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Chapter Text

It’s been three years since Sherlock had jumped off the Bart’s rooftop, right in front of John.

One year since he’d returned from the dead, and for a while paraded with his nose and lip battered, as his reunion with John had gone a bit differently from what the detective genius had planned.

Half a year, since John had eventually stopped being mad at him. No, he had not let it go completely. He was still carried away with a wave of fury at times, but he learned to control his anger enough to not want to immediately smack that exquisitely sculpted jaw. He still found himself feeling betrayed, — especially if not whisked away to crime scenes, like before, — and pushed around just when he could be useful. And it was then that he came back to Baker Street, upon apologizing to Mrs. Hudson for his lasting absence and getting an earful from the old lady. Life without the impossibly irritating sociopath in a faceless chamber became utterly void.

Only three months, since the two Brits had talked at last. About whatever had happened to them throughout all those years — with soul-stripping, ribcage-ripping and handing their hearts to each other. For about a week, Baker Street had been hearing shouts of anger and loud noises of falling objects, when either of the tenants was hurling and slamming what was not likely to be broken much by falling, as one tried to convey his viewpoint on certain acts. Then they got exhausted. Having joined efforts to bring the flat back into what used to be perceived as order — an order of their own, — they sat on the sofa and word by word, mumbling and blushing, confessed their long-cherished, profound and mutual caring.

After that, everything got better. Not just “better”, — amazing! Incredible! The world went ablaze with new hues of their own making, from ordinary colours combined. They took beige and red, only to get bright chartreuse with a purple glow. Or, say, dark brown plus dark green made bright yellow, brighter than the smiley face on the wall. All their newly created colours appeared shining from within and sparkling at the edges. No one, nowhere had experienced such unity of souls and bodies as they did. They levitated above the ground, light as balloons. They were bubbling with happiness, which splashed out through their joyous smiles and twinkling eyes at the sight of each other. They stuck together constantly, appalled by a mere thought of letting each other go two feet apart; even taking one’s hand off the other was difficult.

And it’s been a month since they had come back to their senses, beginning to admit the surrounding reality as it was. Still, not a bit of their delight and lightness was missing. Those just lurked deep inside John and Sherlock, to run amok by night, when they surrendered to each other in totality. When one initiated, and the other accomplished the move, or the fondling, or the tongue-tip teasing of sensitive spots. 

One ordinary morning John was sitting in the sitting room, sipping his tea, squinting contently as he flipped through a newspaper. Sherlock stood by the window, his back towards John; lazy and sated, he was fiddling a serene melody. There was nothing to interfere with peace and tranquillity at Baker Street. Sunbeams bounced all over the sofa, the table and the floor, leaving merry dapples on Victorian wallpapers and trying to peep into John's cup, or to show Sherlock how to modify the melody to give it even more light. 

Sherlock was wearing his home clothing: pyjama pants, a grey T-shirt inside out, to spare his delicate skin from irritation, and a blue silk gown on top. He was barefooted. John, in his armchair, had thrown on a terrycloth bathrobe after a shower. His hair, brushed back, was still glistening with the remaining water, and there were slippers on his feet, considering a noticeable draft above the floor.

The violin suddenly shrieked. A curse proceeded from there by the window; John frowned, cocked his head and cast a glance at Sherlock, lifting one eyebrow. Still cussing under his breath, Sherlock fumbled in the pocket of his robe. For the phone. Obviously, his brother decided to work his nerves and to inquire if Baker Street was still unruined. He once had paid an untimely visit, just as they still had been experiencing the stage of letting out the pent-up pain. That was a narrow escape, both for himself and his umbrella.

Without even getting the phone out of his pocket, Sherlock pressed Decline and returned to the melody. But the Big Brother proved persistent. The phone struggled to draw its owner’s attention to the caller. By the restraint in Sherlock’s shoulders one could see that the call was still going on. Mycroft was patiently listening to the beeps. Now the wings of the shoulder blades slid apart a bit: call interrupted. Then the back stiffened again – Mycroft the bore. 

Accurately, without haste, did Sherlock put his violin into the case, rubbed the bow with rosin and placed it into the designated compartment next to the violin. He locked the case and turned an unhappy face to John.

“Pick up the phone, love,” John advised, “you know he would keep calling. Too wary of visiting yet,” he added with a smirk. 

“What’s that he needs again? I have not a slightest wish to listen to his preaching first thing in the morning,” Sherlock grumbled, yet he fished the phone out and pressed Call, lifting it to his ear. “Mycroft, have you got nothing better to do than raising hell bright and early? You sure know I prefer texting…”

Evidently, the elder brother interrupted Sherlock’s habitual monologue harshly, for his gorgeous face grimaced in annoyance, his extraterrestrial eyes rolled up. But in a split second that face turned grave, – Sherlock even seemed to have grown taller. He flashed a glance at John and turned back on him, coming up to the window. More than enough data for John. They were fine-tuned to each other. Felt each other at distance, sensed each other like themselves. Something had happened, he understood. Something had destabilized the Iceman to such an extent that he dialled Sherlock more than once and waited for him to pick up.

Sherlock’s back straightened – shoulder blades almost forced together by the sides of his spine, neck frozen, every curl on his head expressing the tension of the talk. To be on the safe side, John meticulously folded his newspaper. Set the teacup at the table by the armchair. Crossed his legs and locked his fingers over his knee.

Thus the new world arrived. Thus the known, familiar and comfy old world was no more.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock?”

Still with his back to John, Sherlock sharply raised his left index finger — read: “Later”. John tensed up.

Straightened in his chair, hands on the armrests, he leaned forward. He disliked all this very much. Firstly, never had Sherlock communicated with his brother for such a long time; secondly, and most frighteningly, he was listening in silence. No snapping, no sarcasm, no interrupting. He just turned towards the window and listened to his brother quietly. That was creepy enough to make the retired captain’s knees wobbly. Something happened. Something not good at all. But what exactly?

With his eyes burrowing into Sherlock’s back, John noticed that his index was still up. Then the conversation came to an end. It had lasted no longer than three minutes, which in terms of the two brothers was equivalent to a full-fledged, hour-long ordinary people’s talk, for they could hear not just the words, but also the subtext and breathing along the line. Knowing each other since childhood, they made sense even of silence.

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock distanced the phone from his ear. Just as gradually did he let his hand go down, still holding the phone. That was even more suspicious, given the lingering left index upright. As if he forgot about it. As if his mind was astray, which was likely true. Perhaps his brain was already processing every word and every intonation that the elder brother allowed himself addressing the younger one. Sherlock’s Mind Palace was meant to weave probabilities into solutions and find the answers. Who knows what Mycroft said to bewilder him so much that he retreated to his Palace right after the talking.

John knew that trying to reach out to him would be an exercise in futility. There is no Sherlock here. One has to wait. For a kind of relief from the grip of nervous tension, he picked up his cup, almost dropping the saucer, cussed, and went to the kitchen to make one more. It’s so true, as Sherlock says, that a properly brewed cuppa calms down any imagination and nerves gone wild. John wished he knew what Sherlock used to do, — and how, — that resulted into that proper tea.

