All the characters presented to your lovely and twisted minds do not belong to me, mostly because this website is for fan fictions. The modern characters belong to BBC and the original ideas came from the creative mind of Arthur Conan Doyle. This story can be set, well, anywhere you want after 'A Study in Pink' I suppose.
Now to explain my reasoning behind this story. You see, I have read ever so many stories about Sherlock's emotions. Shoving strong emotions at such a character is similar to doing the same thing to Spock and Data. Or Castiel. Or even a Cyberman. It's great fun, so everyone does it. I have elected to be different. This is my feeble attempt of creating an epically poetic device of entertaining philosophy (this simply means 'a really good story'). I shall most likely fail, but that is up to you. The reader. Enjoy.
oOo
John stared at the computer monitor as his fingers hovered mere centimeters above the keys. No words came to his mind, and thus, no words appeared on the screen. After a few moments, John tapped at the keys without pressing hard enough to type. This did not help him think of anything at all. In fact, it only served to annoy Sherlock, who snapped, "John? Why are you doing that?" John sighed in exasperation, "Don't act as if you don't know. I'm trying to type up our most recent case for my blog." Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and returned to what he had been doing before, which was pacing for absolutely no reason. This did not help John focus, nor did it do wonders for is already irritated mood. He managed to slip into his own mind, lost in writer's block. Nothing interesting had happened on their last case at all. John had been completely useless while Sherlock sifted through papers, decoded messages (which he had been so involved in that he didn't seem to mind working with Anderson), locked himself in his mind palace, and tortured his violin as he attempted to think with more clarity.
So, John merely sat there for at least half an hour before giving up and shutting his laptop. He then attempted to find something to do so he wouldn't be so bored...wait. Bored? One could not be bored when one lived with Sherlock Holmes. Insulted? Yes. Anxious? Completely. Exasperated? With every single breath. But bored? Never. Unless of course, Sherlock wasn't there. John fought the urge to slap himself for not noticing that Sherlock had left. He didn't even had a clue how long ago the detective had just strolled out the front door. "Damn," John muttered, "He better not be doing something stupid. Oh, who am I kidding? He probably is." Honestly, the man who's intellect could be compared to the brightest of minds was mighty stupid when it came to some things. Like not starving himself. Irritation blossoming into frustration, John flew down the stairs. Was he over-reacting? Perhaps. But there was no telling what Sherlock was doing. And from what he'd gathered, John didn't think the man did a very good job of looking after himself before he'd met John. In fact, he still didn't. John knocked softly on Mrs. Hudson's door, "Yes?" she asked. "Er, Mrs. Hudson? Do you know where Sherlock went off to be any chance?" She opened the door, "No. In fact, I hadn't noticed that he left. I think that means he doesn't want to be followed, dear." she told him apologetically. "It's fine, Mrs. Hudson," he reassured her, after all, it wasn't her fault, "I'll just text Lestrade, and if he's not with him, I'll go ahead and text Mycroft." She nodded, and said, "I'm sure he's fine." She then closed the door. "He better be," John muttered to himself.
oOo
There had actually been a reason for Sherlock's pacing earlier. And a perfectly good reason why he had left without alerting anyone to where he was. As he had been in the process of solving his previous case, another random killer decided to leave him a message. Perhaps it was supposed to be threatening, but so far, Sherlock was only slightly amused and curious. The message said the following: 'Come and solve this case, Holmes. But don't bring anyone else into it. Not the Yard. Not your brother. And certainly not the loyal army doctor. If you disregard this, I'm afraid there may be dire consequences. But now, I know I must capture your interest. And what you've deduced from this note will simply not be enough. So here's a little something to get you started.'
'White carnations and chrysanthemums. Heather and lavender. Past stargazers searching for the star of Bethlehem. You personally should take notice of rhododendrons, but you have gladiolus, so I know you will not.'
