Okay so I had totally meant to get this out on Halloween. Obviously that didn't happen. -.- Sorry y'all. I know it's taking me forever to update anything. Enjoy and remember that reviews are love...Okay so they're crack and I need a fix. But the metaphor still works, yeah?

The next thing John knew the sun was shining through his window. He no longer bothered with an alarm of course. No job to get up at an ungodly hour for. No reason to not allow himself to get as much rest as his body demanded.

For a few minutes the doctor merely laid in bed, reveling in the fact that he'd manged to get a full night's sleep. After the incident of the night before he'd fully expected to wake at least once with nightmares. The memory made him wince and convinced him to actually get up.

With a groan he sat up, dragging his hand down his face. God, Sherlock had looked terrified last night. No wonder, the dead man had nearly had a gun pulled on him and he'd clearly recognized the danger he was in from his own flatmate. John snorted as he remembered how Sherlock had followed that up by trying to help.

The disk sitting on John's desk gleamed in the early light. The gift was surprisingly thoughtful for Sherlock. Though it might have been given merely to give the former detective peace as John's nightmares tended to be loud when there were bad enough.

John shook his head and stood. Time to properly get up, no point in musing on Sherlock's reasons for doing anything, especially now. Besides, the zombie might be hungry again, unlikely considering how much he'd eaten yesterday, and they had a trip to go on. Not many pharmacies in the area, not ones that hadn't been raided and picked clean already anyway. Not if John wanted a wide selection and to stock up on any other medical supplies while he was at it.

The ex-soldier contemplated the issue as he dressed and un-barricaded his door to do his normal sweep of the building. There was a place a few blocks from St. Bart's that was likely to still be stocked. The hospital had been one of the first places overrun and so the buildings nearby were practically untouched. No one wanted to go near that many of the undead unless they were desperate or mad.

John snorted as he finished his circuit of the undisturbed flat and headed back up. Well, he did need to go and his sanity was certainly questionable. Though having Sherlock with him made the trip distinctly safer, to an extent. The zombie was better than a watchdog and far better than another living human would be. No need to wonder if, when, Sherlock was going to turn on him for supplies. No need to worry about the dead man leaving him to the ravenous hordes. Even in his undead state Sherlock wasn't anything John would ever consider to be a threat to himself. Especially not after the numerous declarations that all he really cared about anymore was John's safety.

"John?" Apparently the ex-blogger had been standing motionless in front of Sherlock's door a minute too long, the zombie sounded like he might be starting to worry.

"Sorry. Got lost in thought there for a minute." He didn't hesitate to un-barricade, unlock, and open Sherlock's door. Like the day before the dead was already partially dressed in an older pair of trousers and one of the t-shirts from the pack John had gotten the day before. The pristine white shirt fit badly and looked very much out of place on the lanky undead, but John said nothing about it. He'd not bothered with socks, but that wasn't surprising. He'd likely need help with his shoes again.

What pulled John up short was the fact that the zombie's stomach was no longer distended. The lump of it was still clearly there, but a third the size it had been the day before. He blinked, confusion creasing his brow slightly.

"And here I thought a zombie's body didn't have any sort of digestive function...Aren't all your internal organs supposed to be dead?" Sherlock stared blankly at him, confused. Fearlessly John stepped into the room and indicated the dead man's abdomen.

"Unless you've cut it out or thrown it up you should still look like you swallowed a bloody beach ball, Sherlock. You're down to a rugby ball, if that even." Sherlock followed his gaze and John saw a flicker of surprise and a flash of a familiar curiosity. Then the undead merely shrugged.

"D-don't f-f-feel a-ny d-dif-f-f-f-." He hissed and let the word drop, eyes tight again.

"You don't feel any different?" Fortunately John was quickly becoming fluent in his undead flatmate's broken speech. Sherlock merely nodded, some of the tension leaving him as he was understood.

John nodded in return.

"Right then, we'll just keep an eye on your progress, yeah? If that lump's gone down that means that somehow your body is absorbing it..." He trailed off with his own shrug. The undead hoards hadn't been around very long and certainly John wasn't an expert on their physiology. Without another word he turned and let Sherlock follow as he would.

"Let me get a bit to eat and we'll head out. You hungry again?" There was a snort as the zombie followed him into the kitchen and paused in the doorway to wait.

"Al-ways h-hun-gry." John chuckled as he ate.

"Should have expected that answer. I really should have." The was no response from Sherlock but the doctor was beginning to accept that as normal for him now. Speaking took a great deal of effort for him, no reason to respond to every little thing as he had before.

He ate quickly and pulled his shoes on, gesturing Sherlock to sit so he could help the undead with his own shoes. With a rattling sight the zombie complied, a slight trace of annoyance in his pale eyes.

"Considering you don't feel pain the only reason you even need these is to make sure you don't actually damage yourself. Rather not have to start stitching up a walking corpse just yet, yeah?" John kept the tone light, teasing, and was rewarded with another snort. He flashed a grin up at Sherlock and stood, taking up his pack, the keys to the van, and his cricket bat. Sherlock followed, hauling his crowbar up in one slender hand.

"Its a bit of a walk, so I figured we'd take the van. Louder, but we can just hide in it if we have to and wait for the undead buggers to get bored and wander off. Or you can slip off and make noise somewhere else so I can drive and then I'll pick you back up." Sherlock merely nodded yet again and followed his ex-blogger down and out, waiting patiently as the man compulsively locked the flat back up. A rattling breath told John that the undead had something to say and he paused, glancing back.

"L-leave o-odd un-l-l-lock-ed." There was a touch of amusement in Sherlock bleached eyes as he spoke. John blinked.

"Leave the odd number ones unlocked? Why?" Sherlock just stared at him, and John laughed as he realized what the zombie was getting at.

"Anyone picking the locks will be locking themselves out no matter how many times they pick it open! That's just...evilly brilliant, Sherlock." He chuckled as he unlocked a couple of them, shaking his head slightly.

"Well that just proves it further that your brain's still working fine. Even that twisted sense of humor you tried not to show all that much." He was still chuckling as he lead the way to the van parked a block down. Bad idea to leave it in front of the flat and advertize that someone lived there and was using it after all.

The couple of shamblers that had made it into the street were quickly dispatched by Sherlock as John opened the back of the van up, though the undead detective didn't bother to eat any of them.

"Come on then. I figure the back takes a bit less coordination to get in and out of." Sherlock gave a jerky nod and half climbed, half fell into the back of the vehicle. John winced, but didn't offer to help. The tightness of his flatmate's face said the assistance wouldn't be welcome in the slightest. He finally got in and flattened himself against the side, arms curled up around his bent knees and head back against the metal of the van. He would have been glaring, but after a moment he closed his eyes as there wasn't going to be anything to look at for a bit.

