Following Inspector Lestrade's leave, little else happened. John glanced about the market places and only ended up buying Gladstone a rubber toy - justifying it by saying he was either going to chew that or the couch. There was no getting around Sherlock - not only would he not see the hypnotist, but he downright refused to partake in any activity. Lestrade, it seemed, was not the only one dealing with a child. Sherlock's mind was so evidently set upon the job, that even a friend as influential as John could not dissuade him from it, no matter for how brief a measure. Nothing seemed able to stop him from accompanying the task he had recently begun, getting up his steam and striving determined to finish.
John had dinner early and went to bed, as he had work in the morning. Sherlock, as per usual, did not eat and was determined not to waste his time with sleep - insisting that as it stood, John had wasted enough of his time already. He set up on the couch with his laptop and newspaper clippings, but fell asleep just before three o'clock in the morning.
At almost nine o'clock, Sherlock was woken by his mobile phone. It chimed away in his jean's pocket that he had yet to change out of. His response came with meditative slowness and he sat up before retrieving the phone. Taking a quick moment to curse his offguard sleep, he pressed the receiving button and answered.
'Sherlock Holmes.'
It was a woman's voice, with the faint murmers of a crowded room behind it. 'Hello, Sherlock. It's Sarah?'
She said it in a question, as thought he didn't remember her. In a cordial voice out of the dusk, he replied, 'Yes, I know. What does he want?'
'What does who want?'
'John. I assume he's run out of credit and is getting you to ring me for something.'
Her tone changed to one of hinted apprehension, 'Is .. John not with you?'
'What?'
'Well .. it's just, he hasn't turned up at the surgery this morning. I've tried calling his phone but it's just ringing out.'
Sherlock's face clouded an instant, and there was a heavy pause. 'I'll call you back.'
He hung up immediately and stood, drawing himself erect. 'John? John you're late for work!' He shouted. There was no response. Disillusioned, he steadily left his own part of the flat and stole up the small flight of stairs with gaining enthusiasm. At least, he thought it was enthusiasm. So curiously transfixed and isolated in his character, he tried the door - and found it unlocked. Immediately, Gladstone rushed out and whimpered, clearly not having been let out or fed.
' .. John?' And in this curious yet pleading confrontation his eye fell suddenly on John's bed. From that his gaze flitted, like some wild demented thing's, over the details. The bed was not made and the sheets, as well as the duvet, were practically hanging from the mattress like they had pulled. Dragged.
Sherlock stood still in the doorway, heart standing still in an awful, inarticulate dread of the unknown, as he realised John had been dragged from his bed.
