Chapter Text
It started some time ago over in South America. At first it was just a simple, yet surprisingly contagious flu that spread like wildfire through the suburbs of the greater cities. No one took notice.
Then a handful of days later the more disturbing symptoms kicked in. There were reports of people who lost their minds to the infection. It was easily quieted down.
But then the first death reports came in, and the whole continent panicked. In a matter of days the streets were filled to the bursting point with dead, rotting bodies and the barely-alive limping around in search of those who had remained uninfected.
Thirteen days after the first reported death, Paraguay closed its borders. Then Peru followed, and the rest of South America. The States barricaded the borders.
At first there had been cries of help from the other side of the closed doors, but as time went by the voices faded. In the end, they disappeared.
On May 22nd the borders were opened for a single day, in order to let into the States the few, remaining survivors. There were only very few left, and they were thoroughly checked for carrying the virus.
Nine days later, on the official mourning day of the hundreds of millions of deceased, another outbreak occurred in Albuquerque. This time the disease was unstoppable.
In a matter of days the dead were piling up again, and this time, borders was no boundary. It bled through the lands, covering its track in the dark-red blood of its victims. Nothing would stop it.
Reports were vague and absurd, mostly because the vast majority of witnesses to the disease had died. The clearest description of the symptoms was spoken on international television on the 18th of June by a Japanese woman who had fled for her life in a truck.
She said the victims had died and risen from their death, filled with anger, mindlessness and hunger.
“John!” the deep voice of Sherlock Holmes called as he burst through the doors of his flatmates bedroom.
John was sitting on the bed with a book in his hands and he looked up puzzled at the disturbance.
For a moment the newly arrived just stood in the doorway staring at his friend in silence. He was holding tightly onto his phone.
“Mycroft’s just called. It has reached Paris.”
More silence as John tried to grasp the information he was given.
“But... how has it reached Europe? I though they closed all borders!” John tumbled out of bed and stood slightly baffled on the middle of the floor, ready to take action but unaware of which action to take.
“Not soon enough apparently.” Sherlock said in a low voice, not daring to look into John’s eyes. He suddenly leaped away from the doorway and started gathering clothes from drawers and cupboards.
“Don’t you think they can stop it crossing the English Channel?” John asked in a voice that mimicked those of the news reporters who had proclaimed the safety of Britain. In order to do something he started picking up the stuff Sherlock threw around, holding it all in his arms.
“The Atlantic didn’t stop it; I don’t see why the channel should.” Sherlock said as he started throwing socks at him. “And that even if they have closed all traffic. Misery is good soil for desperation, and desperate thoughts lead to desperate actions; people will cross anyway.”
“Yes, of course.” John said, not giving up on carrying everything. “Wait. Hold on! What are you doing?” he asked furiously, not understanding what Sherlock was doing in his underwear drawer.
“I am packing for you. Mycroft have arranged to get you to this nice, quiet little island up in the North that hasn’t seen human life for the past couple of years. You’ll be safe there.”
“I’ll be safe?” John asked in vain.
“Yes. Indeed you will. You will stay there for a couple of months or so; until the mainland has gone quiet. It is as safe as one can get in this mad world. I have it arranged.” Sherlock pulled out a trunk and filled it with the stuff he’d gathered from around the room.
John stood quiet and stared at his flatmate. Sherlock refused to turn around and look at him as he suddenly found great interest in pulling out shoes and picking the ones that John would need. His refusal to turn to see his friend was too persistent to be coincidental.
John did not break eye contact with the back of Sherlock’s head. He stared for a moment at the curls and wondered what would happen to him. He had yet to say what he would be doing about this inevitable threat.
“What about you?” John asked cautiously. His voice was soar and squeaking from worry.
“Me?” Sherlock asked as if his own safety had not yet crossed his mind.
“Yes, you. What will you do? You’re coming with me, right?”
Sherlock turned to his friend and his eyes was struck by an unusual concern.
“Of course I won’t.” He said with sore throat. “I stay in London.”
“Sherlock, are you out of your bloody mind?!” hissed John. “You won’t stand a chance in the middle of London!”
“No, I won’t. But I have things to finish before I flee.”
“And what might these things be, huh?” asked John feeling an unexpected rage rise inside him. “If you even dare suggest that a case is more important than your life, then I can assure you that the killer will find his own justice, just as everyone else!”
Sherlock had gone silent for a moment.
“No. It’s not a case.” He took a deep breath and looked into his flatmate’s eyes. “I need to make sure everyone’s safe.”
John was shocked and unable to speak.
“Safe?” his weathered voice repeated.