With a sigh John climbed in after him, closed up the back, got into the driver's seat. and stared the vehicle up. It was a newer model, and quiet enough to not draw zombies for miles, though those within a few blocks would definitely come take a look. They'd get bored though, once the sound was gone and the movement had stopped.

Hopefully they wouldn't run into a hoard. Even if they did, there were no windows on the sides and John had applied heavy wire screening to the outside, and inside, of all of the actual windows. Those windows, aside from the passenger and driver's side, were all above the heads of a normal person. The van was solid, the fuel tank full, and there was a small stash of food and water and a couple blankets in the back. As he'd told Sherlock, they could it wait out easily enough.

The drive to Barts was surprisingly clear, except for a small knot of shamblers that John merely ran down with the van. There weren't enough of them to clog up the tires or stop the vehicle and the ones he didn't hit Sherlock could take care of easily enough. There were, however, signs of recent activity nearby, signs of living humans as the zombies didn't bother breaking into anything unless there was a meal on the other side. And then they wouldn't break a single glass panel on a door to unbolt the locks, nor did they usually kill their own and there was a string of dropped undead down the whole of the street.

He went a couple blocks down and tucked into an alley out of sight from the pharmacy he meant to raid. If people had been through here recently they might still be in the area. No sense at all in letting them have access to his vehicle. Best to keep it out of sight and approach on foot, even if that was a little bit more dangerous. Though Sherlock watching his back made it far less foolhardy. Subtract one worry and add another then. Sherlock might be able to keep anything from sneaking up on them but if they ran into living humans then he had a giant target painted on his forehead and unlike John he couldn't exactly run away. They'd just have to be especially careful.

John double checked that both front doors were locked before ducking into the back with Sherlock. The zombie looked up as he approached, bleached eyes calculating and head tilted in silent question.

"Gonna wait a few minutes, let the curiosity of the noise die down a bit." John kept his voice low and his movements quiet as he checked out the grate covered back windows. Sure enough, a small knot was shambling past, searching for the source of the noise. They trailed right by the alley and with a grin John sat himself down next to Sherlock. The former detective had a slightly amused and approving glint in his eyes, if John was reading his faint expressions right.

"Once they stop passing I'll let you out first to take care of any stragglers while I get the van locked up again." If felt odd to have Sherlock go out first into a potentially dangerous situation but they both knew that the dead man was in no danger from the other dead.

"You let me lead after that though, yeah? There were fresh signs of people and I don't want them seeing you if they're still about." Sherlock's eyes widened ever so slightly and he gave a sharp nod. John relaxed with the assent.

"Good. We'll be in and out and home with no trouble." Famous last words, he knew, but he was feeling rather optimistic about his chances now that he had Sherlock again.

The groaning died down from outside. John slung his scavenging pack over his shoulder before stealthily getting up to check. The limited view offered up a single shamber already disappearing down the street. He glanced back and gestured Sherlock forward as he quietly unlocked the back of the van.

Sherlock moved slowly, sliding silently across the floor of the van. His face was tight with the concentration it took to force his unresponsive body to move quietly and with precision. He left his crowbar where it was and half fell out of the open door. The noise caught the single shambler's attention, but it turned away the moment it realized that another zombie had caused the sound.

John handed Sherlock his weapon and waited until the undead planted himself protectively at the mouth of the alley before climbing out himself. Trusting his flatmate to watch his back the doctor turned and carefully locked the van back up. The key was then tucked into its silencing sheath and put back on the chain around his neck with the rest of his keys. The whole thing went under his shirt so it couldn't be snatched off or caught on anything.

There was a snarl and a thud behind him. He whipped around to watch Sherlock pull his crowbar out of a shambler's skull.

"You're getting good at that." He kept his voice low, not wanting it to carry. Sherlock merely grinned at him, bearing his teeth down to his blackened gums. John knew he shouldn't find the expression reassuring, but he did. With a returning grin the doctor shouldered his cricket bat and took a cautionary glance down the streets. They proved clear and he didn't hesitate to start towards the pharmacy. He could feel and hear Sherlock step into place at his back and it eased some of his ever present tension and allowed him to focus solely forward. A good thing, as a small pack of dead rounded a blind corner and would have caught him unaware otherwise.

Three runners, barely dead. John had time to recognize the riot gear they wore before they noticed him and lurched forward with rattling snarls. There was an answering growl from Sherlock and John stepped aside and swung for the first with a grin as his zombie slammed bodily into the pack.

The one John swung at went down, skull cracked by the edge of the cricket bat. The other two stumbled to the ground beneath Sherlock's assault. A second blow and John made sure his target wouldn't rise again. Only then did the manic grin wipe off his face as he got a good look at their attackers.

"Dimmock?" A glance showed that Sherlock was busy ripping off Anderson's body armor to get at the meat beneath. The third was unrecognizable, but it was a sure bet he'd been a member of Scotland Yard as well. .

"God..." The sick feeling at both their deaths and Sherlock's eating them didn't last long. With a deep breath and a moment of closing his eyes the former army doctor entered himself. They were just bodes now, just corpses, just meat, no matter who they'd been only days earlier. The fact that they tried to eat him supported that. Besides, Sherlock was hungry and the riot armor might come in handy if it could be cleaned properly.

With a careful look to make sure the commotion didn't attract any further attention, John stripped Dimmock's corpse of useful gear and piled it on the sidewalk. He did the same with the unidentified man as Sherlock finished with Anderson and moved on to Dimmock. The zombie didn't even seem to be aware that he was mindlessly devouring people he once knew. John wasn't about to tell him.

Anderson's gear was too bloody and damaged to be of any use and so John left it where Sherlock had torn it from the corpse. The doctor stood back to watch over the zombie while his flatmate took what he wanted from the corpses. It was interesting, in a macabre way, to watch the undead feed and see just what it was his Hunger drove him to take from the corpses. The brain of course, and then heart, liver, and lungs before he moved on to the muscle. He ate what was most nutrient rich first, and then gorged to the full capacity of the very elastic human stomach.

John's detached musing was cut short by a low noise that he'd yet to hear from Sherlock. The thin sound couldn't have been anything but a whine and the reason for the pained vocalization was immediately apparent.

Sherlock had finally become aware enough to see 'who' he'd been eating. His pale eyes were wide and horrified as he stared up at John. Despite the gore dripping down the undead's face all John felt was concern for his friend. Without hesitation he stepped forward and grabbed the zombie's shoulders, careful not to get his hands into any of the blood.

"It's okay, Sherlock. The were already dead. They would have eaten me if given the chance. They weren't like you." It was unlikely that Sherlock could feel the hands on his shoulders but he could definitely see the sincerity on John's face and hear it in his voice.

