Where We Started

Sickness Party

The cart started up, the horses moving simultaneously down the driveway and bumping the wooden wheels over rocks. Sherlock groaned as the cart rumbled, making John stabilize the two of them. The cart smelled awful, like a mixture between bugs and rotting flesh, and it was filled with moans of the dying. John didn't want to associate Sherlock with them, they were alone, animals, Sherlock would get better, he had to get better, and there was nothing John wouldn't do to make sure of that. But they had families as well, they had people who would go to hell and back just to make sure they were safe, the only difference was Sherlock had someone at his side.
"You shouldn't have come." Sherlock mumbled.
"I had to come." John debated, gently pushing the wet bangs off of Sherlock's forehead. He tried to ignore the fact that he was burning with a fever; John could probably fry an egg on his forehead if he really wanted to. But he kept his face hopeful, showing no signs of worry for Sherlock's sake, because he needed someone to tell him it would be okay, even if it definitely would not be.    

The cart ride was long and tiresome, there was no food or water supplied inside and no bathrooms, but the people could barely stand up so it didn't really matter now. Sherlock was no worse and no better, doing his best to not end up like the men and women rolling on the floors near their feet. Finally, around three o'clock, the cart stopped, standing still felt odd but John would never complain. The doors opened up a little bit later,the sunlight blinding John to the point where he had to close his eyes, shielding Sherlock's eyes as well just in case. When he was finally able to see John could make out three figures, but they weren't human, they seemed like bird/human hybrids. One of the men walked in, grabbed two of the men laying on the floor, one in each arm, and brought them out into the sunlight, past John's line of limited vision.
"Can you take him?" asked a man, his voice deep and threatening. When he walked into the darker cart John could see now that he wasn't a hybrid but a man, wearing some type of bird mask for some odd reason. But when he got closer John could smell an overpowering odor of spices, seemingly coming from the mask. He had heard of these people, they were doctors apparently, wearing masks stuffed with herbs to 'purify' the air around them. John nodded, taking Sherlock once again in his arms and getting out of the cart, having to step over a boy, not over fourteen, who was groaning and coughing just like Sherlock. Once he blinked for a little while he noticed that they were on a dock, long and wooden, sticking out to sea. Where in the world an ocean came from he could only guess, but apparently here it was. There were ten or so rowboats tied to the docks, each with bird masked men with long paddles. In the distance John could see a small spot on the horizon, so small but he could sort of make out what looked like a steeple of some kind. Sherlock groaned, grabbing John's wrist for support as he carried him to one of the boats.
"Just pick one." grumbled a man, even his mask looked bored, leaning on his long paddle. They were all wearing long robes as well, heavy leather gloves and spectacles in the eye holes of their masks, completely covered from this disease. John decided just to pick the one with the bored man; at least he seemed a little bit friendly, or at least enough to talk to him. John stepped into the boat, one of the first to board since the other people had to be carried out by the bird doctors. He pulled Sherlock onto his lap once more, but since he knew there would be people, Sherlock took the effort of bringing his knees to his chest so that he was curled in a little ball. His head was resting on John's shoulder, groaning slightly.
"You'll be alright, it'll be fine." John assured. Sherlock just grunted, about all he wanted to do at the moment.
"You don't look very sick mate." The bird man pointed out, splashing his paddle a little bit into the waves.
"I've got some weird rash, don't know what it is yet but they said I needed to go to the island." John pointed out.
"Sure, they all have rashes. There's always that one family member who claims to be sick to follow, it never worked on me before, let's see this rash of yours." The man laughed.
"If you haven't already noticed, I'm a bit preoccupied, but if you'd like to ask the doctor be my guest." John snapped. He could only assume the man rolled his eyes at the remark, but he went back to watching the cart be unloaded, not saying anything else. John saw little boats coming back from the island, the bird masks visible even from here. It was a nice port, the air was salty and cool, the wind bringing up sea spray, it could almost be mistaken for a vacation if Sherlock wasn't slowly dying in his arms. No, Sherlock wasn't dying, he couldn't die, that wouldn't be fair. Sherlock would recover, all of these poor people would, all the children, women, and men, they'd walk away from this with a smile on their faces and a vaccine flowing happily through their bodies. The rest of the people were unloaded onto different boats, their own boat was filled to the max, almost to the point where John couldn't move his legs and he was very worried about the