Sherlock grabbed the bridge of his nose in strained thought, head hanging down a bit, standing in the middle of someone's flat. He was aggravated, he was annoyed, and the one thing that was bothering him the most was that Anderson insisted on coming to this case. There had to be something he was missing, a symbol, a letter, a number, a photograph. Something! What, he just did not know, as this turned out to be the most complicated case yet. He nearly growled in frustration as Anderson's face was driving him up the wall. He just stared at Sherlock with the most dumbfounded expression, and it was driving him up the wall. He exhaled sharply, and glared in his direction, hoping he would get the idea but, when he just stared, that was when he blew.
"Get Anderson out of here, now! Go, you idiot, you are causing nothing but blank thoughts here!" He practically screamed, near fuming. He would be, if he accepted emotions but, all he did was review the scene in his mind as Lestrade ushered Anderson out.
John shot him a look of concern but, he brushed it off as he re-traced his steps. Getting on his knees, he inspected a tiny pile of dust near the couch, staring at it for a few moments, before dipping his finger into it. Rubbing his fingers together and examining it closely, he made a "gah!" noise, moving back up, the dust turning out to just be something not to care about. He was confused, he hated to admit but, this case was driving him further, exciting him, making him love it all the more.
One point five hours earlier.
In the most obvious of places in 221B Bakerstreet, Sherlock rested on a chair, feet brought up so his knees were by his chest, staring at John who was right across from him, staring back. Sherlock's lip quivered, his hands flexing and shaking a bit, turning his head to the left somewhat. Sherlock was bored out of his mind; nothing left to do, no cases this week whatsoever. John raised his eyebrow at the taller man, watching him suddenly clench his jaw and open his mouth.
"Find me a case, John! I am bored, and I am about to shoot holes into the wall again! Do you want me to do that?" He screamed and questioned at the same time, now on his feet.
John just sighed out of boredom, watching him, making a face. "No, Sherlock, I do not want you to shoot holes in the wall, again."
"Then find me a case!" Sherlock screamed once more, flipping around and grabbing ahold of his light brown violin, replaying something he had composed a few days ago.
He listened to the typing of John on his Apple laptop, as he searched for something new to work on. His head whipped around no more then a minute later when he heard John's phone go off, eyes glistening with excitement. He watched him carefully going at his mobile, narrowing his eyes as he read him almost flawlessly. His lips curled up in a grin, as he knew they had a case, since John's eyes betrayed his utter relief in being able to shut up Sherlock. His smile grew wider as he walked over to him, looming over the smaller man, eyes having widened.
"So, what do we have?" He questioned almost happily, looking down, as John set aside his phone.
"Missing persons case, up the road a way, no evidence found to support the case, and no trace that this person ever existed besides his name, Atlas Vayne," He expained, looking up with a sigh.
"Brilliant but, you must stop using the same word in a sentence. Do we have an address?"
Current time.
Sherlock exited the flat, standing on the sidewalk as he waited for a taxi to roll by, with John by his side. The crisp high noon air hit him delightfully in the face, causing his hair to move a bit, and John to shiver audibly. Blinking slowly, he once more reviewed the scene in his mind, eyes flickering from side to side as his brain worked, going through each possible way any of this could have happened. Suicide was ruled out, as was kidnapping, so maybe this man went with someone on his own. Why would there be nothing left of this man, though? No documents, passports, identification cards, birth certificates, death certificates, marriage licenses, no clothing, no hair folicles, no finger prints, absolutely nothing. It was as if someone had bought new furniture and renovated the flat, leaving it looking like new, even though the items in the flat were old. He groaned in exasperation, throwing his arms into the air a moment, before signaling the taxi that was coming up to stop.
"Cold, you should have brought a coat," He said matter-of-factly to John, not intending it to be a question at all, as he slipped into the taxi.
Telling the taxi driver where to go, he examined him a quick moment, making sure the man had nothing to do with the situation that just occured. Dull eyes that mostly lead to him losing a loved one, old clothing and unkempt hair being a sign of depression, fingernails filled with dirt and cracked a bit signalling he was doing work with plants, and jaw set forward indicating that he has little to no patience. He thought a bit more, analyzing a few more things before they arived at their flat, leaving John to do whatever it was he was doing. Sherlock had no care in the world right now as he headed through the door, up the stairs, and into the kitchen.
He stood there a moment, huffing, as he approached the case from several different angles. Mrs. Hudson was busy in town for now, so he likely wouldn't be disturbed unless John felt the need to discuss something he could care less about. He made another noise of frustration as he couldn't figure out what had happened, moving to his bed to lie there for a while. Eventually he subcummed to sleep, John covering him up and going about his day. All of this drama and excitement made him somewhat tired, and sleeping helped him think a little bit; clear his mind. Startled, he awoke to his phone beeping in a text message, so he rolled over and grabbed a hold of it, rubbing the sleep away from his eyes, blinking so they would adjust.
Sherlock stared at the text message, rolling his eyes at the fact that it was from Moriarty. "Having a bit of trouble with this case, are we? JM,"
He ignored the message, now in an upright position, trying to see if there was any connection with him and Atlas. He was good, very good but, not clever, no, not clever like Sherlock Holmes. He failed at putting entire puzzles together, though, he seemed to have this one cleaned up nicely. No foot steps, not even under black light, no DNA, nothing to indicate Moriarty had been at that address at all. He was about to go make some coffee, when John ran in and grabbed his arm, dragging him out to the telly. He was panicked, in a rush yet, he knew it didn't have to do with anyone's life being threatened or someone being injured. John had uttered no words, just showed him what was on the news, being reported.
"The case of the missing man, Atlas Vayne, has taken a new turn. His flat exploded not more then twenty minutes ago," The news reporter spoke, not being able to finish in Sherlock's ears for he was out the door in a matter of seconds.