantine zone, and John can see the wide eyes of the guards inside as they glance around, trying to figure out what to do, looking at the quarantined people and then back to the swarm inside the walls - and he shoves his way to the front, Harry at his side, and puts his face up against the metal gate, but none of the guards are paying any attention him - turns around to the crowd again, a mess of yelling and screaming and shoving. Watches at someone literally gets knocked over, half-trampled, and dives in with Harry to pull the guy back to his feet before John steps back against the gate, grits his teeth, and pulls out his gun, pointing it up at the sky and having a moment of feeling like he’s in some B-rated horror movie before he pulls the trigger.
It does the trick.
With screams and shouts, the crowd scatters backwards, tripping over each other, falling silent save for murmurs as everyone stares at him, a mess of angry and terrified faces - and John swallows hard as he keeps his gun up high in the air, making sure to point it very firmly away from the people in front of him. Beside him, Harry has gone very still, her hand on the knife at her belt as everyone in front of them goes quiet, and John takes a deep breath before speaking.
“Sam and Dean have a plan to get you out of here. If you’d only listen -”
“Who are you to tell us what do?”
It’s a yell from the crowd, a young man who looks more frightened than angry, way too young with wide eyes and his arm wrapped around an even younger kid, and John raises his hands a bit higher - gun still pointed away from everyone - as the crowd stirs again, barely staying in place.
“Listen to me, alright? The first strike is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Even if you could reach the edge of the city by then - which you can’t - you would still be killed at the fence.”
“You don’t know -”
“I do know that - and so do you. If you leave now, you’ll never leave this city alive, and you all damn well know it, so - just let Sam and Dean help you, alright? The same way they’ve been doing all along.”
He keeps his voice as level as he can - has no idea what he’ll do if they start pushing again - and then holds his breath as the crowd stays in place, people glancing side-long at each other, shifting uneasily but not making any attempt to move forward. Behind them, more people are coming, slowing and stretching to see over the crowd to what’s happening up front, and John takes a deep breath and raises his voice to almost a yell, hoping desperately that everyone will be able to hear.
“So here’s the plan, alright? Dean is acquiring a boat to take everyone in this prison to the dam, and there is a man in this shelter who worked for the British government. If anyone can talk us out through the dam, it’s him - but on your own, if you leave now, you have no chance, so. How about we all go back inside and gather our things for when Dean gets back here with that boat?”
For a moment, he doesn’t think it’s going to work. Then, one by one, people start to break off, turning and heading back to the prison, and John stays right where he is as the swarm gets smaller and smaller, until there are only a few people hanging around, looking desperate and confused - and Harry glances at him before she walks over to one of them, her voice low and soothing as she starts to talk, and John takes a deep breath and lowers his gun, leaning back against the gate and letting it hold him up, closing his eyes until he hears someone clear their throat behind him. When he turns back around, he finds, to his surprise, the young man who’d drawn his blood the first night he had come to the shelter. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, his dark hair is a mess on his head, and there’s gratitude written across every inch of his face.
“Thanks, man. I don’t know what we’d have - but did you - did I hear you say -”
“Yes. The government - yes. Starting tomorrow afternoon, we’re - Sam tried to tell the crowd -”
“And it went over fantastically, apparently.”
His voice is shaky, though, and the colour has drained from his face, and John swallows, glances around to make sure that everyone’s still keeping away from the gate, and then sticks a couple of fingers through the wires, a mockery of a handshake that the man nevertheless tries to return.
“Kevin Tran.”
“John Watson. Are you - Charlie mentioned a Kevin. Said -”
“Yeah, that’d be me. She’s wicked with a gun, and I’ve got two years of volunteer paramedic training, so. I’m the one who gets to draw blood, while she’s out gutting Croats and kicking ass.”
His smile’s as shaky as his voice, though - it hurts to look at, actually - and John simply nods, takes a moment to glance around for Harry - she’s talking to a young boy, tears down his face, and with no sign of a parent around - and then turns back to Kevin, who doesn’t seem to be regaining any of his colour. Manages a smile, somehow, though he doubts it’s very convincing.
