Prologue
It had been about a week since the infamous detective Sherlock Holmes had a case, and it was easy for even the most oblivious person to see the withdrawal signs. Yet no one saw them more than John Watson, previous flatmate to the detective and long-time friend.
It was clear that Sherlock was bored. Even the easiest of cases would have satisfied him at this point. As John had observed, the detective had already shot five times at the yellow face painted on the wall, paced up and down the apartment for around an hour before continuing to burn something that John guessed was some sort of human organ in the kitchen.
After around five hours of utter silence - apart from the annoyed heavy breathing of John who was trying to update his blog – a small buzz followed by a couple of short notes seemed like thunder in the apartment.
Within microseconds of Sherlock's phone buzzing, the detective had pulled it out of his pocket and was in the process of checking his messages.
"Oh." Sherlock said.
John swivelled in his chair, "Oh?" he asked, staring at his friend with raised eyebrows.
Sherlock didn't reply and only stared at the text message; I know something you don't know. –JM. If the detective had expected a text from anyone; it certainly wouldn't have been him.
Quickly locking his phone he shoved it back into his pocket, "Yes, 'Oh', John. It's something people say when they're surprised by something." He spoke quickly, and John immediately picked up the distress in his friend's voice.
Before John could reply, a quiet buzz sounded from next to his laptop. He noted Sherlock's eyes shooting straight to him as he checked the message. John's jaw tightened as he read the single-word text. POLAND.
Blinking, the doctor put his phone back down on the table and looked up to see Sherlock's expecting face. "Well?" he asked, eyes sparking with curiosity.
John frowned, "It was just Mary sending me pictures from New York."
"I see." John could tell that Sherlock didn't believe him, though he tried his best not to let his true emotions show. On the inside, John was in full panic mode. To anyone not involved, it would just seem like meaningless spiel, but to him, it was one of his worse fears.
Sherlock turned away and started pacing again, his shoes clicking on the wooden floor with every step. John breathed deeply, trying to suppress his feelings.
Buzz.
Another text.
Denbigh 27 1 4 12
"Oh God…" John mumbled to himself, his whole face felt numb. Not even in the most serious of cases had he felt like this.
His legs felt weak, but he forced himself to stand. With shaky breaths he walked over to the door, pulling it open, "I'm just going out for a couple of minutes." Sherlock, who was still pacing, just waved his slender hand dismissively.
Half running down the stairs, he came face-to-face with Mrs Hudson, the house-keeper at 221B.
"Hello John." She greeted him politely, if a little surprised by his sudden appearance.
John inwardly grimaced to himself, "Hello Mrs Hudson." He was trying desperately to keep the panic out of his voice.
"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked, not noticing the air of urgency that was plastered all across John's face.
"Uh, no thanks."
"Not even some tea?" Mrs Hudson remained oblivious.
"No." John said flatly, growing more and more frustrated by the second.
"What about-"
"No, Mrs Hudson!" John nearly shouted, causing the woman to look distressed. He didn't have time to deal with this now. Skirting past Mrs Hudson, he continued to run down the stairs, phone still in hand.
As soon as he was outside, John dialled the only number he knew would help. The phone was picked up immediately.
"Hello, Mycroft?"
"Oh, hello John." Sherlock's brother answered in the lax, unflustered tone that the doctor was used to.
John sighed, "Did you get the message?" He didn't doubt that Mycroft had received it, but he wanted to be sure
"Denbigh 27 1 4 12." He recited, "Yes, I got it. Moriarty certainly has been doing his homework.
John silently agreed and took a deep breath, "What do we do?"
"Do you want my honest answer? Or the sugar-coated one?" Mycroft asked dryly.
"Tell me." John demanded, though his voice shook.
"I have no idea." Even though John couldn't see Mycroft, he could tell the man was smiling.
"Well, when you know what to do, tell me." He hung up without giving him a chance to reply.
John threw his hands to his head, nearly dropping his phone. This was far by one of the greatest dilemmas he had ever been in, and this time, he couldn't ask Sherlock Holmes for help.
Buzz
Slowly, John moved his hand away from his head, looking at the phone. I think you and Sherly should have some 'quality time' together. –JM.