Remedy
part tenThere was no medicine left in the surgeries they stole from, the capsules and bottles having intrinsic value to even to the lesser of men, but the shelves were still stocked with machinery and equipment that sat like lost relics among the halls of the dead. It wasn't much but it was a start. John stocked up on cleaning supplies while Sherlock loaded up the back of the jeep with diagnostic machines and the glassware to work them. They pilfered mobiles from a electronics kiosk and a microscope, clarinet and reasonably melodic violin from a public school. The instruments had been somewhat random acquisitions but if they were going for quality over quantity now, their lives needed a bit of pointless fun. John missed hearing Sherlock work out a sulk across four strings or entertain a tune of hapless frivolity. John sounded like a dying drake on the clarinet. They both nursed bruised ribs from laughing as they drove off from the painfully quiet towns with a steadily filling jeep. They'd passed a car once while on the highway but other than that isolated incident, it had just been Sherlock and John. It wasn't worth asking where the rest of the populace had gone. They avoided malls and grocers all the same least they find themselves in an altercation with frightened survivors too long satiated in their solitary worlds.
It was fantastic, really. John had often felt that his life with Sherlock was something of an alternative existence from the rest of the world. Only Sherlock could live the life he lived and by extension that which John enjoyed. Now it was rather true in the literal sense as well as the figurative. They really were the only two people on the planet that mattered, surrounded by little more than noise. John regularly forgot what the world had become while sneaking through abandoned buildings at Sherlock's side, gun raised, ready for a fight over simple sundries as they had once stalked killers and sought kidnapped kids. Sometimes he had to stop himself amidst rolling laughter and face-pinching smiles to make sure he still understood the desperate situation, to make sure they hadn't both gone mad. So far so good. The only madness to be had existed in the flush of Sherlock's cheeks at compliments--far from outside the norm but somehow more obvious now--and John's own flustered stammering when his mind felt inclined to debate whether or not his own words or actions could be counted as flirting. The answer was often in the affirmative despite being no different from his normal behavior. It was all a matter of context, really. There was a difference in jerking one's friend by the shirt-front to gain their attention and pulling on the open collar of a man he'd somewhat sort of made romantic plans with. Sherlock reacted the same either way, only making John wonder all the more if this was a moment of situational curiosity for the detective, a bucket-list item to be ticked off and forgotten, or a closeted human desire the strange man had finally admitted to.
John didn't let his mind linger very long on such thoughts--which meant, of course, that they plagued him often. Outside survival, all John had was the date looming ever closer on which he'd promised to kiss his best friend. And that was it, really. It came down to little more than "I like you; let's kiss" with the same childish consideration to what that meant and what came after. John had only dared to bring the uncertainty into question once, asking Sherlock what happened after the kiss. We breathe, Sherlock had said. There was no real talking to someone who refused to see things from a long-term perspective.
John had always been a planner. Get good grade in school, study medicine at Uni, join the RAMC for an illustrious military career. It was the bullet in his shoulder that had made him an impulsive man. Sherlock didn't even eat via a schedule. John envied that sort of detachment from the norm in most respects not in line with self preservation and sustainability. Some things John liked to know, though. So they kissed--what then? If it made their guts wrench in disgust till their skulls and intestines felt cold, he assumed that meant they had their data and knew better than to open that particular door again. But what if Sherlock liked it? What if John liked it? What if they both did? John couldn't even really answer for himself let alone speculate what went on in Sherlock's mind. It was annoying enough to realize that the conversation he thought he'd been having was not really the one going on.
It was one of those things that only really occurred to someone while holding a washrag and bar of soap in the shower stall of a public school. Perhaps not those details exactly but quiet time spent alone in routine let the mind wander well enough to correct assumptions and offer clarity. Sherlock had never said he had feelings for John. He'd said John had feelings for him, asked what John thought about kissing Sherlock, and in the end it had been John who posed the question back to him in the form of a call to action. John hadn't thought it possible to be both passive and assertive and yet he'd apparently lived through a drive through the countryside in exactly that manner of conversation. Sherlock had not once admitted to anything of substance beyond agreement. It was infuriating. John's cheeks burned red even outside the scold of the water at the thought of his own admissions--limited as they were but still substantially greater in comparison. He could only imagine too well the sorts of deductions Sherlock had made in that hour. It was a little late to pursue damage control and Sherlock hadn't changed due to whatever he thought John might have meant but John's pride winced every time he thought about the stupid 'date' he'd posed while high on adrenalin and still shocked by fear.
