John only woke up when he noticed the bed was empty. It was almost a relief, he had been falling off the side of the mattress all night, but when he finally found he had an excess of space on Sherlock's side, one of his eyes opened curiously. The room was dark but there was a light on in the bathroom, the harsh white light sneaking in from under the bathroom door. John groaned, assuming that Sherlock only had to use the bathroom in the middle of the night, which was understandable, he had drunken three or four cups of water at the diner. But then John heard the coughing, and he sat up in bed, suddenly all of his drowsiness was swept away as soon as he realized that Sherlock was throwing up. John rushed out of the bed, turning on the lamp and opening the bathroom door.
"Sherlock?" he muttered, peering into the bathroom to see Sherlock crouched over the toilet, his face so ghostly white that he matched the white tile on the bathroom floor.
"I'm fine, I'm..." his words were cut off when he bent over the toilet once more, gagging and throwing up even more.
"You're not fine, Sherlock you're sick." John insisted. Sherlock just grabbed at the handle, flushing the toilet and trying to pull himself to his feet, looking rather embarrassed.
"It's nothing, there must have been something in those pancakes." He muttered, grabbing a handful of toilet paper and wiping his mouth with a little smile. John lingered near the bathroom door in concern, obviously this wasn't the pancakes, something was going on with Sherlock, the disease was starting to take over.
"Sherlock..." John muttered, stepping closer and pressing his hand to Sherlock's sweaty forehead. His skin burned against his hand, so hot that John was shocked. His temperature had to have bene over 100.
"You're burning up." he muttered with worry. Sherlock forced a smile but suddenly hunched over rushing over to the toilet and throwing up even more. John looked away, respecting his privacy as much as possible while the toilet flushed.
"I'll go get you some ice, alright, get that fever down." John suggested.
"I don't need ice; it's just a little fever." Sherlock assured, but he didn't bother getting up, he just sat next to the toilet for the next time his stomach started to turn.
"Are you alright, do you need anything?" John wondered.
"No, no, just go get ice if you want to get ice." Sherlock assured, waving his hand impatiently and wiping his mouth again. John nodded, scampering through the bedroom and unlocking the door. There were a couple of dim lightbulbs lighting the little cement hallway outside and John wandered past all of the closed doors. There were no lights on anywhere else, other than the sign out front, but the houses were dark and no cars passed. It was almost eerily quiet. John knew that there were usually ice machines outside of hotels; it was sort of an unspoken rule for some reason, and finally he spotted the big white machine at the very end of the little walk way. There were a couple of cars in the parking lot so he knew they weren't the only ones here, so as he scooped the ice into a little baggie he knew that he had to be a quiet so as to not wake people up. The last thing he needed was some old truck driver yelling curses at him as he tried to scoop the stupid ice into the bag. John walked back to the room, his footsteps pounding on the cement as he slipped inside and locked the door once more, walking over to the bathroom where he heard the toilet flush once more.
"Alright, alright, I think I'm..." Sherlock groaned, pulling himself up with the towel rack and stumbling to the door. He looked as if he were about to topple over, stumbling around on his feet as if he were drunk, and thankfully John was there just in time to catch him as he tripped over his own feet and almost landed head first into the air conditioner that was mounted on the side of the wall.
"Alright Sherlock, let's just get you to bed." John decided, wrapping one of Sherlock's arms around his neck and supporting his weight as they walked very slowly over to the bed. John decided to just flop him down into the bed they had been sharing just in case there were any zombie germs on the pillow or something. Sherlock was trying to pull the blankets around himself, his fingers so weak that he could barely clench the fabric. John shook his head, pulling the blankets over him and tucking him into a little Sherlock burrito.
"John I think it's happening, I think I'm changing." Sherlock muttered.
"No you're not Sherlock, not yet." John assured, pressing the bag of ice to Sherlock's forehead. John was expecting him to jump or at least comment on how cold it was, but there was no response, he just stared up at the ceiling with his mouth slightly open, breathing heavily.
"I think you might have to do it." Sherlock muttered.
"No Sherlock, this is just preliminary, you're just sick, you'll be alright." John assured, patting him on the shoulder and letting the ice stay on his head to bring down his fever.
"But you will, won't you?" he muttered. John just stood near the window, looking at Sherlock without a response. Sherlock turned his head, the ice bag shifting and falling onto the pillow but neither of them making any moves to replace it.
"You'll kill me before I change?" Sherlock clarified again, and John just took a deep breath, shaking his head.
"You can't ask me to do that Sherlock, I can't kill you again." John muttered.
