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His arms burned with the weight of John, but he pushed forward. In the distance, amid the cracked, dry land, stood what looked to be a door.
Perhaps this was it, the place Mycroft’s cryptic message had pointed to. Sherlock grabbed every last ounce of energy and took step after step, bridging the distance between them and the concrete door.
The sun was harsh and no shade, they had left all that in the rubble of London, and marched forward towards the countryside, where the desert stretches, and mutated birds chirp once every few days.
Thirty months following the bombings, the sky has cleared, but the ozone layer barely held, and the once warm sun is now a murderous ball of blazing gases, raining rays of hell on them.
Sherlock was dehydrated, and weak, and John even more so with his injury.
Sherlock wasn’t even sure if he was alive, he dared not to check, but kept taking the steps forward, till his knees shook, and gave up on the weight of them, mere meters away from the beacon of hope.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Twenty Eight Hours Later…
His lips were cracked dry, and stung against the cold air. He lay on a soft, foreign surface. Could it possibly be a bed?
“Brother mine, you’re in the east medical facility,” spoke someone by his side. The voice oddly familiar and –
“John?” Sherlock choked out, opening his eyes in search of Mycroft.
“Don’t talk, Sherlock, you need rest,” Mycroft replied, offering a glass of water.
Sherlock stared at his brother, something wasn’t right. “John? Okay?”
Mycroft’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. “We don’t know.”
“What. Do you mean?”
“He’s not here, I rather hoped he’d have been with you.”
Sherlock’s world came crashing down.