Other Side of Nothing

by silvereyedbitch

Post Reichenbach Fall. John is having difficulty adjusting to the idea of Sherlock's death. He drifts listlessly and eventually decides on texting his dead friend's phone as a means of coping with the dangerous thoughts that eventually enter his mind. J&S. M/M. Suicidal ideations.

10. Chapter 10

A/N: So this is a short chapter, but it's a nice tidbit to keep some of y'all from shredding your pillows til I update again. LOL!

The door to 221B Baker Street broke inwards and fell to the floor, sending a shower of plaster bits and dust motes swirling through the air. The tall figure with its long coat streaming out behind it took the stairs three and four at a time. And upon reaching the door into the main living area of the flat, it stopped hard, each hand holding onto opposing sides of the doorframe. One snaked quickly to the side and flicked the switch, sending light forth in all its limited capacity, revealing the horror that he was alone. Alone. "No," he whispered. "John."

The look held within the ever-changing depths of the eyes of Sherlock Holmes verged on the brink of total madness. His dark curls even seemed to participate in the effect, flying about his head wildly as he scanned every available surface of the flat for indications of what must have occurred only shortly before he arrived. Pale skin glistened with sweat that wasn't at all a result of the exertion of his late night dash through the streets. His limbs trembled slightly with the need to do something, anything…To Get. John. Back.

He walked briskly over to the carpet by their armchairs, noting a small drop of blood on floor as he passed, not quite dried, and a syringe off against the wall. Drugged then, he thought. He'll be helpless, followed quickly after and almost buckled him. This wouldn't do. It would only slow him down. He stood still a second and gathered his logic, his distance, around himself. Then he opened new eyes onto the scene of the carpeting.

-lines-of-dirt-on-the-floor-that-Mrs. -he-was-injected-with-the-drug-back-there, he glanced back at the blood speck, -rug-would-have-shifted-as-he-tried-to-control-his-fall. Sherlock knelt down and placed himself as he would imagine John doing and looked at things from that perspective. -further-blood-on-the-carpeting-so-no-further-physical-assault-whilst-here. He jumped up from his floor position and stared hard at the flooring. -his-attacker-is-also-quite-physically-capable-to-have-dragged-a-grown-man-any-length-of-distance. He walked along the repetitive scuffs that the poor doctor's shoes had left, going as far as the first few stairs. -indicates-a-possible-hostage-situation-intended-for-bait-or-ransom-of-some-sort-which-is-good-because-it-means-that-his-life-will-have-some-value-to-it-for-the-time-being.

His deductions of the flat concluded, Sherlock began to head out in pursuit. Then he paused for a second. Need-a-weapon. But a quick search for John's Sig reminded him that his brother would have taken it already. Damn. Then his eyes fell across a most interesting and promising instrument leaning up against the corner, partially hidden behind the door. He hefted it in his hands, remembering the feel of it from a year or so ago. Yes, this will do quite nicely, he thought as he adjusted his balance to the feel of the harpoon that he now held. And then he was off down the stairs and out into the street, just another lunatic wielding a weapon meant for besting large sea creatures.

As-long-as-he-is-considered-of-value-they-will-not-harm-him.I-still-have-time-to-save-him. 't-worry.I-am-coming.I-am-sorry-I-wasn' -sorry.I-wasn' -I-had-been-able-to-discover-him-sooner-or-dove-in-with-more-recklessness…But-I-thought-I-had-more-time-John.I'm-sorry-so-sorry. Sorry-sorry-sorry. -couldn't-it-have-been-me?But-then-you'd-have-come-after-me-and-that-just-wouldn' -were-always-so-loyal-and-this-is-how-I-repay-you?I' -I'm-coming-after-you.I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming-I'm-coming! He repeated the litany over and over in his head as he scanned the street, narrowing in on the fact that since he didn't smell recent exhaust or discern any new tire patterns through the water left on the streets, then they must be housed somewhere relatively close by. He scanned the buildings lined along the opposite side of Baker Street, and his eyes locked onto the winner. Empty for at least seven months, the old three-storied office building was the perfect choice. The upstairs windows would easily allow someone with the correct instruments to observe the flat from afar.

He hurried over to the other sidewalk, making note of all the empty seeming windows of the building in question. He kept to the shadows as he could, his lengthy, dark coat aiding in his camouflage as he traveled along towards his goal. He paused at the first set of doors, checking the latches, then moved on to the second set. A small piece of this handle had been polished by the recent repeated use. He smiled as he slowly, quietly, slid the door latch down to open it. And yes, it wasn't locked. I am coming, John. His eyes shown a dark gray, metallic. Flat and nonreactive as the dead, but with a smoldering quality hidden within those silver depths. And it will take the entire host of Hell's angels combined with the collective combustion of the sun to slow my steps. Cold, numb, his body shook with rage at what had been taken from him. And when I find you…and find who did this...he grasped the length of the harpoon a bit more tightly.…Blood.