Remedy
part fourteen"William Wilks, was it?" the Colonel Sherburn asked, looking John up and down like a doner kebab. John had greeted them in the front yard, wanting them as far from the house as possible, but found little comfort in the closed front door when in the scrutinizing presence of the Colonel and the six armed privates.
It had been unavoidable. Within hours of the tour rolling through the streets there had been men seen going to the neighboring houses. Sometimes people didn't answer. Sometimes there were body-bags. Without the jeep, Sherlock and John were sunk and so there was nothing to be done but wait till the cover of night. John wished it was winter where the dusk fell long before tea. The summer night was still a long ways away. "Yes, that's right. Can I help you?" John eyed the assault rifles, doing his best not to adopt a militant stance in the presence of a superior officer and other men of rank.
The Colonel smiled. He was an older man with sagging jowls and not but a whisper of hair for brows. "Just checking in. Everything alright here?"
John nodded, eyes shifting as the solder's spread out. "Just fine. Thank you," he said. "Not that comfortable with a tank in the neighborhood, though."
"Not to worry. It's for use against walls and blockades--not people," he explained, though John had doubts as to how genuine the man's assessment was as to who or what built and defended such structures. The Colonel continued to smile all the same, a personable face to an unwanted occupation. The sooner he took his smarmy mug off John's lawn the better.
One of the soldier's approached with a small grey box in his hand, a thick cellular phone perhaps or a--a disease detection reader like the one they used in the Ark. The hair on the back of John's neck stood straight at the sight of it, his eyes shifting around to where the milling soldiers stood in formation around him, flanking him from all sides. No escape. He tried not to smile with disdain. So that was the game: drive into town, test everyone alive, murder the sick. He wished he was surprised but found little reason to pretend. He'd served in the army; he knew what it was like. That little box worried him all the same.
He could have been more careful. Exposed to Sophie, exposed to public facilities, exposed to Sherlock. He'd always taken great care to follow up any instance of possible contact with best-practices medical hygiene but there was still a very good reason why most doctors who encountered the disease died. It wasn't just contagious, it was very contagious. And as the soldier brought the hand-held device forward, his own hands gloved and a lancer between his fingers, John could not help but think back to the moment he tore through the makeshift quarantine room to check Sherlock's not-dead body.
"This," the Colonel said, "is a device which can detect the disease in your bloodstream."
John swallowed hard and decided to play dumb. "Well, no need for that, then. Your people are the first ones I've stepped out of my house for in days. Don't see me covered in spots."
The Colonel nodded, still stepping aside as the other solder stepped forward. "Actually, new evidence suggests that the disease can lay dormant for some time before progressing into stage one."
John didn't even have to fake surprise. They knew. "Can it really?" he asked, making a show of looking over his shoulder and the solders who stood stock still, eyes on John. "And if it says I have the disease, then what? Are they going to shoot me?"
"Oh, no, that would be far too dangerous." The Colonel did not stop smiling, not once, not even a flinch. "We prefer to hang the ill. No bloodshed that way. The guns are only for if you run. You wouldn't run now, would you?"
John licked his lips as the soldier waited for him to offer up his hand.
"Just a little prick and they'll collect everything they need for the test."
Jaw locked and teeth throbbing with the pressure, John offered his hand to the needle. It stung as the lancer stripped through his skin, the rise of blood nearly instantaneous. Well hydrated, then. Good on him. Stupid diagnosis to stop him being scared. The drop pressed to the device, seconds passing before the green light sprang up like a happy little beacon. The soldier visibly relaxed, more so than even John. He wondered vaguely how many people he'd watched stare into a red light and either run or dangle from a limb.
The Colonel waved and the surrounding soldiers pulled in. Condition met; everything fine. John hated them all just a little. "Will you be staying here long, Mr. Wilks?"
"Uh.. yeah. I live here," he said, sucking on his finger while the soldier fiddled in his pocket for a plaster.
"You may want to rethink that."
John eyed the Colonel, brows knitting tightly over his eyes. "Why's that exactly?"
"We're shutting down the power grid," He explained, as though announcing the Sunday paper was going to be late. "No power means no water, no sewage treatment, nothing. You're healthy so you can come with us."
"And where are you going?"
The Colonel's smile grew. "There's a military installation in Sandhurst which has been outfitted for this situation. Plenty of room for extras. I promise you, we haven't encountered many." He gave John another once over, nodding slightly. "No one's forcing you to come but it's certain death if you don't."
John swallowed hard, trying not to imagine what true darkness looked like knowing it waited just there on the horizon. "I, uh... I'll keep that in mind."
The older gentleman nodded, little signals given which sent his men walking back down the drive towards the main road. "We'll be here a week at most. Let us know if you're interested. We're prepared to send you to your final destination either way you desire."
"I'm sure you are."
