Nope, wrong /again/. I checked the time. I'd been looking for half an hour. I should have found it by now. I wondered if John was back at the flat yet. /No stop it/. The man had been popping in to my head constantly as I'd been looking. Maybe I shouldn't have just left him there. But no, I needed to find this case. Pink, pink, it had to be pink. Stop thinking about him, once you've found the case and brought it back to the flat, he'll be there. Not that it matters. Right, pink.
"Aha! Finally!" I murmered to myself as I checked the label of the obscenely bright pink case. Jennifer Wilson. Good, now back to the flat. I made my way back to the main road and hailed a taxi.
"221B Baker Street" I said as I sat down and unzipped the case. I searched through it, finding more /pink/. Book (good condition but dog-eared, meaningful gift), tolitries (new, matching brands), nightwear (modest, not meeting one of her many lovers), other things, but /no laptop/ and /no phone/. Hm. The cab stopped and I zipped up the case and paid the driver. I got inside.
"John?" I called out. He must be here. He must be. If he'd gone to his old flat to collect his things he'd be back by now. He isn't here. Oh this is frustrating. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and typed a quick text.
/Baker Street, come at once if convinient SH/
I set my mind back to the problem at hand. Professional job, probably something in the media going by the frankly alarming shade of pink, she would have had an organiser or phone of some sort. I looked at the luggage again. Phone number. I wrote it down on a sheet of paper on my desk. Lestrade will want the case eventually so better have my own copy of the number. No phone in the case, no phone on the body. Murderer must have it then. Unless someone found it. Well if it was texted someone who found it would ignore that but the murderer would panic, /where is John?/
My message recieved no reply. I sent another.
/If inconvinient, come anyway/
Why, /why/ did he keep infiltrating my thoughts like that. Where did my train of thought go? Deductions, I was deducing. John. Ah, I might as well indulge myself for the time being.
I lay back on the couch and shut my eyes. The other day when he handed me his phone. Tremor in his left hand. Therapist must think its PTSD. No, but it goes steady under pressure. He isn't haunted by the war, he /misses/ it.
I sat up, eyes open. /Oh./ I grabbed my phone, typing out another message.
/Could be dangerous/
That ought to get him here. Wait, why do I care? Oh this is irritating. I need /something/ to clear my haed. My gaze fixed on the box of cocaine patches across the room. Perfect.
Hm, two just isn't enough, three patch problem, I thought as I applied another patch to my arm. I heard John come up the stairs. /Finally./ He's safe. Now, to catch this murderer.