"But you're going to have to, I can't hurt you." Sherlock insisted.
"Let's just get through tonight, alright, we can discuss this later." John decided, rolling Sherlock back over and putting the ice bag on his head. Sherlock was silent, but John could feel his green eyes following him as he got into the other bed, burying himself under the blankets and laying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"I don't want to die again John." Sherlock muttered in a very small voice, as if this was something he hadn't told anyone before.
"I thought you just asked me to kill you?" John pointed out. He could hear Sherlock's breathing but he was obviously taking his time with his response.
"It's necessary to die but...I'm scared." Sherlock admitted. "I'm scared of the dreams, I'm scared of the nightmares, of crossing the veil again."
"It'll be alright Sherlock; you're not going to die." John assured.
"Yes I am John. As are you, and everyone else we know. Everyone has to die; some of us just have to die earlier. We're all going to dream for the rest of eternity." Sherlock whispered very dramatically.
"What did you dream about?" John wondered, even though Sherlock had told him of most of his dreams. John just wanted to keep him talking because he had no idea how long they would be able to have these conversations. He needed to start focusing on the little things.
"Death." Sherlock admitted. "It's rather ironic because I was dead myself and still I feared it. In a way I suppose they were very selfish dreams, I just...I saw you dying and being buried next to me, I saw you hanging in your closet. And we were together again. Laying not three feet away under the dirt."
"I thought you said they were bad dreams?" John wondered.
"They were. Most of them were." Sherlock whispered. If Sherlock considered John dying and being buried next to him to be a good dream, John could only imagine what his nightmares looked like.
"I'm not going to let you die again." John assured.
"But I must." Sherlock insisted. John just sighed, shaking his head and rolling onto his side.
"We'll talk about it in the morning." he decided. Sherlock took a deep breath as well, as if he couldn't properly breathe. John heard the ice bag shift but he didn't hear Sherlock move.
"Well then, I suppose this is good night." Sherlock decided.
"Ya, it is. Wake me up if you're sick again." John insisted, burying his head in the pillow with a groan.
"I don't want to bother you." Sherlock muttered in a rather small voice.
"Wake me up anyway." John growled, although he secretly wished that Sherlock wouldn't get sick, just so that he could sleep a bit longer. This was going to be his last time sleeping in a bed for who knows how long, he wanted to enjoy it as much as he possibly could.

Johnwoke up for the second time tonight, and thankfully when he woke up there wasdaylight streaming through the thin cheap motel curtains. He opened his eyesand rolled over in his bed to see Sherlock's eyes were also open, staring atJohn from where he lay with a bag of melted water on the bedside table.
"Good morning." Sherlock muttered, his voice very hoarse for some reason.
"I hope it turns out to be." John agreed, letting his head fall back in hispillow. He really didn't want to get up, but they had to start moving. Sooneror later the police will realize that there was only one town next to theriver, if they even bothered to investigate any farther. So John rolled out ofbed, putting one foot in front of the other and stumbling around the motel roomtrying to find an appropriate outfit for the day. While John was changingSherlock went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth and all of that, and Johndisposed of the bag of water that was once the ice. He wondered if Sherlock hadslept at all, or if he was still as weak as he was before. They ought to stopat a convenience store and get their necessary supplies; with what money theyhad John decided they could also invest in some Advil for Sherlock's headachesand stomach pains. When Sherlock finally got out of the bathroom he was towingthe blankets and pillows, now dry and stiff from hanging on the shower curtainall night.
"They're dry." Sherlock announced, dropping them on top of John's bed as ifthat was their rightful spot. John just smiled at him, a sort of forced smilebut a smile all the same. He didn't want Sherlock to know just how worried hewas.
"Thanks Sherlock." John muttered. There was a rather awkward pause and Sherlockstowed away his toothpaste and toothbrush and trying to stuff the gun back intothe bag without shooting himself in the face.
"How are you feeling?" John asked, staying where he was and watching asSherlock packed.
"Alright." Sherlock muttered, but even though John couldn't see his face hestill knew he was lying. There was that tone of voice Sherlock used when hedidn't want someone to know something, when he was keeping secrets.
"Tell me the truth Sherlock." John insisted. Sherlock sighed heavily andstuffed his pajamas into the bag, now wearing his usual formal attire eventhough they were probably going to start hiking.
"What do you want me to say?" he wondered.
"You know what I want you to say but you know what I have to hear." Johninsisted.
"That doesn't even make sense John." Sherlock snapped, starting to stuff one ofthe blankets in the bag and attempt to zip it up.
"How's your head?" John wondered.
