30 Days. (Part 1 of the 30 Days fanfic series)

Two: Diseased, Part I

Sherlock remembered waking up to find himself tied to a tree.

A tree?

That's when the detective noticed his surroundings for the first time: he was in James's Park, or what was left of it, anyway. And then he remembered getting knocked out back at that destroyed building, and seeing his friend's face, the one and only person he wanted to see at that moment. . . before blacking out. There hadn't been anyone around, so it must have been John himself that had done it. He must've also tied him to this tree. But why? A horrid feeling crept down into his mind like a snake. What if John was like those others, the Diseased? Did he somehow catch the odd and terrifying virus that seemed to have been going around? And why didn't he, Sherlock, have it? What caused it anyway? Sherlock felt frustrated. He hated being faced with so many unanswered questions. But he had never been in such a situation before. At least he had an idea for that last question; it may have had something to do with those ashclouds. It was a ridiculous theory, but it was all he could think of, for now. Sherlock squirmed in the ropes for a moment, even though that did nothing at all. John was good at tying people to trees, apparently. Really good. As he slowly stared around, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps as they crunched upon leaves (the park was littered with damn leaves everywhere, and the trees were completely bare). He turned to see John as he approached, a grin on his lips, and that killer look in his eyes. "Hello," he said, speaking in a tone that Sherlock didn't recognize as his best friend's.

"Fuck. You did become like them. . . ." Sherlock murmured in shock and horror, squirming in the ropes again in his panic. The John that wasn't the John Sherlock knew stepped closer until he was only a foot away from his prize. He held up a dagger, looking down at it as if it were something most dear and precious to him, slowly running a finger down the rusted blade. This creeped Sherlock out, and he shuddered as he watched. Shit. "I'm going to kill you. Well, you probably already know that. But I wanted to have you to myself, so I made sure to shut you up and dragged you out here (you were rather heavy, by hell!), found some rope, and tied you to this tree. Could've done better for my setup, but. . . This is the apocalypse, and this is all I have. I should make it quick before the others come and try to get at you. Now that wouldn't be fair, would it?" John's face leaned close to Sherlock's, and he could feel his hot breath down his neck. The detective breathed quietly but heavily, grey-blue eyes widened.

"John. . . please, don't do this! I know this isn't you." The Diseased John laughed, which sounded cold and dark and empty. "Oh, but my dear Holmes, this is me." He held up the dagger to his neck, pressing down hard. Sherlock swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing. He winced as he felt the blade bite into his pale skin. He now knew a few things: John had caught the virus. He remembered who he was, yet didn't; which was half good, but half bad. And he himself was going to die, right here, right now, in the middle of an apocalypse in the destroyed beauty of James's Park, with no-one to help him, and no help around for miles. But not unless he could persuade John back to being himself. Maybe there was a way. Maybe there wasn't at all, and he would never change. But Sherlock had to at least try. As the blade bit a little further into his skin until a scarlet drop of blood ran down his neck, he quickly burst out, "Wait!" John, looking irritated, paused his actions with a sigh, as if he were interrupted from something important that didn't involve him about to kill someone. "What do you want? I'm about to kill you, and I want to make it nice and quick."

"Just. . . . give me at least three minutes. Please." The other paused for a moment, his lips turned down into a thinking frown.

"Hmmm. . . ."

Sherlock didn't realize it at first, but he had begun to hold his breath, for once praying that the Disease-turned Dr. Watson would give him a chance to speak, to talk him out of this. For once in his entire life, he felt what it was like to truly be human in the state of fear. His body trembled. His hands shook. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and not just from the unusually hot sun. It wasn't really because he came out of his Mind Palace to find London turned to shit. But to find his friend like this, the most important man in the world to him. . . . It left him feeling like a lost boy: confused, scared, horrified---all of those annoying emotions---all at once. He slowly licked his very pale lips, noticing the salty taste of sweat. It wasn't just his forehead or lips; he was nearly drenched in his own sweat. John seemed to notice, and a smile curled on his lips, as if he enjoyed the sight of seeing him in this state, as any killer would. And so, he seemed to take longer to make his decision, slowly moving the dagger from Sherlock's throat and staring at it. Sick bastard, Sherlock thought to himself. But he wasn't foolish enough to say so aloud. This wasn't John Hamish Watson, the man who came from the war in Afghanistan, the man who was brave, loyal, and downright caring for the high-functioning sociopath, no matter how annoying or rude he came across as. The man who was the key to his locked, cold heart. No, this was not that man at all, but someone entirely different. And he had to do all that he could, no matter what it took, to bring the real John back. No matter what.

