John flinched as another body threw itself against the windscreen only to slide down the hood and disappear off front of the armored jeep. They barely felt the bump as they drove over it. Good suspension; heavy construction. They couldn't even hear the screaming above a muffle of noise like voices through water. Nightmares didn't need sound, though. Sight was enough to settle in John's nerves as a worse spectacle than any front-line battle he'd ever seen. These were Londoners, civilians, scared and desperate and willing to die for hope. Much as he wanted to look away, he couldn't bring himself to. He was luckier than them-not by design, simply by fate. He needed to remember that. Always.

"You should have come a week ago," Mycroft chided, not to John though he knew the man held him responsible for his brother's actions by proxy. His steely stare and thin-lipped grimace were directed solely towards Sherlock who seemed the only person in the vehicle remaining completely unaffected by the stirring chaos outside the car. Mycroft himself had beads of sweat along his brow, the top two buttons of his white dress shirt undone and black tie pulled loose from its knot to hang limp over the breast of his waistcoat. The summer months were not kind to well-dressed men in Burberry and Spencer Hart. It was the most disheveled John had ever seen the man. He embodied the whole of Britain in his own state of disrepair.

Sherlock couldn't have mirrored his brother any less. Even his curls seemed to have fallen into perfect alignment as he sat straight and with the utmost refinement, a proper seam pressed into his black jacket and trousers with even his buttons in a state of relaxed fit across his chest. He shrugged in disinterest, eyes watching through the tinted windows as palms slapped against the reinforced glass with the occasional smear of snot from a child's face. "I was busy," he said, metallic eyes reflecting only the instituted darkness from outside as the sun cast them in a shadow of men.

"Too busy to save your own life?" Mycroft had already had enough of his brother, anger bringing the red from his cheeks right down through his neck. "John," he half barked, centering him with his stare now as blame passed quickly.

John held his hands up as much in surrender as in an attempt to pacify. "I got him packed and ready weeks ago. It's not my fault. Not his fault either, to be fair. It's not as though either of us could have foreseen a triple homici-"

Mycroft punched the leather seat, the only thing yet to make Sherlock jolt slightly beside him, a glance spared out the corner of his eyes towards his brother's deteriorating calm.

John took a deep breath, jaw clenched for the moment on a terse and childish argument-they brought out the worst in each other and at times in him-before exhaling through his nose on thoughts far less petty. "Mycroft, you're about to lock your brother underground in a big metal box for the rest of his life. You know he doesn't do well with change. As his doctor, I don't think there was anything wrong in one last case. We're still here; there's still plenty of time."

"As his doctor you know very well you have both risked infection every second you have been among the public." Mycroft's temporary rise of anger had subsided almost completely, leaving behind little more than resigned disappointment. "As his friend you decided it would be nice to have a bit more fun before joining us at the Ark. I should have had you both forcibly obtained from Baker Street the moment your clearance was approved."

Sherlock gave his 'I'd like to have seen you try' smirk then focused his eyes on John, his smile shifting just slightly to something far more appreciative. Mycroft was right, it had been stupid in many ways, but it had also been brilliant. One last mystery running through the streets, searching for answers, being free in the open air. John tried not to smile back, forcing a scowl which was far from convincing for either Holmes present. Mycroft rolled his eyes then sat back in mild defeat as their vehicle ran over another slight bump on the perfectly paved road.

It was better after the check points-for them anyway. Miles of buffer territory all patrolled by armed guards meant the worst was left at the outer gates where people begged to be given a chance. The soldiers all had guns. John flinched at the splatter of blood that masked the windows as the hollow sound of rounds fired echoed through the jeep. No one spoke. The world outside deserved far more than just a minute's silence and they held their tongues for one reason or another while the wind smeared the blood as they drove.

It was hard to think of them as merciful deaths. Euthanasia of the infected had been in practice for months, all mater destroyed and even the ashes treated as potential bio-hazard. John had seen the bodies of those who feared the hospitals and died on their own and the agony of their features which betrayed nothing. Sherlock had deduced the infection in Molly. They never saw her again. People disappeared all the time and it was simply understood that it was for the best. There was no cure. Eradicate the infected and the infection goes with them, people consolidated into the image of the virus itself and seen as dangerous, expendable and unwanted. The ones begging for admittance weren't the ones who were sick, though. They had a chance if the government would grant them one. The only thing Britain had in surplus anymore were the bullets resting in the solders' magazines. Britain's Ark was full-the best, the brightest, what they believed society would require to regrow once vaccines could be developed and immunities programmed into the human genome. It was death by hand or death by virus for those left outside the specialty bunker. Even the guards who stood posted to let them pass were among those to be left behind. The dead ones were the lucky ones was so often the response. It was still hard to accept even in theory and harder still watching brain mater disperse from blood spray when traveling down the road at 50 kilometers an hour.

