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His eyes pop open as he stifles his urge to leap up and fight. It's always like this, now. He runs a quick, motionless, silent check:
Heart – still beating.
Bed – still under him.
Sound – not much more than some scuffling and an occasional moan.
Room – still secure, though he'll have to make his way to a place where he can loot some better locks for the door.
Flamethrower – still lying by his side and behaving itself.
He gets up. He has to piss, but the toilet will make too much noise. He sighs and relieves himself in the shower, wishing fervently that he could just bloody wash himself. But he remembers what happened the last time he did that. Not good.
It's been three weeks. The mob should move on, now. It should have moved on a week ago, but Poole is slightly big and tricky to navigate. It's also soulless in every way; so he's a bit surprised that the zombies haven't gone on to find fresh game.
And then there's screaming outside, and he has to decide whether to intervene or stay put in the room he appropriated from the last person – real person – who'd offered him food and companionship. Rita, her name was, though it's fading fast from his memory. They'd had a desperate shag, enough booze to wipe out the memory that she was married, and then they'd arranged to take turns having a shower.
He doesn't want to think about that.
He rubs his forehead, wishing that he could get a large coffee somewhere. But even if it were available, he couldn't have any. Judging by the sounds coming through the window, the bloke being eaten outside might have made that mistake. Why hadn't anyone ever mentioned that zombies had an acute sense of smell, or that coffee is both an eating trigger and an attractant that will draw them from miles – literally bloody miles – around?
Chocolate. That'll be a good substitute for coffee – lots of theobromine in the dark stuff. Besides, his limbic system could stand a boost. It's a bit depressing raiding well-stocked, empty shops that nobody's even around to loot, anymore. At least the chocolate isn't attractive to zombies. And it might stop him from wondering why he doesn't just let himself be eaten or zombified. Or should that be zombicated? Zombificated?
"Fuck," he mouths. I've got to get out of here. I'm going mad.
He's very careful as he starts to lift the flamethrower. It's more compact than previous models, but it's still temperamental and can be noisy as he puts it on.
He doesn't imagine Sherlock using it to burn a smiley into the wall of 221B any more than he imagines Mrs Hudson's protest in response.
He has to pause and breathe the not-imagining away because he can't scream. Even if the zombies weren't a threat, screaming is the worst thing he can do. It's too alive. Which Sherlock and Mrs Hudson aren't.
Sherlock.
He hasn't thought of Sherlock in – he looks at the clock on the wall.
It's still stuck on 1:07. Or maybe it's 13:07.
Probably fifteen hours. He hasn't thought of Sherlock in fifteen hours, give or take. Fifteen hours is good ... pathetic, but good.
He shakes himself mentally out of remembering the last time he saw Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. He's gone over it so many times in his head that their faces are starting to warp.
It's been six months since the Zombie Apocalypse, and longer than that since Sherlock announced his continued presence on the planet. Only two weeks longer, John notes, which brings him face to face with the last time he saw the man – thirteen days after his return from 'death' and one day before London ended.
"John, will you—"
"No." John sidesteps Sherlock to pack the last of his shirts into his suitcase.
Sherlock folds his arms and stares, stony-faced. "It's your turn to get the milk."
"It has never been my turn to get the milk. From this point forward, if you want me to get the milk, you will go ... milkless."
"John, I'm—"
"Don't. Just ... Sherlock, please ... don't." John closes his suitcase and moves towards the door.
Sherlock stands in his way.
John sighs, looking straight ahead. It puts his eyes at about chin level, which is awkward but good. If he looks slightly down, he looks submissive and vulnerable, and it puts his focus on Sherlock's disturbingly stunning neck. If he looks slightly up, he looks pleading and vulnerable, and his focus is on those lips—he can't think about those lips. Looking straight ahead is the soldierly thing to do, and it keeps his focus on that ridiculous, whacking great chin, which—
Sherlock moves out of the way.
