John sat at the kitchen table, cradling his face in his hands and then running them back through his hair. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. He stood up from the table and uselessly opened the pantry. Their excursion out had been next to worthless. They hadn't been able to secure many supplies, as their hands had been full fighting off an army of the dead.

So here they were, back to square one. Holed up in 221B with dwindling supplies, fatigued bodies, and unsettled minds.

John had never seen Sherlock behave like he had today. He was in complete shock; totally frozen. Something like that would have given anyone a shock, but he never expected it from Sherlock. He was bent on erasing emotions from this whole ordeal. But this was different. This was Mrs. Hudson. What could ever possibly ever harm Mrs. Hudson?

The whole thing put John into a quite a fit as well, but his protective instincts overpowered it. He hated what he had to do, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let himself or Sherlock die outside of that Tesco. He took that shot, then practically picked up Sherlock and dragged him into the car. He didn't seem to come back to his senses until they arrived back at 221B, which was luckily not overrun with zombies.

As they dashed out of breath back into their flat, he remarked, "We can't stay here for much longer. There's too many of them in the city, and sooner or later they'll find their way down here. We're fresh meat, most likely some of the only left in this area. They'll find us. Our defenses won't hold."

His voice was flat. He said and did nothing more and retreated straight to his room. John paced through the living room for a few minutes before deciding to rap on his flatmate's door.

"Sherlock, I—are you alright?"

"Go away, John."

"Sherlock, you don't have to—,"

"You saw me freeze out there. Isn't that enough embarrassment for one day? Please go away."

John had never wanted to punch someone more. He knew he wouldn't win. He never could with Sherlock. Maybe he didn't need to talk about this, but John did. He wanted to scream. All of this was too much. A week ago, all he had to worry about was remembering to pick up some milk. Today he had to shoot his landlady in the head to stop her from killing his flatmate.

This led him to where he was now, searching the pantry for what he didn't know. It was almost completely bare. He almost resigned to failure when he noticed a bottle in the back, gleaming and full of translucent amber liquid. A bottle of spiced rum. Where did that come from? Sherlock had to have bought it, John didn't care for hard liquor—something that may have been attributed to his sister's alcoholism. It still seemed strange; he'd never really seen Sherlock drink either.

Without really thinking about it, John took the bottle and poured a generous amount for himself. He cautiously sipped it. It burned his throat, but warmed him as it went down. He wasn't the type to drown his problems in any kind of controlled substance, but he needed something to console him since Sherlock wouldn't. Everything was happening so fast, and with every drink he took from the glass, time seemed to slow down. His head became dizzy, his thoughts muddled, and he didn't have to deal with them all running through his head at once.

Once his glass was drained he poured another. The taste became increasingly bitter but he continued to choke it down. He began to lose the concept of time altogether, only measuring it in the amount of drinks he had. He poured a third.

His head was swimming. He stood on wobbly legs and stumbled to the stairs, somehow making it up to his room.

He stopped in front of the mirror and studied himself like he had before they left earlier that day. It was as if he had aged several years in those few hours. The bags under his eyes had never been worse, he was in terrible need of a shave, his face seemed gaunt and sunken in. He turned away from his reflection, disgusted.

This wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this, any of this. He just wanted his normal life back. He wanted late night cases and Chinese. He wanted violin playing at 3 am, his shitty job at the surgery, dates with mediocre women, experiments wrecking the flat, midnight night calls from his drunken sister.

He just wanted all of that back. He wasn't asking much, his life was so insignificant. Why couldn't everyone else get their insignificant lives back?

"Just give me my life," he said under his breath. "I don't want what you've given me instead. Give me my life!" he now yelled. He didn't stop yelling. He didn't even know what he was saying. He swept his arm across the top of his dresser, sending all of his belongs flying. Sherlock could surely hear all the racket he was making, but he didn't care. Stumbling back, he fell back into the wall, and slowly slid down it until he was sitting. He didn't try to choke back the lump in his throat or keep the tears from spilling over his eyes.

