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.

FILL: A London Blitz 11a/?

(Anonymous)
10.22hrs

“We should aim for Regents Park, but I need to get to Russell Square first.” Anthea was telling him as they jogged along beside each other.

John doesn't quite know how she was managing to keep up such a steady pace in those shoes, particularly since one had been used to bash someones head in but he nods at her all the same. “What's in Russell Square?” He asks, thankful that dashing about London has become a regular past time of his. Sherlock has certainly kept him fit.

“A bypass system.” She says. “A secure line I can use to locate my employer.”

John notices the way she manages to add the same meaning to the word 'employer' as he does to 'flatmate', and smiles slightly.

She leads them out into the square, the Hotel Russell a looming presence to their left and the circular park stretching out before them. The place is silent and still and John feels a sense of foreboding settle in the pit of his stomach. Anthea has yet to go into much detail about this 'infection', but given that he and Sherlock were looking into a set of (rather mysterious, granted) attacks one minute and now London appears a ghost town the next, he knows it's mutating fast. It is spreading far to quickly for something he would deem a 'natural' affliction.

Anthea pauses, then nods towards an old Cabman's Shelter. John remembers the small bright green building. He thinks it was a café the last time he was here. Last month Mike had insisted on taking him to a lecture at the Senate House. They'd grabbed a drink afterwards, Mike pleased that John still seemed able to function despite not standing beside a certain sociopath.

“Doctor Watson?” Anthea says. He looks down to see her fingers pulling at the sleeve of his jumper where it sticks out from beneath his jacket.

He smiles when she too notices her actions and coughs. He follows her as she steps up to the shelter and fiddles with the heavy metal lock for a minute. John watches her pick the lock then push open the door.

Inside is indeed the layout of a café, albeit a very small one. She moves behind the till and reaches under the counter. John takes a seat on the other side as Anthea pulls out a small laptop.

She retrieves the ear piece she'd had earlier from her pocket and clips it back onto her ear.

“What's Mycroft's plan?” John asks eventually, after he rests his head on his arms and watches her fingers dance across the keyboard for a few seconds.

She looks at him. “No plan as such, at least not for this specific disaster.” She admits eventually. “His mother was transferred as soon as the reports on Sherlock's experiments came in. Then I was sent to pick you up. But standard government procedure involves evacuation. Those with security access level seven and above get first priority, including their families.”

“Why me?”

Anthea pauses to look at him. “Excuse me?”

“Why were you sent to pick me up personally? I mean-” John flounders for a second, because this probably is not the time to be questioning this sort of thing. “I have no security access clearance or whatever.” He stops, looking up at her from where his head is cushioned on his arms. He knows he looks pathetic, but he feels it. The world is changing at a preposterous speed around him, and Sherlock (who sees and understands and sets the world to rights) is nowhere to be found. He knows it foolish to consider the man some sort of hero or protector (has been told so more than once) but he finds it impossible not to when he finds himself this lost.

Anthea continues to simply look at him. “You know why.” Is all she says then, and John sighs.

He does, he thinks. He does know why, but that isn't the problem. Does Sherlock know why he is so important? That, John thinks, is a question probably best left unanswered for the sake of his sanity (and his heart).

FILL: A London Blitz 11b/?

(Anonymous)
“Sir?” Anthea says suddenly.

John sits up.

A buzzing, crackled sound comes from her ear, but although Anthea flinches slightly, she nods in understanding. “I am well.” She says, then; “Yes, we are both well, but my phone did not survive the crash.”

John thinks, or perhaps just imagines, that he hears an apologetic tone to the next set of disjointed sentences she gets in response.

Anthea seems to smile, then shakes her head. “Is the pick up still Regents? Yes, I understand. No, I know. We'll be there.” She pauses, then glances at John before looking away again just as quickly. "Yes Sir. I'll tell him."

And that's all she says before she closes the laptop and pulls the ear piece out again. “We have to hurry.” She says, rounding the counter and pulling him off the stool. Her shoes clip loudly on the wooden flooring as she rushes back to the entrance.

John really, really does not like the tone of voice she uses. “Why?” He says, almost bumping into her as she stops suddenly at the door to the shelter.

She looks back at him. “Because we have to get to the evac point in less than an hour.”

