Sherlock Holmes was bounding up the stairs, a new case in his hands. "John! This is a good one, John!"
He burst through the door, devious smile bright on his face as he turned the corner, looking for John. His long coat flowed around him as he threw the case file onto the table. He clapped his hands together in utter joy, his leather gloved hands making a distinct slap in the unusual silence. "Ohh, John! You must come see this one!" He pulled off his scarf, looking around still. 'John didn't tell me he was going out…', Sherlock thought to himself. Even if he was out John would usually text him where he was going. John knew Sherlock would just track him down otherwise. John never seemed to like that so he found it easier to let Sherlock know ahead of time where he would be.
Suddenly, something seemed out of place. Sherlock looked around, concern beginning to gnaw at him. Something was wrong. Sherlock inspected the flat- nothing appeared obviously different. The furniture was all intact, not even a slight adjustment to suggest any kind of sudden movement or fight. 'No…John's just out somewhere. That must be it…' Sherlock reminded himself. His eyes moved and darted across the room, scanning for any clue that would alleviate his rising concern. Sherlock glanced in John's room- all appeared normal. The bed was made, military style of course, with everything in its place. It was maddening how neat John was. No wonder Sherlock drove him crazy when he threw his experiments around the flat.
Moving back to where he was when he walked in, Sherlock began to really worry. 'Worry…what a strange feeling…', and there was that word- 'feeling' again. Sherlock had never let himself become vulnerable to such petty things, but he found it increasingly difficult to withstand them with John around. John was so…human? Normal? Sherlock didn't know what to call it. All he knew was John…his John…was gone, and something was seriously wrong. Sherlock finally decided to go to Lestrade for help. Perhaps they went out to the pub together?
Sherlock was putting his scarf back on when he happened to look down. Barely noticeable to anyone but Sherlock, was the smallest drop of blood on the floor. He dropped down, whipping out his magnifying glass at record speed. His heart began to beat just a little harder. He looked around, searching for more. As his eyes wandered, he noticed a faint but distinct trail leading back out the door. Sherlock jumped to his feet and began to follow it. It was faint enough for Sherlock to see but too small for Mrs. Hudson to have noticed it.
Sherlock realized in horror that this was placed here for him to find.
He continued down the stairs and around the corner to the door of Mrs. Hudson's flat. Next door to hers was the downstairs flat- the one she could never find tenants for, and the one where Jim Moriarty had placed his first clue for Sherlock to play his game. It was also where the blood drops were leading to. Sherlock's heart continued to pound. "Mrs. Hudson, your keys!" Sherlock yelled in his baritone voice, echoing in the darkened hallway.
No answer. Sherlock grew impatient, and out of his desperation he broke Mrs. Hudson's window and opened the door. She wasn't home, maybe still out with that married man from Speedy's? Sherlock's knuckles were bleeding, but he didn't care. He found her keys in her box on the entryway table and almost stumbled back through the door. He was beginning to get frantic- not a feeling Sherlock was familiar with, and it frightened him. Finally with his shaking fingers he was able to get the lock open and he opened the door, turning on the light to illuminate his path.
He carefully went down the stairs, examining everything in sight while following the increasingly obvious drops of blood. As he came to the foot of the stairs, the drops became more of a trail, the red clearly showing on the basement floor. As Sherlock rounded a corner, his heart finally stopped pounding. It was too horrified to beat at all.
Sherlock's chest constricted in pain as he struggled to breathe. Red letters on the wall, clearly written in dripping blood, brought him to his knees, his whole body shaking in shock.
I have what is yours…if you care to see him in one piece again, you will follow my instructions.
Sherlock's face betrayed him, his eyes screaming what he couldn't express. His body trembled, and all that he could manage to get out was a tortured whisper…
"John…"