Sherlock BBC Prompting Meme

"we get all sorts around here."


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prompting: part iii
Giggles at the Palace
sherlockbbc_fic
Please check the Sticky Post to find the newest active part and post your prompts there.

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RE: OFFENSIVELY WORDED PROMPTS
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Think before you prompt about the way you are asking. It isn’t difficult, and it will only take a minute or so of your time.

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This is a kink meme. As such, there will be prompts that could offend you in a number of different ways. Not every prompt will have a trigger warning, and not every prompt will rub you the right way. If you have an issue with a specific prompt, feel free to bring it up in a discussion that takes place off the meme. However, flaming will not be tolerated regardless of origin.
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LINKS AND AFFILIATES
- Delicious Archive - Filled Prompts Post - Page-A-Mod - List of all the Prompting Posts - Flat View of This Page - Sherlock RPF Request Post - Overflow Post -

  • 1
Some disaster happens (flood, earthquake, fire, vengeful dragons, Moriarty releases ten thousand angry bears, WHATEVER) and John and Sherlock were on completely different sides of London when it happened. Bridges are impassable, every form of communication has mysteriously failed, riots have broken out, the world has gone mad and all they care about is finding each other. They desperately fight their way to meet each other at 221b even though the building's flooded/collapsed/on fire/a dragon den/full of bears/WHATEVER because they are the most important thing in the world to each other and have such faith that the other will be alive and there.

Maybe one of them has to fight cannibals. Maybe one of them saves Anderson and ends up bonding with him. Maybe Molly is rampaging around with a hacksaw and no lipstick saving people's lives. Maybe Lestrade ends up Emergency Warlord of Disaster-Stricken London. It is a crazy world and the only stable thing left to John and Sherlock is their relationship.

Bonus points if they're not even in a relationship yet and are still in that viciously powerful UST stage but are still absolutely certain that everything will be alright and make sense again as soon as they're together.

Ok, first - I love this prompt and am wholeheartedly SECONDING.

And second - I now have a mental image of swarms of bears walking around London, and Sherlock finding a bear on his chair. I cannot stop giggling and I love you for the lulz XD

(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
Zombies! It's zombies, right?

Anyway, seconded!

(no subject) (Anonymous) Expand
If someone could do a non-crack version of this I think I would love them forever.

FILL: A London Blitz

(Anonymous)
Oh God, anon OP I apologise in advance because I've gotten a little carried away. I hope I finish this for you today, but I'm posting the first few little snippets now anyway even if I don't manage it. In all honestly, this is gonna be a long one I think. I hope it's worth it, I really do.


Monday 27th September 2010
221b Baker Street, London

04.00hrs

John Watson isn't asleep but really, really wishes that he was. He sighs, plucking a small screwed up ball of cotton wool from each ear and sitting up in bed, staring bleary eyed at the clock. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face, swinging his legs out of bed and standing up.

He doesn't bother to try and find his dressing gown. It isn't hanging up on the back of his door, and four in the morning is no time to try to look for things. Unless you're Sherlock Holmes; speaking of which...

John opens the door to his room and for a brief second considers shouting down the stairs at the top of his lungs. (“SHUT THE HELL UP YOU CRAZED BASTARD!”) But doesn't, for his landlady's sake, he thinks, knowing the real reason is that he simply cannot deny Sherlock anything now. Not since Moriarty. Not since the way Sherlock looked at him the moment he was told he had a heart.

Pulling a jumper meant for the wash over his head, he pads down the stairs and across the landing into the sitting room. He spares a moment to take in the man in the corner. Tall and mostly in shadow, Sherlock plays the violin. Its melancholy tones are loud and betraying his feelings. Frustration, mostly, John thinks, walking through to the kitchen.

Once there, John puts on the kettle and pulls down two large mugs from a shelf above the microwave. While he waits for the water to boil he glances over the headlines of yesterday's papers. The large black lettering reports the same story in different words, over and over. Murders, missing bodies, blood and gore splattered across the streets of London.

With the tea made, John walks back into the sitting room. Sherlock makes no move to acknowledge him, but John doesn't mind. It's too early to be polite. He sets one mug down on the side table next to Sherlock, and the other he takes with him to the sofa. With his tea safely cooling on the coffee table he lays out on the sofa and lets his mind drift.

The sound of Sherlock's violin beautifully disguises the sounds of low groans on the road outside.

