Sherlock had become a man possessed.

A furthur four days went without any sign of John - and, more worringly, no word from the kidnapper. At this point Sherlock had been expecting a randsom or some kind of message, and this late in the game he was beginning to worry that maybe what Lestrade had been trying to tell him might have had some ground. What if this person had no interest in returning John after fulfilling their purposes? The thought had occured, but he had ignored it. He did not want a theory stuck in his mind that ended up with John dead.

Everything had stopped - the case, the shopping, the general tidying of the flat - and it would stay stopped until there was progress. Sincerely Sherlock believed he could find John alone. He did suffer from insomnia, even with his seemingly good constitution, for the week, which proved the poignant insistency of his grief, making his thinking a disease instead of a healthy function. He began performing mechanically, rigidly, like an engine stoked from the outside. He no longer had pleasure or interest in them. The flavour was gone from life; it had become a necessary burden, to be borne as best he could.

Dare he say, he was suffering? That until John was found, his life - along with everything else, would stop?

At least for now, for however brief a time, he was a man again. Physically and mentally sound, doing all he could. The day before, Sherlock spent a good fifty pounds on printing press and had spent the entire night putting up missing person posters. It was a long shot, but better to have something floating around that might come in use. Feeling the effects of his sleep deprivation, Sherlock stopped on the corner of the stairs and put his hand out to the wall, almost dozing off right there. Yet, he felt a presence. Something was different, and when he glanced up, he could see the door of his flat was open a crack. The sight thrilled his blood, and he touched about his pocket, ready to pull a gun if need be.

However when he reached the door, he drew a look of shock. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw.

'Where've you been all night?' John. Stood by the kettle. Making a cup of tea. 'Sorry, do you want one?'

Something seemed to rise up in Sherlock's throat and choke him. He looked more fully at him - standing as calmly and casually as usual, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. His breath stopped, and for possibly the first time, he did not think.

'Sherlock, you alright?'

'John ... ' He tried to force his voice back into its usual tone, tried even to speak gently, though his heart was beating so wildly at these realisations. As it drew to a close, all sound, the silence that fell pressed upon him like hands that held him down. 'Do I .. what? John!'

Adding sugar to his tea, John cooly replied. 'Whats upset you this time? Let's hear it then.'

Sherlock immediately shot back. 'Where have you been?'

'In bed?'

It was so rare to feel this unprepared, 'I spent the whole of last night putting up missing persons ads for you all over London!'

'What did you do that for?' John scoffed.

'Because- !' Sherlock had to stop himself for a moment to breath, and calm down. He was dangerously close to whipping that gun and shooting everything in range. ' ... Because, you disappeared. Almost a week ago.'

Leaning against a counter, John sipped his tea. 'Don't think I did. No.'

'You have no memory of it?'

'Of what, Sherlock? You're confusing me.'

He could have laughed, 'Oh, you're confused?'

'Good god. Sherlock Holmes - confused!' John chuckled into his mug, but before he could take another sip Sherlock had already charged across the room and seized him by the shoulders.

'Don't laugh, John! This is serious, anything could have happened to you and you don't remember it.' Sherlock shook him. 'Try, John! What did you do yesterday?'

'For god's sake! Really now, stop it.' Yanking himself from his vexed friend's grip, he grew back and quickly ran through what he had to say, not seeing how any of it mattered. 'All I did yesterday, was take some cash out of the bank and give Mrs Hudson our rent. Then I went to bed. That was it.'

'You went straight to bed?'

'Honestly, it's like having a wife ... '

'Answer me!'

'For god's sake yes! I was tired.'

Sherlock was relentless, getting into his face and hitting him with question after question. None of it made sense. 'What time?'

'About .. between ten and half past, I think.'

'No.' He shook his head feverishly. 'I didn't leave here until eleven, and I locked the door. Your bed was empty.'

'I live here too don't I? I've got a key.'

'Explain the empty bed.'

'It wasn't empty, alright? Because I was sleeping in it.'

'No you weren't!'

'Yes I was, Sherlock!' They had both raised their voices, Sherlock clearly desperate for a suitable explanation. He had truly been going out of his mind, not that he would admit, and to hear him brush the matter off so cooly was frustrating. John set down his mug, and gave Sherlock a look that infuriated him. A look of pity. 'Now, I've no idea what you're talking about but right now I've got a job to be getting ready for.'

'You can't possibly goto work! You need to be checked, you need to be looked over - anyone could have done anything to you.'

'I'm done having this conversation.'

With that, John left Sherlock, and his tumult of desperate thoughts, alone.