Absorbed in those musings, John only made it to the kitchen, even put the cup and the saucer into the sink. No time for putting the kettle on, though. The spoon jingled; a rustling sound and a quiet moan came from the sitting room. John focused, alarmed, made a violent twist on his heels, nearly losing his slippers, his bathrobe flung open, his arms automatically pressed to his sides, his fists clenching.

“John…” Sherlock uttered, surprised by the hoarseness of his own voice. Cleared his throat and made one more try. “John. This is the end.”

Just two words, other than John’s name, but the silence in the room, as well as all around 221B, was so thick that one could cut it with a knife. John’s mind halted abruptly. He tried to connect all the events: the brother’s persistent call, their relatively long conversation, a silent and non-interrupting Sherlock, his gestures, and this muted voice. The latter was the scariest of all.

“She… Sherlock… What? What is the matter?” – out of worry, John began to stutter. He still could not understand a thing. As he managed to make his body move, he effected one tiny step forward, gripping at the edge of the table for balance, and finally saw Sherlock.

Sherlock turned around, looking towards the kitchen, where John appeared. All his look was an epitome of confusion, with a strange expression of some childish bitterness on his face. And goodness, pale it was. To be exact, even though Sherlock could not really boast any tan before, his marble skin was now devoid of warmer hues, and turned greyish.

“Mycroft… he… called… John…” added Sherlock helplessly, all withering at once. As if his entire bone structure had melted, as if his proud column was snatched. That might be hardly visible in a stranger, but not in someone you knew just as well as yourself. John did know. Every cell of him, every gesture, every angle of his head.

John rushed towards Sherlock, wrapped his arm around his waist, and ushered the non-resisting detective to the sofa. Then he seated him, ever so carefully, and sat by his side.

“Sherlock, love, tell me what happened?! Tell me how I can help? This is not the person that you are! Did anyone die? What’s the matter? Talk to me!”

Sherlock blinked a few times, trying to pull himself together, opened and shut his mouth, tossed his curly head and tried again.

“John. The world has ended.”

Chapter Text

John watched him in a stupor, mouth open. In what sense, “ended”? How? Here is the world, still around. Here we are — living, breathing. What the hell?

“What do you mean, Sherlock? Why the heck shall the world come to an “end”? Will you tell me at last, what has happened, or need I pry every word out of you?”

“Mycroft called, as you’ve just understood. From Baskerville,” Sherlock added emphatically.

“And?!”

They knew that, after the past incident with the diabolical dog, the glowing Bluebell and the rest of the matters revealed by a governmental inspection, instigated by Mycroft, the laboratories of Baskerville had been rendered under his personal control.

“Ironically, a month ago,” spoke Sherlock with regained composure, carefully weighing word by word, “they were informed that something weird was going on in South Africa. People are dying. Virtually burning down, within a week or a week and a half, their skins going black right before death. Apparently, in torturous throes of pain. All corpses were found twisted in an unnatural manner. And no, there was no one to mutilate them. Witnesses say that a person is suddenly thrown to the ground, arms and fingers crooked forward like animal paws, spine arching up. The face acquires a bestial grin, with a curled upper lip and bare teeth. But the most eerie thing is their eyes. Even after death, they keep looking mad. Rabid. Which is a far cry from conventional rabies, as you, being a doctor, should understand perfectly well.”

Sherlock took another breath and continued:

“Brother mine seconded the best of the Baskerville staff there. Equipped them well, with all means of protection, and attached some people from MI5. ‘Cause you know those nerds, they won’t notice a threat, facing a curious specimen. They took samples of blood. From the dead and the diseased. And from a dozen more people, just in case. John, it’s some new kind of a virus. Very dangerous, according to Mycroft. High virulence. Transmitted through the air, by physical contact with the infected, and, of course, through blood and shared utensils. Mycroft says there are already thousands of cases in that region of South Africa. The virus is spreading with the speed of light. Mycroft plans to seal the borders of Britain, and to make those lab eggheads study this virus inside out and develop a vaccine ASAP.

“John! Mycroft is afraid! I never thought I’d ever hear his voice trembling. He tried to urge us to go to Sussex, to our family cottage. He says we’re going to be safe there. But I refused to listen: surely this would not work.”

John was sitting bug-eyed, with his jaw actually dropped. All his world turned upside down. As a doctor, he understood the prospective threat. A complete lockdown, that would unlikely stop, yet would slow down the epidemic. Wait, what “epidemic”? It’s already a pandemic! John’s terrified imagination was already picturing, most vividly, the consequences. As an ex-military, then, he knew that closing borders, even with the entire perimeter cordoned off by the army, won’t help. It’s not an enemy who can be seen, and knocked down by a rifle butt or, at worst, by a shot in the arm, the leg, wherever. It’s an invisible enemy. Moreover, a new, yet unknown one. It’s a catastrophe. Global catastrophe. Of which no one, absolutely no one, is aware. Even those people in South Africa. They are simply afraid. They don’t fathom the scale of the event.

Could everything just pass by? Could Mycroft’s scientists not have brought that virus on them? Could they manage to develop the vaccine before the threat turns global and boils over the plagued district? Could, might… “John,” he said to himself, “just face the truth! Do you really believe that a highly virulent virus can be stopped?”

“Guess what, John, how they call it? The virus. It’s codenamed “Panther”.

Chapter Text

Guessing on the possible scenarios from the medical — and military — points of view, John got so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice when he clutched at Sherlock’s hands and squeezed them so hard that the points of pressure turned white, even John’s fingers did. It was but Sherlock’s pleading voice that woke him up:

“John, you’re hurting me. Let go.”

“Ah? Oh! I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t want to… I… just… have no words! It’s a catastrophe, Sherlock! What’s next? What if Mycroft’s scientists fail? What if the virus is already here, in Britain?”

“Stop panicking, John! If they fail, I will jump in.”

“Do you really think that I, or Mycroft, would let you around this virus even a mile close? Tell me, Sherlock, do you?”

“Listen to me: if you don’t let me around, as you say, this virus will spread all over the globe. And then it would no longer be a question of miles!”

“But you are not a damned virologist, Sherlock! How are you going to fight the virus? You’re a chemist! You detect crimes! But it’s a virus! It’s a whole other thing!”

“Right because I’m a chemist, I’ll be able to help them, don’t you understand? Leave virology to them, but blood tests, or whatever they may need, are my division! Especially with their equipment”.

The pitch of conversation was boiling higher and higher. Both were wound up and on edge. Both were shocked, only in different ways: while Sherlock was bursting to investigate, John strived to protect the people he loved, namely, his newly owned curly disaster and the elderly Mrs. Hudson. Harry! Greg! Molly! Goodness, what awaits them! Need to secure them as much as possible!

“Don’t you utter a word, John! I read in your face better than in an open book! You can’t tell anyone. Do you hear me? It’s only a handful of people who are informed at the moment. You know it only because Mycroft called me, and I decided that I have no right to keep secrets from you. Just think what your words would lead to. As a minimum, they won’t believe you, or would still hold doubts. As a maximum, you’ll incite panic, which may hamper what Mycroft is doing. He needs time! He spoke of a couple of weeks, could be a month. Within this time his geeks must sort things out, or at least outline a plan of action. And I’ll be indeed more useful there, with them, than lounging here at Baker Street.”

