So this is my 2nd Sherlock fanfiction, and I hope you enjoy. This one will be a bit darker, and I think it'll include Johnlock in the future. No smut though. Well then, read on and please review! Check out my other Sherlock story if you're interested too.
John struggled to open the door leading into the foyer of 221 Baker Street, hands slipping into his pocket, fishing for the keys whilst trying to juggle the numerous, bulging grocery bags and the umbrella shielding him from the torrential downpour. The walk to the store had been nice and peaceful, but it had poured the entire way back. He'd had no luck getting a cab in this weather either. So know he stood there, soaking and sopping wet with his coat pulled tightly around him and his collar turned up against the howling wind, drips from the umbrella falling onto his face and hands as the struggled to slip the key into the stubborn lock. Why couldn't Sherlock ever do the bloody shopping, he thought to himself as he finally opened the door with a sharp click.
After nearly slipping up the small step inside, John shoved the soaked umbrella into the stand by the door and began struggling up the steps to 221B, trying not to trip. Mrs. Hudson was away at her sister's place for the weekend, so he didn't have to worry about making too much noise. He shouted for Sherlock to help him out, but got no answer. Just like him. Can't bother to even answer. Cursing under his breath, John shoved open the door.
The flat looked empty when John walked in. Sherlock wasn't sprawled out on the couch, asleep or deep in his mind palace with his hands steepled under his chin and his eyes shut tight. Nor was he curled up in his favorite arm chair, reading, typing away on his laptop, or even watching crap telly (which John had sucked him into, much to his dismay). When John entered the kitchen to put the groceries away, he was surprised to see that Sherlock wasn't in his usual spot behind his microscope either. That was strange. He set the bag on the newly vacated table (there weren't any experiments on it at all, which stuck John as quite odd). He made his way down the hallway, and peeked inside Sherlock's room, hoping maybe he'd be in bed getting some much needed sleep. He wasn't really sure the last time his flatmate had slept properly, and was starting to get a bit worried about his health because despite what he might seem to think, he wasn't a machine. He wasn't in his room either. Now he could be worried. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and checked for missed calls or texts. None. Sherlock almost always texted John if he was going to leave for a case without him, and Lestrade usually texted him if he had a case for Sherlock anyway. Come to think of it, Lestrade hadn't texted John about a case in a while. He decided to shoot a quick text to Lestrade, hoping that maybe they'd both just forgotten him, something Sherlock had done before.
Do you know where Sherlock is? I can't find him anywhere.- JW
His reply came back almost immediately.
Nope. Haven't seen him in a while, no cases for him either. Sorry.-GL
John sighed and shook his head. Now he was starting to panic. Where could Sherlock have run off to? He rarely took private cases, and John always knew those because they always came through the blog. So no case. He couldn't imagine that Sherlock was out at a pub somewhere, he wasn't really the drinking type and John had only seen him properly drunk once. He didn't go out with friends (considering John didn't think he had any except for the mutual ones they shared), so that couldn't be it either. Something in his gut clenched, and John hoped to God something bad hadn't happened. He hoped Sherlock hadn't be kidnapped by Moriarty or some other crazed criminal who hated his guts. Images of Sherlock lying in a puddle of his own blood in some alleyway or tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse somewhere flickered in front of his eyes, but he pushed them away. The flat wasn't in disarray so it didn't look like there could have been a struggle, and besides, he couldn't afford to think like that. He was just about to call Mycroft (something he didn't like to do often) and ask him if he had any idea where Sherlock was or where he might be, when he remembered he'd forgotten to check the bathroom. He knocked on the door lightly, calling out Sherlock's name. He tried the door knob, and found it locked from the inside. Not good.
In his examination of the flat, there was one crucial piece of evidence that John had missed. Four sealed envelopes, all bearing Sherlock's hurried, untidy scrawl. One labeled for John, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson each. They'd been laid out meticulously, almost ritualistically, in a straight line on the coffee table. When John finally managed to break down the bathroom door in a shower of splintered wood, he stopped dead in his tracks, and heart skipping what seemed like several beats. Because there was Sherlock, lying in a pool of his own blood, dead or very very close.
*Gasp* How naughty to end the first chapter like that ;)