John shuffled through his copious notes again. "There has to be something," he howled before slamming his palms down against the dark wood of his desk. The sound echoed through the apartment until it reached the ears of the only other person in the flat.
His hands fell much softer this time than the time before, suddenly cautious about damaging them after spraining his wrist. As far as he was concerned the only reason he had to keep his body intact was to solve this final case. Then he could rest.
"John?" Molly's head craned around the doorway, her brow creased in concern.
"I'm alright, I'm alright," John chanted although the words were convincing nobody, at least, not anymore they weren't.
In the beginning the phrase had meant that people would leave him alone but now that everybody knew that he'd lied constantly they tended to keep a much closer eye on him from afar. Either way, he regretted uttering the words repeatedly.
Molly slipped round the corner, pulling her nightgown taught around her waist. She had always had a certain grace about her late at night when she came to check on John. She was something so innocent yet alluring nonetheless; perhaps that was the reason he'd ended up in this sticky situation.
"It's late," She said before lovingly massaging John's rigid shoulder, "You should come to bed."
"Not tonight, Molly," John's eyes refused to lift from the clutter of papers but to flick to the plain gold ring that bound him to Molly.
It wasn't easy pretending to still love her. Three years on and that mistake of a night still wouldn't cease pressing regret upon him. Then again, without Molly he wouldn't be alive to keep searching; he'd have thrown himself off the roof the very next day, trying to hit the exact square of concrete that he had hit.
Finally John managed to tear his eyes from his disorderly scrawls to face Molly. Everybody knew that John had changed for the worst, falling into a deep dark pit of despair and grief, but nobody noticed Molly when he was nearby. Nobody had noticed how the life had sunk from her face, how she barely smiled genuinely anymore, how the bounce from her step had disappeared which left her gait to assume a motion so close to slinking that you couldn't recognise her by her walk any longer. John had destroyed her, just as he knew he would, but she was the only ground he had to balance on.
"Okay, I'll come to bed," he surrendered, feeling guilty. "Just let me pack up a little first."
Molly's frown lessened. That was as close as she came to smiling most nights.
He slipped into bed next to Molly but, as usual, there was no love or warmth there; just two bodies in a bed lying side by side through the nights.
John rose when the first morning light managed to creep its way beneath the blinds and into the room; the clock on the nightstand revealed that he'd lost three hours of investigation time. With a pang of defeat he left Molly, still asleep and tangled in the covers, and escaped to the bathroom.
The door clicked closed behind him. Isolated from the world, he allowed himself a glance at his sickly body for the first time in what he estimated to be around a month.
His eyes first fell on themselves. Both were bloodshot, dull and the bags underneath them were quite possibly bigger than the eyes themselves. The bags were so dark he could have been mistaken for having a double black eye and their puffiness contrasted so harshly with his now hollowed cheeks that he had once despised for being so plump.
Yet his face was not the only part of him that had withered away so drastically. Even now he could tell that his torso was not the almost stocky torso that he had once owned. He'd hated the pudginess of it but now the cotton pyjama shirt that used to fit him snugly when he was still living with him now hung off him in a strange way.
Ever so carefully John slipped the shirt over his head and came face to face with a body he barely recognised as his own. He could see every bone; he could run his fingers over every one of his ribs without struggling to locate any of them, his collarbones jutted out unnaturally and he could follow them to where they connected with his shoulders. Hesitantly he turned, watching his shoulder bones roll back. Now facing the door he twisted his neck as far as he could to observe what was left of his back. He could see each link in his spine where it projected through his pale skin and where every rib seemed to connect to it. He was inhuman.
It wasn't any wonder that he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything but coffee. He couldn't see the point of it when there were more important matters at hand.
He made sure his shower was steamy enough to block the image that he saw in the mirror.
When he finally sidled out of the bathroom, Molly was waiting for him in the living area.
"Good morning," She almost chirped, still trying to stay positive even with the full knowledge that everything was wrong.
"Morning, Molly," he sighed back at her. After seeing himself in the mirror for the first time in weeks he had come to the conclusion that he'd need to eat if he was going to survive long enough to solve the case. "Do we have any toast?"
It was the brightest he'd seen Molly's eyes since before Sherlock disappeared. "How many pieces? What do you want on it? Do you want coffee too?" The questions rolled off her tongue in her excitement but without fail, it was almost as if she'd rehearsed the words.
"Two. Strawberry jam, I know we have some. And yes, coffee sounds delightful," He gave her a faint smile and collapsed onto the couch.
Molly sat by her husband and watched him scoff down the breakfast she'd assembled. He'd been much hungrier than he'd anticipated. He'd abstained from eating for so long that hunger just seemed like a background noise rather than a necessity of life.
He swilled down the last of his toast with his coffee before snapping open his laptop already predicting that a stomach ache would disturb him later in the day.
"John," Molly sighed.
"Mm?"
"Can't you leave this for just one day?"
John sighed and reached over to snatch a leaf of paper from the desk, "Look at this," he handed the paper gingerly to Molly.
The contents of the page was a low resolution picture taken from a security camera. He'd shown Molly the picture many times but she still failed to recognise the man that John had repeatedly pointed out to her. The man and Sherlock had their similarities, striking cheekbones and a towering height, but they looked completely different; for one, the posture stood out, Sherlock walked with pride but this man slouched so much he looked like a hunchback.