"Throbbing." Sherlock shrugged.
"And your stomach?" John muttered.
"It feels as if someone is burning my insides." Sherlock decided.
"And your muscles?" John wondered.
"Sore and miserable." Sherlock decided. John just sighed, looking at the groundin fear.
"Anything that doesn't hurt?" he wondered. Sherlock got to his feet, throwinghis bag onto the bed with a groan.
"Well, my hair looks rather luxurious today." He decided with a smile, and Johncouldn't help but laugh at his pathetic attempt at humor.
"That is does." John agreed, stepping into the bathroom to brush his hair andhis teeth. So nothing was better, Sherlock didn't sleep and he felt worse thanyesterday, even after a good meal and a potential goodnight sleep. This wasstarting to worry John even more. He knew that Sherlock was going to turn, itwas bound to happen but it was one of those disasters that you avoided for thelongest time, you make excuses, you tell yourself it can't possibly happen andit's still days away, and you avoid all signs saying otherwise. John wonderedif he was ignoring the signs, he wondered if Sherlock was right, if he neededto be put down now or else he would turn into a flesh eating zombie when Johnturned his back. Was this entire trip worth it if Sherlock was just going toturn their first day in? Was John prepared to waist all of his money and hisfreedom just to lead a dead man walking through the woods? John wondered justhow long it was going to be before Sherlock finally turned, before he startedgetting hungry for brains, before John had to stick the barrel of the shotgunin his mouth. Would it be considered murder? These were things John just didn'twant to think about, the idea of having to kill his boyfriend for the secondtime, even if Sherlock begged him to do it. And even if he did get rid of onezombie, the waitress had said that the zombies were multiplying all over town;dispute the government's best attempts to control them. Was this going to turnout to be the apocalypse?
"John, John?" Sherlock knocked on the bathroom door in a small little voice.John spit out the remainder of his toothpaste and stuck his head out the door,looking at Sherlock with a bit of annoyance.
"What?" John wondered.
"There's a cop car going down the road, it keeps doing loops, like it's lookingfor us." Sherlock whispered in a fearful voice. John's face went slack,throwing his toothbrush into its little carry on case and stowing it into hisbag.
"Do you have the money?" he wondered.
"Ya, why?" Sherlock muttered, peering through a gap in the curtains. Johnwasn't able to see what he was, but if there really was a cop and he was doingcircles that meant there was only one, and that it didn't know where to look.
"We're going to go to the convenience store; I saw one just down the road, oncethat car leaves." John decided.
"The convenience store? What do we possibly need there?" Sherlock wondered witha confused look.
"Food, water, lighter, Advil. That's my list so far." John decided, checkingoff the necessities on his fingers.
"But...cops...?" Sherlock muttered, peering out the window once more.
"Stop looking, that's suspicious, they might see." John insisted, pullingSherlock away from the window and letting the curtain fall.
"Alright, alright, that sounds like a plan, but why can't we just stay intown?" Sherlock wondered.
"Because the police are already looking for us, we need to go where theywouldn't think teenagers would want to, hence the wilderness." John pointedout. Sherlock frowned slightly, as if he wasn't entirely okay with this plan.
"They'd be right, I don't want to go into the wilderness." He decided.
"Do you want to not sleep in hotel beds or do you want to survive?" Johnwondered.
"I'm going to die anyway." Sherlock shrugged.
"Stop saying that." John insisted,clenching his fists and turning away to make sure everything was packed. Sherlock was silent, standing by the window but not peering out. He didn't have time for Sherlock's negativity, he didn't want the boy to plant doubt in his mind. Of course he was going to die, of course this was all for nothing...John stopped, taking a deep breath and taking his bag on his arm. 

"Alright, I'm ready." He decided, turning back to see Sherlock shouldering his own bag, looking rather apprehensive. "Now we'll watch for the cop car, and when we're sure it's far enough away that they won't see us but not so far that they'll make their round and come back, then we'll go."
"What?" Sherlock wondered, looking confused as he watched John walk over to the peephole and peer out of it.
"Never mind." John muttered, his face pressed up against the old, peeling paint. He could see the sidewalk in a very odd fish eye perspective, watching as cars passed and people walked along the sidewalk, possibly out for breakfast or going to work. He waited for a little while before he saw the cop car roll down the street, its lights off, cruising past the motel while the officer in the car scanned the sidewalks. He waited about ten seconds after the car disappeared past the building, and then opened the door.
"Alright, follow me, quickly." John insisted, waving Sherlock along as they crept out onto the sidewalk, through the parking lot, across the street, and onto the main sidewalk.