Work Text:
Day 24
John’s shoulders remained hunched, his head hung low, and the campfire flames danced across his thin, weary face, hardening the lines around his eyes, and highlighting the grey strands in his hair.
My John has aged exponentially over these last few weeks, but still, he remains my one and only, John.
I continued brewing the tea, an activity I have taken up since John injured his hands during a near fatal run in with one of the Infected while trying to help a woman. That was last week, the woman didn’t survive. John gave her a funeral, I think he knew her from before, but he never confirmed nor denied.
We’re back in the town he grew up on the outskirts of London, in the countryside. Less people, less infected. We made camp in one of the abandoned farms, for now, till his hands are able to carry his weapons again, despite John’s protest that they should keep going forward, that time isn’t on their side.
Word has it that the government is trying to set up survivor camps across what was formerly known as England, before Day Zero. No word from Mycroft. We don’t know whether those camps are functioning or abandoned. Or if they even exist.
All I know is that it gives John a goal forward, and to that, I am thankful. He has suffered enough as it is, watching the people he – we – love, either die or turn into Infected.
I stand up, cradling his tea between my palms, and make my way to sit by his side.
“Thanks,” he says, voice raspy with disuse. We travel the lands silently these days, both of us silently grieving, lost to thoughts of what was and what ifs.
“Are….you….okay?” I ask, already knowing the answer but giving him the space to talk. Isn’t that what he did with Ella? Isn’t that what people do, talk about their feelings?
“Are you?” He turned his head to meet my questioning eyes, “and don’t tell me you’re doing alright, Sherlock, because I know you’re not, too. Nobody is, after what happened over the last month.”
“No. No, we’re not okay,” my voice is heavy with emotion, uncharacteristic of me, I try to clear it away. “At least we can get a good sleep tonight.”
He nods in agreement and jerks his head across the house and takes off, leaving me to put out the fire, and walk back alone.
I trudge up the stairs, one at a time, counting them. Noticing the way the wood bends inwards on some steps, or the wear of certain places on the steps, judging from the family photos they’re from a medical cane. But he already knew that. Knew the exact type of cane, knew the likely injury on the wearer and how long he’s had it.
This new world has no less mysterious in it. Predicting the infected and studying their behaviour has occupied his time enough, in between watching John or looking out for Mycroft’s possible clues left for him.
At the top step, I noticed the door to my bedroom open. I quickly barricaded the steps, as we did when we first arrived and settled in for a few days. The only way up is the stairs, and the Infected aren’t smart. At least, not yet.
I walk by the short hallway, going over the reasons John’s in there. Because it has to be him. Or wait, could it be an…I drew up my gun as I entered the room slowly.
“Jesus! Sherlock, you scared me, you git,” John sags on the chair by the window.
The insult is like a melody to his ears. It’s been 13 days and…14 minutes but my watch stopped working so…right. John. 13 days since he last spoke to me in that tone beyond a courtesy or talking business about routes and the Infected.
“I – Ugh,” John hesitates as I watch him, trying to peace what he’s about to say when he suddenly stands, straightens, and talks business. Only this business is peculiar and I’m not questioning what’s behind it, only because I want it too.
“Why two bedrooms? We can barricade one, it’s safer that way, and I can always take the flo – ”
“No,” I say, a bit too quickly, “I mean, we can share the bed.”
We looked at each other, something unspoken passed between us, nodded, and each took a side of the bed.
I will not dwell on what’s on my heart, nor think about his for fear of my biases or misinterpretation when it comes to matters of the heart.
Despite that, I woke up with him in my arms. I wish that were the case for the last twenty four days, and I wish that were the case for the next twenty four years.
I know he’s awake not because I felt his muscles tighten up, but because he whispers, “gun!”