FILL: A London Blitz 2/?

(Anonymous)
07.35hrs

Sherlock Holmes, high functioning sociopath (self diagnosed) and the world's only Consulting Detective (self employed) is staring down the lens of a microscope in a small lab at St. Bart's Hospital. He is frowning, because he is looking at something which is supposed to be impossible. It is not, however, the impossibility of such a thing that troubles him. It is the difficulty he is going to have in proving his theory. It is hard enough to explain the most simple of deductions to Scotland Yard's finest. This will take even longer than usual and, as usual, he simply does not have the time.

“Oh, um, hi Sherlock!”

From a side door Molly Hooper enters. Sherlock looks up long enough to nod at her. Her hair is unusually messy, lipstick smudged at the lower left corner, and her lab coat is creased at the collar and left sleeve. She is not close enough to smell, but he knows that when she comes closer, which she inevitably will, he will smell the scent of a man's sweat and her own release.

If he were the sort (John) he might sigh at the attempt to make him jealous. But he has no time. He has already wasted enough taking notice of her entrance at all.

“What are you working on?” Molly asks, moving around the long cluttered bench.

Sherlock does not look up. “The missing bodies. The blood.” He answers, simply but not sharply. A fact that perhaps only John would notice (and possibly approve of).

“Anything interesting?” Molly says, tilting her head to the side and smiling.

She is not John, but she is a sounding board that proved adequate enough before Doctor Watson's entrance into his life. He looks up and faces her, turning down his shirt sleeves. “It remains active, despite being drawn from a corpse.”

Molly follows the movement of his hands as he buttons his cuffs. He politely does not acknowledge the fact. She blinks then, confused. “What do you mean, active?”

He moves to stand and gestures for her to see for herself. As she bends over the microscope, he pulls on his suit jacket and reaches for his coat.

“Oh my god.” Molly says. She looks up at him for a split second before returning to the lens. “The sample shows degeneration, more than a days worth but- but the cells they're-”

“Mutating.” Sherlock finishes for her.

Her expression indicates she has come to the same impossible conclusion as he. He would have to explain further to John. Molly is a somewhat intelligent woman in some respects, but he would rather John standing in her place all the same. He always will.

“Please store these samples, they must remain contained.” He says, wrapping his scarf around his neck and moving to the door. He needs his phone, he thinks, he must text John, then Lestrade. He rounds the door and turns his head back to look at her.

“And keep an eye on the morgue.”

FILL: A London Blitz 3/?

(Anonymous)
07.50hrs

John Watson yawns, but moves a hand to cover it. The woman across the room from him smiles a little, offering him another biscuit.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like a coffee dear?” She asks in the soft but gravelly voice of a life long smoker. John is once again thankful Sherlock had quit before they met.

“No, but thank you.” He replies. “I didn't get a lot of sleep, that's all.”

The woman's eyes sparkle for a moment, and John has the sudden impression that fifty years ago a look like that would have melted more than a few hearts. The silver framed black and white photograph on the mantelpiece is evidence that for one man, smiling and holding the woman's younger self close, it did. “Someone keeping you up all night?” She asks, smiling.

John cannot resist the smile that he gives her in response. “I cannot deny it.” He says, then turns serious again. “I'm sorry to make you go over this again, Mrs Whitehouse, but you said your husband heard something before he-” He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.

The woman seems to make herself smaller all of a sudden. He eyes focus on something behind his left shoulder as she remembers. “He said he'd heard someone crying, or moaning.” She says. “Someone in the alley between our house and next-door's. He was just going to go and have a look by the back door, see if someone needed help...that was all.” Her voice drops to a whisper then she goes silent, her eyes glazing over.

John sits straighter in the overstuffed chair. He reaches forward and lets a hand fall over the woman's, clasped in her lap. He waits as she comes back to the present. The present in which her husband's blood is splashed all over the pavement outside but his body is gone.

“I'm so, so sorry.” John says.

Mrs Whitehouse nods. She sniffs and John releases her hands so she can pull out a paper handkerchief from the sleeve of her cardigan. She dabs it at the corners of her eyes. “I just want them to find him.” She confesses in a rushed, single breath. “Please tell me they will.”

John nods, his hand going to her left shoulder and squeezing slightly. He thinks of the blood outside. He thinks of the sheer amount of it and knows that wherever he is, the man smiling down at them from the mantelpiece is dead.

FILL: A London Blitz 4/?

