Sherlock Holmes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
could_be_dangerous) wrote2013-01-21 07:26 pm
could_be_dangerous) wrote2013-01-21 07:26 pm
Entry tags:
the dust and the screaming, the yuppies networking, the panic, the vomit
For one of the first times in his life, all Sherlock could do was watch. Objectively it was fascinating, is fascinating, counting the days as they tick by, sequestered in a motel room in the middle of nowhere, some unpleasant little town in the middle of the American midwest that he'd found himself wishing, uncharitably, to be wiped off the map.
And then it was.
Not at first, not suddenly. First there had been rumours. Television news stories, radio transmissions. An epidemic of influenza in Texas. Some particularly deadly strain, panic; the usual nonsense. Sherlock had ignored it. No, he'd hardly even registered it, in light of the case, a series of brutal murders stretching across half a dozen states. Brilliant, even by his standards, which is why they'd flown out in the bloody first place.
Not, of course, that it likely made any difference in the end. Not given the incubation period, no. It must've been carried overseas. Only a matter of time.
It was only six days in they'd started changing the terminology. Epidemic became pandemic, and eventually the terminology stopped entirely. Nobody was left to speak it. Radio silence. Television broadcasts gone. Outside people died in droves. Sherlock could smell the man next door decomposing, a sickly smell, familiar, almost sweet, until he'd sealed up the ventilation with duct tape.
As soon as it'd hit he'd known their chances of survival to be virtually null. What the mortality rate really is he doesn't know, but if it's less than 75%, he'll be shocked. Dead. Everything is dead, and even in his most misanthropic fantasies he hadn't entirely anticipated that. Everything. Dogs. The entire population, as far as he can tell. First the flu, then the panic, the gunshots. Then nothing.
A few days ago he'd wandered to a farm on the outskirts of town to forage for food and discovered the bloated corpses of sleek-coated horses all toppled over in their stalls, bellies swollen, ready to burst.
The cows had survived, most of them. A valuable resource, too valuable to leave locked up to die, and so he'd let them out into the fields. Hungry things would have at them, maybe, if any had survived, but the potential reward was worth the risk.
That'd been the first time in a long time he'd remembered to bring home the milk. That, at least, had been worth a smile.
It shocks him, still shocks him now, a week in, how much he regrets. Pointlessly. Nothing he could've done, not a thing, but isn't solving problems like this what he does? Shouldn't he have managed, somehow?
Not the sort of thing he could say aloud, that. Not to John, no. No, it's illogical, and he can't be illogical now. Not at a time like this.
There's not much he does say aloud. Not much to say about watching everyone die. Everyone, and knowing that across the continent the same thing was happening, town after town. Mirror images of this one, full of people going on about their lives, the dull day-to-day. Sherlock had fought so hard to remove himself from it, from the mind-numbing flatness of a normal life, but he hadn't wanted it all to end. Not really.
He doesn't say that either. Doesn't speak of those back home, probably dead now. Mrs. Hudson, alone in that flat. Dying alone. Lestrade. He'd have been front line. One of the first. Molly Hooper too, seeing the corpses, their horribly swollen throats, hardly human. Falling ill. Knowing what would follow better than anyone else.
No, Sherlock doesn't speak of them. He does his best not to even think of them.
His is now a life lived in moments. Moments like this one, sat by the window in their sealed-in little room. The power went out a day ago. Nobody to maintain the plants. Like this, sitting and watching. John's here, though. John is here, and they might be the last men in the world.
Funny, how he used to think that would be lovely.
And then it was.
Not at first, not suddenly. First there had been rumours. Television news stories, radio transmissions. An epidemic of influenza in Texas. Some particularly deadly strain, panic; the usual nonsense. Sherlock had ignored it. No, he'd hardly even registered it, in light of the case, a series of brutal murders stretching across half a dozen states. Brilliant, even by his standards, which is why they'd flown out in the bloody first place.
Not, of course, that it likely made any difference in the end. Not given the incubation period, no. It must've been carried overseas. Only a matter of time.
It was only six days in they'd started changing the terminology. Epidemic became pandemic, and eventually the terminology stopped entirely. Nobody was left to speak it. Radio silence. Television broadcasts gone. Outside people died in droves. Sherlock could smell the man next door decomposing, a sickly smell, familiar, almost sweet, until he'd sealed up the ventilation with duct tape.
As soon as it'd hit he'd known their chances of survival to be virtually null. What the mortality rate really is he doesn't know, but if it's less than 75%, he'll be shocked. Dead. Everything is dead, and even in his most misanthropic fantasies he hadn't entirely anticipated that. Everything. Dogs. The entire population, as far as he can tell. First the flu, then the panic, the gunshots. Then nothing.
A few days ago he'd wandered to a farm on the outskirts of town to forage for food and discovered the bloated corpses of sleek-coated horses all toppled over in their stalls, bellies swollen, ready to burst.
The cows had survived, most of them. A valuable resource, too valuable to leave locked up to die, and so he'd let them out into the fields. Hungry things would have at them, maybe, if any had survived, but the potential reward was worth the risk.
That'd been the first time in a long time he'd remembered to bring home the milk. That, at least, had been worth a smile.
It shocks him, still shocks him now, a week in, how much he regrets. Pointlessly. Nothing he could've done, not a thing, but isn't solving problems like this what he does? Shouldn't he have managed, somehow?
Not the sort of thing he could say aloud, that. Not to John, no. No, it's illogical, and he can't be illogical now. Not at a time like this.
There's not much he does say aloud. Not much to say about watching everyone die. Everyone, and knowing that across the continent the same thing was happening, town after town. Mirror images of this one, full of people going on about their lives, the dull day-to-day. Sherlock had fought so hard to remove himself from it, from the mind-numbing flatness of a normal life, but he hadn't wanted it all to end. Not really.
He doesn't say that either. Doesn't speak of those back home, probably dead now. Mrs. Hudson, alone in that flat. Dying alone. Lestrade. He'd have been front line. One of the first. Molly Hooper too, seeing the corpses, their horribly swollen throats, hardly human. Falling ill. Knowing what would follow better than anyone else.
No, Sherlock doesn't speak of them. He does his best not to even think of them.
His is now a life lived in moments. Moments like this one, sat by the window in their sealed-in little room. The power went out a day ago. Nobody to maintain the plants. Like this, sitting and watching. John's here, though. John is here, and they might be the last men in the world.
Funny, how he used to think that would be lovely.