"Show me."

'January 1st, and incredible lady was taken from the world this week. Our wonderful Mrs Hudson was a beautiful sparkling woman, a selfless friend and a damn good landlord. Her Soul is at peace but she will be missed. Now and forever with us.'

"I've got to go."

"Now hang on John."

The wind hurricaned the isolated papers in the hallway of 221B in to a panicked tail spin, John took his seat and scanned the paper again. Something wasn't right. Who wrote it? He didn't, Lestrade made it clear he had nothing to do with it, Mycroft wouldn't dare. She didn't have any closer relations in the country. He paused, there was something else, something about it that didn't flow right. He looked at it again, why was it so clunky? He paused again, his breath caught. Maybe. Just maybe. Come on one more miracle. He got out his pen. He tried the first column 'J, T, W, S, D, B, W.' Nothing. Last column? 'S, R, L, A, E, R, S.' Nothing. First letter of each sentence? 'J','O','H','N'. He stopped in disbelief.

"I…I knew it…" He sat back down letting it sink in before jumping to the phone: "Lestrade!" He was breathless and his voice was shaking: "221B, NOW! HURRY!"

Ten minutes later he heard the sirens echoing down the street and the familiar march up the stairs. "John, John are you ok?" Lestrade had swung the door open before John had the chance to let him in. He was covered by two vaguely familiar officers though, John couldn't place names for, and frankly couldn't care less, not right now.

"He's alive! Look!" A paper was thrust into Lestrade's face, he tour it off pinched his brow and sent the boys to wait in the car.

"John stop. I thought you were over this."

"No, no, I have poof this time, just look!" He forced the scribbled on paper upon him once again. "See, first letter of each sentence spells out John."

Lestrade looked and paused. "John, I think you might be clasping at straws here, don't you?"

John scoffed, "Are you…Look! I mean who else could of wrote this."

"Well," mumbled Lestrade "You could of, left it for yourself to find. You've been under a lot of stress especially now, Mrs Hudson…"

John's whole body sagged in disappointment and anger. "How could you even think that?"

"John, please why don't you just talk to someone…"

"I did talk to someone!" Screamed John. "Could she help me? No! Could any of those therapists make a difference? NO! How could they, you knew him Greg, you knew him. I thought you could…"

"John no please, think about it why would he send this and not see you? It doesn't make any sense. Let's not get carried away..."

"Get out. I'll find him on my own."

"I'm trying to help…"

"Go!"

John was sure it was Sherlock who else could it be? Sure, it was clunky and easy to decipher but John was too blinded by hope to notice or simply didn't care. He settled with his paper again and re-read 'John' over and over again, hearing Sherlock's voice calling his name closer than ever. "But what do you want me to do?" It wasn't until another hour passed before he thought to check the other obituaries.

"John. Meet me. Regents canal. 6 AM. Thursday. Boat four."

He confirmed the date at the top of the paper. A tear dropped and puddled the ink. Tomorrow. Then one by one they became streams of salt water followed by insatiable, hysterical laughter. A sudden torrent of emotions roared past the barrier and his insides were engaged in some sort of fit. He collapsed on his back on the sofa, thinking about the newspaper clasped to his chest like a shield. Tomorrow he was getting his life back.