(Anonymous)
08.00hrs

Lestrade is flustered. Sherlock only needs to hear the noise around them and look at the slight tic of the inspector's right eyebrow to deduce as much. But it is to be expected, given the noise around them.

On every desk, in every office inside the main building of Scotland Yard, a phone is ringing. And if it is not, it is because it has been answered by an overworked police officer. One who has no clue what is happening. And that is because Sherlock has not been able to tell anyone.

Lestrade leads him through into his small, glass walled office and closes the door behind them. Sherlock does not sit. As soon as Lestrade is up to date, believing or not, Sherlock intends to intercept John. He does not know what they will do, and is not sure they can do anything anyway. But that is neither here nor there.

“Sherlock, now is really not the day to discover a sense of humour.” Lestrade tells him, rubbing a spot at the back of his neck and dropping into the chair behind his desk.

“I assure you Inspector, joking has not become my forte since we last spoke.”

Lestrade looks up at him. Sherlock sees that the man is tired, but he has no time to be sympathetic, nor the inclination. While not a friend (John), Lestrade has been an ally of sorts and that is the only reason Sherlock is here instead of returning to Baker Street.

The sun is up, but only just. Sherlock can foresee the chaos to come as easily as he can see Lestrade's eyes betraying his feeling of utter helplessness.

“Sherlock, I refuse to believe that these attacks, murders, missing bodies are all happening because you think that the dead are-”

Sherlock's patience has gone. He moves towards the desk between them and leans over it, palms resting firmly on the scuffed pine wood. “Lestrade, I am serious, and have evidence to prove my theories. Though I see from the number off calls your department is having to filter because the emergency services have become overrun, you will soon see for yourself. I am correct.”

He pauses for a moment. He does not internationally drift towards the dramatic nature of giving speeches (He ignores the spark of a memory behind his eyes now; of John scoffing at him good naturedly), though sometimes the simple effect of such theatrics moves people into taking him seriously as much as the information he presents them with does.

Lestrade moves to speak, but Sherlock begins again, quickly, because his phone has not alerted him to a text from John in response to the ones he sent on his way to the station. He has no time for Lestrade and his doubt. He must locate John.

“The facts are there, though they seem to be unconnected, you only need to look down into the streets to see what is going on. You can only ignore the unearthly moans so long Lestrade.” Sherlock tells him. “I do not deny that it seems an unlikely explanation, and one you would rather not have to tackle. Nevertheless,” he says, pausing for a sharp breath, “It is true. Now, as my job is primarily to advise,” (to solve, Sherlock thinks), “Let me say this; you must protect everyone you can, and do it quickly. Those already subjected to this mutation are dead, no matter how it might appear. Make it public and do it now.”

Lestrade's mouth is hanging open. It is not the sort of look you want someone in a position of authority to make.

Sherlock continues, regardless, “Tell everyone to stay inside, avoid all contact with those infected.” He sighs when Lestrade's expression fails to change. “Contact Molly Hooper at St. Bart's for scientific details, not that you will understand them. She will have likely have informed everyone in a position to help by now.”

Sherlock steps back once more, thinks that enough is enough and turns to walk out. A hand reaches into his pocket for his phone before he's even reached the door. He has more important things to think of now than public safety.

FILL: A London Blitz 5/?

(Anonymous)
08.45hrs

John has just left Mrs Whitehouse's and wandered down the road when a large black BMW pulls up beside him. The driver's side window slides down soundlessly, and a harassed looking man peers out at him. “Watson?” He asks.

John comes to a stop and nods.

“Doctor John Watson?” The man says.

John nods again, looking up and down the oddly deserted street. He hasn't seen a car or bus come down the road since he left Mrs Whitehouse staring at the wall five minutes ago, and though John wouldn't normally find that odd, he is only just north of central London. It is almost peek time for traffic, which any local will try to avoid as best they can by setting off to work early. To not see a soul is an oddness worth of even Sherlock's notice.

“Please, get into the car.” The driver tells him, before closing the window again.

John sighs. Mycroft has not 'kidnapped' him for some time, and he supposes he is about due, but the elder Holmes brother usually respects his younger sibling enough not to take John away while they're on a case.

He opens the back door nearest to him and peers into the car. There, as he expects, sits Mycroft's assistant. The last time he asked her name was 'Sandra', though he knows it will have changed if he asks for it again.

She pats the seat beside her without a word and John climbs in.