The doctor held his flatmate's gaze until the undead relaxed and nodded slowly. John eyed him a moment longer and then nodded himself before stepping away.

"Good. Don't worry about it, yeah? So long as you don't go after anything with a heartbeat its fine." He paused and grinned. "Though if you're helping me out I guess it'd still be fine." Sherlock rasped and shook his head. John chuckled as he picked his cricket bat back up.

"No? Well I guess that's fine too. Don't want to get a taste for the living, too dangerous for me if you do." It made perfect sens to John of course. So long as Sherlock only ate the reanimated dead he'd never know if living flesh was any better. Best for him to keep eating corpses. Sherlock's slow nod backed up John's theory and the dead man picked his crowbar back up.

"Right. I think there's a side door to the pharmacy. Should draw less attention than going in the front." He started walking as he talked, trusting Sherlock to follow. Dragging footsteps behind him said he did.

"Follow me in and watch my back. Might be more zombies than I can handle in there. Doubt we'll see anyone alive. Not after that raid that got Dimmock. It couldn't have been more than a few days ago." He ignored Anderson's presence on principle. He caught another jerky nod out of the corner of his eye.

"You are far too agreeable now." The words were said with a sigh. Sherlock snorted, drawing a smile from the former soldier.

"Alright I'll stop complaining about it." He wouldn't of course, and they both knew it.

They slipped around between buildings, dropping another couple of shamblers that Sherlock didn't seem at all interested in eating. It didn't take long to get into the proper alley and clear it. The side door that John correctly remembered was broken open and was smeared with dried, though relatively fresh, blood.

"Well that's probably a bad sign. Bet that's how they got in after Dimmock's group though. Poor bastards must have been making too much noise at the wrong time." He didn't need to tell Sherlock to either keep quiet or watch his back as the zombie was already doing both to the best of his new capabilities. With a hand gesture he told Sherlock to follow him in. The former detective nodded, hauling his crowbar up in preparation.

Words weren't needed as John slipped into the dark of the storage room and waited while Sherlock got in. He pulled the door closed behind them as best he could. It wasn't perfect, but as long as they were quiet they wouldn't be followed from that end. The only light now came dimly from the door that opened into the main pharmacy.

John padded silently forward, Sherlock moving with a careful shuffle behind him. The door opened into the maze of shelves that held the stock of pills. The shelves were in a complete disarray of course, plastic bottles everywhere and all over the floor. At least there was plenty of light pouring in from the windows all the way at the front of the place, even if getting there was going to be difficult with all the mess.

A soft sound from the front caught the ex-soldier's attention. He didn't have time to figure out what it was before there was a crack of plastic, a rattle of pills, and a loud crash from behind him. John jumped and whipped around. Sherlock had stumbled over the fallen bottles, knocking into the shelves in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright. His pale eyes were hard and pained under yet another reminder of his new clumsiness.

John opened his mouth to automatically reassure him and was drowned out.

"What the bloody hell was that?!" A sharp, female, voice from the front of the pharmacy cracked through the silence that had followed Sherlock's fall. John shared a startled, horrified look his undead flatmate and made a split second decision. He dropped his cricket bat, pulled his gun, and darted forward. All he could hope was that Sherlock would stay back and let him deal with the living as he'd promised.

The ex-soldier rounded the corner, gun held in front of him and perfectly willing to shoot to keep Sherlock safe. He didn't even waver when he recognized the riot gear worn by the intruders. He merely cocked his gun and bared his teeth at the startled group.

"If you're from the Yard I'd suggest you lower your weapons." The words came out a snarl. If they were Yarders they'd recognize him and know he meant and could carry out the implied threat. If they weren't, well, that was their problem. There were only four of them after all, and John had six bullets.

The crash from the back of the pharmacy caught them all by surprise. Sally swore, and Greg silenced her with a gesture. Hands were quick to pull weapons even as they formed up to deal with the potential threat. No one was taking any chances, not after the botched raid yesterday. There couldn't be any mistakes today, not with the supplies so desperately needed.

The last thing any of them, especially Greg himself, expected to see was a disheveled, bloody, wild eyed John Watson lunge from out of the stacks, gun raised. The man looked half mad, but his grip on his gun was steady, his aim unwavering. His snarled threat registered and Greg didn't hesitate to holster his weapon and strip his helmet off.

"It's us, John!" The former D.I. glanced back at his group, "Lower your weapons. Now!" Greg wasn't taking any chances with John's mental state. It had been two weeks since they'd seen the man and he certainly didn't look any more stable.

He breathed a sigh of relief as John blinked and recognition relaxed the harsh glare and he stopped bearing his teeth.

"Greg?" The man sounded confused for a moment. "You're alive." Any irritation Greg felt over John's surprise was squashed by the relief in his voice. The former D.I. grinned and gestured behind him.

"Not just me either." A pointed glance back and the other three removed their helmets. Sally John would recognize, and possibly Marcus, but he wouldn't know the newbie.

John looked them over warily and finally tucked his gun away with a nod. His stance relaxed a fraction further. He didn't approach them, however, and there was a slightly feral kind of wariness to him still. Greg let him have his space.

"Right then, any of that blood yours?" It was unlikely that John had been bitten, not after Sherlock, but caution never hurt. The doctor just shook his head.

"No. No, I've just been bashing up zombie skulls." The man sounded far too casual about that, like he'd just been to Tesco's or something else just as mundane. He spoke again before Greg could.

"Why are you lot out here?"

"Supplies." Greg ignored the slightly hostile note and the odd head tilt. "Our raid went bad yesterday and they didn't get anything. But we need the medicals." He ignored the tightening of his voice over their lost men.

John nodded, shifting a bit and blocking the way into the stacks with his body.

"Saw that. I'm afraid I just put them down permanently for you." There was a small amount of sympathy in his voice. It certainly wasn't enough for the fact that he'd killed two men he'd been well acquainted with.

"You what?" Sally's voice snapped out before Greg could stop her. John just blinked at her, as if surprised she was speaking at all, much less to him.

"There were zombies in riot gear. I dropped them. Didn't even see who it was until after." That thread of sympathy was completely gone. Sally bristled at the flat tone.

"They had names Watson." The anger in her voice didn't change John's expression in the least.

"Had. When they were alive, remembered who they were and weren't trying to eat me. Those things weren't people anymore." The doctor's voice went ice cold, his dark eyes hard, "You should have put them down yourself and not left them to try to eat someone else."

Sally actually gaped at him for moment, mouth slack. Then her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched. Greg saw the impending confrontation but didn't have time to stop it.

"Still have the Freak locked in the basement? Big talk for a man that couldn't put a bullet through his own boyfriend's skull." Her voice was sharp, cutting like broken glass. John stiffened, the last thread of expression falling off his face and the harshness in his eyes went to diamond shards.