“I won’t let you go, Sherlock! You dare not risk yourself so. Or else I go with you!”

“Codswallop, John. Would let go, won’t let go. This is not the matter now. Don’t you understand, everything is in danger! I can help, why don’t you want to wrap your head around it?”

“Probably because I love you, bloody bullhead, and won’t survive the second time if something happens to you, God forbid! Either we go together, or we stay here. Together. End of dispute!”

Sherlock sulked. He understood pretty well that John had bitten the piece between the teeth and the argument could not be won. No reasoning would reach his mind this time. Running away from home? What a childish act.

“Alright, John,” stated Sherlock reluctantly. “I’ll be helping from here in 221B. Will ask Mycroft to send me daily reports. Now it’s high time to learn some virology.”

John gave Sherlock a squint of suspicion. How could it be that Sherlock caved in so easily? Was he scheming something? Oh, sure he was! It was not in his nature to renounce his point that nice and easy.

“Sherlock…” John began, but he wasn’t allowed to go on.

“No, John, I will not break out. I’m not going to deceive you, saying one thing and acting on my own. No. I have learned my lessons well. I will never treat you like that again. I’ll be there for you. I’ll try and help from here, by any means available.”

John felt a spasm in his heart, a lump in his throat, and stinging in his eyes. After all, Sherlock had changed a lot, once he came back from the dead. Why didn’t he notice that before? Why didn’t he bother to look, to really look at Sherlock returned? Cherishing his own rage, nursing his grudge, petting it as if it were an abandoned kitten. Idiot. Blithering idiot!

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John uttered, “and forgive me”.

“It’s ok, you were right in your assumptions. Several years ago, I would have done exactly that. There’s nothing to forgive.”

They were sitting on the sofa, against each other, holding hands for dear life, afraid to let go even for a second. John was taking in Sherlock’s eyes and saw determination there. Determination to attempt confronting the new plague, to throw all his genius and that Mind Palace of his into curbing the emergent danger that threatened to engulf the world they knew.

Sherlock gazed back at him, and in John’s eyes he read the urge to defend the ones he cared about, the will to come to grips with that new disaster, and also confidence — the confidence in Sherlock’s powers. John was absolutely convinced that Sherlock would take all efforts possible. That was striking. How could one have such faith in Sherlock’s genius? How could one trust him so much and follow him to the world’s end, still remaining the same protective, nurturing retired captain?

221B was drifting into noon. Sunlight flooded the floor nonchalantly, the window let in the birds’ chirrup mixed with traffic noises and occasional shreds of pedestrian speech. The people outside had no idea that their oh so familiar and cozy world was suspended on a hair-thin thread that, with every passing day, week, month, would get thinner and thinner. And no one knew what that world was about to do next — would it explode from within, or collapse like a black hole, to devour all the living. Anyway, the outcome would practically make no difference.

Chapter Text

The weeks that followed were passing in the suspense of waiting for the news from the elder brother. Sherlock was studying books on virology, saving and sorting in his Palace whatever he could find on the web, while John kept going to work. Clandestinely he began to take home a variety of pills, powders, tablets, injections, means of personal protection — goggles, masks, gloves, overshoes and even coveralls, — whatever he could procure without drawing much attention. That, and the household supplies of antibacterial soap and sanitizers increased. You never know what might come in handy, so John decided to go ahead.

Sherlock was making fun of him at first, but John just blanked it out. As a doctor, he knew that the worst might come to the worst, and then there would be nothing to laugh about. But weeks came and went, and the deeper Sherlock dug into the literature, the less he was inclined to joke.

Mycroft was diligent in forwarding reports on the results of the new virus examination carried on at Baskerville labs. He didn’t even try to bargain something out of Sherlock in exchange for his request. Both understood it was time to spare boyish bickering for better times… should those come. The brothers kept the faith. After all, they were the two most brilliant minds of Britain, who dedicated all their efforts and resources to averting the impending catastrophe.

One not-so-fine day, which started quite ordinarily, though, — John got ready and left for work, and Sherlock got started on another oeuvre on virology, expecting Mycroft’s daily report, — Sherlock’s phone buzzed. Lately, there was only one person to call him, and it was not Lestrade. The DI was somewhat taken aback when, the next day after Mycroft’s breaking news, he got a call from Sherlock saying he was not to be counted upon, at least for the next half a year, and hung up. All Lestrade’s attempts at reaching out to Sherlock or to John, by calling or by texting, to find out what was going on, came to nothing. Sherlock simply never picked up, and John referred to Sherlock, saying that it was his decision and that John himself was in no position to discuss it. That left Greg baffled, but he had to put up with the status quo.

Sherlock’s phone came to life again. It was strange. The brother was not to call, just to email the next report, is it that difficult, by God! Sherlock winced, but accepted the call.

“Brother. What’s wrong with the email?”

“It’s the wrong time to joke, brother dear. The epidemic got out of control. I’m sealing the borders. The situation is very serious. As you know from the reports, we haven’t made much progress in understanding the virus. The pandemic in South Africa is in full swing. But worst of all, the MI5 staff that had followed the virologists have been staying quarantined in Baskerville ever since, and not in vain, as it turned out just recently. Many got infected, although, each of them locked in a separate cubicle, massive contagion was prevented. Text John, get him home right away. He’s on indefinite leave from now on, respective documents already sent. And try… no, better task it to John, that he should talk to Mrs. Hudson. You’ll be delivered foodstuffs once a week. As long as we manage. Nevertheless, brother mine, give it a thought, if it’s worth moving to Sussex. Along with Mrs. Hudson.”

 “No. There is no stable connection there. It will only get worse. We are staying at Baker Street.”

“Discuss it with John. Make up your minds soonest. Before the panic begins, I can send a car for you. Let me know. And, Sherlock… take care of yourself and John.”

Those final words of his brother convinced Sherlock that everything was more than serious. Never had Mycroft Holmes allowed himself such expressions of sentiment, for anyone, the more so for his little brother or for Dr. Watson.

Pondering no longer, Sherlock started texting:

John. Come home at once. You are on leave. This is serious. Will talk when you come. SH

Just a second later, the reply followed:

Sarah just came, said I was put on leave. Got it right. On my way. JW

In some half an hour, Sherlock heard the familiar slam of the door downstairs and John’s heavy steps.

“Sherlock?! Did Mycroft call? Is it just so bad?”

“Yes, John. Unfortunately, Baskerville is overwhelmed. Mycroft is closing borders. MI5-ers got infected. Not all of them, though. He advised that we should stay at home and somehow explain the situation to Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock briefed, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. He was more than upset with the whole thing as well as with what he didn’t want but had to say next. “Brother offered us to go to Sussex. With Mrs. Hudson. I refused. We will be even in more danger there than here — no connection, no news, no help…”

“I’ve been thinking about it, Sherlock. If we were sure how long it’s going to last — a month or two — then it might be an option, but in these circumstances, when even Mycroft does not know a thing, I think you’re right. We better stay here. Only what about food, we can’t purchase a six month’s supply!”

“Mycroft promised to send whatever we need through his minions, once a week. We only have to make a list. We will hold on. Go and talk to Mrs. Hudson, you’ll make a better job of it.”