John walks out the door of his room, but not before Mrs Hudson walks into the flat.
"John, I just wanted to give you this." She holds out a small box. "I'll miss you."
John takes the box and sighs as the scent of shortbread wafts from it. "I'll miss you, too, Mrs Hudson." He puts down the suitcase and hugs her as best he can with the box in his hand. "Thank you for everything."
Mrs Hudson gives him a short, hard hug and lets him go. "You're always welcome here, dear."
"Yes, well.... Must be off, or I'll miss my train. Bye-bye."
As he picks up his suitcase, he glances at Sherlock, and their eyes meet. It's horrible because this time, their parting is his choice, and no matter how right he knows it is to leave, nothing has ever felt more wrong.
He's been in Poole for a month – three weeks longer than he'd planned to be there as he heads back on foot to where it all began. He'd thought that he'd miss the worst of it, but it seems that zombies also like things like water, tourist attractions and shopping centres, even when the tourists have been eaten or zombi—made into zombies.
Of course, the zombie shopping mall in Reading had been a stroke of genius for them – none of the zombie devotees who'd signed up for it had guessed that the zombie apocalypse inside comprised real zombies practicing their tactics. Same with the manor house in Warrington, and especially that place up in the Lake District. Nobody came out of that one alive. Credit where it's due, the prohibition of photos and videos so as 'not to ruin the story-line for others' was brilliant.
John's focus is pulled by a new sound from outside.
Silence.
There's not a single sound.
This is wrong.
It's horrible.
He doesn't move a muscle except to breathe, and he does that as silently as possible.
And then he hears the street door opening.
Closing.
Footsteps on the floor in the foyer.
Footsteps on the stairs – first floor landing, second floor, third, fourth – his floor.
The doorknob is moving.
The door is being shaken.
There's a knock on the door. "John...."
John primes the flamethrower. "Are you—" He hasn't spoken in three weeks. Not one word. He clears his throat. "Are you a zombie?"
"No! Neither is Mrs Hudson, though Anderson is, unfortunately."
"Oh. That's too bad." John points the flamethrower at the door.
"Look, John, could you let me in? The zombies are sort of temporarily stunned, and it would be good if I didn't have to break this lock.... You know, in case they wake up and we need to lock them out!"
John swallows, and thinks. "Whoever you are – whatever you are – step back from the door, all the way to the banister, and put your hands up, palms forward. I'm well armed and a crack shot."
There is an audible and familiar sigh from the other side of the door. "Yes, aware of that."
"I'm not opening the door until you do exactly as I say."
Another sigh and then movement – three steps back and a tell-tale creak of the banister rail. "I'm in place!"
"I know. One move away, and I'll destroy you."
"Understood."
John shakes his head and pauses. Even if this isn't a zombie, he's letting himself in for massive trouble.
He unlocks the door, opens it and sees Sherlock standing exactly as John had directed him to do. He points the flamethrower directly at Sherlock's head. "Hold out your right hand, palm down. No tricks, because this will kill you before I can die."
Sherlock holds out his hand, as John directed. "Compact, triple-cylinder, nitrogen propellant – two models out of date, but very effective. You got it from the operations base at Woodbury Common, didn't you? Courtesy of Mycroft?"
"Yes." John breathes in and touches Sherlock's hand – first the back, then the palm. It's warm, the skin's intact and there's a pulse in the wrist. He feels Sherlock taking his pulse, in turn. He breathes out. "You're real."
"Yes." There's a catch in Sherlock's voice. "John—"
"Come in," John steps away, backing into the flat.
"Must you keep pointing that at me?"
"I suppose not." John still backs up, facing Sherlock, flamethrower aimed at a shoulder now, instead of Sherlock's head. "Sit down." He nods towards the kitchen table.
"All right, but we have twenty-eight minutes before the zombies wake up, so we should make this negotiation quick." Sherlock sits where John points him.
"Negotiation?"
"Isn't that what enemies do?"