"You call him that again and I swear to God I will put a bullet through your chest, watch you die, and wait for you to get up and then put another through your skull." The ex-soldier's voice was low, even, reasonable. Not a one of them doubted he meant every word and it had all four Yarders going tense and nearly reaching for weapons again.

"Sally, outside. Now." Greg stepped between the two, confident that John at least wouldn't shoot through him. Hopefully.

Sally further and Greg turned his back on John to face the woman. He set his features under her anger. John would shoot her if she kept pressing, and they didn't need the blood bath.

"Don't. Take them, and go guard the door." He paused and took a breath, "Please." They needed a doctor desperately. They couldn't afford to make and enemy out of John Watson no matter the man's devolved mental state.

Sally stared at him a moment longer, glanced behind Greg at John, and nodded.

"Fine. But don't think I'm not going to be watching." She turned and took the other two with her. She stayed just inside, clearly not trusting John alone with Greg, while the other two went out and guarded the door.

Greg relaxed as she took herself out of the confrontation. With a heaved sigh he turned back to John. The man was merely looking at him with his head tilted slightly. No sign at all that he'd just threatened the life of another human being. Like it hadn't meant anything at all.

"You should come back to the Yard with us. It's safe, clean. We've still got water and power and plenty of food." He paused a second, "And we need a doctor, badly." John was already shaking his head, left hand clenching.

"No. I'll help out, if you really need me, but I won't stay. I can't." There was no room for argument in the man's voice.

"Why not?" Greg was wincing even as the words came out. Then silently prayed John wouldn't answer how he suspected the doctor would.

"I promised Sherlock I wouldn't leave him, Greg." The former D.I.'s heart clenched at the still reasonable tone and the slightly concerned look on John's face. You'd never know Sherlock was actually dead from the way John was acting. Sick, yes, but not dead.

Greg took a deep breath.

"John," He tried not to let anything he was feeling show, "You can't help him now. We need you more than he does." It was the wrong thing to say as the doctor's expression hardened again.

"Sherlock needs me, Greg." His voice was sharp. His gaze flickered behind him. The action seemed involuntary and when Greg followed the glance he caught a tiny shift of movement from the shadows. He didn't think, merely reacted.

With reflexes born of having to survive in this shattered world, Greg grabbed John and spun the smaller man behind him. He pulled his gun and had it aimed at the maze of shelves in a second. Not thinking anything of what John would do in response.

The doctor cried out as he was grabbed and shoved. He lashed out, and Greg's gun hit the floor as he found his arm wrenched behind his back. John pinned him against the wall roughly, grip like iron bands on his wrists.

"John!"

"Greg!" The first shout was nearly drowned under Sally's louder yell, but the voice Greg thought he heard had the man sagging against the wall. He couldn't have heard what he thought he had, it was impossible. The grip on his arm pulled his attention back to his current situation, he'd sort the auditory hallucination out later. John hadn't hurt him, just reacted to being manhandled...belatedly the former D.I. Realized that he'd grabbed John's bad shoulder. No wonder the man had flipped out.

"I'm fine Sally! Stay back!" He heard the woman back off and John eased the pressure on his arm.

"John, you can let go now." Greg made sure to keep hid voice even. The pressure on his back relaxed a hair. Still he wasn't released and the man behind him was breathing harshly.

"No. You'll kill him. I know you heard him yell for me. I can't let you kill him." The scrambled words sent a cold shiver down the Greg's spine. John couldn't possibly mean what it sounded like he meant.

"I didn't hear anything John. I don't know what you're talking about. I'm certainly not about to kill anyone." Keeping his voice even, reasonable, and reassuring was getting more difficult.

There was quiet from John for a moment and then let go of Greg's arm and stepped back. As Greg turned around he noted the doctor picking up his fallen gun. The man held it loosely, but the harsh expression on his face wasn't comforting. John put himself between the main room and the stacks again, with yet another worried glance behind him.

"You should know better than to grab me like that, Greg." Despite the look in his eyes his tone was perfectly affable once more.

"Sorry. Saw something move back there and I just reacted." The explanation had John tightening up again and he seemed to have to stop himself from glancing back yet again before he locked eyes with Greg.

"There is nothing back there." While it was comforting to know that John was still a horrible liar it was unnerving to know that there was something lurking in the maze of shelves. Greg desperately tried not to speculate on who or what was possibly back there.

"You can give me my gun back, John. I'm not going to shoot your friend." Better to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe whoever it was was just scared of a heavily armed bunch of strangers. God he hoped that was it.

It appeared to be the wrong thing, as John's jaw and hand on the both both tightened.

"Yes you will." The doctor's voice was sharp and brittle, "You'll put him down just because he's not alive anymore and I'll be alone and this time he won't get back up." Greg swallowed thickly at the confirmation that John was somehow dragging Sherlock's shambling corpse about with him.

"Oh God John..." He knew his voice shook and he was just glad Sally wasn't close enough to hear. She'd have started shooting and John would killed her without hesitation. The man still looked wild and now he was starting to look a bit frantic as well.

He shifted his grip on Greg's gun, finger coming closer to the trigger.

"He's not like the rest of them, Greg. You heard him!" John gestured with the gun and the man in front of him flinched, listening in growing horror.

"He can talk, he remembers, Greg! He knows who he is, who I am. He's not dangerous...not to the living anyway. He only eats the dead." None of that was reassuring of course, as John was probably hallucinating most of it.

"John...You know that's not possible." Greg didn't quite manage to keep the horrified pity out of his voice. John nearly snarled.

"I wouldn't believe it either if I hadn't seen it! But a few days ago he broke out of the basement and killed and ate a shambler that was attacking me on the doorstep. Then he said my name and that he wanted to keep me safe. He hasn't so much as looked like he's wanted to eat me, Greg!" John definitely believed his own words and he was getting more and more agitated the longer he tried to convince Greg of the truth of what he was saying. It was a wonder he hadn't been bitten yet.

"John?" Blood turned to ice in Greg's veins as he heard the voice from earlier. It was low, rasping and rattling as if coming out of a throat that hadn't been used for speech in a long time. Even with the distortion there was no mistaking the voice of Sherlock Holmes. Greg swore and took a step back.

John's expression softened slightly and he glanced back.

"Stay there, Sherlock, I'm fine." There was a disbelieving snort but no real verbal response.

"Dear God..." John turned back at Greg's horrified whisper. His expression hardened again.

"See? I'm not crazy." There was another snort from the shelves and John rolled his eyes. "Yeah alright fine. I'm not that kind of crazy. Happy you git?" The last was directed with a perfectly normal grin at the shelves. The last thing Greg expected was a verbal response.

