Inspired by a story I'm reading about a girl whose sister goes missing, and how the case is handled and how she and her family handle it. Was going to make this the other way around, and have Sherlock go missing, but felt Sherlock's reactions would be more interesting than John's of the other went missing. Chapter names will change once I get a few chapters together! Please let me know what you think!
Chapter 1:
John was meant to be home twenty eight minutes ago. He left his jacket at Sarah's. And Sherlock knew he had actually left it, and that despite Sarah's expectations of what Sherlock assumed was sex, he did not plan on sticking around. They had milk, bread and butter, and he'd even texted John earlier in the day telling him they were having Chinese take out for dinner. The internet, phone and electricity bills had been paid, and Sherlock had even Google searched the time the bank closed. Harry, Lestrade and a collage friend had all been contacted as he had needed, and Sherlock had texted each of them asking if they knew of John's whereabouts.
One second, two seconds, three seconds. Sherlock's fingers drummed against the leather of his armchair, counting every second of every minute that John was gone. The armchair across from his looked empty without John filling it. Although Sherlock had sat in it before John had started living with him, the idea of any person other than John sitting in it seemed so very strange. Sherlock leaned over from his armchair and picked up the Union Jack cushion from John's. It was all good and well for John to claim his armchair, but his favourite cushion was another thing. Sherlock placed the cushion behind his back and resumed the drumming of his fingers.
Fourteen minutes and eight hundred and forty beats of his fingers later and Sherlock decided it was time to call John. He'd messaged him a total of thirty nine times, but was yet to call. Sherlock pressed the button that automatically called John. John's number was on speed dial despite that fact they never talked as Sherlock preferred to text. The line rang seven times, and went quiet for a millisecond, before the sounds of John's voicemail made its way through the phone. Sherlock hung up.
'John. Answer me. Where are you? –SH'
Texting was worth another try. Two minutes later and the iPhone vibrated. Sherlock's hand leapt towards the phone like a tiger towards its prey and he opened the message, expecting to see a message from John, in capital letters, signed off with –JW.
'sorry sherlock'
The fingers stopped drumming. The phone shook ever so slightly in his hand. The heart stopped beating. No, Sherlock thought. His heart had not stopped beating, he had just imagined it. Sherlock picked up the phone, and no, he said to himself, his hand was not shaking. Had he met a lady on the way home? Was he moving out of the apartment? Was he in trouble? Fingers started drumming again, this time against the phone screen, typing out a message.
'Sorry about what exactly, might I ask? –SH.'
He never knew why he was sorry, for that was the last time Sherlock Holmes would ever receive a message from the phone of John Watson.