Three weeks.
Statistics said that after twenty-four hours, hope of a kidnap victim returning unscathed dropped fifty percent. After a week, chances were down to one percent.
Three weeks?
Sherlock shook his head, clasped his dry hands behind his back, and resumed pacing. He wasn't sure how long he had stood, staring out the window without actually seeing anything in the bustling street beyond.
Three weeks. More than 500 hours since John had strolled out of the flat, shouting for Sherlock to text if he needed anything from the store, and never returned. Over three thousand minutes. Two million heartbeats.
And still — nothing.
No ransom note. No phone call. Nothing.
Sherlock had retraced John's steps himself, looking for something the police couldn't see, wouldn't spot, might have missed. Nothing — no witnesses, no clues. John hadn't even made it to the store.
Even Mycroft, with his nearly-omniscient watch over the great city of London, hadn't been able to help. John had vanished in a large blind spot.
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "Think," he growled to himself. He couldn't help the images that flashed through his mind of half-decomposed corpses, discovered along river banks and hidden in parks or abandoned buildings. He knew the odds.
He also knew that he had to beat the odds. He couldn't accept that John had simply disappeared, simply becoming another cold case in the back storage rooms of Scotland Yard.
He couldn't accept that for a moment — because if he did, it might come true.
His phone chirped, and he lunged for it.
"Hello?"
"Sherlock." Lestrade's voice was clipped. "We found him."
Sherlock's eyes closed, and his heart sank. He swallowed down bile, forcing the words out: "Where?" He would have to identify the body.
"Empty apartment near Tower Hamlets. A neighbor saw him through a window."
Sherlock sank into his chair. His throat was too dry to swallow. His hand, limp, drooped the phone away from his ear, Lestrade's voice becoming a tinny whisper that couldn't seep through the fog.
"Sherlock?" the DI was calling. "Sherlock—we need you to come down to the station."
Robotically, Sherlock lifted the phone. "Do you have any leads on the killer?"
There was a short silence on the other end.
"Oh, mother of—" Lestrade's voice was a groan. "Sherlock—there is no killer. I'm sorry, I thought you understood."
"What do you mean?"
"He's alive, you bloody idiot!"
Sherlock sat, unresponsive for a long second.
"What?"
"He's alive—but he won't talk to us."
Sherlock surged out of the chair. "He's alive? John is alive?"
"Yes, you great—listen, would you please just come down to the station? We can't get a word out of him and—"
Sherlock shoved the phone into his pocket, and was out the door before his coat was even around his shoulders.
"Mrs. Hudson!" he bellowed, galloping down the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson!"
She tripped out of her apartment and looked up at him, her hand over her heart.
"They've found him," Sherlock said, gripping her shoulders. "He's alive."
"Oh, thank God in Heaven," the elderly woman gasped.
"I have to get down to the Yard." He kissed her weathered cheek. "Don't wait up."
"As if I could do anything else," she scoffed. "Call me, please."
"Will do."
And with a whirl of his coat, he swept out the door.
"Taxi!"
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A/N: Hey, folks. Sorry it's been so long since I updated anything. Time of Echoes is driving me nuts, because as much as I'd like to work on it, I don't have an end goal in mind and I'm not exactly sure what I'm writing towards. That one may end up not getting updated again until after Series Three premiers, so...sorry there.
Anyway, this is just a little something that I put together in about twenty minutes tonight, inspired by an episode of The Mentalist, of all things. There will be at least one more part, but if anyone seems interested, I may make it longer. We'll see. :D Anyway, please drop me a line to tell me what you think. Reviews are my fountains of happy dancing. :)
~Essie