"Y-yesss. Id-i-ot." The stuttered, painful sounding response had John widening his grin. The man looked actually normal for the first time since he'd lost Sherlock. Which made a distressing sort of sense if even as a zombie the genius could think and remember everything. That if was starting to look like a definite thing, especially as that response would have perfectly normal for the Sherlock when he was alive. The stuttering was new, but then he'd been dead nearly three weeks in a basement so it was understandable. Greg cut that thought off and took a deep breath.

"Show me." He was proud that he'd managed to keep the words steady. John stared blankly at him for a moment. The doctor glanced down at the gun still in his hand.

"You have any other weapons?" Uncertainty colored the man's tone.

"Just that." The reassurance didn't seem to help. John eyed him again.

"You pull anything on him and I won't hesitate to shoot you. Nonlethal of course. You're a friend after all." John meant every word. The reasonable, conversational tone was back, sending shivers down Greg's spine. He tried not to let it show and nodded in agreement.

"I won't." The affirmation did the trick. John turned and lead him back into the stacks. Greg followed, mentally trying to prepare himself. He hoped that John's madness was merely contagious somehow. No possible way even Sherlock would have kept his own mind after death.

John paused, sighed heavily and stepped aside. His body was angled to protect the being behind him. Greg looked up.

"Bloody hell!" The exclamation was out before the words had a chance to check with his brain. John's hand tightened on the gun but the peripheral threat was only distantly noticed under the far more pressing matter of the very dead form of Sherlock Holmes standing behind John.

The reality of the thing was both better and worse than what Greg had been imagining. Better, as Sherlock wasn't completely rotted out and John hadn't done something mad like take his arms or jaw off to keep him from biting. Worse, because Sherlock was very obviously dead and yet there was a glimmer of intelligence in his pale, focused eyes. Those almost bleached orbs with their uneven pupils met Greg's gaze and the zombie straitened up properly, dropping the gore covered crowbar he held. There was no expression on his face but his head tilted in a familiar fashion. With a lurch Greg realized that John's own odd questioning head tilt was likely a mimic of the zombie's.

"See? Not trying to eat either of us. Hell, he's not even moaning like the rest do, Greg. He's perfectly self aware still." John glanced back, "Don't look so worried, Sherlock. He's not going to run off screaming or try to hurt you." The look John directed at the former D.I. told the man that he'd better not. There was no obvious expression as the zombie snorted and drew a rattling breath.

"A-g-gain." Greg felt his jaw slacken. John nodded, apparently understanding the meaning behind the single word.

"Right. Again, not still." The word was responded to as if this was perfectly normal. The doctor shrugged and looked back at Greg.

"Apparently it took him a while to regain his memories. Helped that I talked to him nearly every day. Told him all our cases and the like. Seems like having nothing better to do but listen jump started his brain a bit." That was likely one of the greatest understatements Greg had ever heard.

The zombie, Sherlock, nodded to the questioning look that had to be on the former D.I.'s face.

"John t-t-talk-k-ed. I rem-m-m-m-m-m-" It, he, got stuck on the word and with a snarl he cut himself off and looked away. His shoulders slumped again, face tightening just a bit. John looked concerned, but unsurprised.

"It's fine, Sherlock." The zombie gave a rattling hiss, clearly disagreeing, but didn't respond. John sighed and shrugged at Greg's mildly worried stare.

"He's got a bit of trouble with some words. We're working on it. Not all that surprising, considering he went without talking and with how dried out his vocal chords probably are." That analysis was almost clinical but for the obvious pain in John's voice and expression. A dead Sherlock didn't seem to be bothering the man, but the fact that he couldn't talk properly clearly was. Greg moved on.

"Right. Who's blood is he covered in, John? That's too fresh to be from a shambler." Fine, Sherlock the zombie could still think a bit, didn't mean that John was telling the truth about him eating other shamblers.

"Anderson's and Dimmock's, and the other bloke. What was left of them anyway. The runners tried to eat me, Sherlock reacted. He's good at that." There was a challenge in the man's voice, daring Greg to have an issue with this.

"God John...They were your friends!" There was no remorse on the doctor's face and that was perhaps the worst part.

"Dimmock, maybe. But their corpses tried to eat me. If they'd have stepped off and left us be we wouldn't have dropped them. But Sherlock needs to stay fed, and I'm not going to stop or berate him so long as its just the dead he's eating." The hardness was back in John's eyes, and something desperate fluttered in his voice. Loosing Sherlock again would break the man beyond repair, no matter that Greg wasn't convinced on how 'back' Sherlock actually was.

Said zombie was just quietly watching them, unblinking. His distended stomach bore mute testimony how much...meat he'd managed to put away. If his body language was anything like it was when he was human then the zombie was desperately uncomfortable. His face showed nearly nothing, no matter that John seemed to read expression there. Greg found he couldn't stare directly at the thing for very long.

"Fine. So long as he keeps to the dead." Their conversation was interrupted with gunfire.

"HOARD! GREG! JOHN!" Sally's shout rang out over the gun fire and the moans and snarls of the undead.

"I need my gun John!" The doctor handed the weapon back without hesitation and scooped up a battered, bloody cricket bat off the floor by Sherlock.

"Waste of bullets. Sherlock, stay!" There was a snarl from the zombie as the living men dashed forward through the pharmacy.

"You really expecting him to?" Alive Sherlock hadn't listened, it was unlikely being dead changed that. John snorted.

"Hell no. Don't let your people shoot him, yeah? I'd hate to have to retaliate." The half second the Greg felt like things were normal was shattered with that last sentence.

"I'll do what I can." There was no time for further words as they reached the front. To Greg's horror, but not surprise, John bolted outside while the Yarders reloaded and started laying about with powerful, pinpoint accurate, swings of his cricket bat. There was a feral grin on the man's face as he broke hands and arms as they reached for him, and only then broke skulls open. The group from the Met could do nothing but stare for a moment, completely forgetting about their weapons in the face of John's rather joyful brutality.

"He's completely bloody mad..." Sally's words were a breathless whisper and broke them out of their paralysis.

"You have no idea." They fumbled to reload again even as a fresh knot appeared. A runner stopped coming, drew a breath, threw it's head back, and screamed.

"Oh God there's a howler." The thing barely had time to draw a second breath before it was his from behind by a lanky, dark haired blur. Greg grinned even as the sound cut off with Sherlock's crowbar buried in the howler's skull.

"John! Sherlock didn't listen!" The former D.I. Got his gun reloaded and found himself more amused than he should be.

"Didn't expect him to!" John was actually laughing as he responded. Sherlock gave a stuttering, rasping noise that was barely recognizable as a laugh as he yanked his crowbar free and lunged into those surrounding John. His wild swings made short work of anything his crowbar connected with.