And then John hears it, heart catching in his chest. It is a low, easily missed sound at first, but it builds quickly. It is the sound of a lot of people running, calling to each other in high pitched shrieks. And it's getting closer.

FILL: A London Blitz 12/?

(Anonymous)
10.54hrs

Sherlock comes round slowly; he is flat on his back and his head is ringing. He keeps his eyes closed and takes stock, content for the moment not to move a muscle if he can help it. No broken bones that he can feel, though his hands are sore inside his gloves. He will have put them out in front of his to try and break his fall, of course. Now, what does he remember?

Harsh - haggard breathing, cracking sounds (heavy boots treading over broken glass), a whispered muttering (communicating with someone else?), a shove.

He was pushed from behind and he landed face first onto the pavement but now he's on his back, so his attacker has turned him over. Mumbling, hushed tones float above him, but no one is responding. A single attacker then, and not one of the infected. Drug addict, possibly – heavy footfalls, slow and uncoordinated.

Ridiculous that he should have let someone sneak up on him, especially now – but he will admit that his mind isn't as focused (half of it is someone where else in London entirely, apparently).

The man above him is searching his right lower coat pocket. His phone is in there...

Sherlock's left hand snaps up to grasp the wrist of his attacker so quickly that the man gives a startled cry and falls backwards. Sherlock sits up and releases his grip on the man, then moves to stand in a single fluid movement that proves to be a mistake.

The world shifts to the left slightly, and Sherlock's eyes unfocus for a second. He brings a hand up to his forehead, where a small line of blood has started to drip down from a cut somewhere in his hairline. “Ah.”

“I thought you was dead mate!”

Sherlock looks down through blinking eyes at his attacker. The man is short and unkept, but his eyes hold no signs of addiction – though his fingernails show a good 40+ years of an on/off smoking habit.

“And so you thought you'd help yourself to my possessions?”

The man at least looks apologetic. “I didn't mean to push ya so hard, honest. I was just after yer ID really. I didn't want ta kill anyone. There's enough out there now ta do that for us eh?” He finishes with a yellowish grin.

Sherlock shakes his head again as his eyes glaze over once more and the beginnings of a headache set in. (“Sherlock, stand still. Oh for goodness sake will you just let me check your pupils please? You might have a minor concussion and I'm not carrying you back to Baker Street if you decide to pass out!”)

Then things clear again. “My ID, why?” He snaps, watching the man climb slowly to his feet.

The man pulls at his frayed sleeves. “They ain't lettin anyone through who doesn't have one.” The man says. “Bloody Tories I reckon, prioritising those that pay taxes. If I'd bothered to vote it wouldn't have been for them lemme tell ya!”

Sherlock frowns at the man but nods. It makes sense, though he highly doubts his brother would have planned for this exact circumstance, an evacuation plan would have been in place for the city long before either of them were born. The identification matter was probably a simple filter – even at the worst of times it was important to form an orderly cue, he supposed. Nothing made the public feel more safe.

“Here.” Sherlock says, pulling out his National Insurance card. “Take it.”

The man looks up at Sherlock, shocked, but he quickly snatches the card from him and darts off down the road.

“Cheers mate!”

Sherlock pulls a tissue from his pocket and dabs at the blood pooling above his right eye. He has no plans to go to wherever his brother will be lining people up to escape the city and its new occupants. He intends to return to Baker Street regardless of the infection. When his card is presented his brother will understand his intentions.

And send a private helicopter, with any luck, once he and John are reunited.

FILL: A London Blitz 13a/?

(Anonymous)
11.07hrs

John tries not to think of Afghanistan, he tries to concentrate on running as fast as he can and making sure his grip on Anthea's hand stays tight. He can hear is own breathing, loud and shallow, above the horrible noises coming from behind them.

Next to him Anthea is keeping up the pace like a professional runner, despite her 3 inch Gucci heels. She looks over at him and smiles, though he can see the fear in her eyes as clearly as he bets she can see it in his own.

No more than a hundred yards behind them, a group of about twenty people are screaming and shouting to each other as they give chase. Their quiet moans were nothing compared to the shrill, high pitched cries which sounded the moment he and Anthea had decided to make a run for it.

“You know the way?” John had whispered.

“Of course! Ten minutes, maybe less if we run like the clappers.” She'd said with the same kind of look John had seen cross his flatmate's face so many times.