The sheets of his bed were twisted haphazardly around him. He attempted to extricate himself from them as he lifted his pounding head from his pillow. He didn't remember getting into bed the night before.

John couldn't remember the last time he had a hangover this bad. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time, if ever, that he knocked back three glasses of rum that quickly.

"Water," he croaked to himself, his mouth dry and sticky. He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his temples. Never again. How did Harry do this on the regular? Shuffling down the stairs, he groaned and blinked his eyes. Lights too bright.

He prepared himself to find Sherlock in the sitting room with a snide remark prepared just for John, but he was nowhere to be found. He knew Sherlock would have deduced what John had done the night before, if his obvious signs of a hangover weren't enough. He did note however, that the door to Sherlock's room was slightly ajar. He must be in the basement, then. Still, it seemed peculiar. Sherlock usually never left his door open, whether he was in it or not.

As he rounded the corner, he felt his heart drop. The barricades on the door were out of place.

Sherlock had left the flat.

What an idiot, John thought, and he wasn't sure if he was referring to Sherlock or himself. Why did Sherlock have to do this? Why couldn't he just stay inside, why couldn't he stay safe? Why did John think it was alright to take his eye off of him? Now Sherlock was wandering around in the most dangerous place possible all because John had to go and get himself drunk.

He ignored all symptoms of his hangover; his heavy feet, his splitting headache, his sensitive eyes. He flew up the stairs and retrieved his gun and ammo. Before he dashed out the door, he spied one of the nightsticks they found at the Yard the day before. Backtracking, he took the stick and wore it on his hip like Sherlock had.

There was no thought in his mind as he flew out the door except one: find Sherlock. His own safety was no longer a concern.

There were more bodies lumbering around the street than usual. His heart in his throat, he climbed into the car still parked in front of 221B.

Please, God.

He didn't have the slightest as to where Sherlock might be, or even what he was doing. Did he venture back to Tesco on his own? Was he trying to run some crazy experiment? Or something else altogether? Whatever it was, it was fine. It's Sherlock. He's fine. He's way too smart to get himself killed.

Taking extra care to examine every being on the street, he drove cautiously. He was waiting for any familiar element of Sherlock; his trademark coat, the color of his scarf, his curly hair, his enigmatic face.

"Where are you, you stupid bastard?"

As he rounded the corner, he noted several bodies with freshly bashed in heads. He was on the right trail. Farther down the street he saw—no, that couldn't be him, it wasn't.

"Shit. Shit! No, no—God no."

He was stumbling, holding his neck, trying to staunch the bleeding. Still wary of his surroundings, he was surveying the area and holding his gun tentatively in his other hand. No, that wasn't Sherlock Holmes, it couldn't be. He was too clever to die.

Without thinking, John pulled the car to a screeching halt and scrambled over to him.

"Jesus, Sherlock. No, oh God, please, no," he sputtered, still in disbelief. Whirring Sherlock around, he was able to see the full extent of his wound. It was too deep. John was surprised he was still able to walk, let alone breathe, and he was sure it was only a matter of time before he essentially drowned in his own blood. "You utter git—what in the hell where you thinking," his voice cracked, this was too much. Sherlock was untouchable. Why, why was this happening?

"John…" he sputtered, half pleading.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut up," he snapped back, dragging him into a nearby alley away from most of threatening living dead. Gingerly, he helped him down and propped him up against the wall, Sherlock wincing in pain.

"I never meant to—" Sherlock began.

"You never meant to what? Get yourself killed? Sherlock…"

"John, I'm sorry. Yesterday—yesterday in the store. I was scratched. I didn't think it was anything to worry about but—" he stopped to catch his breath. It was labored, and John knew it was both difficult and painful for him to speak. "I knew—I started recognizing the symptoms. I was already done for, so I thought—"

"Jesus, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me, I could have—"

"You couldn't have done anything. Don't waste time thinking you could have. Promise me that." John didn't answer, he only nodded. "I thought I would go out and try to study the moving ones more closely. I had nothing to lose, and I didn't want you to have to see me, I didn't want this to happen. I got careless, it came up behind me—"

"So what, you just—you were just going to leave with no explanation and die alone in some alley?"