“Alright, but first I’d rather go to Tesco myself and drop by a pharmacy on my way. And then I talk to Mrs. H.”

John left, and Sherlock started pacing nervously across the sitting room. His laptop jingled to notify of the new report from his brother. But Sherlock paid no attention. It was not going anywhere, he would read it later. Completely unrelated thoughts and calculations were racing through his Palace, having surprisingly little to do with the issue of the looming danger. Sherlock was overtaken by emotions. It was the first time in his life when he was worried about somebody. No, he still didn’t fret about himself, but as for John and Mrs. H… How could he safeguard, prevent, hold out; maybe it made sense to leave and take her along. What if he’d made a wrong decision? But John had seconded! Should he ask the landlady herself? Might she choose to leave for the countryside? Damn, that was as complicated as exhausting. May John come back soon.

The door slammed again. Sherlock was all ears. Bags rustling; a thud, as they were put down on the floor; fading steps and murmurs — there he went to Mrs. H. An exclamation of disbelief. John’s quiet, soothing rumble. Silence. 221A door closed. Bags rustling. John’s steps up the stairs.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. I have talked to her. Have explained the situation, without detail. Said it’s too serious and asked her not to leave home, nor discuss that with anyone, until it is made public. Of course she is shocked, but she can handle it. And we are there for her.”

“John…” Sherlock began, biting his lip and looking John right in the eye. “John, maybe we should leave? What if I’m wrong? What if both of us are wrong? Or… should we dispatch Mrs. H?”

“No, Sherlock, you made the right choice. I support that the three of us should rather stay here. But I think we ought to warn our friends and Harry. When…”

“John, wait. Please, don’t tell anything yet,” Sherlock implored. “A day or two, and everything gets clear. With borders closed and all trains and flights cancelled, the secret can’t be kept. In the shortest time there would be some information from the government. Then we tell them. Not everything, certainly, but they must be the first to know,” and, reaching out to John, he added: “John, I never imagined saying it out loud, but I’m afraid. So much that I don’t know what to do, what to grab at. A hurricane is raging in my Palace, sweeping all the files from their shelves. Everything has gone awry. It doesn’t fit in with any classification of viruses. It’s something absolutely new, involving all kinds of viruses previously known. I fear, John, that we’ll never come back to our old world. Something totally new is under way, and it’s not kind to humanity.”

John could but hug his impossible genius and hold him tight. Sherlock saw and knew more than anyone else, more than John with his medical degree sans virology that he had never actually needed much. Now it was clear he better should.

Chapter Text

They’ve spent the rest of the day cuddling on the sofa, with no slightest intention to stand up and do something. They were taken over by apathy, by the fear of the unknown, unfathomable and cruel. In no time, the world became hostile. People themselves, unaware, became alien organisms to each other, carrying invisible pestilence and death.

It was going dark when Sherlock’s phone came alive. For once, his brother texted:

Evening news. Be prepared. MH

Sherlock simply turned the screen to John. Having read the message, he went to bring the remote and cried out for Mrs. Hudson to put her own telly on.

They were right on time.

Good evening.

I regret to say that my address today is to deliver not too pleasant news.

The world has faced a new threat.

A new virus was discovered in South Africa, an invisible killer. It is being spread through air, through contact, through shared items. This virus is rapid, so just in one week a person infected begins to feel ill. The symptoms are quite similar to those of cold or flu. And that’s the most dangerous thing about it! One never knows if they have got a cold, or flu, or, God forbid, this new virus infection.

The best virologists, the brightest minds of our country are currently struggling with the samples of this virus, trying to determine its origin, its behavior, so to say, and, certainly, to create an antidote. A vaccine.

Now, I am not telling this to sow the seeds of panic! I am telling this for you to understand what to expect ant what may happen. Together, we are stronger as a nation. Together, we will beat it!

The Government of the UK has ruled to lock the borders in order to avert foreign contagion. Right after the end of this address, all international flights and trains shall be banned.

We reassure you that the citizens that are currently abroad shall be evacuated in the shortest time by charter flights. I request everyone listening to my address while away from home, or knowing that their friends, relatives or acquaintances are currently beyond the UK, to contact them as soon as possible and advise them to apply to the local embassy of our country. All the embassies are already informed and awaiting our citizens. We will not let down anyone.

But meanwhile we insist that you reduce face-to-face contacts and stay at home whenever possible. Shortly we are going to impose a curfew for the safety of the citizens.

To prevent the disease, we are pressed to undertake extreme measures, yet to be mentioned. Now, remember that unless all citizens take effort to halt the growth of this virus, there will come a moment when no health service in the world could possibly cope; because there won’t be enough medicines, enough beds, enough doctors and nurses.

By complying with all the requirements, which I am going to list, it is of utmost importance to slow the spread of this disease. With your help, with your conscience, we will be able to reduce the number of people needing hospital treatment at any one time, so we can protect the NHS from overflow.

And that’s why we have been asking all residents of the UK to stay at home.

Because the critical thing we must do is stop the disease spreading between families and households.

That is why people will only be allowed to leave their home for the following very limited purposes:

— shopping for basic necessities, as infrequently as possible;

— one form of exercise a day - for example a run, walk, or cycle - alone or with members of your household;

— any medical need, to provide care or to help a vulnerable person;

— travelling to and from work, but only where this is absolutely necessary and cannot be done from home.

That’s all - these are the only reasons you should leave your home.

You should not be meeting friends. If your friends ask you to meet, you should say No.

You should not be meeting family members who do not live in your home.

You should not be going shopping except for essentials like food and medicine - and you should do this as little as you can. And use food delivery services where you can.

If you don’t follow the rules, the police will have the powers to enforce them, including through fines and dispersing gatherings.

To ensure compliance with the Government’s instruction to stay at home, we will immediately:

—  close all shops selling non-essential goods, including clothing and electronic stores and other premises, including libraries, playgrounds and outdoor gyms, and places of worship;

— we will stop all gatherings of more than two people in public – excluding people you live with;

— and we’ll stop all social events, including weddings, baptisms and other ceremonies, but excluding funerals.

Parks will remain open for exercise, but gatherings will be dispersed.

I know the damage that this disruption is doing and will do to people’s lives, to their businesses and to their jobs.

And that’s why we have produced a huge and unprecedented program of support both for workers and for business.

No Prime Minister wants to enact measures like this.

I can assure you that we will keep these restrictions under constant review. We will look again in three weeks, and relax them if the evidence shows we are able to.

But at present there are just no easy options. The way ahead is hard. And yet it is also true that there is a clear way through.

Day by day we are strengthening our amazing NHS with 7500 former clinicians now coming back to the service.

With the time you buy - by simply staying at home - we are increasing our stocks of equipment and medicines.

We are also accelerating our search for treatments.

Best minds and all means of the UK are aimed at creating the vaccine.

And therefore I urge you at this moment of national emergency to stay at home, protect our NHS and save lives.

Thank you.

The PM had finished her speech, the news reel went on, but the dwellers of 221 Baker Street sat in complete silence, caring no more about the murmur of the telly.

