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John resists the urge to shove his finger between his temple and the foam on the rim of his plastic visor. There's something in the blue material that makes his skin itch like mad, and after every shift he's left with an angry, red welt on his forehead after meticulously removing all the protective gear keeping him from catching the virus that has humanity in its chokehold.
He won't complain, of course. Unlike many countries' healthcare systems, the PPDC is lucky to have sufficient stocks of such gear, even if this current batch seems to be some cheap, dodgy one. Nobody even knows where it was manufactured since there's no text printed on it. Black market sales of counterfeit, even dangerous protective medical gear has now become a reality in Europe, and even the Portuguese government got swindled by some entrepreneur selling non-existent equipment to the country crumbling under the crushing numbers of Covid-50 cases.
Of course the epidemic eventually reached Chard's Rift. All it took was a bunch of stubborn tourists who landed just before Ponta Delgada's international airport was closed from all but emergency travel. Before being locked into a hotel by the police, the tourist group spread the virus to the local population and, by extension, to the Chard's Rift base staff spending their furlough in town.
They should have closed off the base earlier, John thinks, and not for the first time as he surveys the scene in the dojo where a temporary infirmary has been set up for milder cases. Then again, there would still have been delivery trucks and visiting brass who could have brought the disease in, he reminds himself because playing the blame game doesn't help anybody. It was only a matter of time.
So far, they're coping. The thing about military organisations is that when an order is given, it's generally obeyed. Once people started getting sick, a base-wide lockdown was initiated with food being delivered to dorm rooms. Things got quite claustrophobic with tempers flaring in close quarters, and staff and officers in those dorms where someone did develop symptoms were forced to continue their isolation for two weeks more which made things worse. Base security had their hands full, but the spread of the virus slowed down.
But it didn't stop. We did too little, too late, even if we did put the whole base on lockdown, John had said out loud once to Sherlock after it became obvious that a makeshift emergency infirmary was needed.
The fact that the in-base epidemic didn't stop was most likely due to the Rangers. No one will say that out loud, but John knows it and is embarrassed by the fact. Especially the ones with the biggest immortality delusions and god complexes had not given a toss about the virus and socialised normally. The Jaeger pilots could hardly be isolated completely — what if a breach opened? Still, announcing them completely exempt from the containment measures had been idiotic in John's opinion. The Rangers could have been left out of their rooms just for practice, gear maintenance and actual alerts.
Bad brass decisions and Ranger arrogance eventually came to bite them all in the arse: half the Rangers were eventually struck down by the infection. If a rift had opened during the first weeks, the base — and, by extension, the Atlantic coastline — would have been royally fucked. Rangers were a fit and healthy bunch, but the virus — much worse than the annual influenzas — hardly cared about that. If anything, it seemed to strike those with the strongest immune systems the hardest. Two Rangers are currently in intensive care, and one at the HDU unit and two are languishing right here at the infirmary under John's watchful eye. Since he isn't going to strap into his battle station in the Ravager anytime soon, he'd volunteered to be one of the makeshift hospital unit's physicians. The dojo's patients have symptoms which don't require oxygen therapy or more invasive respiratory support, but they're still pretty sick: high fevers, intense muscle aches, racking coughs. John, three Med Bay doctors, twelve nurses and two medical technicians administer medications to lower fever and to help with the miserable general malaise, infuse intravenous fluids and give boluses of antiemetics to those whose symptoms include vomiting and diarrhoea. They also do regular oxygen saturation checks of the patients whose respiratory systems are the worst affected. They've had to transfer sixteen patients to Med Bay in the time the temporary unit has been functional, and there have been four deaths.
Who knew how much life could change in just a month and a half? John marvels. Nobody had paid much mind to the initial reports from Asia; after all, even the WHO had been sceptical of human-human transmission just three months ago. Covid-50 had swept the planet like wildfire, bringing the already kaiju-strained world economy to its knees. The previous epidemic in 2019–2020 should have taught governments some lessons about preparedness but then again, the kaiju had turned all other public health and safety issues into background noise. The monsters were the only threat humanity had cared about in recent years, and they were the adversary in the battle to which John had dedicated his life.
