Hey, guys! Well...I don't even know where to begin in explaining why I haven't written anything, in, like, forever! All I can say is, I'm back now, and hopefully I can make up for some of the time that I've been gone.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock on the door to John's flat; he had his own key (obviously), and the best place for him to start searching for clues was the only place he knew that John had been in the last few hours. If Moriarty was behind his disappearance, every second would count from here on out.

"Mary?" He shouted upon entering, "Mary?"

"In here, Sherlock!"

Sherlock followed the trail of her voice to the open door of the bedroom where Mary lay, reading a book and sipping on a steaming mug.

"What is it you want?" She adjusted herself on her pillow, "Scared me, you know."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Yes, I can tell by the handgun you're currently sitting on; shameful that you're so far into your pregnancy you couldn't bother yourself to move when I came in," she sighed at the comment; he smirked before continuing, "Now, where, exactly, was the last place that you saw your husband?"

"What?" Her eyes widened, "I thought he went to see you!"

Sherlock began to pace back and forth in the door frame, "Yes, so did I. He never made it to Molly's flat. I tried calling him several times on the way over here, but the phone went straight to voicemail, and I find it unlikely that his phone would still be turned off. He couldn't have been that annoyed with me," he halted, "You didn't notice anything unusual about him before he left, did you?"

Mary sat straight up and deposited her mug on the table beside her bed, "Not except for him being absolutely exhausted," she eyed Sherlock accusingly, "I made him take a cab instead of cycling over."

That could be something.

"And did you notice anything unusual about the cab driver?"

"No..." She glanced upward, "Well, I couldn't see his face, come to think of it. I walked downstairs with John, but the cabbie seemed adamant about avoiding eye contact. He mumbled a bit. John wasn't too thrilled."

That could be something, too. I'm surprised she wasn't alarmed by his behavior.

He grimaced, "I can imagine."

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" She stood up, "Where's John?"

"I don't know yet," he motioned with his hands for her to sit back down,"But I'm going to find out." He seated himself on the edge of her bed, and peaked his slender fingers beneath his chin. "It could be just like before."

"Hm?"

"Well," he turned his head, "It would not be the first time that Moriarty has posed as a cab driver. That is, assuming it is Moriarty."

"Yeah, well," she replied, "How would that help us, even if it was?"

"It would help us," Sherlock raised himself from up off the bed, "in that Moriarty always leaves clues."

"Clues to what?" She raised her voice, "Just what do you think has happened to John?"

Sherlock inhaled sharply, "As I said, I don't know. But...You said you made him take the cab?"

"Yes," she nodded.

"That's a start," Sherlock raised himself from off of the bed, "Did you call?"

"No," her expression flattened, "He was...he was driving right by when John decided it was time to leave. Saw him from the window. He thought it was the most convenient thing."

"Ah," Sherlock mumbled, and left the room, despite a brief protest from Mary.

John kept his bicycle on the balcony. He wouldn't keep it the building's storage room, not for anything. If Moriarty was going to leave a clue, then why not on the one object John wouldn't touch that morning?

That would mean he's been watching us.

How?

Sherlock slid the glass door open; he turned his collar up to the wind.

There could be some tiny, insignificant clue that gives me warning to John's location and situation. Something barely traceable, something that would take time to have analyzed. But...He wouldn't have taken John if he didn't want my attention immediately. Why prolong the search by making it hard to find?

Why not just write me a bloody note?

Sherlock eyed the spokes of the front tire.

Oh, how thoughtful of him.


"Bart's hospital," Sherlock slid himself into the backseat of a cab, "and hurry."

His brow furrowed as he took the note out of his pocket to read it once more.

Our place. Hugs and kisses, Jim.