Her fingers are moving a mile a minute, as per, but she also has another device in her ear, through which John can hear a few different voices echo in between shots of static.

The car moves off, and John relaxes into the leather seat.

“I told him there wasn't really time for this.” She says after a moment. “But I suppose family matters at times such as these.” She sighs, sparing him a glance.

“What do you mean, 'times such as these'?” John asks, reaching into his pocket for his own phone. He'd turned it off while he was with Mrs Whitehouse, out of respect for her loss and knowing that a text from Sherlock would compel him to answer regardless of where he was or what he was doing.

She pauses for a second, reaching under her seat. She places the pile of A4 sheets of paper on John's lap before putting a hand to her ear to listen to the voices again.

John accepts that he has now been tuned out and looks down at the reports. The text is smudged, the font square and official looking. John begins to read the first page when his phone goes off. He catches a few lines of text on the page (Subject 405 – missing, presumed eliminated and First trials suggest mass mutation on a cellular level, and reanimation) before looking down at his phone.

John smiles a little, seven texts and all from his flatmate:

Did she witness anything of interest? SH

At St. Bart's – Lab, come when able. SH

Blood samples are showing some strange results. Will repeat tests. What have you found? SH

Ignore previous text, am going to Scot Yrd, intercept if able. SH

Where are you? SH

Please respond. SH

John? SH

John's smile disappears and he is starting to understand now. More than the words of the woman sitting next to him, or the documents on his lap, he knows simply from Sherlock's last one word text that something, somewhere has gone terribly wrong. And they aren't together to fight it.

FILL: A London Blitz 6/?

(Anonymous)
09.20hrs

Although there have been several near misses Sherlock will admit (if only to himself), he has never actually suffered from sensory overload. When he steps out of the main entrance at Scotland Yard however, he is overcome with a sudden desperate urge to find someone dark and silent and never come out.

Around him, London has become a city of living nightmare. Cars are scattered all over the road, some abandoned after a collision, some simply left in the traffic. Those occupied are being driven recklessly, swerving and driving over the pavement with little regard for anything they might hit.

In the distance, Sherlock hears people scream and shout and, however unexpected anywhere in the UK, the sound of gunfire. He stands still and closes his eyes. He breathes deeply, willing his mind to filter through the noise. It is not important. The only think he needs to do is focus on returning to Baker Street. He looks at his phone once again, staring down at the screen as though John will text or call by the sheer force of his will. Then, with no warning, the screen flashes with an alert, but not the kind that he wants to see.

No Signal

Sherlock curses, then considers turning back and using a phone inside the police station. He shakes his head in dismissal a second later, knowing that whether or not John revived his messages, the Doctor will return to their home anyway. Now is not the time to second guess.

He moves through the city at a run, ignoring the scenes that flash by. He runs through St James Park, ignoring the bodies he passes on the way. He has yet to encounter one of the infected, and does not know what the best course of action would be if he does. He filters it, places it aside for later. (“Yeah well, guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, eh Sherlock?”). He must get to John.

He makes it as far as Piccadilly Circus before his body forces him to stop. He pants, breath misting in the light of the cold autumn morning. The London landmark is as deserted as Sherlock has ever seen it. In contrast to the roads around Scotland Yard, where he assumes people had been attracted to as they must be to the several Hospitals throughout the capital, the flashing lights and adverts here hold no hope to the public.

Sherlock squares his shoulders. He needs to focus. In his minds eye, a street map of London appears. It will take 4 minutes by car to arrive at Baker Street, 10-15 during rush hour. Hardly a problem now, but a taxi is out of the question given the circumstances.

He spares a minute to simply boggle at the rate of this disaster. He was at The Yard for no more than an hour, and yet in that time the rest of the city has woken up to discover that for once, the tabloid scaremongering was accurate.

He shakes his head again. Focuses again. Three tube stops to Baker Street Station crossing two different lines. 15 minutes, dependent on the departure of the trains and his transfer between them. He looks across at the stairs descending into the dark Underground. No. Next option.

He has never once taken a bus in London. Never plans to. But by logic as a guide given the rate of distance between most bus stops he estimates the journey to be 20 minutes, not taking into account number of passengers and amount of stops.

No, his best use of transport is the one what has brought him here, his own body. Around him, London grows silent and full of noise in waves. He ignores everything and crosses the road. His priority hasn't changed.

