Chapter Summary: Mycroft ALWAYS knows.
Always.
(John's POV)
Just go. The words ricocheted around in my head as I slowly walked down the stairs, grabbing my jacket and heading to the front door. He'd thought that I left. Something happened in the time it took me to get to my room and change. I racked my brains, but was too frustrated and bewildered to try and figure out what had happened back at the flat. I stalked down Baker street; trying to look at the situation at hand with a rational mind. I didn't look back.
I had been out walking around Downtown London for at least twenty minutes, and it had done nothing to make me feel better. I glanced up and down the street, looking for a stray cab, but decided to just continue walking around. Sitting idle in a cab right now didn't seem like a very good idea. After walking for another ten minutes, I entertained the notion of heading to Sarah's, perhaps ask her for advice. But once again I turned down the idea of jumping in a cab and heading to find someone who might be able to help me. There was nothing anyone could do to help me. I thought of Sherlock and began to hopelessly wonder what had caused him to want me to leave. I tried to figure out why. I wanted to go back, I couldn't just leave things the way they were. No, he can deal with you being gone for a few hours; he left you thinking he was dead for much, much longer.
I was hurt and upset -I had only just gotten him back- plus, I thought that he'd wanted me. That's why he'd come back, right? Maybe you said something. Maybe he got the wrong impression and you hurt him. Maybe, maybe, maybe… Nothing was for sure! I didn't know exactly what had happened. I didn't know exactly what I said; or if I had even said anything at all. I sighed, and looked around for the nearest coffee shop, just needing a nice cup of tea to calm down my frenzied thoughts, and hopefully silent the fear that something bad was going to happen at 221B Baker Street while I was away. I quickly diminished the thought, telling myself that he wouldn't do anything to rash, he knew me. He knew I'd come back.
Right?
I don't know why I didn't just turn around and head back, but as I ordered a cuppa, I started to wonder why I had even left at all.
I sat down in a slightly uncomfortable leather armchair with the hot cup of tea nestled in my cold hands. I took small sips at a time, trying to just 'delete' –as Sherlock would put it- all of the horrible thoughts tangling themselves in my head. I watched as multiple people staggered into the nice warm shop, shivering from the cold and ordered coffees, laughing and talking loudly, enjoying themselves. My heart sank a little, as I remembered the days that my friends and I would pop into a coffee shop just to warm up our hands. We would be out, all over the city, joking around, and having a grand old time. When it got too cold for us to handle, we'd go into the closest café, warm ourselves up, then head back out.
I was almost done with my cup of tea, when I felt my phone vibrate from inside my jacket pocket. My heart skipped a beat, and I hurriedly set down my cup and grabbed my phone, hoping it was Sherlock. I opened the message, and scowled at the screen. It was one of the Holmes brothers' but definitely not the one that I wanted to hear from.
What happened? Ran out in your pajamas. Not good. –MH
I sighed, frustrated with Mycroft for spying on us again, but slightly worried. He was right, I had run out in my pajamas, I looked down at my impromptu attire and felt myself blush slightly. I never looked like this out in public.
Yeah, a bit not good. Why? And how did you know?
I texted him back, and got a response quickly.
He needs help. Better be heading home soon. Don't know if he'll last. –MH
What do you mean? And if he needs help so bad, why don't you go?
I angrily sent the message, wondering why Mycroft always came to me with problems involving Sherlock.
Don't waste time. Go home. Now. –MH
The last text sent a shiver up my spine, and I rushed out of the coffee shop, hailing down the next cab I saw.
"221B Baker Street, as fast as you can." I told the cabbie, who sped away from the café. I couldn't stop moving, and my heart raced. How long had I been gone? It had to be an hour and a half at the least. I grimaced as I thought of all the possible things that could've happened in the time I'd been gone. A few minutes later, the cab pulled up opposite the flat, and I hopped out, throwing some money at the cabbie, and running across the street.
"SHERLOCK!" I yelled, running into the flat. "Where are you?" I looked in the sitting room and the kitchen… Nothing.
Bathroom? Nothing.
I peeked in my room, little hope of him being in there. As I suspected, nothing.
I had a sinking feeling in my stomach as I approached his door, not sure what scene was laid out behind it. I tapped softly.
"Sherlock? Are you in there?" I said quietly, my ear pressed to the door, waiting for a reply.
"No, John. Don't." His answer was almost silent, and even then it sounded strained. My heart was racing, panic pulsing through my body. I turned the knob slowly, and I heard Sherlock protest. But I pushed the door open, my breath catching and my heart skipping a beat when I saw what was behind it.