Disclaimer: Still Day Two of the hunt for Eros and I still haven't found him. Should be in Greece by tomorrow though. Sherlock and company are not mine.

A/N: Ha! What do you know I did it! So here's the last chapter for this week. Seriously this time. I put off packing to write and now I have to hurry. Hope you like it. Let me know.

The Text

John limped up the seventeen stairs to the door of 221B. He should really tell Mycroft thank you but he just couldn't tell the older man that he'd been right. His leg felt much better but Mycroft's already large ego would swell to enormous proportions if he told him he'd been right. "Sherlock?" He called as he opened the door. "You…what are you…you and your patches! How many this time?"

"It's a three patch problem, John," Sherlock scoffed before assuming his normal thinking pose and closing his eyes.

John sent him a mild glare knowing that trying to yell at Sherlock for leaving him behind right now was futile. "Well?" He finally asked. "You ordered me to come home. I'm assuming it was important."

Sherlock's eye popped open. "Oh! Yeah, of course. Can I use your phone?"

John took a deep breath. "My phone, Sherlock? You have one of your own!"

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance the number will be recognized. It's on the website."

John felt irritation curling in his gut. "Mrs. Hudson has a phone," he reminded his husband.

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear," Sherlock dismissed that idea.

"I was on the other side of London, Sherlock," John said sharply.

"There was no hurry," Sherlock told him laconically closing his eyes again.

John glowered at him and then reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Here." Sherlock held out a hand palm up without opening his eyes and John slapped it into his palm. John shook his head with a final futile glare before crossing to the other side of the room before the urge to strangle his husband became too hard to ignore. "So, what's this about, the case?"

"Her case," Sherlock breathed out.

"Her case?" John asked.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"I knew that already." John stood with his back to the fire. "So?"

"It's no use; there's no other way," Sherlock said to himself, ignoring John again. "We'll have to risk it." He took a deep breath. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text."

"Are your fingers broken?" John asked sarcastically, knowing Sherlock wouldn't hear him. "You ordered me away from a nice cup of tea to send a text?"

"Text, yes, the number's on my desk." Sherlock didn't even acknowledge John's statement. If he hadn't been so embroiled in the case he'd have known that John had spent the last half hour or so with his brother.

Sherlock held the phone out again and John finally took it. He moved to the window stalling because he wanted Sherlock to at least look at him and realize that he was frustrated with him. He wasn't quite sure why he was doing this when he knew that yelling at Sherlock while he was in the middle of a case was futile at best.

"You've had tea with Mycroft," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Yes," John nodded still staring out the window.

"He slipped you pain relievers for your leg," Sherlock sounded like he was pouting but John refused to look up to confirm it.

"I am aware, Sherlock," John nodded complacently. He slanted Sherlock a glance and nearly laughed. The younger man was pouting. He was adorable and suddenly John didn't mind being left behind so much. Sherlock was probably trying to spare him in some Sherlock way.

Sherlock gave him an assessing look and nodded. "About time someone did, you've figured out all my sneaky ways." He lay back down on the sofa. "On my desk, the number."

John bit his lip and finally walked over to the desk and picked up the paper with the phone number written on it. "Jennifer Wilson," he read aloud. "That was…hang on." He turned his head to look over at Sherlock again. "Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes, that's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah. Hang on! Not everyone has lightening thumbs from texting all the time." John snapped at him.

"These words exactly:" Sherlock ignored John's peevishness. "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 North Umberland Street, please come.'"

"You had better mean her and not you on the blacking out thing," John warned.

"Of course," Sherlock leapt from the sofa. "Type and send it, quickly." He stepped on the table, off the other side and strode to the kitchen pulling a pink suitcase off of a chair and then walked to stand by John and look over his shoulder at the text. "Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?" John asked as he typed it in. He was only trying to get a reaction from Sherlock for his own amusement.

"22 North Umberland Street," Sherlock bit out, unhappy with John's teasing. "Hurry up." Sherlock sat down in a chair behind John, placed the case on a chair he turned around and opened the suitcase while John finished and sent the text.

John eyed Sherlock and the case. "So you found her case then?"

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled and pushed himself up to sit on the back of the chair with his feet on the cushion.

John sat in his armchair across from Sherlock. "Where did you find it?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake." Sherlock looked over and locked eyes with John. "I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Would have taken half that had you waited for me," John pointed out.

"Then you would have missed tea with Mycroft."

"Not the point, Sherlock. You could have explained what you wanted done and waited for me."

"You already knew I was going to look for the case. The rest you could have deduced easily."

"Why didn't I think of that?" John wondered aloud in a sarcastic tone that went right over his husband's head.

"Because you're an idiot," John gave him a sharp, disapproving look. "No, no, no, don't be like that. Practically everyone is. Now, look, do you see what's missing?" Sherlock pointed at the case and changed the subject. He thought that he maybe shouldn't have called his husband an idiot especially as John wasn't an idiot but it had just slipped out. He was so used to everyone around him being idiots that it was a hard habit to break, rather like Sgt. Donovan's calling him a freak still.

John eyed the case but didn't feel like letting Sherlock off the hook so easily. "Razor, a telly, a space shuttle, a box of nicotine patches, I could go on and on about what's not in this case, Sherlock. Why don't you just tell me what I'm not seeing? I am an idiot after all and it could take me quite a while to figure out what's missing."

Sherlock flushed a bit then stood and leaned over John, kissing him on the cheek. "Sorry?"

"Yes, yes," John waved his apology away and caught his lips with his own. "Forgiven." He breathed when they'd finished the kiss. "Now where is her phone? You didn't have me text a murderer, did you?"

Sherlock grinned. "Very good!" They were interrupted by John's phone ringing. John picked it up and stared at the message that read: Number withheld. It could have been Mycroft but he seriously doubted it. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her."

"Or us," John shook his head. "Now a murderer has my phone number. Thanks, love."

Sherlock leapt to his feet and slammed the case closed. "He won't be after you. He's panicking."

"Have you called Greg?" John asked knowing that Sherlock probably hadn't.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Four people are dead. There isn't time to call Lestrade."

"But there's time to talk to me and wait while I traverse London?" John scoffed.

Sherlock pulled his coat off the stand and shrugged into it. "Let's go to dinner. Mrs. Hudson didn't leave us anything."

John stood up with the help of his cane. "We did say we'd be late."

"True." Sherlock breezed out the door and John faithfully followed almost positive they were going to stake out 22 North Umberland Street and hopeful there was a restaurant nearby.