flotation. But the bird man didn't seem to be worried, if he wore any expression at all, but just pushed off the shore with his paddle, rowing lazily away. John wondered when the next time would be when he was attached to a continent. As time went on they got farther and farther away from the port until soon it was the spec and the island was looming in front of them. He had been right in guessing a bell tower, an enormous tower sticking out from the earth in the middle of the island. Right away John noticed the smell, putrid, like the cart but ten times worse. There was thick black smoke rising from three places in the island, dense forest and buildings blocking the actual people from view. As they got closer he could hear the screams echoing off of the walls and water, shrieks of the dead, the almost dead, and the dying. John clutched Sherlock closer to him, as if it would prevent him from going down this god forsaken path. Soon they were at the dock, more bird men approaching from the buildings to tie off the boats.
"Enjoy your stay." Said the man, John could only imagine his evil smile underneath the mask.
"We sure will." John muttered, heaving himself to his feet and carrying Sherlock onto the dock. This one was a lot shabbier and used, the boards creaked under his feet and waves pounded against sharp looking rocks underneath them. There was a small wooden desk on the dock with yet another bird man, which had to be the latest fashion trend over here. He could only assume the man was looking at Sherlock, observing his current situation.
"Severe or minor?" he asked in a bored voice.
"Which gets better care?" John shrugged.
"Is he about to die?"
"No, at least I hope not." John decided.
"Minor." The man brought a stamp down hard on a piece of paper and tucked it into Sherlock's pocket. He also handed a piece stamped 'minor' to John as well, because obviously he was able to walk on his own. "Please proceed to the line on the right, get better soon." Those lines were obviously scripted because you didn't need to be a mind reader to know he hated his job. John led Sherlock to the right, watching as some of the others stumbled up to the stand, some of which were stamped minor, but most severe.
"Come on Sherlock; let's go get you checked out." John decided, as if Sherlock had any other choice. He walked along the docks and into a wooden door with a sign that read 'minor' on it, so this must be it. A bird man opened the door for them, looking over the two suspiciously.
"If you would please follow me." he decided, opening up a foggy glass door and leading them in. If the outside had been bad, this was obviously Hell on earth. There were sick lying all over the place, some two three to a bed, coughing and moaning. There were nurses doing their best, all wearing smaller bird masks, pressing towels onto the sick's faces and making them drink water, but for the most part that was all they were good for. The man lead them over to one of the only available beds, the sheets still looking dirty and speckled in what looked suspiciously like dried blood.
"We wish you luck in your recovery, the nurses should be around soon." He assured, walking away to escort some other patients. Well at least they had room service that didn't expect tips. John set Sherlock down on the bed, pulling the blankets over him and looking around for a chair or something.There was a fold out chair near a musty window, for a nurse or something, but he didn't really care if it was for the queen, he was taking it. As John walked over to retrieve the chair, Sherlock grabbed his hand, pulling him back in a desperate attempt to get his attention. It didn't take words to discover what he wanted; he was scared John was going to leave him.
"I'm only getting that chair, I'll be right back don't worry." John assured, patting Sherlock's hand gently.
"Hurry." Sherlock croaked, his throat sounding dry even though Mrs. Hudson had given him water before.
"Of course, I'll be right back." John assured. Sherlock's hand dropped back to the bed, and John scampered to chair, shaking some dust off of it and carrying it as discreetly as he could through the maze of hospital beds and nurses. The room smelled extremely foul, the entire island smelled like rotting flesh, no doubt from the mass graves from the dead and the burning of the bodies. John could only assume that was what the black smoke was from, burning the corpses they didn't know what to do with, so the ash and soot that covered the window panes was probably burned human remains. That made John's stomach twist uncomfortably, going back over to Sherlock. His bangs were once again plastered to his forehead with the sweat of fever and his face was unnaturally white.John couldn't believe that only two days ago he was in the barn, standing all by himself in that white suit confessing with tears in his eyes. The man lying in the bed in front of John now seemed unable to be connected to the Sherlock in the barn; there were no problems on this one's mind except how many more hours they could enjoy until the sickness took its hold. There were so many things John wanted to say to him, pretty much the same things he would've said before, if Sherlock had gone through with meeting him, as the note had suggested, but now it sounded more like a goodbye than anything.