“I’ll stick around. And you had best keep working on those blood tests. Once Dean gets back -”
“Right. Of course.”
If anything, Kevin goes even paler at the realization - anyone who hasn’t been tested isn’t getting on that ship - and then spins back around to what he was doing, sitting down at a table in front of his microscope, and John ponders his options and tries to figure out what to do. By the time Harry comes back over, he’s made up his mind, and he lowers his gun and turns to her.
“I need to help with the tests. Can you -”
“S’all good, John. I’ve got this.”
She smiles at him as she says it - indeed, there aren’t many people around; certainly not enough to break their way into the guardhouse - and John smiles back before he turns back to the gate.
“Kevin? If you’d like any assistance, I’m a doctor, so -”
“Oh, god - yes, please. I’m so not qualified for this job, you don’t even - just. Yes, thank you.”
And then Kevin’s up on his feet and opening the gate, looking incredibly grateful - Harry puts a hand on her knife and keeps an eye on the remaining people as the door opens, but nobody moves - and John slips in to the guardroom, holstering his gun with a sudden and unexpected wave of gratitude. Apparently, after several months of fighting for his life and killing monsters, it’ll be good to spend some time as a doctor, again; and he pushes away thoughts of the outside world as he sits down beside Kevin, who stares at him with an almost questioning expression, and - it takes John a second to realize that Kevin’s waiting for instruction, waiting for John to set the stage here, and then he can’t stop an actual smile. The first genuine smile he’s had in a while.
“Why don’t you take the remaining samples while I start testing?”
And when Kevin simply nods and smiles back, scooting his chair over so that he can be beside the slot in the fence, where people are waiting to put their arms through, John steadies himself, pulls the microscope closer, and hopes like hell that all the results will be negative for sulfur.
- - -
By the time Kevin and John have taken the last samples, it’s somewhere past three in the morning, and there’s still no sign of Dean and Cas and Charlie.
John has taken to pacing the guardroom - there are only three quarantined people left; a mother and her two children - in a futile effort to make the time go by faster. Upon joining Kevin, he learned that the virus only shows up about four hours after someone becomes infected, which means that they have another hour to go before they can check the samples for this mom and her kids - and John is damn well ready to chew his nails off. Tries to not think about Dean and Cas and Charlie out there, somewhere, trying to fight their way through an infested shipyard. Tries to not think about what they’ll do about this mom and kids if Dean and Cas and Charlie get back before John and Kevin can check the last three remaining blood samples. Damn near paces a hole in the floor as Kevin sits in the corner and reads a book, Harry still sitting up against the other side of the gate, though most everyone in the shelter seems to have settled in to packing and relatively calm acceptance - but by the time five in the morning comes and goes, and the mom and her kids have finally been let into the shelter, there’s still no sign of Dean and Cas and Charlie, and John is starting to feel sick. Has a moment of desperately wanting to be close to Sherlock - wonders where he is, exactly; though at least he can be sure he’s still within the prison walls - and then jumps when suddenly Dean is there, hanging off the fence in the quarantine room, covered in blood and dirt and looking like he’s just been to hell and back again.
“Dean!”
Kevin’s across the room, pressed up against the barrier, and Dean coughs and shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment before he fixes his gaze on John, looking furious with himself.
“We could only get a small boat. Cas and Charlie are guarding it.”
“You mean -”
“Take Mycroft and Sherlock. Go to the dam and plead our case. There weren’t any - not a single damn barge left, and all the yachts long since sunk, and - go, alright? Sam and I’ll stay here.”
“But -”
It’s Kevin who tries to interrupt, sounding more than a little frantic, suddenly, but Dean’s already shaking his head again, even as he starts rolling up his sleeve, ready to slide his arm through.
“You’re going with them - and no arguments, you got it? Charlie and Cas can’t, cause for all John knows, they’ve been exposed, and I know damn well that Sam’ll be way too fucking stubborn to listen to me - but you, at least, can get out of here, okay?”
“Dean -”
“Someone’s gotta stay with these people, in case the bombs start falling - but that someone ain’t you. You’ve done your part, Kev. Now take your fucking sample so I can get back into the damn shelter.”