It is an uneasy, precarious balance of both loving his time in the Jaeger he piloted with Sherlock and hoping that no breach ever opened again. Right now, John desperately wishes that they'd be spared of a kaiju incursion while the coronavirus fells their ranks. Thankfully, the ocean had been quiet lately. It is as though even the kaiju have looked at what is going on and decided to take a holiday since humanity might just collapse on its own under this current threat of a foe much harder to initially notice than a block-of-flats-sized monster rising out of the depths.
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John takes a short lunch break at two in the afternoon after working for seven hours straight. Taking off and putting the protective gear back on again is such a chore that he won't do it unless he absolutely has to. He knows he should be drinking more water, especially since under all that plastic he sweats like a bloody pig, but toilet breaks require the same tedious and complex routine as all other decontamination-requiring endeavours. Remove gloves. Disinfect hands. Put on new gloves. Remove visor and disposable hat. Remove gloves, disinfect hands, put on new gloves. Remove protective gown. Rinse and repeat the hand stuff. Finally, remove the protective mask which makes breathing feel like it's being done through a straw.
Out of today's set of disposable gear which has now been safely shoved into a biohazard-marked bin bag, John's T-shirt is plastered to his back and his hair is a sweaty mess. Someone passes him a water bottle of half a litre which he downs in large gulps. Then, he wastes no time in going to the temporary lockers pushed against a bulkhead in the decontamination area and retrieving his tablet. It's only a few minutes' walk to their dorm room, but John prefers to see for himself right away when he gets off duty whether he can relax or if he should head to Med Bay. He's more thankful for his Ghost Drifting ability with Sherlock than he's ever been — throughout the day, the impressions and emotions conveyed by their connection and the small nudges he can make and receive an answer to reassure him that his partner is fine. Then again, fine is a relative term in these plague days.
John flips through the apps to find the remote monitoring connection to Med Bay. Even in these exceptional circumstances, it had required going through a lot of red tape to be given even this limited an access to the Rangers' implant monitoring interface. When he brings up Sherlock's feed, he breathes a sigh of relief. Lowest oxygen saturation 90 % today. Oxygen requirement 40 %, no high-flow. Frequent bouts of tachycardia — more of an issue than yesterday.
John might be concerned about such arrhythmias if he hadn't been picking up on frequent bouts of indignation from Sherlock. It had most likely been arguing with the nurses about how much activity he was allowed in and out of bed. John would have preferred to be the one to look after him at the HDU, and had argued that he'd effectively been Sherlock's physician when he'd first arrived at Chard's Rift, but once it became obvious that Sherlock couldn't cope without supplemental oxygen, they were told that Med Bay would take over. Since John was not a part of that staff rota, the most access they were willing to grant him initially were daily visits in protective gear. He'd called in a favour with a med school friend who now worked at the Tokyo base's Med Bay to get permission to at least access Sherlock's vitals feed. Two days after Sherlock had been admitted to the HDU, the permission was granted.
John had not worked during those two days. Instead, he'd sat at Sherlock's bedside hoping that things didn't progress further. For thirty-seven hours Sherlock was on ninety-percent high-flow nasal oxygen, shivering with a high fever even with a maximum dose of paracetamol, and his lips turned a bit cyanotic during more intense bouts of coughing his lungs out.
There was no point in playing the blame game, but John had been as angry as he'd been worried. Sherlock had been one of the Rangers who'd refused to give a toss about the pandemic. It was yet another sign of what John had been seeing in recent years in his partner: the same sort of malignant arrogance which Rangers often developed as their kill list expanded. Sherlock had told John that he wasn't about to let some head cold which had idiot politician in hysterics limit his dojo training or his extra simulation sessions. It was poetic justice that the dojo now acted as a field hospital, since it had turned out to be quite the coronavirus dispensary. Sherlock rarely socialised with anyone but John, but he did regularly seek out hand-to-hand combat -sparring partners at the dojo. He did so loved to kick the arses of the other Rangers with his martial arts prowess. Four Rangers were struck down in the initial wave of cases, Sherlock among them, and the dojo had been ground zero for the flare-up.