There was probably something psychologically wrong with him somewhere, he thought, feeling his legs go hot as he kept running as fast as he possibly could. Most people's reaction to that kind of determined, intense (and maybe slightly serial killer-ish?) expression wasn't to feel a sense of complete trust and safety.

But then that's what had drawn him to Sherlock, wasn't it? The danger, the adventure of it all. That feeling of being so damn special, because although there weren't many who would put up with someone like Sherlock Holmes, there were probably even less people that Sherlock would put up with himself.

Anthea squeezes at his hand then, and points up ahead of them. They've made it to Euston Road, and now it is a straight line to the south entrance to Regent's Park and, with any luck, to safety.

John wonders if Anthea feels the same kind of way about Mycroft as he does about Sherlock...

The mob behind them seems to sense that they are running out of time to catch their pray, because suddenly an almighty, horrible roar rises up from behind them.

Anthea staggers in surprise, and John turns himself to set her right, looking over his shoulder as he does so.

There is a man at the front of the pack, faster than the others, glaring back at John with an expression John knows will be staying with him for a long time. It is pure hate; an evil, frightening glare that forces John to look away again quickly.

He forces them both forward with a burst of speed, pulling Anthea along with him. Anthea gasps at the sudden movement but sprints forward with him.

The entrance to the park is only just in sight when the first shot rings out. John feels himself duck a second too late, soilder's instincts kicking in. He brings an arm up over Anthea's head to bring her down with him as well. It decreases their speed, but it looks like they're already close enough to safety for that to no longer matter.

At the large black gates that mark the entrance to Regent's Park, two great towers have been erected. At the very top snipers are stationed, laser sights trained on the mob chasing them down.

The first few shots do nothing to deter the infected at the back, but soon the shower of bullets force the group to disband and run back off into the nearest back alleys and side streets to escape.

“Sir, Ma'am, please raise your hands and present yourselves for examination!” A booming voice comes from above them.

Panting but composed, Anthea steps forward, raising her hands and walking towards the officers on the ground. Their guns are trained on her all the way, but after she's spoken a few words they are lowered. She turns back to where John remains standing before the gates, arms still raised.

“Please Doctor, this way.” She says, gesturing in front of her.

But John is too busy looking into the park. Large green and white canvas tens have been put up, spreading out in every direction for miles. The equipment he can see from here looks almost like the sort you get at an airport – large metal looking archways and scanners. Off in the distance he can make out helicopters and a few small jets. But the view is nothing compared to the noise.

Millions upon millions of people are gathered here, children and adults alike shouting and crying...

FILL: A London Blitz 13b/?

(Anonymous)
“John.” Anthea says, placing a hand on his arm. “This way.”

“Sherlock isn't in there, is he?” John says suddenly. His eyes break away from the mass of people as he understands now why the streets of London are so deserted. Everyone who is alive and not infected with this strange affliction is here.

For a moment Anthea hesitates, as if she wants to lie to him, but she simply shakes her head.

John bends then, placing his hands on his knees. He is fit, it's true, but that doesn't mean he likes the idea of another mad dash through London.

“He'll have gone home then.” He tells her, looking up with a grin. “The only reason he isn't here is because he thinks that's where I am.”

Anthea sighs at him. She steps out of her shoes and lets them hang from her fingertips. “My employer would advise you to stay here and let him send someone to go to Baker Street and pick him up.”

John grins at her. “Your employer, hmm?”

She blinks at him for a second then John is almost sure that she blushes ever so slightly. “Oh shut up.”

“Sir?”

They both look round as an officer approaches. John tilts his head slightly, expectant. The officer reaches into a back pocket and pulls out a service revolver then passes it to John.

John takes it, surprised. “Just following orders, Sir.” He says, gesturing to his ear piece before walking back to take his place in the defense line.

“They think they know bloody everything, those Holmes'.” John says after a second, looking down at the gun and then checking the safety is on before tucking it into his jacket pocket.

Anthea nods, then motions up to the security camera looking down at them from the gate.

John nods to it as well, then watches as it turns away to monitor the street.

"One more thing-" John starts, but Anthea simply smiles then cuts him off.

"Your family have been taken care of." She tells him. "Your sister and mother are fine."

John lets out a breath, suddenly thankful again that Mycroft decided to take a shine to him.