FILL: A London Blitz 7/?

(Anonymous)
09.30hrs

“I need to get home.” John says, typing out a disjointed text to Sherlock. (Am fine. With Mycroft's assistant. What's going on? Don't worry – be home soon. Hope you're there already.)

The woman next to him doesn't answer and he looks up as he presses the send button.

“No signal.” She says, with a tone of voice he's never heard her use before. She is staring down at her phone in confusion and, John suspects, slowly dawning horror. He watches as she taps the device at her ear then pulls it out in frustration.

“I'm sorry abut your phone.” John says, sincere but quick. “But I need to find Sherlock.”

She turns to him wearing the same look his flatmate likes to give him when he's failed to figure out something as quickly as Sherlock. Which, John freely admits, happens a lot. But if it didn't Sherlock wouldn't want him around as much, would he?

“The networks are down.” She tells him, tapping on the glass that's separating them from the driver.

“Which network?” John asks her.

“Not a network!” She snaps. “All of them, every network!” She taps the glass partition harder as John stares down at his phone.

No Signal.

Did Sherlock get his text? What if he's still at Scotland Yard? John thinks. Should he ask to go there? What about St. Bart's? Sherlock had mentioned his tests on the blood samples they'd collected before separating that morning had been odd. Maybe he'd gone back again?

His thoughts are cut short when the car spins out of control.

John isn't certain, but he thinks he blacks out. Either that or the time it took for them to leave the road and smash into what he assumes is a lamppost takes less than a blink of his eyes. The minutes tick by as he comes to slowly. Carefully. He assess himself as calmly as he can (which he has been told is abnormally calm. A fact he knows Sherlock finds 'interesting'). Nothing broken, seatbelt took the brunt of the force, as it is meant to, keeping him in his seat. His back is starting to tingle, which will soon turn into a sharp set of pains before settling into a dull but constant ache. He's suffered whiplash before.

He tilts his head slowly to look at his fellow passenger. He head is dipped low, but he can't see any obvious injuries. No blood to speak of, though her phone lies in pieces beneath the high heels of her shoes.

“Sandra?” He coughs, willing his voice to clear. “Anthea?”

She lets out a low moan then, coming to. Her fingers twitch and her head sways as she struggles to wake up.

“Careful.” John warns as she sits herself back and looks over at him.

“Ah.” She says. “Best listen to the Doctor, I suppose.”

John almost smiles, but it becomes a grimace as he reaches down to release his seatbelt. “Try to stay still for a minute.” He tells her and is thankful that she takes his advice.

Sherlock likes to point out that he has something of an authoritative presence in certain circumstances, if only because he likes to make fun of the fact that John rarely has the inclination to use it to his advantage.

He is free of his seat belt and about to reach for her when the window next to him smashes inwards with a roar of breaking glass, and two blood stained hands reach through to grab him by the neck.

Author!Anon (Anonymous) Expand

FILL: A London Blitz 8/?

(Anonymous)
09.35hrs

It's not until the fifth phone he runs past rings that Sherlock stops and throws open the door. He picks up the receiver. “I do not have time for this, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock, I'm sorry.”

Sherlock stills. He takes a moment to listen to the calm sounds of his brother breathing down the line, safe and sound, wherever he is. With there Mother no doubt close by. Mycroft took his role as the elder Holmes gentleman seriously, and for once Sherlock found himself somewhat thankful of the fact. Then his mind sparks back into life and he speaks. “Where is he?”

“With my assistant. I sent a car for him, intending to bring you both here. Since you were already in Westminster, it seemed a suitable solution. Very public spirited of you, informing DI Lestrade, by the way. Though he may soon be forced to arm the police and take to the streets. The former Commissioner is quite dead and the Yard does like to have a leader, does it not?” Mycroft says.

When they were younger, very much younger, Sherlock remembers admiring his brother, in part. He hated him as well, for being older, for being able to create the masks necessary to move in society as easily as if he where a normal man. Sherlock didn't pick up those particular acting skills until much later. Possibly the one thing he did not immediately excel at. A fact Mycroft will never let him forget. But that is not important. “What are you sorry for, Mycroft?”

“As you have no doubt noticed, things are coming apart rather quickly. The tracker signal on the car I sent for him went dead five minutes ago.”

Sherlock doesn't speak again for several seconds. Mycroft allows him this without comment. Then, “Make of car, registration number, last known location.”