Initially, John had been puzzled that he hadn't caught the virus even though they slept in the same bed. The explanation had come through later: it was now known that those who'd caught the 2019–2020 virus and developed enough IgG antibodies to it were at least partially protected from the 2050 version. John had been in medical school when that pandemic had hit, and he'd spent a miserable week in bed. He'd never been tested for Covid-19 since he hadn't needed hospital treatment and wasn't among the first wave of victims. Now, he knows his antibody status after being tested alongside all the other medical staff. His IgG levels are not high enough for full protection, but they had been enough to prevent him from catching the virus from Sherlock who'd woken up on a Saturday morning with a dry cough, a sore throat, his sense of taste and smell gone and with a fever which made his shudder and clatter his teeth. The night before, Colleen had commented on his elevated heart rate throughout their weekly Ravager upkeep jaunt outside the base, but Sherlock had dismissed it by saying he just hadn't drunk enough water. Even after several other Rangers had been struck down by the bug, he had been sceptical that he would ever catch it — as though it would stay away if he directed enough conceited disdain at it. Thankfully, he's now recovering from his encounter with the virus which hadn't obviously given a toss about Sherlock Holmes' opinion of itself.
John doesn't bother with a shower since he'll be donning a fresh set of the protective gear in a few minutes. He pulls on a set of cotton scrubs, removes his shoe covers and, after exchanging a few words with the staff arriving for the next shift, heads to Med Bay.
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Perhaps he'd only been resting with his eyes closed, or perhaps it's John's presence in the room — their connection intensifies with physical proximity — which makes the patient on the bed stir and push down the blanket to his waist. Sherlock blinks tiredly after turning to see who his visitor is.
"Hi," John says.
All day, he's felt antsy to get to this moment, glancing at the clock every now and then as he attended to his duties. Now, it no longer matters what the time is; he'll be here until the staff kick him out at ten in the evening. He'll be here, with Sherlock, and it's his reward for all the hard work.
Sherlock sits up, coughing a bit which makes him frown and then narrow his eyes indignantly as though it's beneath him to demonstrate such pedestrian symptoms. "John. You look as fetching as always." He raises a sly brow at the protective gear.
"How are you feeling?" John asks, giving his partner a once-over. Sherlock is a bit pale, his hair is a mess, he's lost weight and the oxygen prongs are an unmissable reminder of what ails him, but he looks a hell of a lot better than he did the night when John had been summoned to the infirmary just as the Med Bay MET team was packing Sherlock up onto a plastic-covered isolation trolley to be brought here to the HDU. He'd only spent four miserable days in a regular field hospital bed in the infirmary, attended to by John before he'd deteriorated too far to remain there. He knew how much more challenging it was for Sherlock than the average officer or ground crew member to be ailing in a large, noisy, echoing space full of other people. He would have preferred to look after Sherlock in their own dorm room, but it hadn't been practical or safe.
"You know perfectly well how I am, since you're spying on me." The smile that quirks up Sherlock's lip tells John he's just teasing and not disapproving. They spy on each other's thoughts and emotions all the time, and neither would change it for the world.
"Still like to hear it from you."
If John is fretful and impatient these days because they've been separated, it must be infinitely worse for Sherlock who's, as he's phrased it, 'imprisoned with dullards' in this HDU room with very little to entertain himself with besides his tablet and books and television. John knows he's itching to get back to training and taking the Ravager out, but it might be months before he's well enough for any of it. Some patients are left with permanently affected lung function, and that's John's biggest concern, especially since Sherlock still occasionally smokes: what if this leaves him with permanent damage compromising his active Ranger status?
"What are you so worried about suddenly?" Sherlock demands.
"Just… we've got a lot of patients today," John excuses, trying to push away what he knows about the virus' potential long-term complications.
"No. What you just thought was specifically about me."
"Egotistical berk," John chuckles. "But true."
Sherlock reaches for the bottle of soda on the bedside cabinet. It's a local Azorean brand with an astronomically high caffeine and sugar content.
