Once John had finally secured a cab (which took a full seven minutes; without Sherlock's imposing figure at his side, cabbies always seemed to look right through him), he pulled out his phone and opened a blank message, but he paused with his fingers poised over the keys.
He didn't want to apologize via text message. He'd never really been fond of texting, especially when it came down to relaying important information, and anyway, he really doubted Sherlock would accept anything short of a full blown, down-on-his-knees, praising-the-ground-he-walked-on apology. He pursed his lips, quickly tapped out "Where are you?" and hit the 'send' key before turning to watch London fly passed his window.
Sherlock? Where are you?
Answer me, Sherlock.
Seriously, Sherlock, answer me.
Sherlock, please answer. Where are you?
Sorry to bother you, Greg, but Sherlock hasn't been by, has he?
Not today. Lost him?
-GL
Yeah, haven't seen him all day.
Time to tighten the leash?
-GL
Very funny.
Happy Hunting.
-GL
Sherlock, for Christ's sake just tell me where you are.
Don't think I won't get the police involved, Sherlock. Answer your damn phone.
John stared down at the screen, chewing on his lip. Today hadn't been a very busy one, which unfortunately had given him plenty of time to work himself into a frenzy. Four hours, seven sent messages (countless more drafted and deleted), and still no response from Sherlock. John spun in his chair to face the window, staring down at the street, unconsciously searching for a familiar figure. Surely if Sherlock was in trouble, someone would have been in touch with him. Sherlock himself, or much more likely, Mycroft.
He frowned unseeingly at the bright red awning of the building opposite, weighing pros and cons in his head, before sighing resignedly and reaching for his phone again.
Where's Sherlock?
Lost track of him, have you? Pity.
-MH
Just tell me where he is.
He's been at Baker Street for the past three hours and fifty seven minutes.
-MH
John groaned aloud and grabbed his coat, shoving his arms through the sleeves as he charged out of his office. He yelled something to the front desk about family emergency, had to run, and after another battle with the London cabbies, was on his way back to the flat.
Three hours and fifty seven minutes. John had left Baker Street at around 6:55 that morning, making him a good half hour late for work, and it was now just after eleven. Sherlock had arrived back home minutes after John had left, and John didn't for one second believe it was a coincidence.
John tossed some bills in the cabby's direction and hurried up the steps to the flat.
"Sherlock!" he called as soon as he was through the door, unable to stop himself from slamming it behind him. There was no answer, but John could hear someone moving around in the kitchen. He stalked towards the doorway and glared at the back of the tall man who was currently facing away from him, bent over a microscope.
"Sherlock, I've been texting you all day, please tell me why in God's name you've been ignoring me. And you better have a really fantastic reason," John added, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. Sherlock's only answer was to fiddle with the sight adjustment on his microscope.
Now that he knew Sherlock was safe, guilt was starting to worm it's way back into his stomach. John stared at his flatmate for a moment before dropping his gaze and straightening his back.
"Sherlock...I'm sorry about your bow. I was…stupid and acted out of anger, and I—" he broke off as Sherlock suddenly stood and swept past him, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"…Sherlock?" John followed him into the living room. Sherlock had flopped down onto the sofa, glaring up at the ceiling. John slowly sank in his armchair and tried not to stare at the man. The silence stretched on as John drummed nervously on his knees and Sherlock did nothing.
"Busy day?" John asked, breaking the silence. Sherlock didn't respond.
"…how's the, uh…the thing, experiment in the kitchen going? I saw you had some tongues the other day. Having, uh… fun with that?" John tried again, but to no avail. Sherlock's eyes were locked on the ceiling, his fingers steepled, indexes just touching his nose.
John pursed his lips in annoyance. While Sherlock would often go for long periods of time ignoring what John had to say, the man would never dream that anyone might not want to listen to him. He talked to John almost constantly, not caring if John replied or not, going so far as to not realize when he wasn't even there to listen. Suddenly, John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he realized was what going on.
"Sherlock, are you…are you giving me the silent treatment?" he asked, leaning towards the man, fighting down a smirk.
Sherlock suddenly sighed heavily before flinging himself dramatically from the sofa and stalking back into the kitchen, making a point to turn towards John and stare directly over his head with an incredibly forced nonchalant expression as he passed. John couldn't contain it anymore, and burst into laughter, clutching his sides and wheezing slightly.
"Seriously, Sherlock? You're a grown man for God's sake!" John finally managed to choke out, wiping tears from his eyes. He was answered by the sounds of various science equipment being smacked about much louder than necessary, followed by a crash of what sounded like the pots and pans being hurtled into the sink from across the room. When Sherlock left the kitchen moment later in a flourish of blue dressing gown and 'casually' flounced his way into his bedroom, John watched with amused eyes before reaching for his laptop. His blog most definitely needed updating.
A/N: I love reading your reviews, because they're about split between "Sherlock's a right prat and completely deserved it" and "holy crap John's such a douche poor baby Sherlock". Oh, you guys.