YOU KNOW JOHN WATSON WAS READY FOR THIS.
John sighed as he slowly walked through one of the several aisles in Sainsbury’s. He was in a supermarket at -he checked his watch- five in the morning looking for yet more bloody milk while Sherlock played his violin. To help him think, his flatmate had claimed. John did not honestly care, he was more concerned by the fact that the racket had driven him out to Sainsbury’s of all places. It was true that they needed more milk (and where did that stuff keep going anyway?) but he would really rather be sleeping like any reasonable person would be doing.
John turned into another aisle, pleased to find that he had reached the refrigerated section of dairy products. There was no one else there, which was to be expected in the early hours of the morning; he suspected that only he and the unlucky few left to man the checkouts were the only ones in the entire building. He placed two cartons of milk into his basket - two because he was hoping he would somehow be able to delay his next trek to get more.
The sound of shuffling footsteps caught John’s attention. He didn’t look up, however, until they were accompanied by a low groaning. He started at the sight he was met with as he looked to the source of the sound. A young woman was limping towards him. Her ginger hair was in disarray and she was hunched over slightly. Frowning, he took a small step forward with his arm outstretched when he noticed a bleeding wound on her arm.
“Miss,” he began but at the sound of his voice the woman’s head snapped up. The pallor of her skin became obvious and - John took a startled step back. He eyes were a sickly grey colour, her irises no longer visible. “Excuse me, can you tell me what’s wrong?” he continued, but he had a sneaking suspicion already.
A crash from behind him caused John to sharply turn around. Boxes of cereal had been knocked to the floor. It was a man this time, but he had the same shuffling gait of the woman, the same discoloured eyes and, just like her, a bleeding wound on his arm. John looked back to the woman and saw that she was moving again - moving towards him. He had a feeling he knew what was going on. Pale skin? Slow walk? Groaning?
John’s first thought was: God, I wish I had my gun.
His second was: You know you need to reconsider your life when it becomes necessary to have a gun in a supermarket.
The reality was that John had what he was almost certain were two zombies coming at him, so he improvised.
The woman was only a couple of steps away from him by now so John swung his basket and whacked her round the head. She crashed into the shelves of milk. Not stopping to think, he turned around and did the same to the approaching man. Having slowed both of them down, John did what any sensible person would do in such a situation. He ran.
~
When John slammed the door to their flat shut, he was greeted by Sherlock’s curious face. Or rather, what began as curious and quickly became slightly disappointed as he quickly scanned John’s person.
“You didn’t bring milk. Pity, I wanted observe what would happen if I mixed it with hydrochloric acid and gave it to Anderson.”
“We have more important matters to deal with.”
This caught Sherlock’s attention. He sat up from his previous lounging position on the sofa, his expression reflecting some excitement. “Oh really? Well, what is it?”
John was already making his way into his room and didn’t answer until he returned, gun in hand. “The day I always knew was coming.” He looked over at Sherlock. “I don’t suppose you have any swords lying about?” It was a long shot, but if anyone was going to have swords it would be his flatmate.
He wasn’t disappointed. Sherlock’s face brightened as he reached under the sofa and pulled out three of the aforementioned weapons. “Of course I do!”
John spluttered, feeling outraged despite being the one asking for them in the first place. “Why do you have three swords under our sofa?”
Sherlock didn’t answer, instead choosing to ask his own question, “What do you need swords for?”
Their conversation, however, was interrupted by what was unmistakeably Mrs Hudson’s scream. Sherlock was out the door in a flash and John grabbed the hilt of one of the swords before rushing after him. They were greeted by the sight of their landlady backing up from a groaning man. Not stopping to think, John got between her and the man.
“Get back, Mrs Hudson!”
He then proceeded to cut the man’s - zombie’s head off with his newly acquired sword. Without its head, the zombie’s body fell down to the floor, unmoving. John turned around to face his companions. Mrs Hudson was still trembling while Sherlock was giving him a peculiar look.
“I - I just heard banging on the door,” Mrs Hudson began to say, “so I went to open it and then that - that crazy man came in!”
John took the traumatised woman by her elbow and led her up to their room and sat her down, Sherlock following close behind.
“Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson, just sit down here. I’ll make you a cup of tea, okay?” John reassured her.
The woman gave a shaking nod. John walked into the kitchen, sword still in hand, unsure of how he was actually going to make tea in their mess of a kitchen. He started at a presence right behind him. He looked over to see Sherlock standing in his space, that peculiar look still on his face.
“What is it, Sherlock?”
His flatmate stared at him a beat longer before coming out with, “How did you know to take off its head?”
John turned around, looked Sherlock straight in the eye and said, in all seriousness, “I’ve seen Shaun of the Dead.”
~
Ta da?