"I knew what seeing me like this would do to you."

"You son of a bitch," John choked, not in anger but in disbelief.

"I'm sorry, John. Forgive me." Sherlock was fighting for his breath now, and John knew he would lose the battle soon. He knelt down next to his dying friend. His best friend. He looked him straight in the eyes and saw the life slowly draining out of them.

"What am I supposed to do? I could handle it—losing all of them, but not you. You can't leave me in all this, you…" John trailed off, his voice cracking. Sherlock reached up and put a hand on John's shoulder, and John knew the gesture took a lot of his remaining strength.

"John—you were the better half of me. You always saw the good in everything. You will find something worth living for in all of this." A smile played on Sherlock's lips. His breathing slowed, his body slackened, his eyelids seemed to grow heavy.

"Sherlock, don't," John whispered, his eyes clamped shut. When he opened them, he saw nothing but emptiness.

He was gone.

John felt hollow. He sat for a long time and stared at Sherlock—at nothing. There was nothing left of him.

He paid no mind to the bodies in the street. He no longer cared for his own safety. Nothing mattered. Nothing except the lifeless, bloody body slumped over in front of him—the body of his best friend. He felt as if a tangible sense of loneliness was closing in on him from all sides, and the weight of it would soon crush him.

What was the point of carrying on? With Sherlock around, he felt like he had a purpose. He had to keep an eye on him, watch his back. Now what did he do?

As he stared at Sherlock's body for he didn't know how long, it started to sink in. He was gone. His best friend. The person he cared about more deeply than anyone. He loved Sherlock, he really did. It wasn't like that, no—but Sherlock had affected John in a way no one else in his life ever had. As frustrating as he could be sometimes, Sherlock had managed to slowly take away all the bad things in his life. His nightmares had stopped, he wasn't restless anymore—he felt alive with Sherlock, he felt driven, he had a purpose.

Now he felt completely lost, and he couldn't help but feel that this was all his fault. He took his eyes off Sherlock and look what happened. How could he let this happen?

As his hands found his way to his gun tucked in his waistband, he came to a sudden realization. He couldn't bring Sherlock back, but he could stop him from becoming like them. In fact, he knew he would never allow that to happen—he couldn't. The image of Sherlock from his nightmares—grizzled and bloodied, reaching for him with mangled hands—flicked before his eyes and he wasn't going to let it become reality. Slowly, he drew his gun and raised it.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry," he choked, swallowing hard.

Bam.

That clever brain, that spectacular brain—was gone. It was spattered all over wall behind Sherlock's broken body.

John exhaled hard. He knew he had to leave soon or else the bodies would become so numerous he wouldn't be able to escape. Their interests aroused by the sound of the gunshot, several clambered down the alleyway towards John. He shot them down almost without looking. He no longer felt any sympathy for them. He didn't see innocent people. He only saw the creatures that killed his friend.

His eyes darted back to Sherlock's body. He couldn't leave him there. He hoisted him over his shoulder, staining his own clothes with blood.

As he exited the alley, he realized there were a lot more zombies than originally expected. He started firing—at all of them, regardless of whether they were a threat or not. He didn't care if he was wasting ammo, he wanted them all gone.

By the time he reached the car, he had emptied his clip. He carefully laid Sherlock in the back seat and drove back to Baker Street. His knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

He pulled up to 221B, opened the door, and carried Sherlock inside as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. He had never felt so numb.

He knew where he was going with Sherlock's body before he got inside; the basement. He would leave Sherlock in the basement with Molly, and then he would leave. He couldn't stay here anymore, and not just because the numbers of zombies were getting dangerously high.

The smell was overwhelming as he opened the door to the basement. He didn't know what to expect to see as he entered the room—he didn't know what Sherlock had done to Molly. He was surprised to see that Molly was just as John had last seen her. Broken and grisly, but more or less the same. John wasn't sure if Sherlock has done anything to her at all.

That bastard.