It gave him something different to think about, though. About Sherlock. He wasn't just the-man-who-might-be-dying anymore, which had sadly become John's greatest concern and as such Sherlock's defining feature. His coffin-colored lenses had been exchanged for his normal eyes again which saw the man in full spectrum for all his ills and merits. John's mind was far more interested in dissecting every second of their interaction to try and work out the things Sherlock didn't say that day on the road and John held that to be what Sherlock had intended all along. The kiss was a paradox meant to drive John insane. He could kiss that man for the distraction. He was going to, in fact.
While their days of homelessness were fun, John looked forward to settling down again. It would be nice to have a toilet and a shower not attached to a public building where unclenching was next to impossible when leaving the jeep lead to fear of losing the jeep. It was why one of them almost always stayed within eye-shot of it, especially in situations where pants would be down for at least one party. Sleeping horizontal was another luxury John missed though his back didn't honestly complain. They'd done well to gather provisions, he felt, and they deserved the peace of stretching out and making a new home.
So Sherlock found them a castle.
Mansion was probably more accurate a word but John's experience with the very rich was very limited. He saw huge walls, lots of windows, and enough land for a block of flats and his mind more or less filled in the moat and dragon on its own.
"Here?" he asked, chin nearly pressed to his sternum as he looked up at it through the confines of the window.
Sherlock nodded, taking them up the circle drive to park just outside the front doors. "Estate sale sign down the block but not posted in the yard. Easy enough to see the impression where the sign had been, though--the grass has grown taller except for in two small, vaguely rectangular spots. Sign said the sale was set for August 3rd--The Ark closed its doors on the 29th of July taking with it the governing forces of England. Not likely the sale went underway so I imagine it's still furnished as well."
John raised his brows as he stared up at the aging brick, a rain-stained beige yellow stacked nearly three stories high with a grey peaked roof and white trimmed windows. There was ivy and a large privacy fence, a stone-sculpted entrance and thick, healthy hedges. There was no way in hell it was going to be as easy as opening the front door and staking a claim. "Alright," he said, pursing his lips in doubt. "So we knock on the door and say what exactly to the people who probably live here?"
"Estate sale, John." Sherlock repeated as he put the jeep in park, unfastening his seat buckle with finality. "If they intended to move in at the end of known existence, they wouldn't have been trying to sell off the furnishings. Bank property is my best guess; not inherited but defaulting to the loan holder. It's not exactly on the beaten path and there are clear signs of inhabitants in the surrounding properties so in all probability this is still quite vacant."
John shook his head as he unfastened his own buckle, falling several steps behind Sherlock as the younger man hurried along to pick the lock. "You're going to get us shot," John warned, looking around with well-deserved paranoia as the entryway did its job masking most of Sherlock's deed.
"This isn't the States."
John wasn't sure that really qualified as a response to his concerns but the door was open before he could offer further fret. Possession was nine-tenths of the law--or something like that--and Sherlock had no qualms at all in marching into the home as though he owned it now that his picks had taken care of their entry. John followed behind him at a less eager stride as he listened and looked with a soldier's eyes for the hidden threat that might be lurking inside ready to leap out in fear of their uninvited intrusion.
It was a nice home. Even without Sherlock's level of deductive skill, John could tell an older couple had lived there for all the photographs along the walls that added color like wallpaper to the cream paint behind them. Dark wood accents on the stairwell and flooring, decorative molding--the chandelier alone would have probably paid for a fair portion of his university costs. It wasn't a place of extravagance but there was certainly a decorative nod to the classics in the traditional feel of the warm rooms with their high ceilings. John was a little more concerned with keeping an eye on Sherlock than in taking in the details of the throws, rugs, and furniture but there was certainly a sense of not belonging that went far beyond simple breaking and entering. John didn't mind an expensive bottle of wine or turn away the occasional watch or wallet afforded him by the more affluent Holmeses but luxury was never something he'd considered as a necessary reward for good works. This went far and beyond anything that he'd dreamed, be it fantasy or nightmare. Their flat could easily fit several times over inside the brick building. He liked their flat. A flat was just fine. Two rooms, common areas, a tub and a toilet was all anyone really needed.
Not that it wasn't nice to think of retiring somewhere with a telly bigger than himself.
"See?" Sherlock said, nearly bouncing down the stairs with his arms wide. "Deserted. Should be plenty of room to set up a small lab. Music room. Plenty of bedrooms to choose from, certainly. We could practically section it off and take a half each."
