Moriarty smiled a sly smile. "Well..." Just then, John spotted a blue scarf disappearing around the corner. Hang on, that didn't mean anything. A lot of people had blue scarves. "Not one that looks like that, though," said a little voice in his head. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "What did you say?" he asked Moriarty, when he realized he'd been talking.
"John, I feel like you should be paying more attention to me. I think it's quite clear that I have the upper hand here - I could have you and your sister killed at a moment's notice. I would expect you to at least LISTEN to me," he shouted at John, who had once again drifted off into thinking of that scarf and the possibilities it held. He jumped at the sudden change in pitch and reminded himself that it was not only his life that was at stake here. "I WILL NOT ask you again!" Moriarty barked a rather hysteric laugh, and apologised to John. "I really don't know what came over me, I suppose I just can't suffer the fool that doesn't listen. Now, run back to that dingy little flat of yours and get me Sherlock's journal. I'll be back at Harry's place, so drop it there when you find it."
He turned to leave, and John let out a small sigh of relief that he wouldn't hurt him, though wondered at when he had ever seen Sherlock with a journal before.
"Oh, and just in case you get any ideas about going to good, ol' Lestrade, or doing anything to cross me... I'll take a finger off for every day you're not there. Starting midnight tomorrow." Moriarty left, laughing as he went.
John stood back, trying to take in everything that had happened. Had he really seen Sherlock? But, if it was Moriarty he'd been talking to... Could Sherlock still be alive? Even though he realized he had more pressing things to take care of, this was what occupied his mind. How could he get in touch with Sherlock if he was alive? He needed him, needed his help.
He took off running in the direction that he had seen the man with the blue scarf, pushing people out of his way as he went. A chorus of 'hey, watch it!'s and 'excuse me's followed him. He didn't care. His mind was whirling with thoughts; Harriett, Lestrade, the kidnapping files, the journal... and at the centre of it all, Sherlock Holmes.
He had to be alive. He had to.
Suddenly, he saw the blue scarf on one of the people far away in front of him. He realized he couldn't yell, and had to bite his lips hard to keep from doing so. He started to run faster, and he couldn't remember running this fast since Afghanistan.
His breath ripped in his chest, and he felt a burning in his legs and stomach as the lactic acid built up in his muscles. His brain kicked in and forced reasoning into his flight of adrenaline: what was he doing? If Moriarty was here, then he'd no doubt have someone tailing him - and if that was the case, and this man he was following really was Sherlock, he could be leading Moriarty right to him! He forced himself to slow to a stop. If Sherlock was alive and had been watching, then he would make himself known. He had to trust in him.
John realised that it would look suspicious if he just stopped running if someone was actually following him, so he kept on running, but made a turn and headed home to his flat, a thousand thoughts in his head. All the feelings of the last week was almost too much for him, but he ran even faster and realized it helped him. It was good feeling the pain elsewhere than in his heart. He jumped up the stairs and into the living room of the flat he knew so well. Now he had to find the journal. Had he ever even seen Sherlock with a journal?
He ripped the place apart. He started with Sherlock's usual hiding places: inside the hearth, the skull that sat on the fireplace, inside his cabinets. He flipped Sherlock's mattress, tearing at the bottom. He choked back a laugh as he pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights. Cigarettes, but no journal.
He tried to put himself in Sherlock's place, something that seemed to almost impossible. A journal... If Sherlock still was alive, it could very well be that he'd been here and picked it up already. John felt a weird, kind of happy and angry feeling over the thought that Sherlock might have been in this apartment without saying anything to him.
He sat down heavily in Sherlock's favourite armchair. The room was a mess, books and pages were scattered everywhere; it was unlikely that he would find anything when it was like this. He bit back a sob. Hell, it was unlikely that he would find anything at all. If Sherlock had wanted to hide something, it was almost impossible to find it. Who's to say it was even in the flat? It could be anywhere...
His laptop made a noise - one that it hadn't made since he had written 'A Scandal in Belgravia' on his blog. It meant that someone had commented on it.
John moved up from his chair, and walked over to his laptop. He didn't know if he wanted to check. Who could be commenting on his blog, and now? Maybe Jim was giving him more threats; he had after all spent a long time looking for it. He thought with shivers about Harry losing her finger.