"You couldn't bring yourself to do it, could you, Sherlock?" John said to no one as he laid Sherlock beside her. He looked at the pair of them for a few seconds, and then hastily exited the room. He didn't belong in there; it was a room for the dead.

As he trudged up the stairs back to 221B, he did not expect to see one of the living in his sitting room, yet there he was. Smug, as always, lanky, and still finely dressed despite this disaster.

Mycroft Holmes.

"I'm sorry, John. Things got out of hand, I couldn't get a helicopter to you at Bart's like I said. But if you'll come with me now I can get you and Sherlock—"

"Sherlock's dead." No two words had ever been this heavy on John's lips. He forced them out; he needed to hear himself say it, to make it final.

Mycroft was not overemotional, but as he clamped his eyes shut tight and sighed deeply, John could tell he was surprised. Mycroft had thought his brother too clever to be killed as well. Maybe that their downfall—they expected too much of Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, John," Mycroft began, addressing John as if he had suffered a greater loss than himself. "I never thought—"

"I didn't either."

"If you'll come with me now, I can offer you safety. There's a government bunker—"

"No."

"John, you can't stay out here on your own, it's only getting worse, and it's not just here—it's the entire population, the whole world. Where will you go?"

"I'll find somewhere. I'm a doctor, surely there are injured people out there who need me. I'm not going to stay holed up in some government bunker and cower. Before your brother died, he—he told me to find something else worth living for, and I won't find it if I go with you, Mycroft."

Mycroft closed his eyes again. "I understand, John. Be careful, wherever you go." He stood and offered his hand to John. John did the same.

"You too, Mycroft. And I'm sorry—I'm sorry I couldn't save him." John couldn't look him in the eye.

"My brother was one of the most clever people in the world—but also one of the most foolish. You can't help that." John forced himself to meet Mycroft's gaze. It was sympathetic.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

He quirked a smile. "Take care, John."

"Take care."

John cautiously opened the door the petrol station after filling the car. He didn't know where he was going, exactly, but he was driving in the direction of a less heavily populated area. He didn't want to drive into the city where it was more likely the zombies would be more numerous.

At any rate, he needed food and supplies, and since the station seemed relatively deserted, this was as good a place as any to get them.

Although he was seemingly alone, he wasn't about to let his guard down. He kept his gun out in front of him, eyes darting all around waiting to catch any sign of movement. Just when he thought it was all clear, he heard sounds coming from the corner. His soldier's instincts kicked in and he whirred around, prepared to fire.

"Wait, don't shoot! I'm not one of them!"

John was surprised to see the first living human he had come into contact with since he had seen Mycroft off four days ago. It was a woman. John thought she would have been very pretty on a normal basis, but she seemed a little rough around the edges at the moment. He was sure he didn't look too good himself. Her features were soft, but he could tell there was some fight in her. She was of medium build and had brunette hair pulled back into a long ponytail. He noted an injury on her arm.

"My God. You're the first living person I've seen since—well, I've lost people," John said, lowering his gun.

"Same for me. I'm on my own. Where are you headed?"

"Not sure, really. Away from the city into a less populated area. Are you injured? Were you bit? Scratched?" he inquired, nodding at her arm.

"That's smart. And, no, nothing like that—just a normal cut. I had to make a fast getaway."

"I'm a doctor, I can dress it if you'll let me." John wasn't sure what it was about this woman, but he felt inclined to trust her. A gut instinct told him that she was not dangerous.

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

"So where are you headed, then?"

"Same as you, I guess. I'm just a drifter now."

"Why don't you come with me? Power in numbers. I need someone to watch my back." He said the words before he even really thought about them. He suddenly felt as if he was doing nothing more than chatting up a woman in a bar.

"You know nothing about me, not even my name, and you're asking me to go away with you? You trust quickly," she teased, smiling.

"I became flatmates with my best friend after knowing him for about five minutes. I have a track record of things like this, I suppose. And really, I've got nothing to lose at this point. My name's John, by the way. John Watson," he said holding out his hand. She accepted it.

"I'm Mary. Mary Morstan."