"A nanny state indeed," Sherlock mused, not entirely within the best realms of taste.

John cleared his throat against the weighted air with a slight tone of warning. "Guess it doesn't make the rich feel any better to know they can't buy their way to safety."

"You think influence doesn't factor into things?" Mycroft raised a brow at John with more than necessary accusation, his cold eyes colder still in the calm of the growing storm.

Sherlock, at least, was not about to let it slide. "You were the one who added my name to the list. Don't be petulant just because I made you add him as well." He shifted in his seat, the view from the window no longer interesting as only vacant landscape shifted into and out of sight. "You should be ashamed I even had to ask," he said, and though John winced internally at the thought of being left behind, he could understand the difference between the two situations quite easily. Sherlock was brilliant in a way only Mycroft could reproduce. Sherlock was well known for his abilities and mental prowess, having shown off a number of times where the media could fawn over and praise him. The Ark would not have a greater mind-with the spirit to pursue inquiries-than Sherlock in the realm of scientific, deductive reasoning. John was simply... John. They had much greater doctors on staff and far higher ranking military officials than him.

Mycroft shook his head. "John has the distinguished honor of being the only person in the whole of the Ark project whose justification for genetic retention in the human gene pool consists solely of the phrase 'Good moral character'."

"Something obviously lacking in the rest of us." Sherlock smiled, his argument having been won weeks before in the prerequisite battle for his own retention. "Don't worry about there being too many studs in your farm. For the betterment of mankind, John can have my share."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in mild disgust at his frankness while John tried hard not to visibly redden at the facts. He was rather sure it would not be anything near as glamorous as his admittedly childish mind made it out to be. The less thought or said the better. Rebuilding mankind was surely far behind the first step's goal of saving it.

From the outside, the Ark was all but invisible, flat earth void of grass or timber from where the trucks came and buried it. There was only a concrete tunnel-a ramp leading down into the structure below. It was probably the last time any one of them would see sunlight and yet through the tinted and smeared glass there was very little of it to recognize and say goodbye to. It was overly sentimental but hardly without justification. John did not so much as blink until their vehicle swooped into the tunnel's darkened corridor for the want of one last memory of the sun.

The corridor was longer than John expected and lit with long, horizontal lights on all sides. At first there was nothing but the headlight's view ahead and then, quite abruptly, enough hazmat teams to make John suspect perhaps they weren't quite out of this yet. The white suited teams stood waiting, plastic sheets and plastic-walled rooms erected outside concrete forms painted in black and yellow stripes with the triple crescent moons displayed clearly on every door. Caution. Biohazard. They were waiting for the car to stop, tension in their posture with the want to pounce. The armed guards flanking the doorway didn't exactly put the sight to ease.

"How unpleasant is this going to be?" John asked, unable to see much into the plastic rooms for all the white and camo-green in the way.

Mycroft slid his tie off his shoulders with an exhale of resignation. However he was supposed to take it, John didn't consider it a good sign.

The suited men and women opened the jeep doors, ushering them all out of the vehicle at their own pace. Soldier's slid in behind them as they were driven like cattle towards the well-lit bay of plastic walls and stations.

"Welcome back, Mr. Holmes," one of the faceless suits said, holding out a small palm device in his gloved hands. It looked like a Blackberry with a depression in the top holding a thin paper strip outwards. The readings on flat screen were too small to make any sense at a distance.

Mycroft held the middle finger of his left hand out as a separate attendant washed it in alcohol and took a small, spring loaded lancing device to his skin. One click and a pool of red blood sprang to the surface, Mycroft offering the red droplet to the waiting man. It only took a second. The green light flashing on the screen was an obvious sign, a pleasant chime an unnecessary but lighthearted addition to the 'all clear'. The suited man nodded and a door opened to the side to admit the British Government. Mycroft turned to John and Sherlock first, a forced smile pulling tight along his face.

"Once you're cleared you'll be received in the rooms before you to be washed, changed, and given a full physical. I'll have someone waiting for you on the other side to take you to your new rooms."

John looked at the plastic walls, now able to see the shower heads and interior separations within the boxy room. He grimaced. "All that in full view of everyone, hm?"

"Helps eliminate concerns of impropriety," Mycroft explained with no hint of sympathy. He smirked, genuinely amused this time, and walked off towards the open door to what John could only assume were his own executive accommodations for observing the private sanitation ritual of returning Ark citizens.