Obviously this man had a thing for flowers (for a man it was, Sherlock knew from the handwriting). What was intriguing was the fact that he knew of Sherlock's brother. Even more so was the meanings of the flowers. In the order of which the were written: remembrance, truth, solitude, distrust, ambition, hope, beware, and strength of character. Remembrance and truth. Solitude and distrust. Past ambition searching for hope. You personally should beware, but you have strength of character, so I know you will not. It actually was a bit interesting. And, surprisingly enough, Sherlock had yet to understand why the message used flower names in place of the words. The man knew of him, so he'd certainly know that it would take little effort to realize what the sentence translated to. Perhaps this would actually turn out to be a good case. After all, he wasn't exactly concerned that he wasn't supposed to get help. He'd solved numerous cases on his own before he'd met John. He was certainly capable. However, he had yet to deduce what the man's crime actually was. The most likely thing would be that this man intended to capture/kill him, and this note was merely to draw him out into the open. Which he'd done quite willingly. John would be furious. Or it could be the murder of someone else. Or perhaps the man had stolen something of value. Maybe they were even going after John to get to him. Sherlock had to admit that this was just as likely as him being the target. At this thought, Sherlock began to turn back. He didn't want John to be in danger because of him. Well, at least not any more danger than he was simply following him.
Unfortunately, this caused Sherlock Holmes to make quite a mistake. Seeing as how he was no longer focused on not getting captured himself, and he became more concerned for John's well-being than his own, his guard dropped slightly. But slightly was enough. He realized that he had been wandering for quite some time. Therefore, he was a lengthy distance away from the flat. It would be better if he hailed a cab. The streets were busy and people practically infested every spot available. This would make hailing a cab more difficult than anticipated. Absolutely everything just contributed to the oncoming catastrophe. It would seem that even Sherlock Holmes missed certain things given the right situation. Really, what happened was mostly just bad luck. He didn't notice that throughout his entire stroll that there was almost constantly a cab some distance away. After a few moments of looking for a cab as he walked, one braked to a stop, one person stepped out, and all seemed convenient, but not convenient enough to be suspicious. So he entered the cab. "221 B Baker Street," Sherlock spoke with an absent-minded manner. He was still trying to figure out the flowers and wondering if he had foolishly risked John's life...again. He never looked the cabbie in the face. After all, why should he have suspected anything when the man drove towards his destination?
However, when the cab stopped still quite a ways away from where he was supposed to be, realization slammed into him with shocking clarity. He moved to unbuckle the seat-belt holding him in place, but just as it came free, one door opened, and a needle was shoved into his neck. Sherlock was unable to hold back a gasp as cold liquid spread through his veins accompanied by the sharp sting of the assaulting needle. Then the needle was removed, and he punched his assailant in the jaw as his vision grew darker. He felt the skin on his knuckles scrape off with the contact. Then, a strong pair of arms grabbed him and threw to the floor of the cab. His already swimming head cracked against something particularly hard, speeding his descent into unconsciousness. The door closed, and his attacker remained in the cab with him. The only way he could tell this was because the man had gripped his shoulders to hold him down, nails digging in hard enough to be felt through his coat. Sherlock's senses dulled further.
oOo
Trust me. It's not a typical Sherlock-is-kidnapped-and-now-John's-gotta-save-hi m fic. Like I said, I wanted it to be different. I'd tell you how I plan it to be different, but, to quote River Song (I'm a fan of many fandoms), spoilers. Anyway, written to the tune of Carol of the Bells sung by Pentatonix. Why? Because I'm a soprano, cellist, and a pianist. I've got Christmas music cubed running through my head, because, for musicians, Christmas season starts in October. At least while you're still in school. So, yep, I'm listenin' to Christmas music. Honestly, when I started writing this, I had no idea what I was writing about until, um, the second paragraph. And I'm still listening to Carol of the Bells. Also, I admit that I'm American. And from Missouri. Gotta love that country accent, right guys? Anyway, sorry if the words don't sound British to you British people. Oh, and I don't really know how this website works, so I've gotta figure out how to add chapters. I'm not very tech-savvy, so this may take me a while...not too long though.