Despite their knowledge of the situation, of its origin and development, the measures imposed by the government became a shock. Looked like Mycroft had moved the King, or rather the Queen outright, on his chessboard.

It was unprecedented. A total lockdown. Total isolation. Their minds went blank at once. There was no way to make forecasts, or schemes, or diagrams of what was going to come out of it. The virus is not something to handle with logic or statistic analysis. It spreads in leaps and bounds, sporadically, especially with a virulence that high. Both the genius who had read virtually all books and reference on virology, and the army doctor understood that all. Not that it made them feel easier.

Chapter Text

Days were dragging on, indistinguishable from each other. Sherlock tried to entertain himself in every way available: played his violin, experimented with whatever he came across – assembled and disassembled, albeit with spare details, the home appliances scattered across the flat were countless, – read Mycroft’s reports over and over, hopeful to retrieve a clue he’d missed before; compared them with new data, piled reference books all over himself and retreated to his Mind Palace to analyze. But there were also days when Sherlock was listless and apathetic. He turned away, facing the back of the sofa, exposing his skinny back with a pronounced chain of vertebrae showing through his gown, and didn’t say a word. Those days were the worst. It’s then when John was challenged with the most complicated task – not to let Sherlock slide into depression. And John tried his best. He suggested playing chess, “Operation”, “Scrabble” and “Monopoly”, hid and re-hid his gun and ammo wherever he could. For God’s sake, he was about to play even cards, even strip poker with Sherlock, any other stakes – only so that his frizzly fortune didn’t mope.

Sometimes he managed to shake up Sherlock, sometimes he failed. On such days he just sat next to him on the sofa, in the cozy space vacated when Sherlock curled up tight. John lay back and placed his right hand on Sherlock’s hip, drawing gentle little circles, calming him down, showing he was there for him.

Just like the Prime Minister had promised, the Government tried hard to keep the citizens informed. Reassuring them when needed, pledging that everything was under control, but… People were scared. Hell, they were terrified. The streets turned still, without ever so noisy crowds of tourists or even ordinary citizens running errands or coming back from work. Neither strident car honks, nor the rustle of tires could be heard anymore. The city was covered with silence. And that was even more frightening. As if the ever-vivid, colorful, bustling London suddenly fell ill. A bit not good an association.

Once a week Mycroft’s minions brought foodstuffs, leaving them at the lobby of 221, for all the three residents: separately for Mrs. Hudson and for the dwellers upstairs. Both Sherlock and John avoided meeting the elderly landlady face-to-face, regardless of staying locked in together without leaving. For her, they were particularly afraid.

Along with the still disappointing reports on the work of the virologists, Mycroft was sending brief stats on contagion worldwide. Due to the unprecedented measures taken early, the UK was at the bottom of the list. For quite a long time, it was headed by the US, China, India, Spain, Italy and Russia. Now the best minds of the whole world were targeted at struggling with the virus. “Panther” was seizing the world.

It’s been several months already, when one day Mycroft forwarded a report informing that Baskerville had developed several test vaccines. Not without Sherlock’s invaluable input. The brother used to maintain secrecy, triple-checking all the information before sending it to Sherlock, to exclude inspiring false hopes. Different versions of the vaccine were tested on volunteers, namely, the survivors from the MI5 staff. It was more than two weeks ago. In the confines of the labs, the vaccine was called bluntly – α-Panther, β-Panther and, God knows why, λ-Panther. The best minds were nothing short of mocking, as such prefixes were habitual to naming virus strains, not vaccines (it went without saying that mass production would require renaming). And it was the last version that proved most efficient. All the volunteers who received different vaccines were kept under 24-hour medical surveillance since administration. They were tangled with sensors for measuring blood pressure, oxygen saturation, pulse and all things nice, as they were of help to the virologists without any special equipment. Cruel as it was, the situation was extreme.

As a result, α-Panther turned out the weakest. Not surprisingly, as it was the first try. The vaccinated MI5-er did contract the infection, but still stayed alive. Alas, he would remain invalided for life. The virus took over the host, wrung out his joints, but that was all it was able to do.

The outcome of β-Panther was yet better. Upon vaccination, the subject experienced slight malaise, increased heart rate and perspiration, with a steep temperature rise up to 102,2 °F. It persisted for about seven days. To make it worse, the joints of his limbs swelled. All this time the well-trained officer was lying unconscious. On the eighth day the temperature began to go down. Unfortunately, his joints could not be brought back to their initial state.

But λ-Panther appeared a genuine salvation! For almost two weeks the volunteer was feeling only torpor, a slight increase of body temperature – up to 100,4 °F, joints aching but not swollen. His perspiration was moderate, pulse within limits, and oxygen saturation almost normal, never dropping below 94%.

Sherlock was reading the report and couldn’t believe it. As a scientist, he understood that a vaccine had to be tested on somebody, he himself would volunteer if it were possible. “Ask brother if animals fall ill”, - he put down in his Palace. To launch a vaccine into mass production, sufficient data must be amassed. But as a human, who had just allowed his sensual side to win the upper hand, he was shocked. Unwittingly, he thought how John would react if Sherlock volunteered and – imagine that for a second – he were admitted to the testing the hard way? What would he, Sherlock, do if John, in turn, did volunteer? After all, he was a doctor and, unlike an average MI5-er, had a better understanding of specific indexes and the threats they implied.

Having analyzed both situations, deconstructed and reassembled them like a puzzle, he concluded that neither of them would sit idly by while the other were taking the immense risk. Together or no way. Sherlock knew one thing for sure: he would have gone mad indeed if something went wrong with John. He would never leave him, God, no, but to the same extent he could not watch his beloved gone crippled. John either, probably, could not live on in such a state.

At the very end of the report Sherlock saw that the laboratory was requesting permission to produce λ-Panther and tentatively informing that it won’t hurt to test the respective version of the vaccine on two more dozen volunteers.

Apparently, Mycroft had not edited the document to the end before forwarding. Or else… he did it on purpose…

Chapter Text

For a couple of days, Sherlock was bouncing off the walls. He turned more reticent, spending practically all his time in his Mind Palace – analyzing, estimating risks, comparing, making forecasts, drawing diagrams and charts. Everything had hinged on one point.

John watched him from his chair, disturbed. He understood that, for the genius, it was unbearably hard to stay trapped within such a relatively narrow space. He was astonished by the very fact that Sherlock had refrained from investigating and didn’t do even remote consulting for the inspector, but devoted himself to a new cause – more large-scale and more complicated.

Eventually Sherlock decided to have the talk with John. He prepared an array of argumentation from the scientific, medical and even from the basically human point, expecting John to go boggle-eyed and to think that Sherlock had gone completely nuts, locked away.

It was an early evening, the sun was going to have a rest, highlighting the deserted city with a warm orange glow, as if to soothe and say that everything would be alright, no need to worry.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, hands steepled together under his chin, as John was re-reading an old detective story. Sherlock was nervous. He knew he was right, but still could not calculate John’s reaction. Ok, let’s roll the dice.

He sat up on the sofa in determination, feet down, hands clutching at the sofa cushions.

“John,” – Sherlock began, claiming his partner’s attention. – “I need to talk to you.”