The pair of suited bodies stepped up to John, his turn chosen as next. John did as he'd observed Mycroft doing before him, his finger throbbing slightly from the pain of the prick while the hand-held device chirped and glowed green. They nodded towards the doors to the first see-through room. There was a small, inner chamber before the shower room where first the doors to the tunnel closed behind before the doors to the plastic room were opened ahead. John went through both sets with a growing sense of unease. There were cameras in the corners as well as attendants more or less standing by outside the rooms to observe and make sure he washed himself to their satisfaction. Even the army hadn't been this interested in his personal hygiene. John waved to the man standing outside the glass, wishing he had on the same bio-hazard suits as the ones outside so at least he could pretend perhaps he was undressing for a pretty lady.

John's shirt was halfway over his head when the alarm sounded. He turned, letting his shirt fall as in seconds the suited attendants fell back and the armed soldier's circled in, the brief look of panic in Sherlock's eyes almost immediately obscured by the barrels of guns and squared, militant shoulders. John's brain froze in mid processing, his hand bumping against the door to try and open it with the action ineffective throughout his continued attempts. Sherlock stood with his hands raised, backing up towards the jeep as they herded him away from the decontamination zone.

It didn't make sense. John's brain refused to make the connections, hands balling into fists to pound on the thick walls as they continued to bar his access. "Wait, what are you doing? Put the guns down. Put the guns down now!" No one seemed to give a care about the noise he was making and John's pulse raced with the question as to whether the room was soundproof even though he could hear the others quite clearly. It made as much sense as anything else. He pounded harder, all but screaming. "What are you doing?! Hey! Hey, stop! Someone, please, you can't do that! He doesn't have it, I swear!" John riled against the wall, the plastic sheeting bouncing with his blows rather than breaking, beating back against him with every strike struck.

The side door Mycroft had exited through opened again, the man himself pausing white at the door as he looked across the crowded entrance. John stopped, growing quiet with hope as Mycroft walked over, inspecting the readings from the hand-held device for himself. John could see the red of the screen. Mycroft handed it back to the attendant, casting only a sparing look towards Sherlock before giving a nod which set the soldier's moving.

"Take him outside first," Mycroft instructed, avoiding so much as a glance at John as he began to turn away.

It wasn't going to be like that. John took several steps back and ran at the wall, putting his shoulder into it. Again he bounced off, this time sliding to the ground with the reverb but not deterred in the slightest as he stood and tried again. "Don't! Mycroft, you son-of-a-bitch! He doesn't-I've been with him almost every second! It's a false positive, it has to be! I don't have it! He can't have it! Test him again! Give him another test!"

Mycroft paused, head bowed as he hesitated outside the plastic room. "John-"

"They're going to kill him; you're going to let them kill him!"

"John."

He ran into the wall again, thrown back off his feet without so much as a dent in the surface.

"John!"

"You have to make them stop!" John held his aching shoulder, breath almost too erratic for speech but necessary and therefor forced. "Just take us back out to the gate! Give us that chance at least!"

Mycroft shook his head. "Us? John, you're in. You're cleared."

"Not without him. He wouldn't go without me, I'm not going without him." John's voice cracked with the frenzy in his chest, sounds he wasn't used to hearing himself make uttered with ease. "Just take us back to the gate," he begged, eyes darting for only a moment to be sure Sherlock was still in sight. The soldiers were loading him back into the jeep, doors slamming shut. "Please. Please, Mycroft."

The older Holmes seemed to look through John rather than at him, frozen by the ice in his veins as he stood still to the sound of the jeep's engine firing up, wheels creaking as the vehicle rolled through its reverse.

He raised his hand and the engine died. John had already forgotten how to breath.

Someone in control somewhere opened the interior door and, once John had all but stumbled through, followed suit with opening up the outer. John tried to stand tall but his knees were liquified in terror. Mycroft didn't give him time to take so much as a step past the marked-off zone before grabbing his arm, head dipped low to rasp into his ear. "Take a handgun. Don't let him suffer. The Americans will be dropping bombs on all major cities globally. Get to the country. Satellites will remain operational and I retain my private line. Call me when you're ready to come back but I cannot promise you you will be let back in."

John nodded mutely, finding soldiers suddenly around him as a pistol fell to one hand and the keys to the jeep in the other. He didn't delay. John opened the back doors and let Sherlock out, holding the keys for him to take as he walked around to the passenger side using the body of the jeep to keep himself upright.

"Good moral character," one of the doctor's said, reading from a file clutched in her heavily protected hands.

John pretended not to hear as he fell into the vehicle and with one last shaking exhale slammed the car door shut.