“Be careful, Doctor Watson.” Anthea tells him.

John nods, the figures what the hell, and pulls her into a quick hug. It lasts just over a second and then they neglect their goodbyes in favour of walking in opposite directions.

John will be back, he thinks, looking left and right and then turning to dash down Marylebone Road. It'll take him five minutes at most to get to Baker Street.

And if a certain Consulting Detective isn't waiting for him, there'll be hell to pay.


FILL: A London Blitz 14/?

(Anonymous)
11.07hrs

Sherlock rounds the corner of Baker street slowly. He is tired, for once, though it isn't just his body which protests. That, he thinks, he easy enough to ignore (especially when John isn't with him to nag about the shadows around his eyes). It's his mind which is fatigued now. There is no more mystery here, he knows exactly what is happening. He knows that at pre-determined points in the city mass evacuation procedures are being carried out. He knows his brother and mother are safely gone already. He suspects that John's family are as well, though for reasons he is not prepared to vocalise just yet.

The door to 221b is the same as when he left it earlier this morning. He pulls out his keys and opens it, stepping inside. His hands shake slightly as it closes quietly behind him. Past the stairs, the door to 221a is unlocked and open. A note from Mrs Hudson lies on the hall table.

Dis-jointed, messy writing (Mrs Hudson conducts her letters with time and care, usually – her handwriting small and cursive). It was written in haste.

Sherlock, John,
I hope you are both safe, if you read this I am about to leave myself for Regent's park with some kind young men who tell me they are with the Government. I'm assured you know them. Please get out of the city if you haven't already my dears – let me know you're okay somehow.
Mrs H.


Sherlock nods and folds the note, then carefully places it in his jacket pocket.

He looks up the stairs to 221b. The door is open, but that in itself is hardly unusual. He takes an umbrella from the hat stand by the front door in any case, and walks soundlessly up the stairs.

His breathing shallows, his body allowing him some last few minutes of adrenaline. He knows John is not here yet. He would have come down to meet him when he'd heard Sherlock at the door.

John is a gentle and cautious man in many respects, but when either of them are in peril his careful posture turns to one of action. This transformation from quiet companion to almost bodyguard has saved their lives often. John is impulsive and unguarded in these instances and Sherlock is thankful for that – he rather suspects John would be in his arms now, had he arrived home first. He does not know in what capacity (friend or, friend and more, perhaps?) but it would be a welcome comfort in either case.

The flat is silent when he walks in. No infected individuals have touched the place in their search for victims. Unlike so many of the buildings he's past to get back, there isn't a broken window or door in sight.

He sets down the umbrella on the coffee table and looks down at the sofa. He had caught a taxi to St Bart's at 6am this morning. He'd left John to sleep in this room, after he'd first been woken, then lulled back to sleep by Sherlock's violin playing. Sherlock had placed a worn woollen blanket over him. John appreciated things like that, though he was often warm in sleep instead cold.

Sherlock thinks of the ache John must have had in his neck when he'd woken up again this morning. He would have cleared away both their mugs and made himself a fresh cup of tea before he'd gotten Sherlock's texts about the woman's husband. He thinks of the crashed BMW on Southampton Row, of the whiplash that would have made John's neck that much worse. The attack from the rear window and the speed at which he and Mycroft's assistant would have had to sustain to reach safety would have made him tired by now. His shoulder would be stiff with the exertion, painful.

He'd only seen the infected individuals from a distance, but it was enough to deduce how a lack of self awareness had made them incredibly fast. Fast enough to catch up to a man tired and suffering from old wounds, perhaps.

Even is this is not the case, there is no guarantee that John will in fact return to Baker Street. He may have been persuaded to remain at an evacuation point. Perhaps Mycroft has assured him that he will deliver Sherlock safely there as well...

Sherlock shakes his head -no. John is fine and will return, he is sure of it.

He sits on their sofa to wait.

FILL: A London Blitz 15/?

(Anonymous)
11.15hrs

John does not intend to stop until he reaches 221b, but the shot that whips past his head on the corner of Luxborough Street is enough to send him sprawling to the ground. He hits the pavement with a thud, but quickly scrambles up enough to make it behind a set of bins and pulls the revolver out from the pocket of his jacket.

