A/N: I do value your input, so if leaving John in limbo sort of bothered you and you want to know what happened to him (well, Sherlock's been wrong before, and Victoria's a true psychopath, who seriously gets off on making people completely devastated. You don't really know anything for a FACT, because everybody lies. Especially psychopaths.), here it is, basically. It's just an explanation chapter. Sorry. And it is seriously terrible. I really apologize... this story is becoming convoluted, implausible, and extremely hard to follow, and that is one thing a story should NEVER be. This chapter is bad, especially. In fact, if you think I should totally scrap it and try again, please let me know because I will be happy to do so!

John had been in New Scotland Yard for days now. Lestrade hadn't allowed him to go back to Baker Street because Anthea had instructed him not to. He was unaware of the situation (Mycroft had kept him ignorant of the situation because if he knew even an inkling of what was occurring, he would be at risk), but Anderson had become ill, and being the only doctor that Lestrade trusted, Watson was selected to treat him. (Sherlock had poisoned Anderson with salmonella, in order to make sure that he wouldn't show up at any immediate open and shut cases that he had taken to fool Watson, and maybe because he disliked him, just a little bit... Anderson was bright enough to figure out what was going on, after a time, and so it was too dangerous for him to be around. Better to have food poisoning than to be murdered by a psychopath.)

Anderson would be fine soon, but Lestrade made the excuse that it would be better if Watson could stick around with Anderson to observe him at the Yard. (Anderson would be staying at the Yard until he was well, since he couldn't afford to stay in hospital.)

Watson was terribly bored at this point, twiddling his thumbs as he sat in the poorly padded chair, rubbing his leg at intervals, legs swinging. He was beginning to understand Sherlock's boredom. Sherlock... was he alright? No one would tell him, including Lestrade.

After a few more days of stalling and Lestrade also discovering the food poisoning of several more officers, and starting an investigation of the source of poisoning that he allowed Watson to help with, Watson became quite frustrated with Lestrade, pickpocketing him, taking his Blackberry.

Once he had the phone, he texted Anthea.

How'sSherlock? -JW

John received a near-instant reply. How did that woman type that fast?

Goodtohearfromyou. NicejobonpickpocketingLestradeforhisphone, btw.- A

John took several seconds to compose a reply.

Thx. Answermyquestion. -JW

John waited several minutes for a reply.

Sorry- Sherlockhastakenaturnfortheworse. He'sbeentakentotheOR. Don'thavetimetotext.- A

Anthea wasn't actually lying, per se. He HAD taken a turn for the worse and he most certainly HAD been taken to the OR, earlier. She also really didn't have time to text.

John didn't quite believe her. She wouldn't have to stay with Holmes if he had been taken to the operating room, and she would have plenty of time to text.

After a few minutes of trying to deny these beliefs, he grabbed his coat, dashing out of the Yard, checking that he had his handgun and extra ammunition, as well as that it was currently loaded, and headed to the hospital where Sherlock had been, flagging down a cab, shouting directions at the cabbie, and slamming the door.

As soon as John arrived, he shoved money in the cabbie's face, running into the hospital and asking about Sherlock at the desk, finding that he had left. He texted Anthea again.

Funny. Nowtellmewhat'sreallyhappening. -JW

John, Ireallydon'thavetimerightnow. -A

John shoved the pickpocketed Blackberry back into his trouser pocket, and went to phone Lestrade, until he realized that it was Lestrade's Blackberry. He phoned Lestrade's desk instead.

"Hello?"

"I need a number traced."

"Why?"

"Because I'm fairly certain that the location of the cell phone is where Sherlock is right now."

"But Sherlock isn't missing."

"Just do it, will you?"

"Fine. What number do you need traced?"

John proceeded to recite the number, and in a few minutes, Lestrade replied.

"Got it! 221 Baker Street."

"Thanks, Lestrade."

John hung up.

Watson was beginning to understand the gravity of the situation, but didn't understand it completely, so he avoided making too many moves prematurely, merely getting a cab for Baker Street.