"You've got enough tachycardia episodes as is," John reminds him. "And you'll get diabetes to boot if you keep living off those."
"That's not how diabetes works. My glucose metabolism is entirely normal," Sherlock declares, "as are all my other endocrine functions, as these nosy idiots would tell you." He nods towards the door, through which they can see a pair of Med Bay nurses walking past.
"Have you been eating?" John hates nagging, but if Sherlock is going to regain his strength and the muscle mass which this bed rest is going to cost him, he'll need better sustenance than fizzy drinks.
"The food is deplorable. Are they still limiting deliveries to the base? Would explain all the tinned crap."
"I promise you that when all this is over, I'm taking you to Xitaka and we'll have so much lobster they'll have to roll us home in wheelbarrows." The waterfront restaurant has been well established as their favourite spot for seafood in Ponta Delgada.
"That's assuming any restaurants are spared from bankruptcy if this damned epidemic and the government-issued lockdown last for months more."
"There's one thing, at least, which they can't ban," John says, and focuses his thoughts on a rather suggestive idea of what they'll do once Sherlock is released from Med Bay and protective gear — or, make that clothing in general — is no longer necessary. "I read that there were lots of people born nine months after the lockdown in Britain started in 2020," he says, adding some further details into the scene playing in his head.
"You think it's funny, dangling a carrot just out of my reach like that? They won't even give me an estimate how long I have to languish in this hellhole."
"I'm offended you'd compare my size to a carrot," John tries to joke, but Sherlock's sour expression sobers him up.
Sherlock seems to be in a cranky mood; no wonder John had been picking up on it throughout the day. It's a good sign, of course, that he has enough energy to whinge and act out, but it means that the other hard part is starting: trying to get Sherlock to respect the limits of his body as it tries to kick the virus to the kerb after finally turning the tide in the battle against it. He'll be a menace, John thinks, aware that he needs to be the one to put the foot down if Sherlock starts doing too much, too soon.
The first hard part had been those first days at the HDU, listening to Sherlock trying to draw in a proper breath in between coughs and watching him tossing and turning when the muscle pains and the fever made it impossible to find a comfortable position. The first Covid-50 death at Chard's Rift had just happened, and it had been a twentysomething Ground Crew member. Outside the base, it seemed to kill indiscriminately; no clear risk factors for the severe form of the disease had been established.
During that first week, John had not slept a wink. He'd been too afraid of waking up and no longer sensing Sherlock's presence in his head. He'd been alone for years and years after Harry died, and it had taken him quite a lot of processing and battling with himself to realise that being without such a connection as he'd shared with his sister was ultimately worse than taking the emotional risks involved in forging another such bond. If he lost Sherlock…
Determinedly, John pushes those thoughts away. We're Rangers. Their work is, perhaps, the riskiest on the planet, but some virus is not how they're going to perish. If they go down, they go down together in battle. John would sure as hell not stick around as some has-been war hero widower and he doubts Sherlock would, either. They're Rangers, which means they live in the here-and-now, and they would never leave the other behind to save themselves.
He places his palm on Sherlock's bicep, gives it a reassuring squeeze. He hates that he has to do it with vinyl gloves on. "I miss you. This will end, you know."
"And nobody knows what shape this base will be in when it does."
"I don't care," John declares. He does, but not as much as he cares about trying to cheer his companion up. His lover. His person. His Drifting partner. One day in the future, his husband. In effect, already his husband, even if they don't have a piece of paper making it official yet. "Once this is over, we'll go back on duty. We'll take the Ravager out for some target practice, and then I'm going to take you back to our room and make up for all of the sex we haven't had lately."
They haven't had any after Sherlock got sick, of course, and since it's slightly awkward to have a wank when your partner can feel it, John has abstained from pleasuring himself.
"You're keeping a tally?" Finally, Sherlock's tone is slightly suggestive instead of indignant.
The rumble of his baritone is tempting John to reach under the blanket right now to start fixing their dry spell, but Sherlock needs his oxygen for recovery right now, not for screaming out profanities as John wrings out an orgasm from him. Besides, with Sherlock's heart rate elevated from just being this alert and talking, the tachycardia would probably summon a crash team with a defibrillator.
