John Watson was on his way back, again, to 221B Baker Street from the grocer's. It was one of those rare days in London town when it wasn't wet and miserable, so the old army doctor was rather enjoying his walk back to his flat. He had just maneuvered the groceries that were in his hands, when his mobile buzzed from his pants pocket. He wrangled the device out, balancing all of his groceries in one hand. The message was from Sherlock, and John sighed before he had even opened it. It was probably some drabble out an ingredient he needed for an experiment that John was expected to pick up, or some encrypted message that would leave John in the dark until the task was finished. With an exasperated sigh, the army doctor opened the text, but froze dead in his tracks at what it said.
Help.
The bags full of groceries tumbled to the sidewalk, as John ran in the direction of 221B. His heart was racing, and he hated himself for the rush of excitement he had gotten from the text. Beneath the adrenaline, however, was sheer worry for his friend. John ran faster, through busy street, between honking cars, until finally he reached the flat. He burst through the door and up the stairs, receiving a frightened yelp from Mrs. Hudson. John ignored her, opened the door, and stopped.
Sherlock Holmes lay on the sofa in the sitting room, his hands under his chin, completely silent and unharmed. John felt like he would burst from rage.
"What. The. HELL." John yelled, in one of his rare moments when he let all of his anger towards Sherlock be free. He stomped over to where Sherlock lay, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"What?" he asked, not opening his eyes, and either oblivious to John's anger or ignoring it. John fumed, but kept his teeth clinched as well as his fists.
"I ran half way across London to 'help' you. I dropped all of my food in the street! And I find it's just another one of your stupid schemes." Sherlock had sat up now, taking the defensive stance.
"What text? I never sent a text." With a huff, John pulled out his mobile from his pants pocket, and showed Sherlock the message. Complete confusion washed over Sherlock's face. He took the phone and looked closely at the text. His eyes couldn't believe it.
"John, I never sent this text. I swear it." John huffed, and gave one of his laughs that he used when he couldn't believe what Sherlock was putting him through. He took the phone roughly out of Sherlock's hand, and shoved it back into his pocket. John walked out the door, his hands still clenched at his sides; always the soldier. He stopped, like as an afterthought, and turned back to Sherlock.
"When you're ready to stop this stupid acting, you know where to find me." And he slammed the door. Sherlock sat stunned and frankly miffed on the sofa, until his hands came back up to his chin, and his eyes took that far away glaze. Back to thinking about an entirely new mystery.
John walked up the steps forcefully, each step a harder thud which was representing how much rage he felt. He couldn't believe Sherlock would do that do him, after all that had happened. All the times they were in danger, the times they each almost meet their death, and the one time one of them did…. How did Sherlock even have the nerve to-
At that moment John's vision went black. He could see nothing, and was lucky that he grabbed onto the stairway railing, or else he would have fallen from his rage-induced haphazard climbing. He tried blinking forcefully, but he could see nothing but…nothingness. He was about to call for Sherlock, his rage forgotten in his fear, when an image flashed before him. John could still see only darkness, but that single image flashed again, like a shadow standing out on a white wall. With one more flash, the vision went away, and his sight returned.
Breathing heavily, John ran to his room. His sight hadn't fully clearly, so he stumbled into his room until he grabbed onto his desk. Rummaging around, he found a piece of paper and a pen. He wanted to draw the image out before he forgot; if he was going crazy, he'd like to remember what had caused it. With the sketch finished, the old army doctor laid onto his bed, his nerves worn down like the end of a nail. With a final glance at his drawing, he shut his eyes, seeing darkness once more, with the image still burned into his eyelids.
One clear thought rang throughout his fuzzy dreams. One clear message he couldn't make heads or tails of. Silence Will Fall.