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

Four: Large Box

Sherlock sat quietly as he remembered all that happened. It was only a day ago, and yet it felt longer. He supposed another strange thing about this apocalypse was it had that feel as if days were shorter, or dragged on; depending on the situation. He stared around him. He and John were taking shelter inside of an upturned, large box. It was rather unusual, finding a random, large box in the middle of the empty city, but there was nothing usual in this world anymore. Well, at least in here, London. He wasn't sure about the whole of Britain, or the entire world in general. It was all still very confusing; nobody was given a warning.

30 days.

30 days since he had been living in this very broken London, and he didn't know the entire time. John couldn't explain to him where he was that whole time, to perhaps give reason to why he didn't remember, because he had suddenly gone Diseased mode and attacked him. After some difficulity, the detective managed to get him down and knock him out cold. He had a feeling that the scuffle between them may have had attracted unwanted attention (given how ridiculously quiet London was), so he dragged John out with him, rushing to find another shelter to at least rest in for the night, as the sky had begun to darken and he didn't doubt that's when many of the Diseased came out to hunt. He noticed that they weren't just men or women; there were also children. Once, upon seeking shelter, he had come upon a little girl staring up at him with that bloodlust look in her eyes, that same look like the others. He had to shut her up quickly before continuing on his way. She was quick, and smart; she would've poked his eyeball out with her little fork and alerted more of her kind with a loud announcement, if he hadn't damaged her windpipe. And left her there. Left here there to die. But he had no choice. He and John lived in a world now where you had to kill to survive---or else you'll be the one to be killed.

Another time, when he found the large box that looked like good enough shelter, Sherlock ran into a woman carrying a baby, whom looked to be about two years old. He wondered why the Diseased woman hadn't killed her own child, and then realized the child was Diseased, too. He came to the conclusion that the Diseased didn't bother with their own kind. Possibly because they were all mostly very aggressive and had no fear of anything, and they knew that humans without the disease feared them, and that's what they liked to see. The woman had slowly grinned at him as she held her baby. The infant glared at the tall, curly-haired man, his eyes matching his mother's killer ones. It made Sherlock tremble, to see an innocent little child with that look to kill. It nearly turned his legs to jelly. But then he remembered John was there, still knocked out good, and he needed to get them both to shelter. "You do know me and my precious darling here have to kill you, right? But don't worry: Charlie only wants to stop your breathing. . . ."

Jesus.

Sherlock shoved the woman aside aggressively, taking the woman and her child by surprise. The box wasn't too far off, he could make it. And, thank God, he had. He had made it, somehow, by some miracle (even though he didn't believe in silly miracles. But when you were in an apocalypse, he supposed that was plausible). The box had offered enough space for both him and his still-unconscious best friend. And so, that's where they slept. When Sherlock had woken this morning, he noticed John sleeping peacefully, which meant he had gone out of the state during the night. The man laid curled up in a ball, sleeping as if nothing ever happened last night, as if the world hadn't gone a greater shade darker. John's state could be unpredictable, he realized; it's something he would have to put up with until he found out when he did go into that state, and the time he got out of it. He only knew that knocking him out or persuading him would snap him back to his normal self, but Sherlock knew he couldn't just rely on those two things alone.

He leaned against the back of the box, staring at the empty, gloomy world before him. A light, eerily morning mist had suddenly and slowly appeared in the air, bringing a cold touch to the place. Sherlock thought it was quite nice, even though it was rather cold. The mist seemed to reach its icy fingers to the sky, blocking out the raging, bright orb that dominated the weather for the most part. But not this time. This time, it was faced with the unexpected ghostly mist, and reluctantly bowed down to its control. The detective found himself quickly putting on his coat and scarf. He knew he would need it. As for John, he supposed he needn't share with him; he had his cardigan, thankfully.

As the silence crept on and on, and John continued to sleep, Sherlock decided to try and remember all that happened way before. He had to try. He needed to know. There was just no way he had been in his Mind Palace that entire time, for 30 days, solving a case. He made certain that he and John were still safe in the box before allowing himself to relax, slowly closing his eyes. He then entered his Mind Palace and sought the answer.