The text didn't come through, and John began to get very worried. Sherlock was out of town on a case, and normally he answered when John asked for details every third hour—grumpily, admittedly, but he answered nonetheless. But he hadn't yet today.
Sherlock are you ok?
-John
He sent that text for the third time this afternoon, wondering if Sherlock had done something stupid like get himself killed. John tended to worry more about Sherlock than Mycroft did, and he suspected it was because he'd lost too many friends to bullets and bombs already. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost another one.
"Are you alright?" John looked up to the person he was supposed to be paying attention to—Sarah. They were, after all, on a date, even if it was the middle of the day, but he couldn't tear his attention away from the idea that something might have happened to Sherlock.
"Mmm, yes, I'm fine," he lied. Sherlock was, after all, a self-declared sociopath (high-functioning, but a sociopath nonetheless), and one of the defining characteristics of that mental persuasion (he refused to consider Sherlock mentally ill) was a complete disregard for personal safety. "Shall we go in?" He held the door to the cinema open for her. He hated to turn his phone off, but he'd promised Sarah that she was the only person he'd think about today (and tonight!)
The movie was a romantic comedy—not half-bad, fortunately. He and Sarah shared some popcorn, got each other's drinks mixed up, laughed, and had a good time, even though the back of John's mind was urging him to check his phone. Which he did as soon as they were out.
No new messages.
Throughout dinner, he kept checking, even though Sarah wanted him to talk about work. She understood, though, and John loved her even more for it. Because of John's preoccupation, he didn't eat much, barely taking bites before his pasta got cold, and not even touching the garlic bread. They went for a walk, and Sarah pinched his phone so he wouldn't be ignoring her. (As understanding as she was, she was still a woman, and women hate to feel ignored on their dates)
"Shall we have dessert?" she asked, pointing to a bakery.
"Sure," John half-heartedly replied.
"Now…shall we have a Danish or cheesecake?"
John smiled. "No one likes danishes."
"Cheesecake it is, then."
So, for a while, John forgot his worry, and shared blissful conversations with Sarah. After they finished, bade each other goodnight (he was too distracted even for sex), and Sarah returned his phone, he looked again.
No new messages.
What the hell was Sherlock doing? Why was he not answering? John paced until he was too tired, but then he sat on the chair and worried endlessly.
Four AM. No new messages.
John woke up, having not remembered falling asleep. He grabbed some coffee, and checked his phone.
No new messages.
Panic began to rise in John's throat at the thought that something had happened to Sherlock. Even though Sherlock could be annoying, he was John's best friend (not a title earned easily), and it was John's duty to worry about him. He couldn't go to work. He was terrified. In his mind's eye, he could see Sherlock with a bullet to the chest or with shrapnel from an IED in his face. His mangled body dangling from the cliff where his car had gone over. Laying in a foreign morgue, no hint of who he was or where he'd come from.
No new messages.
John realized he was beginning to hyperventilate. He made himself a cup of tea in the hopes that it would calm him down, but it really didn't work. He couldn't go to work, not in this state of panic. He got dressed and undressed, just to give himself something to do.
No new messages.
The door closed and John leaped up, hardly daring to hope that it was Sherlock and that he was fine. But it was Sherlock. With a cut lip, a black eye, and a nasty limp.
"Thank God," John said before he could stop himself. "What happened?"
"Suspects got a little…overenthusiastic." Sherlock winced as he tried and failed to take off his coat. John helped.
"But you didn't answer your texts! I'd have thought you'd have found some way to communicate!"
Sherlock pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket. It was smashed.
"Oh," said John simply. He offered Sherlock his cane, but, predictably, it was refused. He settled for a cup of tea and sitting in the chair by the fireplace.