"How long?"

"Longer than it took for you to work it out," Sherlock says. He glances up from the sheep's eye he's slicing into and his lips twitch. "Which is saying something. I was beginning to think the only way you'd catch on is if I wrote you a note."

John snorts, ignoring the dig. "Don't be ridiculous. You'd never write a note. How long?"

"Of course, it is all a bit extraordinary and difficult to believe, so I suppose that couldn't have helped, and all of the inconsistencies could just as easily be attributed to my being as remarkable as I am," Sherlock continues as if John hadn't spoken. He pauses, then deigns to put his scalpel down and turn to fully face John. "Tell me. What was it that gave me away in the end?"

Almost every conversation with Sherlock is a test of patience, and it's only several months of practice that keep John from losing his. "You don't eat, you don't sleep, and you're cold. And not low blood pressure cold. Cadaver cold. Plus, someone bloody well shot you the other day and you barely flinched. It was harder to miss after that," John says, pointing at the graze on Sherlock's forearm that's just visible under the edge of his rolled up shirt sleeve. John had neatly stitched up the wound nearly a week ago, but the skin shows no signs of even beginning to knit itself back together. And why should it? A dead body can hardly be expected to heal itself. "How long, Sherlock?"

"The exact date hardly matters," he points out. "The question you really want to ask is not when, but how."

John waits for him to continue, but Sherlock just looks levelly back at him. He rolls his eyes and says, "Fine. How did it happen then?"

Sherlock nods and turns back away to carefully pour a few drops of a clear liquid on the bisected eyeball. It sizzles for a moment and the smell makes John frown, but Sherlock makes a small, pleased noise in his throat before speaking again. "About three years ago I traveled to South America to locate a missing archeologist as a favor to his wife, who was in possession of a rare book that I needed to consult for one of my experiments. Absolutely fascinating study. You'd be surprised by all the different things you can do with an octopus leg."

"South America," John cuts in, kneading the bridge of his nose. "What happened?"

"Oh," Sherlock says, the corner of his mouth twitching downward, though whether it's because of the memory of South America or being cut off before he can explain exactly what he used that octopus's leg for, John doesn't know. "It really wasn't much of a case. The archeologist was holed up in a hotel with his research assistant-Dave, I think his name was-and was ignoring the wife's calls."

John takes every careful hold of his patience with both hands and says through teeth that are only a little clenched, "No, Sherlock, I meant what happened to you."

"I don't exactly know. Everything was normal when I left, but by the time I returned to London I was like this." Sherlock looks downright vexed, and this time it's no mystery why. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to be more troubled about not being able to deduce why he's the walking dead than by the fact that he now is one. His face twists the way it does when he's trying to figure out what a normal person would say in this sort of scenario and John finishes off his tea while he waits for him to figure it out. Finally, Sherlock asks, "Does it bother you?"

John looks around the kitchen and shrugs. "Compared to everything else? I think I mind the violin more, to be honest. You're clearly still in full possession of your wits, and if you suddenly develop a craving for flesh there's already a brain the refrigerator and there's at least a pint of blood in the sink." John pauses for a moment, then adds, "Which I do expect you to clean up within the hour. I can hardly make dinner with it in that state."

Sherlock grins and says, "Very well, but just this once," as if he's doing John some huge favor. John sighs, but nods, because it's Sherlock and that's about as good as it's going to get with him.

There are a thousand questions buzzing around inside John's head ranging from medical to existential, but when he opens his mouth what comes out is, "Does Mycroft know?"

Sherlock's eyebrow pops up. "Why the devil would I tell him?"

Thank you for reading! Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.

Written for the daily drabble exercise I do on my LJ. Answers the prompt "Sherlock is dead, has always been. Not a vampire, no shiny skin stuff, just a walking corpse. Could be sort of a zombie with a brain I suppose. John notices."