With a pleased smirk the Colonel nodded and began to walk away, pausing for just a second as he motioned towards the jeep. "Fine vehicle you've got there," he said. John felt a bead of sweat roll down his spine as the man all but winked and turned away, leaving John free to return to the house though his feet left him rooted for a moment more. He never trusted a happy killer. Righteous men with guns were always the first to pull the trigger, their own convictions greater than the presence of contrary fact. The sooner he and Sherlock left, the better. He doubted the sick feeling in his gut would pass until they were miles away with not a wink of them in their mirrors.
Inside the house, Sherlock was stood waiting in forced calm, his expression locked down and harsh. He noticed the plaster instantly, his left brow ridge raising curiously.
John smiled, imparting a bit of the relief at least that part had brought. "They tested me for the disease again," he said, waving the finger among the other four. "Passed it. Obviously. They'd have had me hanged otherwise."
Sherlock shoulders rolled forward in a satisfied slouch. "Good," he said, and left it at that. Neither really needed to say how grateful they were for such confirmation. Not when so much else was far from good. "Did they ask about the jeep?"
"Mentioned it but didn't ask. Said the power's going to go off, though."
"Guess it was too much to hope they'd keep it running for everyone." Sherlock hung his head for a second, turning to lean his body against the wall as he crossed his arms over his chest. "You should go with them, John."
John shook his head. "No. I'm not leaving you behind."
"I'm not saying I'd stay." Sherlock's jaw flexed but the expression that might have been was muddled in scar tissue. "I would be useless without power. I don't know how to make fire, we've already made the consensus we can't hunt for our food, all there is is shelter and limited provisions. Those men might kill me as soon as look at me but if I call Mycroft--"
"I thought we were of a consensus there too," he interrupted. Sherlock met his gaze and held it but said nothing. Too few options; too many obstacles. John licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Look, the way I see it, you're the ace up our sleeve. Sad but true. And you and I, we can go anywhere and do anything and if we just can't anymore... well, Mycroft will come get us. If just to get his hands on you."
Sherlock nodded slowly, eyes unfocused in their stare. "The only thing we risk is your health," he said, obviously unconvinced it was worth it.
John let out a deep breath, tired of the issue which never seemed to go away. There was a knock at his door before he could speak, though, which repeated itself heavily in the absence of reply. Without a word, Sherlock slipped around the corner out of sight while John waited with a slow gait before answering the door.
The Colonel was back, smile still stamped deep into his flesh. "Where's Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson?"
John slammed and locked the door then took off running, Sherlock's hand closing around his wrist to pull him along as they dashed through the house to the yard out back. There was a greenbelt not far. Over the fence and out past a field of grass there were trees to hide amongst if they could just get there. Sherlock pulled John to run, his longer strides nearly tripping John as they powered towards the fence. It would take a miracle to clear but John felt sure he could fly if he needed to.
"Jesus Christ, look at him!" someone shouted, a soldier, one of many set to keep them from getting away.
John felt the bullet long before he heard the gunshot. So much for the speed of sound. He stumbled as it tore through his leg, thrown down to the ground by his own weight as Sherlock's hand fell from his grasp. It hurt--god he'd forgotten what it felt like to be shot. It hurt a hell of a lot but he still stumbled to stand, not willing to give up.
They were surrounded. Sherlock had stopped running, hands held up in surrender as he stood near John, guarding him as the soldiers pulled in closer, thinking better of shooting at their diseased target having missed him once already. "Pressure, John," Sherlock said but John wasn't listening. Damn his leg, they needed to go! He wouldn't allow them to just give up without a fight. This wasn't happening. This wasn't allowed to happen after everything they'd done!
The Colonel wasn't smiling anymore as he kept cautiously back, his face contorted into a look of disgust and curiosity as he eyed Sherlock standing before him.
"Test me," Sherlock said before anyone could take another step closer. "I know you have it. I'll do it myself." He took a deep breath, the exhale shaky. "These are scars. I'm not sick. I survived. I'm not a danger to you. Just test me."
"Sherlock Holmes?" the Colonel asked, shaking his head in disbelief. "Don't look much like you picture these days, do you?"
"Test me!"
John flinched at his shout but felt strengthened by it. This wasn't the end. Sherlock would pass and they'd let him live and they'd think of something to get away and go back to just living their lives. He pressed his hand over the bullet wound, starting to feel light headed. He was losing quite a bit of blood but that was the least of his concerns. He watched the soldier lay the testing device and a lancer on the ground and held his breath as Sherlock knelt down to pick it up, almost ready to see the splatter of brains in the instant he pulled away. The soldiers were smarter than that, he recalled. They'd wait to let Sherlock swing instead before risking exposure to infected blood at this range.
Sherlock straightened up with the tools in each hand, pricking his thumb without hesitation before pressing the blood to the reader. It would only take a second. Just a few heartbeats between now and the future where everything was going to be okay.
Red. Bright, brilliant, unmistakable red.
Sherlock hung his head and let the testing device fall from his hands to the ground while John's eyes locked on to the drip of blood from his thumb, shock and his own blood loss driving his senses into cold and effortless darkness.