“You can’t just -”
“Now, Kevin.”
Dean sounds like he’s grinding his teeth together, glaring at Kevin through the fence, and Kevin wavers for a second before he curses and spins around to grab a clean needle - and John watches them for a moment, before he turns and enters back into the courtyard, where Harry’s wide-eyed.
“Did you -”
“Heard everything. Mycroft and Sherlock -”
“I’ll find them. You need to get anything else?”
She shakes her head, and John squeezes her elbow for a second before he tears up through the courtyard, chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with his sprint across the gravel. Gets up the stairs and into the prison - and damn near plows right into Sherlock, who steadies him with a hand on each elbow, staring at him with an expression that says he already suspects the worst.
“Are they -”
“Could only find a small boat. Us, Harry, and Mycroft - we’ve gotta go. Make it to the dam -”
“And ask the government to delay the strike.”
Mycroft has appeared beside Sherlock, still looking as calm as he ever does, although his expression is one of distaste; and John stays long enough to nod before he tears jogs to their cell and grabs his bag, wanting to have his medical kit, at the very least. By the time he gets to the prison guardhouse again, Sherlock and Mycroft and Harry are all waiting at the side door to the outside world, the hallway that bypasses the quarantine zone; and the four of them look at each other for a moment before Sherlock pushes the door open, and they all file out, Kevin not saying a word as he shuts the door behind them. For a second, John thinks that will be it - and then he hears Dean cursing, along with what sounds a lot like something punching a rather solid wall.
“Dammit, Kevin -”
“I’m staying.”
“You -”
“Get out of here, guys.”
Kevin manages the tiniest of smiles through the grill of the door he’s just closed, and then he’s gone again, and John - needs to not be worrying about him right now. Pulls out his gun, Sherlock and Mycroft doing the same, while Harry’s got her knife in her hand, and John pauses long enough to meet Dean’s eyes through the guardhouse gate - stares at him for a moment, feels a little sick at the anger and helplessness he can see there, and then Dean grits his teeth and nods, not saying a word, and John nods back and turns away, his stomach pulling all tight and his chest aching unpleasantly - and then they’re gone, scrambling down the riverbank to where John can see Cas and Charlie standing beside a motorboat. John keeps his gun on them - hates that there’s no way to know for sure; hates that there’s even the tiniest chance that any of this could be a ruse - but Charlie and Cas simply move away, Charlie managing a pained smile as John, Sherlock, Mycroft and Harry all climb into the small boat, Harry sliding over to take control of the motor.
“Well, I guess this is it, then.”
“Charlie -”
“Nah, just - you guys just pull out your very best sweet-talking skills, alright?”
“We’ll do everything we can.”
John’s voice is almost lost - Harry barely waits for him to finish speaking before she starts the motor again - and Charlie nods at him before she steps away, leaving Cas to stare at them for a second before he does the same, moving away from the bank and not saying a word - and then the boat starts to move, water spraying up all along the sides, and John watches as Cas and Charlie get smaller and smaller on the bank, until he can just barely make out Charlie’s red hair and Cas’ trenchcoat - manages to turn around, tries to push them out of his mind, tries to not think about everyone they’re leaving behind, and finds Mycroft looking even grimmer than normal as Harry pilots the boat. Swallows hard, puts his gun beside him, and raises his eyebrows.
“Well?”
“In all likelihood, we will be eliminated before we get anywhere near the dam.”
“But there’s a chance -”
“I will stand at the front of the boat. If someone recognizes me in time - but it is not likely.”
“And if -”
“If they start shooting, we can take to the water, but we will not get far.”
Mycroft says it as calmly as he says everything, but there’s a twist to his expression, and John glances over at Harry - sees her very determinedly concentrating on steering the boat, and not looking at Mycroft - and swallows down the helplessness as he shakes his head, suddenly angry.
“No. This is not how this ends.”
“John -”
“We run up the white flag. Use my cardigan. Makes ourselves as human as we possibly can.”
“It will not -”
“Hell, the entire damn country knows Sherlock’s face - and he was cleared of everything, even as the attacks began, remember? So even if the frontline soldiers might not recognize you -”
“It will not make any difference. The orders will be to kill anyone who approaches.”