“Yes?” – John reacted instantly, putting of his book out of harm’s way. He felt that the talk would be serious, that the genius had finally come to some conclusions that had been tormenting him for several days in a row, which he was now ready to share. – “What’s up, Sherlock?”

“I… I thought… Remember that Mycroft’s report, two days ago? The one that mentioned the need for volunteers for further tests of the most successful vaccine?”

“Sherlock… Do you… Do you want to… offer yourself?”

“No, John. I have thought this through. I want to offer us. I don’t believe that this new virus is going to subside as suddenly as it has emerged. Judging by the reports, the virus was created artificially, you see – on purpose! It’s all much in the vein of one criminal genius, but we both know that himself and his web are terminated. Forgive me once again.”

John winced. Recollecting those times was not easy.

“John… I… I don’t want to wait, don’t want to guess if we are going to get the virus or not. With high probability, one way or another, everybody is. All the world is, can you understand?! You have seen the stats! And I… I won’t survive if something happens to you. I won’t be able to live in a world without you. Yes, it’s the very sentiment that I used to despise so much, but not when it goes about you, John. I have understood and re-evaluated a lot… I became a different man. Because of you.”

Sherlock was looking an epitome of despair: voice slightly trembling, knuckles white as he was clutching at the cushion, eyes glistening with worry.

“And, John, we ought to think about Mrs. Hudson. She is far from young, we need to keep her safe. If Mrs. Hudson leaves Baker Street – England will fall. – Sherlock drew the last aces from his sleeve. – “You and I, we will pass a physical – I’m sure, Mycroft can send qualified experts, or take us to Baskerville, – and we’ll have to spend some time in quarantine. But we’ve been locked in here for such a long time that a few more weeks won’t change anything. And then we can suggest that Greg, Molly and Mike should get vaccinated. John, please, give it a thought. Yes, perhaps they would invent something still more efficient over time, most probably the virus would mutate as much that it would stop killing the host, but right now the risk is very high.”

Out of his breath, Sherlock went silent, peering into John’s face intently, trying to understand what he was thinking about. To Sherlock’s utter disappointment, he was unreadable at the moment. John was staring at the ruffled genius without a blink. His position could be taken for a relaxed one, if it weren’t for his clenched jaws and this unwinking gaze. Sherlock fidgeted. All those feelings were still a difficult thing. Even with John. Or, rather, especially with John.

“You know, Sherlock, I am as happy as upset with what you just said. Happy, because you stopped hiding your sentimental side at last, and allowed yourself to love and be loved. And upset, because you could ever harbor an idea that I won’t be on your side, like I always am, in all your crazy ventures, won’t follow you without asking where we’re actually going on such a rush. But I value so much that you’ve got the guts to discuss, instead of making a decision of your own. Wherever you go, I go, Sherlock. Just like you, I won’t survive if something happens to you. I understand the risks and see that this virus is there for more than a couple of months. It’s serious and lasting, if not permanent. If – or, better, when – a new, improved vaccine is invented, and if-when the virus mutates, then we will be talking something else. Call Mycroft, tell him about our idea, and I will do the packing and call Mrs. Hudson to warn her that we’ll be away. She must not have a shortage of anything, all this time.

Sherlock let out a sob of relief. The wonderful, amazing, remarkable John! Sherlock swore to himself a thousandth time that he shall do absolutely anything for him! Not that he could act otherwise before.

Calming down, Sherlock inhaled and exhaled deeply. His brother should not hear him in such a state. He remained seated for a few more minutes, listening to John talking to Mrs. Hudson from their bedroom, explaining their absence for the next two weeks and reassuring that everything would be fine, that Mycroft’s people would take care of everything, and that she could call them whenever she wanted.

Reaching out into the gap between the back and the seat of the sofa, Sherlock fished out the phone, gave the last deep sigh and speed-dialed Mycroft.

“Brother…”

Chapter Text

A Government vehicle arrived early in the morning to take them to Baskerville. It was just dawning when they exited with two bags, Mrs. Hudson seeing them off, holding a handkerchief ready for blotting her tears. John re-reassured her that everything would be alright, and that they would come back soon, and that she should call at any moment.

Upon arrival, they were accommodated at comfortable isolated boxes, equipped with everything required for unmanned surveillance after vaccination. From one side, a box was fully transparent and had a small window with built-in gloves, for the staff to insert their hands and perform whatever manipulations that might be necessary, and, certainly, for visual monitoring. Individually, they had passed physical examinations, as thorough as those could only be, and by the evening they were left alone, for the observations to be commenced early in the morning.

Both were feeling nervous and empty, even drained. After so many months of each other’s continual presence it was so strange to feel alone, solely in the company of buzzing machines. Before going to bed, John texted Sherlock to know how he was going on and try to understand his mood. They had a brief Skype session on their phones, as they decided to abstain from their laptops so far. Having said good night to each other, both had lain awake for quite a while, trying to foresee what was awaiting them tomorrow and in the coming weeks, their thoughts drifting away into even more distant future. Would their bodies withstand? Won’t that vaccine cause any irreparable damage to their joints? Would Sherlock still be able to play the violin, and John to keep working? Had they done the right thing when they had subscribed to that?

All those things, like many others, occupied their thoughts and did not let them fall asleep.

It was but shortly before dawn that they lost themselves to troubled, erratic sleep, and just in a few hours they were woken up. At the sight of their condition, instilling doubts if their organisms were ever capable to grapple with the virus without proper rest, they were almost insistently suggested to postpone vaccination till a later date. But both of them, independently, refused, well aware that staying there won’t lift their spirits, if not pull them further down.

As each of them came up to the glass wall, they made it possible to get all necessary sensors attached to them, helping to adjust or tighten something whenever needed. In a while, another paramedic came — or still the same one, go figure with those twin-like white overalls, head-high, faces covered with plastic masks, — to administer injections into their forearms.

They both were sort of rattled during the vaccination, and, evidently because of that nervous strain, they didn’t feel a thing. As they were informed later, the subjects vaccinated were sensing boiling heat roll all over their bodies at the moment. The procedure finished, date and time of injection recorded, they were left alone, advised to rest and sleep more, as the first signs of the substance’s effect could be manifested on the very next day.

Only when Sherlock had settled on his cot and relaxed a bit, he was suddenly struck by a thought that had not yet occurred to him before, — probably gone astray amidst his Palace, — that he himself, voluntarily, had let them give him a minute component of the virus that had already killed so many people! Sherlock’s forehead got beaded with sweat. Not only him! He had mindfully gotten John infected!

What had he done!

Sherlock sunk his hands into his curls and pulled them ruthlessly, eyes squeezed shut. What kind of a genius was he, if he could do such a thing to the only one he loved? He didn’t deserve his love! How could one ever love a person who had purposefully exposed their significant other to danger? And was that even the first time he had? No, he was constantly rushing forward, with no regard for danger, shrugging it off like something negligible, outshined by the luring call of the riddle! How many times, after another crazy chase, had they both — or in turns — ended up on a hospital bed with injuries of varied severity, while the other was sitting by, praying for everything to turn out just fine still another time!

Indeed, caring only makes it worse. He had never thought of it before. But everything changed when John appeared. The wise, courageous, intrepid John. His conductor of light.

