Written because fandomfeels told me to. Hope you like it o.o ...

The air was cold against Sherlock's skin, a forceful wind smashing against the back of his coat as a train rushed away behind him, and yet, as he climbed the grubby concrete steps out of Baker Street Underground Station, he could not fight his smile. He ran a hand through his hair when he reached the top, listening faintly to the sound of another metal tube, clicking and roaring in the tunnel beneath him. The case was cracked, and he relished in the feeling. Instead of craving another straight away, as he usually did, he now craved nothing more than to enjoy this free weekend. With his blogger, of course. He grinned in anticipation, and walked quickly towards home. Their home. And also Mrs Hudson's home, but mainly their home.

He took the steps up to 221b in almost a single stride. He pulled out his key, but as he went to insert it into the worn lock, the door swung uselessly open with a languid creak, revealing a stretch of empty, dark corridor.

"John?" Sherlock called, stepping hesitantly over the threshold, "John!". Silence. He ventured further inside, noting with a detective's eye the broken coat stand that lay at the bottom of the stairs, and the smashed mirror in the hall, leaving faintly glittering triangles scattered over Mrs Hudson's favorite rug. But he could not, ever, stop his personal feelings seeping into his assessment. With a lover's eye, he noticed John's worn coat, tangled in the debris of the broken coat rack. John would never leave home without it, unless he thought Sherlock was going to do something incredibly stupid and he didn't have time to bother with it. He could hear nothing, no characteristic whistling, or feverish typing, or soft snoring. The house was dark and cold, empty. John was gone.

With a thick, shaky breath, Sherlock continued cautiously into the kitchen. The door here too hung slightly off it's hinges, dented in the middle, chipping the white paint away. John's favorite mug lay in pieces on the floor, Sherlock crouched and touched it. Cold. This happened while I was gone. They knew I'd be gone, that he'd be alone. There was a smear of blood on the tiles, and Mrs Hudson's old-fashioned tea kettle lay on it's side on the floor, a large dent on it's base flecked darkly with congealing crimson. Perched obnoxiously on the back door's welcome mat, folded crisply into a yellow origami crane, was a note.

Sherlock sank to the floor, sitting propped against the cabinets, and picked the note up with shaking hands. He slowly unfurled the paper bird.

Dear Sherlock,

Misplaced something?

I appear to have something that belongs to you. You really shouldn't leave your things lying around, it's terribly irresponsible.

Let's find out if the great detective likes to share his toys.

- JM x

Sherlock crushed the letter in his fist, and, without meaning to, found himself having an utterly human moment right there on the kitchen floor. He found himself standing, stumbling towards the hallway. With tears still fresh and hot on his face, he slowly unlaced his own scarf, letting it drift to the floor, and untangled John's from the coat stand, sliding around his neck. He looked in the broken shard of the mirror, straightening the scarf. His eyes were dark, darker than when he was in bed with John, darker than when a case started falling into place around him. You see all these things required John to be beside him, and at this moment he wasn't. So his eyes were not dark with lust or love or adrenaline. They were black and icy with rage, a dark fury that burned cold in the backs of his eyes. He was getting his blogger back, one way or another. He pushed the broken door open, and stepped into the oblivious street.

John woke up, blinking in the blinding white light that swung overhead. There was a sharp pain in the back of his skull, throbbing and aching, the kind of pain that made your vision blur and your thoughts congeal. His forehead was warm and wet with something.

"God, I hope that's blood," He mumbled sarcastically, trying to reach up and assess the damage to his head. No use, his hands were bound behind him, looped through the gaps in the metal chair he sat on.

"Hello John," A voice called from the shadows. Irish?

"Who's there?" John cried, squinting in the darkness.

"How's your head?" The voice continued, as if he hadn't spoken, "I apologize for the rather...crude means by which I got you here. Chloroform would have had the same effect, but I had to send a message to Sherlock somehow," He spoke conversationally, as if discussing the weather rather than his preferred methods for taking hostages.

John spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, noting for the first time his stinging split lip and the hollow ache of several bruises on his face, "And who the fuck are you? Where am I?"

"Patience, dear John," The figure of a man stepped towards him, stepping into the revealing panes of white light, "Welcome to the Hotel Moriarty, we hope you enjoy your stay," And with a menacing laugh, he stalked towards the stranded blogger. "We're going to have so much fun,"

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