“Even if that anyone is Mycroft Holmes, or London’s great Reichenbach hero?”
“Even if.”
He smiles a bit as he says it - a sad looking little thing, but more emotion than John normally sees on him - and Sherlock’s face twists a bit, before he pulls his coat tighter around him and hunches down a bit, glaring down at the boat below his feet. For a moment, nobody says anything - there’s nothing but the sound of the water and rushing wind, nothing but the sight of London’s ruins sliding by on either side, buildings falling down and people scrambling madly about on the far banks - and then Sherlock shakes his head and straightens up a bit more again.
“No. John’s right. There must be something more we can do.”
“If there was, dear brother, you and I would have already thought of it by now.”
The sad finality there is actually chilling - makes John literally feel cold from the inside out - and John turns away to watch the ruined banks of London sliding by, no longer able to look at anyone else. Goes over an increasingly number of desperate plans in his mind - anything that could get them out alive, even though he’s well aware of the truth to Mycroft’s words - and by the time they’re within sight of the dam - a dangerous continuation of the fence, with tanks and soldiers stationed all along the top of it, and bodies floating around in the water below it - he’s come up with nothing more. Stares at the dam, completely impenetrable, and then turns to watch Sherlock, who’s scowling at the dam as though he can get through it with the sheer force of his will. For a moment, nobody moves - and then Mycroft turns to Harry, who’s looking sick.
“Hold the boat steady for us.”
She simply nods, not saying a word, and John watches as Mycroft stands, moving to stand in the bow of the boat, his back straight and his expression completely blank. After a moment, Sherlock moves to stand beside him, hands held loose at his sides as he glares at the dam, and John slides off his cardigan, steps up to stand beside Sherlock, and raises the white material as high as he can, holding it above his head. Sherlock glances at him, glare melting into something that looks almost helpless, before he grabs John hand in between them and squeezes. Doesn’t say a word - John’s not sure what either of them could even say, at this point, that they don’t already both know - and then closes his eyes before turning back to the dam, holding tight to John’s hand -
And that’s how they approach. Harry holding the boat steady, and Mycroft, Sherlock and John standing at the front of the boat, Sherlock and John’s hands clasped together, and John using his other hand to hold the cardigan above his head. There’s nothing but the sound of the water, for a long moment, as they get closer and closer, until John can just begin to make out the individual faces of the soldiers - and then there’s a voice booming out across the water, loud and horrible.
“Turn around, or we will shoot.”
“Cut the motor.”
Mycroft’s voice is a hiss, and Harry scrambles to comply, the motor falling silent behind them as they gradually slow down, drifting only with their lingering momentum - and then there’s a hail of bullets into the water in front of them, and John flinches, grinds his teeth, hears Harry make a terrified sound behind him, and raises the cardigan higher, waving it furiously and god, please -
“This is your final warning. If you do not turn around -”
“You know me, Sanders!”
“ - we will kill you.”
“Dammit, Sanders, at least let us talk!”
Mycroft’s words are a weak shout in comparison to the booming megaphone, and John waves his sweater some more, sweat beading on his skin and fear turning his stomach over - tries to ignore the bodies bumping up against the boat as they drift closer - tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand, still standing steady and silent beside him, and, christ, John dragged him into this, he should have never - should have somehow gotten Harry and Sherlock out sooner - blinks back sudden tears, regret burning foul in his mouth and his entire body bracing for the impact of bullets -
But there’s nothing. No bullets. Just the slow slide of water until they’re within about fifteen feet of the dam, close enough that John can see the wide-eyed, shocked expressions on the soldiers’ faces - imagines what they look like, the Reichenbach hero and his faithful blogger, and prays that it’s enough; prays that whoever Mycroft’s talking to will have mercy - and then a new solider appears on the dam in front of them, rifle pointed at Mycroft and his expression pained.
“Goddamn you, Mycroft Holmes. You have two minutes to convince me to not kill you.”
The relief is so great that it nearly takes John’s knees out from underneath him. Sucking in a steadying breath and tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hand, he closes his eyes as Mycroft begins to talk.
- - -
Epilogue