"Is that the Freak? He got bit! He's dead!" It was a good thing John was being a bit too loud to hear Sally. Greg gave her a flat look and sighed.

"Oh he's definitely dead. Apparently he's such a genius that it didn't really stop him." The fighting was over quickly and John and Sherlock were both grinning. It was mildly disturbing and so Greg merely put himself between his men and them.

"Sherlock is no danger to us and we still need John. So unless either of them attack us no one is to so much as look at them sideways. Got it?" The boys merely nodded, but Sally gaped.

"It's a bloody zombie, Greg! Literally!"

"Its Sherlock, Sally. Besides, we need John. You hurt Sherlock, John kills us all, its a bad day. So lets not." He knew how flippant his tone was, but the point needed to be made. It didn't matter that he didn't entirely trust that Sherlock really himself and sane, but he didn't need to let them know that. He hesitated and glanced back to see that the grins of the other two were gone and John was standing protectively in front of Sherlock. The doctor was eying them warily, clearly expecting them to have a go at Sherlock.

"Look, go back to the van, take Thompson, bring it back around front. Marcus and I can grab the meds John thinks we need and we'll be up in a minute." The former D.I. gave Marcus a look. The kid nodded, he'd practically worshiped the two of them and so long as he had assurance that Sherlock wasn't a danger he certainly wasn't going to have an issue. Sally started to protest and Greg cut her off.

"Sally, please. We can argue later, right now we need to get what we can and get out of here." She glared a moment longer, but Greg held her gaze until she looked away.

"Fine." She took Thompson and went to collect the van.

"Marcus, go secure that side door. Stack the shelves if you have to, just make sure nothing can get in." The boy shouldered his gun and did as ordered. Safer than being out in the open.

Only once it was just Greg did John approach, Sherlock following slowly. The former detective moved better than most shamblers, though there was no mistaking his gait for a living man's.

"Everything alright?" John glanced after the direction Sally went off in.

"Just sent her to get the van. Didn't want her around..." He gestured Sherlock. John pulled a face and nodded.

"Right. Yeah, probably a good idea." The man handed his cricket bat to Sherlock and wiped his hands off on his shirt. "Keep an eye on Sherlock for me and I'll get you a kit together to take back. Anyone there actually need medical attention?" He was already moving back, grabbing a couple of plastic bags to fill up as he went.

"Not yet. Just colds and scrapes and the usual." Greg eyed Sherlock, but the zombie hadn't taken his unblinking gaze off John. "Wouldn't hurt to have you look them over just to be sure." Sherlock's pale eyes snapped to the former D.I. at that. John glanced back as he gathered medications, shoving some in his own pack.

"Would you let me leave? I can't stay, Greg. I won't stay." The former D.I. winced at the suspicious tone.

"We'll let you leave again John. I'm not dumb enough to try to coerce you when you're willing. Got a vehicle?" Greg was perfectly willing to take the man back and forth in one of their vans should he have to.

"Yeah. Cargo van. Put wire up inside and out all the windows. Keep it stocked in case I get stuck. I'll follow you there, yeah? Park outside the gate, Sherlock can guard it so it won't need to come inside your fences." The normal, reasonable tone was back again, but the fact that John was willing to compromise had Greg willing to ignore it. Seemed like so long as Sherlock wasn't threatened, John would behave relatively normally.

"That's fine. I'll have Marcus keep an eye out from inside the gates." John relaxed a bit with a nod and finished filling the bags. He jumped and twisted around as Marcus came back from blocking up the side door. The kid froze as John whirled on him, for a moment the doctor looked feral again.

"Relax you two." Greg was mildly amused, but completely understood the jumpiness. John's amiable mask dropped back in place as he relaxed and handed off the bag of medications to the kid and started for the door.

"Right. I'll meet you at NSY. Sherlock? Lets go. I want to get these drops in your eyes." Without further preamble the doctor went right past to his zombie. Greg blinked.

"You're here to get eye drops?" He knew he sounded incredulous, but he couldn't help it. There must have been other places near Baker Street with what they needed.

"And a few other things, yeah. Figured a place this close to Bart's wouldn't have been raided too badly. Turns out I was right." He shrugged and took his cricket bat back from Sherlock.

"That's a bit...reckless, John." Greg tried to be careful with his tone as he didn't want John to take offense. The man just chuckled.

"I've got Sherlock, Greg. Its not like I'm alone." There was a lightness in his tone that hadn't been there for a very long time, "Sherlock's looking out for me, aren't you?" He looked expectantly at his zombie. The former detective gave a jerky nod and drew a rasping breath.

"John. S-safe." John grinned, clearly completely at ease with the odd tonality and the harshness of Sherlock's voice now.

"See? He's keeping me safe. See you shortly." With a nudge at his zombie they both started down the street, side by side. For a moment Greg could see what they had been overlapping what they were now. What they never would be again. He shook his head, collected Marcus, and climbed into the back of the van Sally pulled up for them. John was too far gone to accept being around people again full time, and Sherlock wouldn't be accepted, nor would it be safe even if he was. Best to leave them where they were and be grateful John was willing to come help out.

Sherlock didn't hesitate to turn away from the living humans he should, in all probability, have been eating. Unlike John, they triggered the Hunger ever so slightly, certainly not even as much as the other dead did, but enough to be distracting. Enough that he kept his gaze firmly on John when his flatmate was in view.

That and he didn't want to see the horror on their faces. It was expected of course. He was still surprised that John didn't flinch from him, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the looks. It was a bit of a relief to get away from them finally, he didn't quite trust that Donovan wasn't going to put a bullet through him even with Lestrade's orders. She'd certainly looked about to shoot him. Though the former D.I. was certainly right to be cautious of what John would do should the Yarders dare harm him. The ex-soldier's retaliation would be swift and very bloody.

He shook the thought off and refocused on their surroundings. He couldn't let anything get near them. As John had told Lestrade, Sherlock was keeping his doctor safe.

The walk back to the van ended with the dropping of only a single shambler. John collected the riot gear and Sherlock guarded him while he carried it and continued to do so as the man unlocked the back of the van and climbed in. Only once John was in did Sherlock follow. Climbing into the back was just as graceful the second time around and he was rather glad John wasn't looking back as he fell and scrambled into the vehicle. The man came into the back with him and locked the door up again, before putting down his pack and digging through it, coming up with one of the bottle of eye drops he'd gathered.

"Right. Lets try one of these. You keep down and keep your eyes closed while I'm at the Met, yeah? Let them do their work. I'll be safe in there, and I'll come back, alright?" Sherlock eyed him for a minute and then nodded sharply. Even if John had to fight his way out, he'd return. Without a word he tilted his head back and let his doctor at his eyes.