Sherlock pulled harder at his tresses. Just a bit more, and half of the beautiful chevelure, according to John, would remain in his fists. The phone gave a bleep of an incoming Skype message, as if it had perceived Sherlock’s condition.

How are you, Sherlock?

I’m ok. You? — he texted back with quivering fingers.

Normal. I was told that others sensed some heat when vaccinated. I did not.

Me too. And told the same.

What do you think, how long are we supposed to stay here? Just interested .  I’m sure they’d need to record data even after the due term.

John… I don’t know. I’ve never considered it. Most probably you are right.

Hey, hey, Sherlock! Come on! It’s all done, collect yourself. I have supported your idea, because I deem it right! Stop tormenting yourself.

How? How do you know?

Sherlock, I know you. I saw you before you started that conversation. And I have thought of it myself, — John confessed.

Without uttering a word? — Sherlock typed, biting his lip.

I… wasn’t sure, either, if we’re doing the right thing. I thought of discussing it with you another day… But you were ahead of me again, like you are. Look, Sherlock, we have acted correctly. If we hadn’t gone for that test vaccination, tomorrow we might have contracted the virus and then we would be toast. But now, however tough it may be on us throughout the first weeks upon vaccination, chances are, we are not going to die. Whatever happens, Sherlock, but I won’t last without you in this world.

Sherlock’s eyes stung. They still had been inseparable, from the very beginning, so different and so much alike.

Thank you, John. I love you and miss you a lot.

I love you too, Sherlock. It’s so weird to be alone, without you, though you are there, just next door.

John, I will keep records! If I, for any reason, won’t be able to write, I’ll do voice memos. I hope they would help establish how the vaccine affects a human, how one feels, and have people better prepared to the process.

You know, I’d be surprised if you did not, honestly. I’ll try to privately blog on every day of mine, too. Then we’ll look and compare our records. And, Sherlock…

?

We’re gonna make it!

Thank you, John. Talk to you later? I’m suddenly drowsy.

It’s all about nerves. Take a nap.

You too. Bye.

Sherlock was honest, he indeed felt sleepy, which was strange. Normally his "transport” wasn’t so demanding. Before he gave up, Sherlock opened the text editor and started making notes.

Chapter Text

Transcript of records by Sherlock and John with notes, where applicable. Sherlock’s text in italics, John’s in bold italics.

Day 1

Right upon administration of vaccine, I felt a bout of despair of what I had done. After calming down, turned drowsy. Have slept for 4 hrs, which is not typical of me. Feeling tolerable. Certain slackness could be possibly attributed to such a long sleep.

Day 1

The injection site is a bit sore, skin reddened, feeling warmer than the nearby area. Light somnolence, probably after the tension of the previous days. Now I’m going to have a good sleep. It’s a shame there’s no Sherlock by my side

Day 2

Nothing is happening. Nothing at all. Bored! The shot hurts a little, all the rest is normal. No aching joints, no excessive perspiration. No increase of temperature, according to the meters.

Day 2

Redness is gone; skin not hot anymore. I’m a bit shivery, but the meters indicate normal temperature. Weird. Not sweaty, joints not aching. Saturation — 96%.

How is Sherlock? Not yowling of boredom yet?

Day  3

Slight discomfort in the joints appeared, along with general flaccidity. Temperature normal ,  perspiration too .  Forgot to keep record of saturation — normal — 96%. Constantly feel like sleeping.

Day 3

Temperature normal. Fever gone. Joints not aching, but perspiration increased a bit. Saturation at the same 96%.

Day 4

Joint pain increased, as if out of high temperature. Feeling like stretching and snapping my fingers. I hope it all passes and I’ll be able to play the violin again. Still languid. Temperature normal so far, but perspiration slightly increased. Saturation — 96%. How long can I sleep?! How would John carry on the pains, with his shoulder? I’ll make sure to cure his psychosomatics, but his shoulder troubles me.

Day  4

Joints in pain now .  I’m stretching all the time, my whole body is sore. Feverish again ,  and sweating harder .  Temperature still normal .  Strange .  Saturation — 95%.

Day 5

Now it all began in earnest, for what I can reckon. Temperature rose up to 99,7°F. My vision is all blurred. Joints seem infused with magma. Severe fever and sweating. Writing gets harder — I’m all shaking. Saturation — 95%. Switching to voice memos.

John, hold on!

Day 5

More pain in the joints, especially in the shoulder. Hurts constantly, no longer in waves. Hell, is it nasty. My joints feel swelling, as if inflated with air from within, but visually they are ok. I’m feverish. Temperature risen up to 99,3°F. Sweaty. Saturation — 95%. Getting harder to write. I’ll probably go on by voice memos, thank Sherlock for the idea. 

Day 6 (voice memo)

Can’t bend my fingers. My joints are on fire. I presume I’ve lost my conscience for a while — I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I opened my eyes again, it was evening already. Temperature still rising — 101,1°F. I’m all wet. Disgusting! Can’t get up — too weak, all floaty. I wish it stopped at last, can’t stand it! Is there something I forget? Ah, yeah, saturation — 95%.

(Silence. The subject lost conscience.)

Day 6 (voice memo)

So, I now have to make a voice memo, as my fingers refuse to obey me, joints in constant pain, can’t bend them enough to type. Good that this app only takes you to press the button once, without holding it down.

Yes, my joints are wrung out very hard, as if infused with some boiling substance. And my shoulder feels worst of all .  It hurts so much that I can’t help groaning, and painkillers are forbidden. Gotta endure .  Ok, well, time to concentrate… Mmmm… What else d’I have to report… Ah, the temperature! Goes on rising — 100,4°F. No wonder, then. It’s like I’m inside a furnace. Way too hot. Yesterday I still could change into dry clothes, today no more. M-kay, then I’ll get dry by myself, been through worse in Afghan. Now, what have we got with saturation? Uh-huh… Still 95%.

Day 7 (voice memo)

John! John, please, hold on! You can take it! You don’t pick up the call! God, John, I won’t forgive myself!

Arrrgh… Burn in hell, you , virus-making idiots!

Can’t write. Barely keep my eyes open. Permanently sleepy .  Temperature — 103,1°F. Saturation — 95%. Burning up. Sweating profusely.

Day 7 (voice memo)

(Subject expelling words with effort)

H-hu-ur-ts a-ll o-o-v-ver. H-hard t-to sp-p-ee-ak. I c-ca-an’-t. Sh-Sh-Sher-lock…

Day 8 (voice memo)

Almost oblivious of the previous day. My eyesight was dim, I was still sleepy. Hope I didn’t lose conscience again. All my body is aching, as if every muscle is begging to be stretched. It ’ s even worse than the rehab .  Fever is still there, but seems subsiding. The temperature is 100,4°F, but I don’t trust the meters, nor my own feelings anymore. Everything got so mixed up.

John! Hold on! Please!

Day 9

I seem to have slept through one more day. How can man ever endure such pain? Is it ever within human capacity? Yes, I’m back to writing. The pain is waning, if it can be even called a pain after all I’ve been through. I can take it. Temperature falling  — 99,3° F .  Sweating less .  Saturation  — 96%.  Have listened through the memo and understood that I forgot about this parameter again. To hell with it .  After all ,  we are monitored intently anyway .  Condition permitting, tomorrow I’ll be able to put on dry clothing.