The bullet hole in the wall not a foot from him is small but smoking. A precision weapon then, army issue sniper? But why would they be firing at him?

“Oi!” He shouts, heart in his throat.

“Oh, sorry mate!” Comes a surprised voice, echoing down the deserted road.

John risks looking up over his make-shift cover to find the source of the voice. There's no one visible at street level, however...

“Up here!”

John looks up. Sitting on one of the small balconies above the street, a man sits in a deck chair, sniper rifle tucked under one arm. On the table next to him John can see a pot of tea and a mug cheerfully steaming away. The vision is so absurdly domestic considering the circumstances that John wants to laugh for a second.

“Er- Hi.” John calls up, standing slowly. He shifts the gun from one hand to the other, making a short show to let the guy know he's not unarmed and capable of defending himself if need be.

“I thought you was one of them!” The man says with a laugh. John watches as he places his rifle next to his chair and stands, reaching for his mug. In return, John pockets the revolver again and allows himself a breath. “Wouldn't have wasted the bullet had I known!”

“What are you doing up there?” John asks, incredulously. He walks down a few paces and stands below the balcony. “Why haven't you evacuated?”

The man frowns and shrugs, taking a slip from his mug and setting it down again. He moves to lean over the balcony railings. “What's the point?” He says. “They'll spread as far as we can run from 'em anyway. Besides, I've almost paid off my mortgage now and I ain't starting again somewhere bloody else!”

John blinks, unsure whether to be amused or alarmed. “But- you'll be alone if you stay here!” John can't think of anything worse.

The man gives him a laugh in response. “You're still here!”

John rubs a hand across his face. “I wont be for long, I just have to go get my-” He stumbles then, unsure of what he wants to say - Flatmate, friend, partner, and what decides to come out is simply, embarrassingly, “Sherlock!”

The man looks down at him, confused, “Your what mate?”

John coughs, “Look it doesn't matter, but you really should go! You can't stay there for long, you'll run out of food or bullets at some point and you'll need help!”

The man waves a hand at him, “Thanks but no thanks, really. I'm fine here.” He stretches and sits down again, picking up his rifle and setting it across his lap. “Good luck to ya though!” He calls as John sighs and starts to jog back towards Baker Street once more. “And don't shoot all of 'em will you? Leave some for me!”

John shakes his head and wills his legs to go faster. He is so close now and, worryingly, has no idea what he's going to do if he gets back to the flat and Sherlock isn't there.

His thoughts become more clear as he finally rounds the corner and reaches the door to their home though. He pauses in front of it, trying to get his breath back. It's been hours since he's heard from Sherlock, only the confident looks Anthea had been giving him were proof that he was even still alive.

It is the thought of Sherlock lying somewhere, bleeding while horrendous infected faces smile above his body, that finally gives John the push he needs to unlock the door and step in. He hopes Sherlock is here, he really does – but even if he isn't – John has to know.

FILL: A London Blitz 16a/16!

(Anonymous)
11.30hrs

The reunion of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson is somewhat anticlimactic in the first instance, due largely to the fact that when John finally climbs the stairs and enters the flat, he finds Sherlock asleep on the sofa.

He stops and sighs, feeling the tension which has kept his body wound tight since the car accident leave him in a sudden but steady rush. Sherlock is still and breathing softly, crashed out and legs sprawled.

John smiles a little, relieved but still very much aware that the danger is far from over. Still he moves forward silently and sits on the edge of the sofa, in the space where Sherlock's stomach is curved inwards. He leans on his arms, knees spread apart to balance himself.

The movement is enough to make Sherlock stir, and John reaches over to pat his shoulder gently.

“Of all the times to give in to your body's need to rest.” John chides quietly, watching Sherlock blink himself awake. “A zombie apocalypse isn't exactly the best time.”

Sherlock sits up on his elbows, eyes darting over John quickly before looking at him steadily with an eyebrow raised. “Zombies John, really.”

John shifts and blushes a little. “Yes well, you know, they kind of are though, aren't they.”

Sherlock shakes his head in disappointment. “If Lestrade heard you speak like that-”

“He'd probably agree with me!” John argues back, “I bet that's what the press are calling them if there still is a pr-”

Sherlock cuts the rest of John's sentence off by kissing him.