"Yeah, no, it's... it's nice. Very nice." John cleared his throat as he continued his slower surveillance of the home, not quite sure there wasn't an element of shock in the realization that this was effectively theirs now. They'd won the apocalypse lottery, apparently. Surely there was going to be a catch.
If there was, Sherlock was the least concerned. He flopped his long limbs down into the sofa with a great sigh, heels up on the coffee table next to a small brown envelope as he tested the furniture to be in his liking. He had a body like a billfold that flexed out and folded in as he leaned his head back into the fluffy couch cushions to be pillowed gently rather than firmly as had been the state of the jeep's driver's seat. He looked sated with his head back and eyes closed, full lips slightly parted with a withering exhale. They were home now. Sherlock had found them a home.
It hardly did to complain too loudly at being the only one who was apparently set on bringing a few things in before tea. It would be just as easy to bring in a box or two of dry goods as it would to first check the kitchen to see if they had anything in. John left Sherlock to relax for a bit as he felt a touch of familiarity if heading outside to bring home something to eat. He was far too old for make-believe but it'd be a lie to say there wasn't an element of fantasy in falling into old habits and looking for ways to mirror what once was.
The shotgun was a surprise. Single barrel, at least--old but not antique. John could feel his neck wrinkle under his chin as he arched back from the metal tube set far too close to his face. On the other end, somewhat blurred as his vision focused on the protuberance between them, was a gentleman maybe ten or so years older than himself with silver hair and a more than healthy tan. He had the sharp stare of a man vested in details and the brows of someone who had seen a lot of death. The neighboring grounds weren't exactly what John would have considered hunting territory but he was beginning to find the presence of hunting rifles and general guns for game to be an annoyingly regular sight.
"Alright," the man said, gesturing with the weapon. He sounded a bit like a car exhaust, his cheeks sagging though he was far from fat. "Come on out of there--nice and easy."
It would hardly do to argue. John lifted his hands to show empty palms, following the gesture of the shotgun as he stepped from the stoop to the walkway. The jeep behind them both made it useless as cover. If it came to it, John felt he could probably take the man. Not easily, probably not without first somehow scattering buck-shot through the windows, but he felt rather confident he could bring him down one way or another. Not over the house, though. John would just as soon collect Sherlock and the two of them try to find a different refuge.
The silver-haired man kept the gun's sight aimed at John's chest as he raised his caterpillar brows, side-eying the jeep interior though the heavy tinting made it difficult to see inside. John's hackles raised more at the man's interest in the jeep than they had ever with the gun alone. The jeep was his and Sherlock's life line. Without the jeep, they'd have been dead long before. The jeep was more important than almost anything and if the older man had an interest in it, things were most certainly going to get very bad, very quickly for them both.
"Bill? Everything alright?" Called Sherlock as he swept into view in the doorway. The silver-haired man swung his shotgun in his direction, a motion which caused Sherlock to freeze in uncharacteristic fright as he raised his hands without hesitation. "Oh. Oh, my.... Ah... don't shoot!" he cried, voice cracking slightly on the last syllables.
If the name hadn't been enough of a giveaway, the performance certainly cued John in. This wasn't Sherlock Holmes at the door. Though he really wasn't sure this was the right time for this sort of nonsense, John held his tongue and played his part as actor in the wings waiting for his stage direction. Easier still would have been Sherlock sweeping in and rescuing him as they both knew he was more than capable of doing. They outnumbered the silver-haired man now and that generally made for a much itchier trigger finger. John licked his lips and sealed them closed as he tried to draw as little attention his way least he be called upon for sudden action.
The silver-haired man looked at John then back towards Sherlock, looking more than a little annoyed to see there was two of them. "Alright, who are you? What are you doing here?"
Sherlock had his chin quivering slightly, throat expanding on a hard swallow. It was a wonder he'd never taken to the stage. "I'm Harvey," he said, then nodded towards John. "This is my brother Bill. We, ah... we came to see our brother, actually. I believe he must be inside asleep somewhere."
The man's frown deepened, his grip on the gun growing slack from the shoulders first, the weight resting on his wrists instead which would never be able to control the kick-back. Judging by his posture, he didn't intend to shoot them anymore. John didn't allow himself to relax just yet but was pleased to see whatever Sherlock was doing, it was certainly working. "Peter's dead," the man said, still glaring at Sherlock skeptically even as the master of manipulation pushed forward every tell of emotional discomfort he could manage.
"Is he? When did he... Was it his heart or, uh... or did he...?"
The shotgun pointed nose down towards the gravel as the man finally gave up on intimidation tactics. "Heart failure," he said, no kinder than before but certainly buying into the act. "He didn't suffer."