Day 9 (voice memo)

(Speech slow and garbled. Labored breathing.)

I… don’t remember… the last… two… No energy… Hard to… talk… Barely lifted… my hand… All… in pain… Hot… I’m wet… Constantly… wanna… sleep… How is… Sherlock?

Day  10

Never thought I would ever rejoice at the fact of being able to change on my own. A little faint, legs wobbly, hands shaky as well. Slightly dizzy, but no longer sleepy at least. So much for that .  I ’ ve slept enough .  The temperature is normal — 98,2°F. Joints alright, unaltered. I am sure the crisis had passed, and I would no longer sweat so hard. Almost forgot it again  —  saturation:  96%.

Day 10 (voice memo)

(Speech improved. Talks with pauses. Condition stabilized)

God, it was living hell. I missed a few days, not that I remember the previous one well. I never felt so hot even in the desert. Never hurt so much even when I got shot and lay there with sepsis. What a bloody bastard made up this virus. Lord, what those people felt as they were dying, if I myself almost passed away. And that was just a vaccine .  However undertested .  G… God… I hope Sherlock has not experienced such a terror. Temperature is almost normal .  Still hard to breathe .  My joints are not burning anymore, but still aching, like at the very beginning. Probably the peak is past .  Saturation — 95%.

Day 11

Tried to walk along the box (can’t call it a ward). My feet are firmer now. Joints no longer in pain, only slightly sore, as if after a long walk or after having worked with the laptop. No more weakness. Vision clear and stable. Temperature  98° F .  Saturation  — 96%.  If it goes on like that, this would be my last note — no sense to repeat myself.

Day11

I can type again. No, the pain has not gone completely, but after what it used to be, it well can be tolerated. I hope my immunized plasm would help people undergo vaccination more easily than I did. How is Sherlock? Gotta text him later. We have not communicated for so many days for that condition! The temperature is a bit up. No excessive sweating. I finally dried myself off and changed. Indescribable bliss! Torpor practically gone. Feeling sleepy no more. Ah, yes, saturation 96%

Day 12

Feeling better every day. Just an echo of pain in the joints. Visible alterations: absent. I hope my joints won’t ache with the weather changing — that would be an absolute nightmare. Pain in the shoulder subsided to zero. Sweating: normal. Temperature: normal. Slight fatigue is still there, as if I just got weary of a long walk. Saturation: same.

Day 13

I see no more sense in continuing records. Today I feel completely well. If my condition doesn’t change, this is the last note. God, I can’t believe everything is over!

Subject A, in total, has undergone vaccination significantly more easily than Subject B, despite the former’s history of addiction. For Subject B, everything lasted longer and harder than for Subject A — evidently, for the reasons of age and previous injuries. To be factored in for future research. Blood tests to perform for Subject A and Subject B.

The lab test vaccine sample under the working name λ-Panther to be considered suitable for further development, as the most efficient one.

Chapter Text

The sound of an incoming Skype message was no surprise to John, as he was just about to text Sherlock to find out how he was going, and maybe to have a video chat. He was missing him so much.

John.

Yes ,  Sherlock, hi!

Hi John. Are you ok?

I’m ok. You? Can I call ?

5 min, I’ll get my laptop.

Now that was a good idea, — John thought, as he reached for his own one. As soon as the system got loaded, an incoming call window appeared in the bottom right corner of the screen. Sherlock. John plugged in the headphones and accepted. The video was on in an instant — that was what being under control by the government, and Mycroft personally, was like.

“John”, — Sherlock whimpered in relief, reading into the change that had left its trace on John’s face. — “Thanks God, you’re alright! Those were terrible days without you! How have you carried on, John?” — it was only with him that Sherlock allowed himself to be so open and vulnerable, only with his one and only John.

“I’m ok, Sherlock. It’s all over. We have overcome,” — John said in a soothing voice. He didn’t mention his dropping out into nowhere — there was no use worrying the genius when it was all in the past. — “How are you? Any change?” — he asked, meaning the joints and the sensations he had experienced after the vaccine shot.

“No, John. No change. Everything as usual. I… I was afraid that I would be no longer able to play the violin. And worried about your shoulder. How does it feel?”

“No more pain, love. Don’t fret over me. I’m all the same,” — John reassured, knowing that Sherlock would deduce it all from his face. No need for words.

Sherlock was taking in the face he loved, a bit greyish after the ordeal. John looked exhausted. More wrinkles added up, apparently when he was wincing forcefully in pain. Sherlock stroked and caressed each and every one with his glance, registering them in his mental catalogue of John, updating files that had been stored in his Palace classified as forbidden to delete. He ran his eyes over the old lines, pointing out slight puffiness under John’s eyes, the outline of his lips broken differently. No, those days had gotten rougher on John than on himself.

Simultaneously, John was examining Sherlock’s face in the very same manner. He pointed out that his eyes had gone icy grey pallid, — thanks God, the dot in the right one, of which he was especially fond, remained just as vivid. Between the sable eyebrows, right over the bridge of his nose, there appeared a new little crease that wasn’t there before. John’s lips ached to touch it, to caress it with his tongue, to console. As his glance slid over Sherlock’s cheekbones, it followed down to the sweet full lower lip and to the marvelous curve of the upper one. Oh, did he miss them!

With the experienced vision of a lover and a doctor, he noticed how chaped and peeling they were — as a result of fever along with Sherlock’s habit of worrying his alluring lower lip with his teeth. His pert curls had withered a bit, albeit with no detriment to their bouncy glory.

Both finished their inspections at the same time and, looking each other into the eye, exhaled just as accordingly:

“John…”

“Sherlock…”

“I missed you.”

“I was tired of being alone.”

Sherlock’s glance squirrelled from one John’s eye to the other, while John, in his turn, gazed steadily into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I know it’s stupid, love, but…”

“Go on, John.”

“Sherlock… press your palm to the screen, please, and look into the camera. At least this way, I want to imagine that you are here…”

“Indeed, John, that would have been stupid if it weren’t you to say it”, — Sherlock uttered, as he placed his palm against the screen in sync with John, peering into the lens. — “I love you, John.”

“I love you too, Sherlock. Thank you for responding to my request.”

John contemplated the screen of his laptop, silent, and with Sherlock looking straight into the camera, it appeared completely like he was in front of him, looking right into his soul. Then John felt warm and easy. Sherlock was with him, ever so close! They would be released soon, to be together again. They would come back to Baker Street and hug Mrs. Hudson – now that they could. Would probably get back to investigation immediately, or Sherlock would dedicate some part of him to that, and continue his cooperation with the virologists for the time being, as long as they might need the genius consulting detective’s ideas.

They would come back to their bedroom, to their bed, would get under the blanket and just cling to each other, as tightly as they could, trying to melt together, to grow into one, and part no more. Those had been the hardest days, incomparable with all the recent months when they had just learned about the new lethal virus.

Both of them believed that it was not all in vain, that their consent to voluntary testing had helped the people in white coats to make the required improvements to the vaccine, and that the rest of the UK populace would not have to undergo the same anguish that they had.