John's heart sinks, unexpectedly. "So I'm an enemy, now."
"You have a primed flamethrower pointed at me. The last time we saw each other, you said you didn't want to be in the same county as me. At best, this qualifies as detente."
"Good point." John deactivates the primer and lays the flamethrower on the table. "Speak to me."
"Mycroft has a secret compound in the Southwest. He's invited us to live there and help kill off the zombies."
"I've been to the Southwest." John taps the flamethrower. "Woodbury Common, Dartmoor – again, Ilfracombe ... zombies. Everywhere. They're EVERYWHERE, Sherlock!" He rubs his forehead, wishing that he hadn't run out of Paracetamol.
"I can help with that headache...."
"Yes, I suppose you can. You always did have good hands." John shakes his head. "What am I saying? You're the one giving me the fucking headache!"
Sherlock sits back down. "Were you in Cornwall?"
"What? Oh, Cornwall? No. Let me guess – no zombies in Cornwall?"
"Not anymore."
"So Mycroft's secret compound is in Cornwall?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"Let me guess ... he commandeered Truro? Penzance? Land's End?"
"Cornwall."
"He commandeered Cor—Sherlock!" John is up and pacing before he knows it. "You can't commandeer Cornwall!"
"I didn't."
"Neither did Mycroft!"
"I never said he commandeered it. He was given it by the Prince of Wales."
John sits down right where he is, which happens to be the bed. Lucky, really, because the floor would have been a jolt.
"To be more precise, His Royal Highness lent it to Mycroft so that he can protect the still living and do away with all zombies, worldwide."
"At which point, Mycroft gives it back?"
"Yes. But he gets to keep Mousehole."
"You're joking. There's no such place."
"Yes, there is. Fishing port near Penzance. Very picturesque." Sherlock shudders.
"Oh. You hate it. I'll have to go spend some time there, then."
Something lifts between them, and the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch upwards.
John feels the same thing happening to his mouth, but it hurts. It's been so long since he's smiled. "How did you survive?" he asks, trying to keep the emotion from overwhelming him.
"I became quite proficient with Mrs Hudson's axe. I didn't want to see my friends hurt."
And there they are, right back at the point when Sherlock returned. Which is when it hits John between the eyes that he has been unable to extricate Sherlock's not-deadness from the zombies' undeadness. He laughs until he cries – the transition doesn't take long – and Sherlock lets him, which he didn't expect, and for which he is profoundly grateful.
Eventually, Sherlock moves to sit next to him, very close. "John, I'm sorry. Will you please come with me to Cornwall and help? Mrs Hudson's there, and Lestrade, and Molly. And I can stay out of your way, if that's the only way you'll go. I just ... want you safe."
The hollowness in Sherlock's voice is something that John has only ever heard twice before – once at a swimming pool and once in the hours before Sherlock 'jumped'. It's the closest he'll get to naked, honest, difficult emotion. "I've missed you, Sherlock."
"I've missed you, too." Sherlock leaps off the bed. "Get your flamethrower and come with me. We have two minutes before the zombies wake up. We'll hug in the car."
Stunned into action, John follows Sherlock's orders. "Don't suppose there's any Paracetamol left in Cornwall," he mutters, as he dons his flamethrower. "Or milk...."
"Lots of both. Come on!"
"Two minutes?" Before Sherlock can answer, John grabs him by the face and plants a quick, sound kiss on his mouth, noting the surprise and the beginnings of a response – whether it's positive or negative, John's not sure – before breaking away. "That's in case we get killed. Which I'd rather we didn't." He turns away, yanking Sherlock along with him before awkwardness can set in. "You can punch me in Cornwall, if you want!"
They run down the stairs, and John doesn't care that he's left all his remaining worldly possessions behind in a sad little flat in Poole. He's with Sherlock, they're fighting bad guys – and maybe each other – and after three and a half years, in the middle of millions of the undead, he's alive.