Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

6:52 AM.

Sherlock lounged in his chair in 221 B, his hand bouncing up and down. It was the only part of him betraying his impatience.

Tick, tock.

6:54 AM.

Time was passing slowly. It had been two days, seven hours, and forty-three minutes since the consulting detective's last interesting case. There had been plenty of queries on his website, but those were boring, hardly-challenging problems that would not occupy his time properly.

With a huff, the man stood up. He swept over to the desk against the wall, where John had left his laptop. Opening it, he wiped the keyboard and waiting for the machine to start up.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

6:57 AM.

Where was John? Sherlock realized he had not seen nor heard the army doctor since just before dinner time the night before. When John left, Sherlock assumed it was for a date. His most recent emails and the details of John's clothing suggested a night in with whichever girl it was this time around.

The computer's desktop came up, and Sherlock was quickly on his website. Nothing new except for a couple of comments on the newest upload. His email was next, and, annoyingly, John had left his account logged-in.

Once on his own account, Sherlock checked each of the new emails. Missing cat, suspicion of an affair, debt collector, boring, every one. Eventually, he closed the laptop and leaned back.

Tick, tock.

7:05 AM.

Maybe Lestrade had a case. Jumping from the chair, the tall man scrambled about, searching for his mobile. His dark curls bounced slightly with the sudden movement. His mobile was not in the living room, not even in between cushions on the sofa. He next looked in the kitchen. The table was a mess, but he knew, in a glance, it was not there.

Now where did I leave it? he thought angrily.

Then Sherlock remembered; he had tossed it, in his excitement, towards a table in the living room, but had missed, as the item was not there when he looked. On his hands and knees, he found it on the floor, buried beneath a stack of papers. He breathed a sigh of relief and checked the screen.

6 New Messages.

With a smirk, Sherlock began scrolling through them. Two were from John, reminding him to check something, while the other four. . .

His heart stopped.

Are you missing me, Sherlock? –JM

You're certainly missing something. –JM

You're ignoring me. That's no fun. –JM

One hour to guess. I'm getting bored. –JM

The time on the last text was 6:30 AM. Sherlock glanced at the current time: 7:21 AM. Immediately, his dark brows furrowed. He had not noticed any misplaced items while walking through the flat, but just to be safe, he investigated each room once more.

This is Moriarty, he reminded himself. What would he think is important to me?

Suddenly, Sherlock looked up with a soft, "Oh!" He quickly sent a message to John, glancing once more at the time. 7:26.

How was last night? –SH

It was a weird message to come from the consulting detective, but one John was sure to answer. If he was able to. . .

A reply! Sherlock checked the time again; it was becoming a nervous tick of his. 7:30 AM.

Silly, you don't get replies from something lost. And I'm tired of waiting for you. –JM

Where could I collect my belongings? –SH

Oh, he's yours now? That isn't fair. –JM

He'll soon be mine. Or dead. I'm not picky. –JM

I don't like when people take my stuff. I need him home. Undamaged. –SH

No reply came.

I will come alone. –SH

Of course you will. You're always alone, Sherlock. –JM

This did not infuriate Sherlock as much as Moriarty had probably meant it to; rather, it made him realize that a clue had already been given. Standing in front of the tall window in the living room, Sherlock thought through each word in Moriarty's texts.

"Something lost," he muttered. "Or dead."

Eyes closed, he searched through his powerful mind, linking words in ways that made sense but were also nonsensical, making connections until it clicked.

It was a vague idea, but the only option that was clear. With a whirl of his coat, the man left the apartment, racing down the stairs and bursting out of the door. Once outside, he hailed a taxi.

"St. Bart's," he ordered the instant the door was shut.