"Good thing we got these, your eyes look horrid. How's your vision?" Sherlock couldn't feel the drops going in, but he did see the film pass across each eye before he closed them on the lubricants.

"B-b-blurrrrrred w-w-orse." He settled back against the wall of the van and listened as John got up and started it.

"Worse? How well can you see normally?" The man sounded concerned and if smiling was easy Sherlock would have done so to reassure him.

"C-cle-ar wh-when sssst-till." As usual it took a bit longer than it should have to get the words out though John didn't seem to mind.

"Things are clear when nothing's moving?" John didn't seem to expect a response, "But motion blurs...That sounds less like something wrong with your eyes and more like your mind is having trouble processing. Still, the eye drops should help a bit." Sherlock didn't bother responding as he'd come to the same conclusion and agreed with him.

He allowed himself to drift as John drove, concentrating only on the feel of the road beneath them. There was no danger in this focused haze of loosing himself to the blackness, and thus no danger to John. They were safe at the moment, and John would be safe in the Met.

The vehicle pulled to a stop.

"Stay here and keep your head down, yeah?" The reminder wasn't needed but it made John feel better and so Sherlock merely nodded.

"Greg's out here, got some blokes to see me in and Marcus is going to guard the van. Don't let anyone shoot you." It would have been flippant but for the faintly desperate note there.

"I'll s-stay." Normally he wouldn't have even bothered with the reassurance, but John needed it and Sherlock wasn't about to deny the man anything he could provide.

"Good." John hesitated a moment longer, but as Sherlock neither moved nor opened his eyes the doctor sighed and got out. The door was locked behind him and in the quiet dark Sherlock let himself drift again. This time he completely lost track of all time and it took the sound of keys in the door to wake him out of it.

"John?" The question wasn't really necessary as he could smell the man.

"Its me. They weren't all that bad off, really. Just the usual scrapes and bruises, like Greg said." He climbed into the driver's seat and Sherlock heard the door lock again. Steps and the strengthening of his scent told Sherlock the man was checking on him.

John blinked at the sight of Sherlock still in the exact same position he'd left him in.

"Have you moved at all?" He didn't bother to hide the amusement in his voice and Sherlock merely lolled his head form side to side slightly.

"Well, so long as you're comfortable." John tried not to laugh as he ducked back up front and started the van for the drive back to Baker Street. After a minute of silence he started telling Sherlock about how people inside the Met were doing. It was pointless noise to his zombie, he knew, but it would probably gives Sherlock something to focus on and maybe keep him from being too bored back there.

The trip back was relatively uneventful but for the mowing down of another couple of shamblers, though they were cutting it rather close to nightfall and John did not want to be out after dark. For some reason the shamblers were even more active then. He parked the van in the same place as before and climbed into the back. The riot gear was gathered into one of the blankets so he could carry everything easily. Sherlock hadn't moved at all.

"Time to get up, mate. I'm sure you'd rather get inside and cleaned up than sit out here all night." Sherlock merely nodded and hauled himself up and followed him out of the van. He managed not to fall this time and guarded John as the man locked up and headed up the street. The zombie's presence at his back was comforting as he unlocked the odd numbered ones at their door with a bit of a grin.

"I think I'll change up which ones I leave unlocked every few days, really confuse anyone that tries to get in." Sherlock merely nodded, a glitter in his pale eyes saying that he was just as amused. He followed John in and waited by the door while the doctor locked back up and checked through the building. Nothing was disturbed and with a heavy sigh the ex-soldier gestured Sherlock come upstairs. He left his cricket bat and shoes on the mat just inside their flat door.

"Need help with your shoes? I don't want to track anything through the flat." Sherlock contemplated his feet for a moment and then carefully kicked each shoe off. He nearly fell while he did so, and only didn't as John caught his arm.

"You could have just said yes you know. You've got nerve damage, Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with needing a bit of help. Hell, your nerves are dead, it's amazing you can do as much as you do." He let go, giving his undead flat mate a concerned look. Sherlock's eyes were hard, and he looked pained. With a heavy, rasping sigh he nodded. Something in John uncurled at the acceptance.

"Right, we need to get you properly cleaned up then. Go strip to your pants and stand in the shower. I need to get gloves on and a set of clothes for you." Sherlock froze and started at him, eye widening. John grinned.

"What? You haven't been properly clean since getting out of the basement. I know you tried, but you didn't manage it very well. Let me help you." John knew he was almost begging, but he couldn't stand to see the self loathing in Sherlock's eyes. Couldn't stand to see his friend not properly cared for when he could do something about it.

"Besides, if you're clean, properly, you'll have less of a chance of accidentally infecting me, and I know you're worried about that." The look Sherlock gave him said the former detective thought John was fighting dirty. But with a rattling sigh he nodded and started for the bathroom, careful not to touch anything. John relaxed again as the undead gave in. He wasn't all that worried about Sherlock infecting him, but the argument was as good as any.

It took but a minute to get Sherlock clean clothes and a towel and to pull on a set of latex gloves. He might not be all that worried but he intended to clean out any wounds the zombie had sustained and there was no way he was stupid enough to touch his bodily fluids with his bare hands. Sherlock apparently approved of the choice, if the sharp nod and the slight relaxation at the sight of the gloves was anything to go by.

The dead man was already sitting in the tub, stripped completely of clothing and it occurred to John that the dead man probably hadn't even bothered with pants. It'd be just another layer he'd have to get rid of later and with his dexterity any shortcuts were to be taken. Well, it wasn't the first time John had seen his flatmate in this particular state of undress and is looked like it wasn't going to be the last either.

John's eyes slid past the still oozing bite on Sherlock's chest. He looked away for a minute, swallowing down guilt and drowning it beneath the clinical detachment he needed at the moment. Sherlock was just a patient that could properly bath himself. Nothing else.

The zombie's soiled clothing was piled next to it so that John would have to touch it until he was ready to. The trousers and shirt could both be washed and bleached and they'd be fit to wear again. John would take care of them when he took his own clothing out to the fire escape.

"C-c-c-cold. Nnnno h-heat." Sherlock was staring, as usual. John snorted and nodded.

"I know what heat does to a corpse. Don't worry, I'll keep the water on you as brief as possible. You're kind of mummified and I'd rather you stayed that way." After the words were out the doctor winced and glanced up at the zombie's face, hoping he hadn't just said the wrong thing. But Sherlock only nodded, looking faintly amused.

"Maybe I just should have gotten a leather cleaner?" That got an outright grin before the expression faded from Sherlock's face.

John grabbed the lubricating eye drops again.

"Let me put these in and then keep your eyes closed while I work, yeah?" Sherlock merely nodded and tilted his head back. John carefully applied the thick drops and went to work once the zombie's eyes closed.