Sherlock smiled slightly, his eyes already red from crocodile tears glistening off his bottom lashes. "Oh, god. Well, I suppose that's a blessing in some ways. Still, I had hoped... First the girls and now this." Sherlock turned his face for a moment, pretending to school himself as he nodded far more than was ever necessary, hands fidgeting at his sides. "Sorry. Ah.. it's been a long trip. First to go get Bill, then here... At times I didn't think we'd make it but I always believed he'd be here still... Sorry. Sorry, you must be his neighbor. Never been very good with names I'm afraid. Doctor, ah..."
"Robinson. Tom."
"Dr. Robinson, of course. A pleasure." The actor pulled a terribly unconvincing smile as his bottom lip continued to pout. Award winning performance, truly. "Thank you for keeping an eye on the place. At least I know the memories are still intact. Umm.. if you'll excuse us, I, ah... thank you." And without another word, Sherlock turned away from the shotgun-holding man and ducked back inside as though he very well belonged there.
Dr. Robinson offered no apologies as he fixed John with his cold stare once more. John forced a frown and gave a nod in parting as he ignored his original task of bringing stuff in and followed Sherlock instead. His heart didn't start beating again until he had the door closed, a long breath whooshing from his mouth as he blinked in wonder at their continued survival.
Sherlock was leaning against the den wall, smiling at John with a sparkle still in his eye though the wetness of tears had evaporated. He looked to have had a great time of that. John wasn't going to disagree overall.
John raised his brows as he walked over to him, trying not to look amused but falling into step with the glee across Sherlock's face. "So I'm Bill now, am I?" he asked.
Sherlock ducked his head with a momentary, eye-squinting smirk before righting himself in his lazy lean. "Only in public," he said. "Best part of the affluent is their bias and selfishness. They won't be bothering us now that they believe we belong here." Which, given the fact that they hadn't been shot or driven off the land, was looking to be the case.
Still, there were a few questions left unanswered. "Alright. You going to walk me through it?"
Sherlock shook his head. "You won't be impressed. It's child's play."
John rolled his eyes, not in the least bit fooled as Sherlock's smile goaded him on to insist. "God, look at you. You want to tell me so bad you can't even keep a straight face. Go on."
There was only the slightest pause as Sherlock pretended to be less keen than he obviously was until rolling his shoulders back and guiding John through it with a point, a gesture, or a nod. "I suppose we can start with the walls. Lots of photographs present so the occupants of this house weren't visited often--if they were, there wouldn't be a need for photographs. The most constant figures are three young women, and a man and woman of comparable age so we can assume that's the family. There's a box of unwanted items on the kitchen including prescriptions and mail addressed to a Peter Wilks so there's our esteemed host whom by virtue of being the only male in the photographs must be the family patriarch. Then there's the note left by the sofa--to Harvey and Bill--hardly genius levels of deduction needed there to infer the former occupant was expecting someone and the clear fact that the neighbors are on patrol but don't shoot first show they're aware of this as well. Photographs, however, show only daughters. He wouldn't leave a note to sons-in-law and not his own blood so that's them ruled out, so brothers it is. Even if Bill or Harvey ended up in actuality being Peter's close friends, the term brother can be extended affectionately whereas the gaff of calling a brother a friend is more transparent. The prescriptions I mentioned before were for the treatment of heart disease, the estate sale itself is representative to his having lost his family already--likely to the plague. Do I need to explain how I knew the man with the gun was a doctor?"
John shook his head, trying hard not to rip apart at the seams from the pleasure their mundane detective work. "Yep. You were right," he said, giving Sherlock's shoulder a firm pat. "Child's play."
"I did say," Sherlock reminded him.
"You did. Very well done, Harvey."
"Thank you, Bill."
John chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped away and gauged how well his heart had settled in his ribs. A laugh had seen him through the worse of that small fright. Somehow, it was much easier to feel safe now that the shotgun wielding resident paranoia had seen itself materialized and dealt with. This was home now with no further worries to contend with.
Well, almost none. "So what happens when the Wilks brothers actually show up?"
"You honestly think they will?" Sherlock pushed off from the wall, leading the way into the kitchen to go through the cabinets. They weren't so empty as to not include most of the former occupant's selections of cups and teas and cans of beans. A man after John's heart.
"We've had worse luck than that," John reminded him.
Sherlock pursed his lips with a hum. "Perhaps. I think we'll be quite alright, though. If it comes to that, we'll improvise."
That was certainly one thing they were very good at.