“BMW 760Li M Saloon, LA59 ZJY, they were travelling south on Southampton Row.” Sherlock nods at the security camera trained on him, then puts the phone down and leaves the phone box. Five minutes is nothing, and he can be on Southampton Row in less than ten.

He turns to run when someone stumbles into him, grabbing at his coat in their effort to stay upright.

Sherlock smells the metallic scent of blood before he sees the red blob shaped clots dripping from the mouth of the woman who has walked into him. She stares up at him, unfocused eyes dry and puffy looking. Her dirty fingers leave little crescent shaped groves in the wool of his coat.

“Ah.”

The woman roars. As her calls sound down the road, Sherlock is startled to hear more of her kind call back. The chorus of inhuman voices builds into a deafening sound and Sherlock resists the urge to bring his hands up to cover his ears. The woman is no more than thirty. Was no more than thirty. Her clothing suggests something in retail. A jewellery shop, judging by the shape of her nails and the glinting show pieces dangling from her ears.

Sherlock pushes her away, hard. She falls with a startled grunt, back snapping against the concrete as she lands. He doesn't allow her a second more of his time of attention, leaping over her and back the way he'd come. He is aware that her call was a signal and does not care. He cuts down Oxford Circus and runs towards Tottenham Court Road. John is minutes away in a crashed car. There is no time for these things.

OP LOVES YOU SO MUCH (Anonymous) Expand

FILL: A London Blitz 9/?

(Anonymous)
09.38hrs

John Watson is being strangled to death. The pink stained fingers around his neck are unrelenting as they squeeze tight. A haze begins to form at the corners of his eyes, a slow black laced dance that grows more and more dominant. Although free of his seat belt, the impact from the crash has left little room for movement and all John is able to do is bounce forward in his seat.

He has a minute at most, he knows, unless the pressure from his neck is released. With Anthea still trapped and most likely concussed, he doesn't foresee a likely escape and so he stops thinking about it. His mind decides to picture Sherlock when they first met in that side lab at St. Bart's.

John has never claimed to have a memory as vivid and detailed as his flatmate, but he sees that image with a near perfect recall. Black suit, white shirt (two top buttons undone), stupid hair, arrogant expression, long fingers, smug tone.

As the lights start to go out in his head, John wonders if it can still be love at first sight even though you thought the other person was an arse.

And then he can breathe again. Magic, he assumes, or -

He looks around, blinking tears away and trying to see clearly again because surely it must be Sherlock, come to save the day as usual?

“Knew I wore these blasted things for a reason.” Says a female voice to his right, and John turns his head to see Anthea/Sandra holding up her shoe, the long blunt heel of which is now soaked in blood. John looks to the broken window on his other side now, and sees the head and shoulders of a man slumped over the sharp edges of glass still left in the frame.

He tries not to hyperventilate. Slow, shallow breaths please Doctor. His voice is worse than Mrs Whitehouse's when he speaks. “Thank you.”

She nods at him, firm but smiling, and moves to slip her small foot back into the murder weapon. “I think perhaps a change of vehicle.” She suggests, pulling at the handle on her door. “It was apparently alone, attracted by the noise of the crash, but if it let out a call while we were unconscious there will be more of them here soon enough.”

John is still coughing, running a ran along the line of his neck which he knows by tomorrow will be a nice bright rainbow of bruising. He shifts along to her side of the car though, and exits after she does.

The world is bright after being inside the car, the sun up and shining but the day is a cold one. The wind is bitter and whips at them both. Anthea's hair, mussed by the crash, is sweeping around her face in waves.

John looks down at the car as her words settle enough for him to take them all in. “It?” He asks, leaning against the crash of the car. “Call out?”

Anthea is peering into the wreckage of the driver's compartment. She bows her head for a moment, and John is struck by how human she is when not attached to her beloved phone. “The murders you and Mr Holmes were looking into, the missing bodies, the blood.”

John nods.

“They were caused by a rare strain of mutated cells being researched and grown in a lab at the University of London. A number of test subjects were lost, and the infection jumped species.”

John stops nodding, his expression turns confused, he knows. But his head is still coming to grips with being involved in a car accident and having most of its air supply cut off shortly after. He is sure this allows him at least a little leeway.

Anthea pauses, then apparently decides to be blunt. “The bodies were not taken, Doctor Watson, they continued to move, though being dead in almost every other sense of the word.”

