The gravel road crunched under the wheels of the taxi as it pulled to a quick park. John's deductions had led him to here, but "here" was in the middle of nowhere. The sunlight blazed with such an intense glare that John had to block his eyes in order to avoid any damage. Eyes adjusted and on red alert, John began to take in his surroundings. Straight ahead was a giant warehouse. The paint, or at least what was left of it, had obviously lived its life. All the same, it was clear that it flakes left fought with all of their might to remain in place.
"Slightly cliché, no, Mr. Moran?" John thought sarcastically. He may have found some comfort in his pitiful attempt to lighten the mood to himself, if every moment to this point hadn't been filled with dread.
John paid the cabbie and trotted to the entrance. Dread accompanied him close behind, as close as his own shadow. John got to the doors and leaned against the side. With his gun drawn, he braced himself for whatever was next. With a little encouragement from his foot, the doors slammed open with a great force and John soldiered into battle. However, all that greeted him was a warm draft of trapped air that fled to the outside world.
The first thing John noticed when he walked into the warehouse was the smell. The air was stale. In contrast to the radiating light outside, the warehouse was dark and ominous. John's eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet, but his senses had already confirmed his worse fear. Sherlock was alive, and he was here. John's insides screamed for another explanation, but he knew that this had to be the truth.
This "Mr. Moran" character could have anyone. Surely John's obsessive humanity preceded him. Ever since Sherlock…. did….. whatever the hell he did, John worked nonstop to help anyone who appeared to need it. Three years since the fall and John still refused to leave the suicide hotline. Lestrade continuously insisted that he find a new "hobby".
Perhaps this was his way of showing John that there is no hope. Maybe someone just wanted to play a sick joke. Donovan had always resented Sherlock…
John bowed his head and sighed. Of course none of that was possible. All of it was, completely out of character, completely delusional. No one in John's life would play this type of mind game with him. Daily torment was all John had to look forward to each morning. Lestrade knew that. Donovan knew that. Everyone knew that. So why, after three years of constant pain, would anyone bring Sherlock's memory back to a searing awareness? To make John suffer. To make John deteriorate. It had to be someone John didn't know directly. It had to be a "Mr. Moran".
John choked in a sob. Although John had always prayed to have Sherlock back, if this was the way, John wanted his prayer to be forever unanswered.
John cocked his gun and proceeded past the threshold.
All of John's service in Afghanistan couldn't have possibly prepared him for what he saw.