John lifts his gaze upwards, feigning thinking hard. "Let's see… I believe I'm owed at least four blowjobs, two––"
Sherlock swats his arm, grinning.
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Eight days later, John is allowed into Sherlock's Med Bay patient room — now a regular one instead of the HDU — without protective gear. Sherlock has been declared non-infective, his cough just a residual symptom. During their video conference call that morning he'd seemed distracted and a bit worried; John knew that he was due for a more detailed spirometry exam to see how his lungs were coping, and the results would largely dictate when he'd be allowed to start easing back into his duties. Their video calls had become more frequent as Sherlock became more energetic and thus more prone to aggressive boredom and after John's hours on duty in the infirmary had been cut down due to patient numbers dwindling. They keep in constant touch through their Ghost Drift connection, of course, but it's not the same as being able to see and touch their partner.
John places the pile of clothes he's brought on the bed. The sound of the water running in the en suite can be heard, and it explains why his partner is nowhere to be seen.
Sherlock emerges, carding his fingers through his damp hair with a disgusted grunt. "I need my own products. That shampoo is like spreading napalm on my follicles."
"Hi, John, nice to see you too," John chuckles.
Sherlock stops at his tracks and exhales, his gaze sweeping John from top to toe. Perhaps it hadn't occurred to him before now that his discharge would mark the end of being separated by layers of brightly coloured plastic.
"John," he breathes out, crosses the distance between them and crushes their lips together.
John's arms coil around his waist as he tips his head back and to the side a little; their height difference means that Sherlock is always leaning down a bit when they kiss. John closes his eyes, relishing the taste of Sherlock underneath the pungent mouthwash he must have just used. Sherlock crowds him against the bed, pushing John to sit down on it as he climbs onto his lap to continue devouring his mouth, fingers raking up the back of John's T-shirt.
John manages to shove an arm between them, laughing. "Put a lid on that, Ranger, until we get back to our room. Wouldn't want to get out of there just to get thrown in the brig for public indecency, hm?" He chides playfully, pushing Sherlock off his lap so that he can climb back onto his feet.
He notices that the exertion had not visibly winded Sherlock. He hadn't checked the records or Sherlock's vitals feed since he was off external monitoring — his implant's base feed is enough for now — and since he didn't know when the spirometry would be done he would have been just wasting his time reloading the page.
"How was your exam?" He asks Sherlock.
"Tedious."
John gives him a side-eye as he begins discarding his hospital pajamas with no regard to whoever might see him naked through the glass door.
"The results, Sherlock."
"37 % improved from a week ago; only the FL or whatever it's called remains slightly below the normal range. I guess whatever that gunk was which they kept making me inhale helped."
He'd been on some experimental artificial surfactant combined with a substance promoting bronchial cell regeneration. John's clearance wasn't high enough to be told more. "Should get you back on duty sooner rather than later."
"I'm still a wreck, strength-wise."
The frank admission is surprising coming from Sherlock, but accurate. Weeks of bed rest would tank anyone's physical conditioning, and it will take a long while to get back into the outstanding shape required of a Jaeger Corps Ranger.
"Once they start letting us out of the base, we'll go running on Terceira. That should wean you off those Portuguese soap operas you've been bingeing in here."
"Solely for language practice, John."
John gives him a crooked grin.
"Is the gym open yet?" Sherlock asks, starting to lacy up his combat boots.
"No. They're talking one month for now. And you wouldn't have any business heading there before that, anyway."
Sherlock grunts disapprovingly from inside the T-shirt he's slipping on. "You're going to appoint yourself as my next medical gaoler, then?"
"Not your warden but your co-pilot, which I should remind you means I'm responsible for your health and your character flaws, including an utter lack of a sense of self-preservation."
Sherlock snorts. "The gym being closed means that we'll have to come up with some alternate exercise until then. Kiss me again," he demands, having now slipped into his uniform jacket.
Being of the same rank, John hardly takes orders from him, but this one he obeys without delay.
— The End —