John has been through lots in his life. He has seen war, both in Afghanistan and on the streets of London. He has, though to this day he considers it a mystery, survived being a med student long enough to qualify as a doctor.

He feels he has these life experiences to thank for not simply strolling to the nearest bridge and throwing himself off it. “You mean they're-”

Anthea nods. “For lack of a better word. Yes.”

John looks at her, and he waits until they've made eye contact again before he speaks, because this is important. “I have to get home.”

FILL: A London Blitz 10a/?

(Anonymous)
09.56hrs

Sherlock stops when he gets to Holborn station. He looks down Southampton Row, chest heaving with the excursion. He knows he is not alone here, the road appears deserted, but Sherlock sees deeper. He sees the rotating doors to the One Gallery opposite continue to spin (someone has passed through them recently). He will not be left in peace for long.

He may not have much time. He walks slowly, stepping off the pavement and into the road. There are approximately fifteen cars scattered here, none fitting Mycroft's description but there are more in the distance, a few more minutes walk.

Sherlock's hands slip into his pockets, his shoulders raising against the wind. He is becoming tired now but ignoring it as he always does. Too many variables to consider, too many unanswered questions. His eyes dart, looking for the car, a crash site, John sitting on the side of the road waiting for him...

He shakes his head to clear it. It is a case, nothing more. The case of the missing assistant/flatmate/friend (certain someone he will never ever allow out on his own again).

It is muffled, distant, but the low grown reaches Sherlock's ears and brings him to a stop, head tilting as he tries to locate the person who made it. Were the wind not quite so strong, he might be able to at least discern the direction, but Sherlock stills for more than a minute and hears nothing more, so he continues.

It is then he sees the smoke.

Breathing a curse that he will deny later, Sherlock sprints forward so quickly that for a moment his coat is left flying behind him before it catches up again, catching between his legs.

When Sherlock reaches the car he sees it is steam, not smoke, rising from beneath the collapsed bonnet. He crouches next to it. A lamppost has made a sizable dent in the front of the car, causing it to cave in and no doubt damaging the engine beyond repair. The shape and size of the indented metal at the point of impact suggests the car was travelling at 30-35mph. Enough to throw someone forward in their seat, perhaps, but not enough to cause passengers any serious harm. Provided they were wearing seat belts.

Sherlock stands and moves to the back of the car. The door is closed, but there are scratch patterns that imply it had been forced open from the inside after becoming stuck. When Sherlock opens the door he will not see John's body inside, cut and bleeding. He will find nothing. He is sure.

He hesitates. John is a careful man. Quietly confident. His love of adventure, the thrill of the chase, does not extent to risking his life dying in a car accident. He knows better.

Sherlock opens the door.

He releases a breath, because all he finds are the remains of Mycroft's assistant's phone, crunched into the carpet. He looks through the passenger compartment to see the opposite side window smashed in, the body of a man draped over the space where the window once stood. There is a blunt but deep hole in the side of his head, and blood still drips from it slowly. Interestingly sized wound, too small for a knife of some sort, too big for a pen or anything else that might easier come to hand...

Judging by the remains of the phone, it hit the floor of the car nearest to Sherlock. So the assistant was sitting here.

One of the infected individuals attacked the other passenger, John, mere moments after he was thrown forward with the collision.

Sherlock straightens and closes the door quietly. He is angry, but not enough to risk drawing attention to himself.

FILL: A London Blitz 10b/?

(Anonymous)
Whiplash, concussion, minor cuts and scrapes, bruising. His Watson is wandering around a chaotic city wounded when he should be at home resting. He does not think about the transmission of this infection. How easily it can be passed on. John is fine. He does not think of this mutated cell that reanimates and wipes people clean of feeling and motivation. There is no thrill in searching for criminals that simply have no soul.

Sherlock checks his watch. Lestrade will have had enough time to come to terms with what is happening by now. His brother has certainly begun extracting the people deemed most 'important', that much is clear. A car had been sent for John, but there is no time to analyse Mycroft's motives at this point, it is a thinking point for later and the option to join Mycroft in whatever safe zone he has set up will still be there once he finds John.

He sighs, pulling at his hair. Finding John Watson is becoming an extremely frustrating case, Sherlock thinks, starting to walk again. The backdrop of a London filled with the walking dead is making things needlessly difficult, but at least he has yet to be-

The crunch of broken glass behind him is all the warning he gets before he is sent flying to the ground.

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