He feels John's breath whoosh out in a surprised sigh, but he doesn't move away. Sherlock will be the first to admit he isn't an expert at this sort of thing, but there have been a few times in his life when it has been appropriate to take such an action.

This is different though because he isn't doing it for information, for a case or for experimentation. He is doing it because he needs to. Because the last half a day has been far too long.

John feels a rush of warmth spread from his lips where they're pressed against Sherlock's all the way to his toes. There's no urgency or even what he'd call passion, just a press of lips and shared breath and a feeling that everything is normal now. Which is ridiculous really.

John pulls back enough to get his breath and smile before he reaches to pull Sherlock closer, arms around his back and fingers in this hair. He leans in and buries his face in Sherlock's neck, closing his eyes. Sherlock is still for a few seconds before returning the embrace.

Far above them, the sounds of helicopters taking off echoes through the streets. John imagines he can hear the people on board, crying with relief, looking down at the homes they're having to leave behind.

They stay like that for a time before Sherlock, inevitably, breaks the silence. “So this habit of pursuing separate lines of investigation in order to move a case forward at a faster pace.”

John looks up at his chin but doesn't move to pull away. “Yes?”

Sherlock pauses. John can feel his heart beating even though Sherlock is still wearing his coat and about a million other layers. “I rather think we should put a stop to that sort of thing.”

John's eyebrows raise even though he knows Sherlock can't see him. “Oh really?”

“It's proving to be rather detrimental to my health. As a doctor you are bound by a duty of care to prevent such things.” Sherlock says, all in one quick rush.

John laughs a little, sitting up. He looks Sherlock square in the eyes and imagines he can see all the care he feels reflected in them. Sherlock isn't the sort to kiss someone unless he wants to, John knows that. In fact, Sherlock isn't the kind of person to even acknowledge you unless he feels the need. John hopes it isn't just the worry and the uncertainty making Sherlock act like this. “All right Sherlock, fair point.”

FILL: A London Blitz 16b/16!

(Anonymous)
Sherlock nods and kisses him again, quick but firm. Then looks at John again and nods to himself, satisfied that the world has, in fact, righted itself now. He can think clearly once more. He lays his forehead against John's shoulder, and John suddenly realises he's practically in the Consulting Detective's lap now.

“No more going outside on your own.” Sherlock mumbles into his jacket.

John has to bite his lip not to laugh outright. Sherlock sounds utterly serious, and the world has clearly gone mad. Well, even more than before anyway.

“At any other time I'd probably be up for arguing about this.” John says, just as the door to 221b Baker Street collapses inwards with a bang.

They're both on their feet in seconds, John's borrowed revolver in his hands and Sherlock wielding the umbrella he'd brought upstairs like a samurai sword.

“But given the circumstances I'm inclined to agree.” John finishes, as a chorus of loud, mournful moans come from downstairs.

“My brother will have gotten my message. We'll be picked up any minute, all being well.” Sherlock tells him, eyes not moving from where they've spotted the movement at the foot of the stairs.

“All being well?” John says, hand as steady as always, Sherlock notes with a certain pride.

“What do you think to making a run for it?” Sherlock asks, the same boyish excitement in his voice that comes with the start of a new adventure.

John spares a second to smile at him. “I'll expect a cup of tea afterwards.”

Sherlock nods. “Of course.”

“And a decent shag.”

Sherlock almost looses his grip on the umbrella. “Yes, well.”

The sound of John Waston's laughter travels a long way before being swallowed up by the shrieks and groans of the city's new populace.

And so they stand, side by side in the middle of their flat ready to face London's grim new age, weapons raised.

Author!Anon

(Anonymous)
Oh my god 11,000 words. /collapses in a pitiful heap. OP I am so sorry, I fail at kinkmemes! This was supposed to be short and done and not one of those terrible WIPs that keep people hanging on for ages!!

THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who took the time to read and comment! This was such a blast to write, and I'm so tempted to defib my old LJ just to fix it up. There was so much I left out from the prompt as well. Lestrade leading the police rescue operations and Anderson has set up camp at the Tower of London and Molly is using Sherlock's research to create a cure and Mycroft and Anthea are King and Queen of the new UK and ugh SO MUCH MORE! But this got long enough lol.

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed reading it! I love this fandom so damn much, you're all so lovely and fantastic!! <3

Author!Anon
xxx :D

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