As promised he kept the water cold, only using it to rinse once he'd lathered the dirt and grime and gore up from Sherlock's leathery skin. He was careful to not actually take off skin as he went so far as to clean out all the little abrasions the undead had gathered in their scuffles with other zombies and the few littering his hands from banging on the door for three weeks.

"I'm surprised your fingers aren't worn to the bone from all your pawing. The back of that door wasn't the smoothest thing." Sherlock made a noncommittal noise that could have meant anything. John snorted and moved onto his hair.

It wasn't long before the tub ran black and red with all the grime that came off the zombie. One scrubbing hadn't been enough and it took a second rinsing before the water ran mostly clear again. It wouldn't run completely pure of course, not with the bite still oozing on his chest, but it did slow.

"Alright, that's the best I can do without risking water-logging you. I'll help you and out of the tub and leave you to dry off and get dressed while I toss the clothes in the buckets to bleach out" Sherlock nodded and allowed John to help him stand and step out of the tub. The dead man was lighter than John remembered him being, but that wasn't too terribly surprising.

Without a word John left him there and gathered the soiled clothing. He took it out to fire escape and stripped to his pants to dump both sets into a fresh bucket of bleach and water. The clothing from yesterday was pulled out and rinsed in another bucket before it was tossed on the rail to dry. Only then did he go back in for his own shower.

Sherlock was already flopped out on the couch again and he gave John a very amused look as the man passed. Which got him a rude hand gesture and an eye roll. The undead merely wheezed out a laugh in response.

It didn't take John long at all to shower and redress. He cleaned everything up and got himself something to eat. Only then did the events of the day start to catch up with him. He sat heavily into his chair as his 'bad' leg twinged in pain. Vision blurred and the world spun. His breathing came short and he didn't even hear Sherlock get up and move to sit across from him in his old leather chair.

"John?" The former detective's rasping voice was as soft as the zombie could likely make it, but it still tore through the still air like a dull blade.

"Fine, I'm fine." John knew it came out almost gasped, certainly not at all believable and from Sherlock's snort, the zombie didn't fall for it. There was a rustle of movement and a moment later one of Sherlock's pale gray hands entered John's line of vision. The hand hesitated and then rested on John's clenched left fist, long fingers curving with no pressure over the white knuckles beneath them.

The unexpected touch from Sherlock of all people had John's head snapping up, wide indigo eyes meeting his flatmate's pale orbs. There was no confusing the look on Sherlock's face as anything but genuinely worried. He could talk the doctor out of anything, and so he had to rely on what expressions he could make and touch alone. It was a rather large step for Sherlock to make just to keep his broken army doctor from falling deeper into a panic attack.

John rested his other hand over Sherlock's cool fingers as his heart-rate settled back to normal and his breathing eased.

"I'm alright, Sherlock." Only after a long, searching look did the former detective seem to believe him. He started to pull his hand back, only to tilt his head in confusion as John didn't let him take the limb back entirely.

"It's a bit unfair, you know. You're hands are cold...and they'll never be properly warm again." John found himself in an odd mood after his near panic attack. His voice was musing, tired, and carried a bit more sadness than he would have liked to share with Sherlock. The zombie merely watched him and then shrugged slightly.

"D-donn't f-f-feel it." His voice was still low, the roughness and the stuttering barely making an impact on John now as he was getting rather used to it.

"I'm not surprised. Can you feel anything at all?" He winced as soon as the question was out but it didn't seem to bother Sherlock. The zombie nodded slowly.

"P-p-pres-s-s-s-s-" He hissed and took another breath, "Pres-sure. On-l-ly. Nnnno p-p-pain." John blinked.

"Really? Interesting. That means you have some sort of residual nerve response left...I wonder how though..." He shook his head, and let go of Sherlock's hand with a wry grin.

"Sorry. I yelled at you often enough for using me as an experiment. Shouldn't be doing the same to you now that you can't really complain." The zombie gave him a baleful look, but seemed amused. He reached out, slowly, and John held still as he wrapped his fingers around John's hand. Carefully the zombie closed his fingers, the touch still featherlight, and then let go again.

"It'ss f-f-fine, John." His voice was getting rougher, but then, he'd said a good bit today.

"Could you feel that?" John kept his tone soft, but as tired as he was now his usual filter of what would probably be a bad conversation topic was off. Fortunately Sherlock didn't seem to mind. He shook his head.

"M-m-might h-hurrt y-you to f-f-fel pres-s-s-s-s-." He got stuck on the word again and a breath and retrying didn't get it out of his mouth. With a snarl he gave up and snapped his mouth closed, eyes tight.

"It's fine, Sherlock. I understand. You watched until you touched skin and then stopped. You're not sure how much pressure you're applying to be able to feel and you didn't want to hurt me if it was too much, yeah?" As usual the zombie relaxed a bit when he found he was understood even as difficult as speech was. He nodded, sharply, and gave a rattling sigh.

"An-nn-n-nn-n-n-" He got caught on the sound and snapped his mouth shut, jaw clenching as he looked away from John.

"Hey, no. Don't be like that Sherlock. You've done a lot today. Its okay." Worried, John hauled himself up and put his hand on the dead man's shoulders.

"Don't be embarrassed about that, alright? It's a miracle you're still you, that you can think and talk and remember. So don't get caught up that you stutter, yeah? You've been dead nearly a month, its amazing you can do anything that you're doing." Sherlock looked up at him and some of the hard pain left his eyes under John's rather fervent proclamation. John held the dead man's eyes until he relaxed and nodded.

"Good. No more hating yourself, yeah? I won't stand for my best friend to be beating himself up about not being perfect when he's already a walking bloody miracle." Sherlock nodded again and gave a little grimace of a smile. John grinned back, warmth flushing through him at the small victory.

"Right. Well, I'm knackered. Did you want me to lock you in your room again?" The doctor really didn't see the need to, but he'd let Sherlock decide this one. The zombie knew his new mentality and body better than John did after all.

Said undead contemplated quietly for a minute before nodding. He hauled himself upright and shuffled for his room.

"Sa-fer." John shrugged and followed.

"If you say so. Tomorrow we'll just wander about the blocks, yeah? Clean up the streets a bit, make sure the area nearby's clear." Sherlock nodded and flopped face-down on his bed and seemed content to not move after that. John didn't bother to suppress a chuckle as he ducked back out.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." There was a muffled 'goodnight' from the zombie as John locked and barricaded the door. He swept through the building one more time before going up to his room and locking and barricading himself in. Maybe soon Sherlock would feel he had enough control to not be locked in at night. It would certainly make John feel safe enough to sleep without locking and barricading his own bedroom door. The thought made him snort as he settled down in bed and immediately started to drift off. Safe being watched over by a cannibal zombie. He really was going mad.