"He was spotted in Washington, America three months ago but only by one security camera. Look, I know you can't see it," she had always been daft when it came to investigations, "But it's him and he's entering this apartment building," John prodded at the man again, "He's alive, Molly."
Molly patted his back in sympathy, like she did every day, and left him to his work.
This was yet another thing John had destroyed. Molly never gave up; even when there was no possible solution she stayed positive and hopeful. He'd murdered her hope and her happiness and left her as empty as himself.
"I've got to go to work," she mentioned.
"Mm." John replied already blurring out the distractions in the room.
She shuffled about the room for far to long for John's liking before the door leading to the hallway clicked shut behind her.
"Finally," he breathed, gathering a pile of receipts from a small box and rolled a map of the area around the apartment building in Washington flat on the table.
After working with Sherlock for three years he'd compiled a long list of contacts that came in handy when he needed information on someone. This case had stretched far beyond the usual London habitat but enough embarrassing and pathetic pleading with Mycroft had led him to the sources he so dearly needed.
The receipts he now spread about the map, in their respective places, were all things that the man in America had bought. Not only did he have a photo, but John knew the place the man had visited the most; a chemist where he purchased science supplies and chemicals. It also seemed that the man had started working there approximately three months ago, the same time that he was spotted outside the building.
This was more than enough evidence to prove that this was his beloved friend; even people who didn't know the man as well as John would be able to figure it out.
John swiped his phone from the kitchen counter and scrolled through a long list of names to find Mycroft's.
As soon as the phone stopped ringing John started listing his demands. "I need a plane ticket to Washington and a hire car. I know you can get me all the credentials I need to get into places without question."
"John," Mycroft's strange voice called, "The photograph was sent to you via the mail, yes?"
"Yes, but I can't see how that matters anymore. I'm holding a receipt from a week ago when he purchased a beaker from the chemist he works at."
"John, listen to me. Have you ever considered that somebody is trying to capture your attention and lure you into a circumstance that could very well end as my brother's did?"
"You're telling me that this is some elaborate trap?"
"John, they knew that you were Sher-," he stopped himself from saying his brother's name.
Last time he had dared to utter the word to John the poor man had collapsed in on himself. It was perplexing how he was managing to investigate something that was centred completely around a man whose name he couldn't say or hear and Mycroft had an inkling that he even abstained from thinking the name.
"They knew that you were my brother's most deadly weakness and they also know that it was reciprocated. I searched for the few months with my endless contacts to no avail. It's now been, what? Three years? And suddenly you anonymously receive a pixelated picture from what we can only assume is a security camera. Does this not strike you as odd?"
"All the other evidence adds up, Mycroft. The receipts, the residence lists. He named himself Leonard Quinto for crying out loud. He loved the concept of Star Trek and loved Spock even more!"
"Yes but this is all information that could be discovered easily."
"He's never been to America in his life! He assumed that all the people there would be as idiotic, if not more, than the people here in London. You can't forge a photo like this," his fingers traced over the cheekbones again.
"Perhaps not, but my objection still stands. I cannot supply you with what you require for it was my brother's last request that I keep you out of way of harm and I cannot ignore the frankly blinding possibility that this is the work of Moriarty and his accomplices."
"Moriarty is dead," John argued.
"But his friends are not. And I'm sure you understand that by friends I mean people who will willingly kill to avenge his death."
"I'll get a fake name," John suggested, losing hope again.
He'd always hated having to turn to last resorts but if it meant keeping John alive for just one more day, surrendering was much more rewarding than continuing to fight. "John, I have full knowledge that my brother's bedroom is still in perfect condition. I need you to go in there."
"What-"
"Just do this. Perhaps I should have led you to it before it got this far."
"Okay, I'm here."
"Under the bed, on the far wall, there is a panel of wood. Remove it and you will find a hidden compartment. He hinted its whereabouts in his final message to me."
John gazed into the dusty room. He'd kept the door shut since the day he disappeared and never dared to touch anything just in case he finally came back home. The place was still a mess, notes scattered about the floor and desk, laptop still sitting on the bed. If it wasn't for the copious amounts of dust, it almost seemed like he still lived here; working on their cases with his genius mind while John blogged about the event.
Ever so carefully he brushed books and paper aside and lowed himself onto his stomach.
"Are you there?"
"Give me a minute, will you?" John snapped. The whole experience was overwhelming and the memories of him pacing around in this very room clawed at his weak heart.
Employing the skills he once gained in the Army, John pulled himself beneath the bed, snaking a little to avoid a storage box. There was barely enough light to assist him in locating the panel but with his calloused hands scanning over the smooth surface he managed to grasp the edge of a plank of plywood.
Once John would have yelled at him for knocking a hole in the wall but now he was grateful for the long awaited contact of the two men, even if it was just a message left from him years ago. Inside the hole in the wall was a shoebox. It was light, like it was empty but a small shake proved that it contained paper. He replaced the panel before slithering back out into the light of the main room.
"I have it," he announced into the phone, suddenly remembering that Mycroft still waited on the other end.
"My brother asked me to give you clear instructions before you opened the box, John."
"And what would they be?" John asked a little more shakily than he would have liked.
"He requested that you take a trip to his grave stone with a thermos of tea and an extra cup for him."
John frowned at the peculiarity of his request but accepted it without further question. "Okay," he replied before promptly hanging up.
