During an afternoon in the flat, John was typing away on his laptop. It had been a slow couple of days, with not much recent activity, so John thought he'd catch up with his writing. Eyes glued to the screen, not paying much attention to his surroundings, just concluding his latest piece. He didn't use to take this much time on one of his blogs, but after making Sherlock an internet phenomenon, he had to make each new case sound like more than just a rough draft of the latest events going on in his life.
After completing his final sentence, and feeling accomplished yet again, he was about to take a big sigh of relief, but quickly stopped himself. Something wasn't right. He had actually written a whole story with no interruptions or unintentional rude comments from Sherlock. No violin playing? No ring of Sherlock's phone?
John closed his laptop slightly and sat upright in his chair. While looking over his shoulder, he saw that Sherlock was not in the living room with him, like he had been earlier when he sat down by the window with a book. God, this man could be silent. John stood quickly, placing his laptop on the desk, and walked to the kitchen. It stood empty, with an abandoned microscope.
Where is he? John realized he must have gotten so sucked into his work he just forgot about Sherlock, and cherished the rare silence that only occurred when Sherlock went to his "mind palace".
"Sherlock?" John shouted, while walking down the hallway. He doesn't necessarily need Sherlock for anything, but with no recent news from detective inspector Lestrade, what could he possibly be doing?
"Uh...I'm Busy!" Sherlock replied loudly through his closed bedroom door, with an unfamilliar tone of voice. He sounded worried, and upset.
John walked up to the door and grabbed the handle. Giving it a soft turn, he only pushed it open a crack, just enough to see inside. The handle felt moist with sweat, as if Sherlock's palms were sweating. Was he nervous?
Sherlock was looking frantically through the room, pushing papers off his desk, tearing the covers off his bed. He was looking for something, but what?
"Looking for anything?" John said, as he opened the door for his head to pop in.
Sherlock ignored John, and started lifting the mattress of his bed.
"Did the great Sherlock Homes actually misplace one of his own possessions?" John said teasing.
Sherlock paused for just a moment, gave John a smirk and threw a pillow across the room to hit John's face. Then immediately went back to his search.
"That's great, real mature." John said in annoyance.
"There is no time for maturity, John. I need to find it." Sherlock replied.
"I can help you look for, well, whatever it is you're looking for," John began, "If you could just tell me wha-"
"That won't be necessary, thank you." Sherlock said, cutting John off.
"Alright then, I'll…let you be." John said, and finally closed the door.
What is the deal with him? John wondered. This was most definitely abnormal. Sherlock, of course, was abnormal. John questioned if Sherlock was even human at times, but this was not the kind of behavior to expect when there wasn't even a case they were currently working on.
Finally left alone, Sherlock felt a bit of relief, but not much.
"What if someone else finds it," he began speaking to himself, getting angrier by the minute, "How could I be so stupid, leaving it somewhere carelessly!"
He plopped down onto his bare mattress, placed his hands flat together, and rested his fingertips on his lips, the way he always did when he needed to think.
How could I have lost it? How could I lose something so important to me? I'll just have to start all over. No, no! I can't re write all the thoughts, not exactly how they were! Not all the dreams…certainly not all the dreams…
Then, realizing what he had to do, set aside his frustration and slowly looked around his room. Papers all over the floor, the notes to his experiments and cases mixed together in a pile that would take hours to resort. The lamp lay broken, the bed sheets balled up in the corner, and it still hasn't turned up. Dresser drawers…where were the dresser drawers…
He gave up just for the moment, and placed his hands on his chest. He needed to calm down, clear his mind, and take a deep breathe.
Wait, what do I feel with my elbow?
One of his elbows had been resting on the right pocket of his robe, a pocket he had not bothered to check.
Could it be? He thought, with an excited grin, laughing at his foolishness; at how he could ever get so worked up.
Sherlock reached deep into his pocket to grab the small, square book, but his hopes had arisen for nothing. His smile was gone immediately. The square object he had deeply hoped to be there, turned out to be his wallet.
"Bloody wallet!" Sherlock screamed, throwing it across the room. It crashed against the wall with a thud, making loose change and business cards fly about.
So much for setting aside my frustration. He thought, with a smirk. He now had to go to his last resort. He had to confront John.