When Mycroft returned to get John, he couldn't find the boy anywhere. He raised his eyebrow, and walked over to his phone.
Mycroft frowned. The phone had been moved. He picked it up, a looked at it. Someone had been reading his texts.
He froze.
John.
Meanwhile, John travelled on the bus for the second time that day, making his way anxiously to 221B Baker Street.
He fiddled with his hands, and looked out the window, mentally preying for Sherlock's safety.
When he eventually got off at the stop, he made his way to the front.
It was dark, and all was quiet inside. Nobody thought twice about the abandoned apartments as they passed it.
John sighed, and then walked forward, hand in the door handle. He didn't expect it to be open- but it was.
He entered the hallway. The place had no décor whatsoever, and it was so neglected and forgotten and full of dust that John began to cough the second he passed through the threshold. He closed the door behind him, and took a deep breath.
He was offered with two choices: going straight ahead into a room at the end of the hall, or ascending upstairs into the unknown.
He decided to head up the stairs.
Each step creaked as he walked up, and he found himself wondering why the hell he was doing such a crazy thing, but then he remembered Sherlock and pressed forward.
Upstairs lead him to a door, and he pushed it forward and glanced in.
Sherlock. He thought.
The only thing in the room, bar the fireplace, was a young curly haired boy lying on the floor, face down.
John ran forward, and grabbed his friend. He turned him round. He was awake, but barely.
Sherlock opened his eyes, which seemed to take a great effort. He blinked, and looked up at John. A look of horror crossed his face and he began to yell something, words John couldn't hear.
John saw Sherlock's gaze was not to him, but to someone behind him. He turned, and saw a tall figure standing at the door, grinning wickedly, and saying something.
John jumped up when he saw him produce a gun from.
Sherlock jumped up too. He leaned on John. He was clearly hurt. John stood in front of Sherlock, shielding him from the man and the aim of the gun.
A second figure came from behind the man. Mycroft. He shoved the man forward, and he turned, and pointed the gun at Mycroft. Sherlock had fallen to the floor he was so weak. John jumped forward, and landed on the man's back.
The man spun, and angrily attacked John. John fell onto the floor at Mycroft's feet. He was quickly up again.
The man grinned again, a horrible, evil grin full of hate. He was pointing the gun at Sherlock. He said something, and Mycroft didn't move.
Sherlock looked up, and didn't make an effort to move. He couldn't.
John narrowed his eyes. He wasn't going to let the man hurt his friend.
He jumped forward again, and tackled the man to the floor.
The next three seconds went by in slow motion.
The man landed on the floor, John on top of him, trying to keep him down.
Mycroft ran to Sherlock.
John felt something press into his stomach.
Then a sickening pain.
He fell off the man, and landed next to Sherlock.
His vision grew blurred. He battled to stay away, but the pain in his stomach was crippling.
He looked over to Sherlock, whose eyes were open wide.
"Sh-Sherlock,"
John succumbed to the darkness.
A/N: If you're confused, it was John who said, "Sh-Sherlock,"
Love you all.
PS: I am really proud of this chapter. Probably my favourite so far.