Morning came too early.
Last night had been a rough one, and John groaned as the nightmare filled sleep ending at the sound of a brutal alarm. Cursing, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and on to the floor which squeaked loudly.
Pulling on the freshly pressed clothes he had set out before he fell in to bed at a quarter to 2am, he walked over and struggled in opening the window. During the past few months, John never really noticed how decrepit the third floor room actually was. The floorboards were molded, the window was always jammed. But things were always crowded to the back of his mind when the rest was filled with more pressing matters such as dodging bullets and solving cases. But it sure as hell mattered now. His lungs had taken more than enough of the mold.
Dust wasn't eloquent. Dust was dust.
John shook his head. 6:00 was too early for ramblings. He quietly made his way down the stairs to B, and into the kitchen, acknowledging momentarily the long, blanket-draped lump on the couch.
After the bloody "catch me if you can" treasure hunt ended with Moriarty at the pool, Sherlock frequently forewent his already less than regular sleep schedules. This left him as irritable and irritating as could have been expected, a side effect also being near narcolepsy. He would fall asleep from a mere minute to hours on end.
John recognized this as such a moment, and decided to revel in the silence as his tea brewed. God, this work schedule was near to hell.
Brushing away a Petri dish, he sat down at the table and lifted the cup to his mouth.
"John."
The medic jerked his hand back from the scalding tea
which he had spilt in surprise.
"Don't drink that." Sherlock warned, leaning against the hallway wall. John gaped at his state, for indeed he looked quite wretched. "Drugged." He choked out, a wave of nausea spilling over him once more.
John stood, confused, and pointedly looked back at the bundle on the couch.
Sherlock focused his eyes, then forced all nausea down and made his way to the couch, picking up a wax sealed envelope which had been carefully pinned into the leather of the backrest.
Breaking the seal, he read aloud. "'Board games are boring. I prefer strategy. Here's the first pawn.' Signed, 'J.M.'"
John choked as Sherlock pulled back the blanket. Underneath was a teenage girl. She was dressed in a long white gown, pooled in blood. Her curly blonde had been braided into a crown on her head, and her silver eyes were glazed over. Her lanky arms and legs were bound in thick red ribbon.
"God." John knelt down next to the body. Her chest was still rising and falling. "God, she's alive, Sherlock."
The consulting detective turned back around and dropped the note he had been contemplating, "She's what?"
"Bloody hell. Call an ambulance."