There was no name or email attached to the comment, just the red circle on the top left hand corner, telling John that it was private and that only he could access it. "Mrs Hudson's terrier." was all it read. John's brows furrowed in confusion... Mrs Hudson didn't have a dog, why was this person telling him...? Suddenly it clicked - the doorstop that permanently stationed outside Mrs Hudson's living room door was in the shape of a Jack Russell terrier. His heart leapt in his mouth as he mind connected the dots - could this be Sherlock telling him where his journal was? And if that's the case, he was alive and Moriarty had been tricking him on that count, and more importantly, he had heard their conversation. It was him in Covent Garden!
John ran down and into Mrs. Hudson's apartment, glad to find she was not home. He went over to the terrier, and lifted it. Under it, it was in fact a dark blue journal. It was really small and pretty, made of leather, with the initials SH written on it with silver, slanted, swirly letters. It was extremely pretty. John opened it. Inside it was written by the same hand, but not nearly as pretty. The one reading this would have a hell figuring out what it stood, but then again, that'd surely been Sherlock's point. John tried to decipher it, but gave up, though he was very curious about what was in here that Jim needed.
He flicked through the pages nonetheless to see if anything stood out. Some pages had newspaper clippings stuck neatly to it, with annotations and highlights, though others were just chunks of text, sometimes the handwriting was so small and cramped that the page looked almost completely black. Inkblots peppered a few pages, where Sherlock's thoughts came too quickly to be written down in any coherent way. John could just imagine him sitting at his desk in the dead of night with only the single lamp to light his way, writing feverishly in his exquisite journal. No wonder John never had noticed it - he was probably asleep whenever Sherlock took it out. He smiled sadly at the image, feeling a pang of loneliness. He silently wished Jim good luck in his attempt to untangle the mess of thoughts that Sherlock had scribed. John was about to slip the small book into his coat pocket when his eye caught on a coloured photograph tucked in one of the last few pages. He pulled it out and caught his breath in surprise. It was him. But why would Sherlock have a picture of him?
It wasn't very old, but he looked different than now. It must've been taken around the time they'd been in Baskervilles. he was smiling, but not at the camera, and he couldn't remember being photographed. Had Sherlock taken it without his knowing? What did this mean? What did a picture of him do in his notebook? He tried to catch his name in one of the pages the picture had been tucked between, but with no luck. He was about to give up, when he rather by accident happened to turn the picture around. On the back it was written something, this time with perfectly readable handwriting, clearly done with care.
He read the message once through and closed his eyes. It didn't help. Sherlock's words swirled around his mind and John felt faint with their power. He had to sit down. As he sank into one of Mrs. Hudson's sofas, he rubbed his forehead and tried to think, tried to process this new information... Sherlock...
Sherlock was alive. Sherlock had done it to protect him. Sherlock... loved him? But where was he now? And what should he do next? He obviously had to burn the picture... Although he'd liked to keep it as a reassuring, maybe, to look at. What should he do? This was just too much, all on top of the fact that his sister was still being kept hostage by Jim Moriarty, the most dangerous man John had ever known.
John had no idea what to do. Even his years in Afghanistan hadn't prepared him for this war that was raging on in his own country between maybe the two greatest minds in the world. And he was slap bang in the middle of it. His fingers traced the words Sherlock had written and his heart felt lighter than it had done in days. He smiled slightly as he placed the photo in his breast pocket - he already felt some of Sherlock's courage course through him as his fear melted away. His mind felt clearer than it had done since Sherlock had left - even before that, when his mind had been filled with so many conflicting feelings. They were gone now and all that was left was sudden realisation that he felt the same way. He stood and tucked the journal into his coat. He'd take it to Moriarty - after all, if Sherlock hadn't wanted him to do as he asked, why would he tell him where it was?
He went back to his own apartment, and even though it hurt, he put the picture in a saucepan and set fire to it. If Jim'd found it... Well. He'd already memorized the words, and they went on repeat in his head, giving him strength. He threw the ashes in the sink and watched it disappear down the drain. Then he took his coat back on, and went out in the cold air. It was slowly getting dark, he had to get there fast if he wanted to keep his sisters fingers.
The taxi ride was uneventful and he made it to Harry's with little time to spare. Before he could knock, the door was flung open by Jim Moriarty, though dressed down in his 'Richard Brooks' costume. It was amazing how different a change of outfit made you. In his signature suit, Moriarty was sinister and threatening, he exuded power. But in a cardigan, t-shirt and jeans, he looked meek and mild. Not at all like the person who had threatened him earlier that day. "John!" he exclaimed happily as he threw his arms around him.