“Yes. First you. I get you safe first; take you to Isle of Passio. Then after I have made sure that you can’t be harmed, I will return to the city. I will ensure Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and miss Hooper, and then I will flee.”
“You will join me on the Isle of Parto?” John asked.
“Passio. And no, I won’t. Your life will be at stake in case I am a bearer of the disease when I am done here. I will not risk it.”
John would have protested, but in that moment the display Sherlock’s phone lid up in his hand. He looked down and read the text.
Car’s here. –MH
“Your transport is here. I have already packed supplies for you. Mycroft’s provided what we didn’t have.”
Sherlock had suddenly turned very practical. He no longer fiddled with John’s stuff or made unnecessary movements of any kind. He picked up the rest of the stuff and dragged it down the stairs to the main room.
“Sherlock!”
The main room of the flat had a small pile of trunks and bags in the middle of the floor. Plates and vases lay smashed on the floor, obviously pushed down in Sherlock’s search for supplies. On top of the pile of bags lay a handgun and a harpoon.
A man dressed as a London cabby stood silent by the door. Sherlock stared at him and waited for him to talk.
“Mycroft’s send me. Nine from seven.”
“Seven from five.” returned Sherlock promptly.
They nodded at each other after this exchange of code. The cabby started carrying the luggage down and Sherlock was about to follow him, as John lay a hand on his shoulder.
“Please, Sherlock. You need to come with me,” he whispered. The taller man stared down at him, and he was sure that he saw a moment of weakness in his eyes. Then it was gone like figure of smoke that was brushed away by the wind and Sherlock tensed.
“No, I’ll be staying here. You’re safe. That’s enough for me.” He told him fiercely, trying to make it sound an order. “You will go now.”
“No.” The authority in his voice was one that could only be found in members of the army. He refused to be denied. “You are coming to the island, and you are staying with me. It is not your job to take care of everyone. I am sure they are all capable of keeping themselves safe.”
He moved an inch closer to seem dominant, but the massive height difference between them didn’t help him. “You can’t take care of yourself. You will get yourself in unnecessary danger. It is better that you take to the Isle of Pasas with me now.”
“Passio.” Sherlock corrected him. “But I won’t have that. I am staying. You need not worry...”
“NO!” John found himself shouting and wondered if they could be heard by the flat inhabitants beneath them. Then he realised he didn’t bloody care.
“You go with me!”
“I can’t, John!” Sherlock sneered.
“You have to. I won’t go if you don’t go with me.”
John could see in Sherlock’s eyes that he felt defeated. The determined exterior melted away, and he could see how Sherlock never really wanted to leave John. He may want to stay, but not as much as he wanted his friend to go. And John was not late to take advantage of this. He couldn’t withhold a slight smirk.
“Are you coming with me?” he asked, more tenderly this time.
“Yes.” Sherlock said in an airy voice. His long, elegant hand reached up and caressed John’s face, lightly stroking his cheeks and twirling his fingers around his hair. “But only for you.”
John was short of words, but he didn’t need them. He leaned closer to his friend and traced his jaw line with the soft tip of his finger. Some part of his brain pointed out to him, that the two of them had never been this physically close, but it didn’t seem to matter to him.
He knew Sherlock and he knew himself. He knew the world was dying.
The two of them were going to the Island, but both he and Sherlock knew that they were unlikely to survive it. Neither the Atlantic, nor the channel had stopped anything, and though the island may be their best chance, it wasn’t a good one.
They looked at each other, so dangerously close, and both of them knew that a dying world called for action. It demanded that every feeling, every impulse was acted upon: otherwise it would all too suddenly perish.
In the very moment John realised that, he rose to the tip of his toes and brought the two of them so achingly close.
John could feel Sherlock’s heavy warm breath and soon he devoured the last distance between them and kissed his lips. He felt Sherlock’s warm lips and skin and his hands that gripped tighter around him. Their lips opened as the kiss deepened, and John could suddenly feel the hunger in Sherlock’s movement, the starved sensation that was their physical contact.
John lost track of time for a moment and could not tell how long had passed, when Sherlock broke their kiss momentarily to whisper something in his ear.
“Goodbye, John.” He said, and John felt a sudden, stinging pain in his neck.
He stumbled away from Sherlock in confusion and fumbled with the small and sharp object his friend had stung into his neck. He pulled it lose and stared at the needle.
He looked in shock at Sherlock, and could already feel the dizziness rush upon him.
“I am sorry. I need to keep you safe.” Sherlock told him in a voice that almost dared to quiver.
Then the drug overpowered John, and he fell to the floor, as large spots of black covered his sight.