John had finally looked up at Sherlock, sighing softly. "Alright, fine, but just three minutes. And hurry up, I'm eager to see you choke on your own blood and die," he said. The casuality in his tone of voice made another shudder go through Sherlock. Jesus Christ, John's even scarier like this than that one time I got him to punch me, he thought to himself. But that was John then. This isn't John now. Sherlock let out a shakey breath, doing his best to hide the relief he felt. His muscles, once tensed, slowly untensed like a rope uncoiling. He told himself to calm down, forced his emotions down to the abyss of his heart, and began to speak.

"John, I know for a fact that this is not you," he said. John rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to remark on this, but Sherlock continued before he could. "And don't tell me it is, because I know it isn't! The real John Hamish Watson was once an army doctor. He can be a bit angsty sometimes, and even boring, but he is the most brilliant man I ever knew. He has helped me see things that I never bothered to see before. He has helped to me to be more. . . . human, if you will. I'm still learning, but with John, I feel like I am starting to get the hang of it, bit by bit. He's very loyal to me, and even shows signs of being protective of me, even though I rarely deserve such loyalty or protection. I once told him that alone is all that I have, alone protects me. But he told me, 'no, friends protect people'. And I think back on that, and realize he's right. If it wasn't for Dr. Watson, if he hadn't stepped into my life by simply becoming my flatmate, then I don't know where I'd be. I would've stayed lonely for most of my life. I wouldn't have found that I cared for the others; Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, and Molly. And most importantly, I wouldn't have found a best friend. A friend that I love most in the world."

Sherlock stopped speaking, licking his lips briefly before becoming quiet again. His heart beat like a drum in his chest, but not exactly the scared kind. He wasn't very good at making speeches, so he wasn't sure how that came about. He truly did care about John. But what did he mean by love? He felt as if it may have had a whole other meaning to it. However, he didn't ponder on it. Now was not the time. He stared at the face of the person that wasn't his friend's, waiting for an answer. Anything. Anything at all. For recognition, or for nothing. He stood on a high cliff between Life and Death: John could either come to himself, or he could just murder his own best friend and be done with it. The other stared at him silently, gripping the dagger tightly, as if fearing it might try to escape from his fingers. And then that's when Sherlock noticed that he was fighting with himself. That was a good sign; so there was a part of John in there, somewhere. This brought Sherlock to another realization, and he may be right: most of the population of London were Diseased, and there could be two different kinds---one that left the person completely mad, the other that only put the person in the state for a certain amount of time. Sherlock Holmes honestly had no idea how he was coming up with these theories. But it helped him to have some hope. He still didn't understand why he hadn't been affected, especially because John had touched him. Or maybe it didn't work that way. Or maybe he was somehow immune to the mysterious disease.

Silence took control of the park, like darkness taking over light. The only sound that could be heard was the faint whisper of the breeze, and the leaves rustling in response upon the deserted, littered ground. Another sound that Sherlock could hear was the thumping of his own heart in his ears. After all John and him had went through. . . . This just had to work. It had to. He needed John now, more than ever. John continued to grip the dagger with great force, his knuckles turning red and trembling slightly. After a moment, he slowly shook his head with a soft chuckle and brought the rusted blade back to his pale throat. "No," Sherlock whispered.

No. This couldn't be.

No!

"John, no!" Sherlock yelled as the dagger pressed against his skin once more. He closed his eyes tightly, waiting for the feel of the blade to slice through his neck. Waiting to choke on his own blood and die there, tied to the skeleton of a tree in a dark, apocalyptic world. To leave this place and lose John to something he never expected to face before. He wasn't really afraid of death. But he wasn't ready to leave John behind. And definitely not like this. Not with his best friend and flatmate being the one to end him. To end him not as himself, but as this monster that the disease caused him to become.

But the worst never came.

"Sherlock?" a voice spoke. And it sounded like the real John the detective knew.