Chapter Twenty Five
The Final Calling

Sherlock and Irene stood facing each other, in a stand-off of harsh glares. The silence was interrupted by Sherlock's phone ringing suddenly. Irene jumped, and then scowled at herself, knowing she'd lost.

Sherlock smirked to himself as he made his way back to the door to rifle through his coat's pockets. He took it out, checked the caller ID and stiffened slightly.

"Hello?"
"Sherlock. It's…here. I'm pretty sure this is it."

Sherlock exhaled through his nose and tipped his head back. Why, why had he let John go?

"Where is it? I'll be there as soon as I can."

Lestrade gave him directions and Sherlock made affirming noises throughout them, putting on his coat and grabbing the necessary supplies (which included Irene, much to his consternation) so that by the time they'd both hung up, the front door was locked and Sherlock was raising his arm for a taxi.

Irene rolled her eyes.

"So dramatic," she muttered.

Sherlock raised his eyes skyward. He'd never been one to believe in a god of any sort (though privately he'd quite liked the idea of putting one's faith in something unknown, not that he'd ever be able to do it himself), but he was honestly considering asking any god who was listening to give him strength to deal with this (and her).

When a taxi pulled up to the curb, Sherlock pushed Irene in, ignoring her protests, and slid in after her, giving the cabbie the address sharply. Something in his eyes must have frightened the man, because it was the fastest cab ride Sherlock had ever had and the driver didn't even ask for a tip. The directions had also sunk in, apparently (fear, Sherlock was rediscovering, was an excellent motivator), which allowed him to send a quick message to John – asking where he was – unhindered. When they arrived, Sherlock got out, yanked Irene's arm to get her to follow him, and then trotted off to find Lestrade. He handed Irene to him absentmindedly, placing her hand in his – much like a priest would do at a wedding.

"Have a woman."
"What?"

But Sherlock had already hurried off to the wall, drawing out the children's (debatable) book as he went. He read the message quickly ('Hurry!') and glared at the wall as if it were responsible Moriarty's sick and twisted game. He opened the book with a quick flick of his wrist.

"Thirty eight…thirty eight…"

Sherlock thumbed through the pages impatiently, looking at the numbers on the bottom of the pages until he found the right one. He glanced up for the second number.

"One – first word! 'There.' There?"

With a start, Sherlock remembered the previous message.

Almost. Almost what?

Almost there.

And now…

We're there.

Sherlock dug out his phone, panic creeping over him in an entirely new and unsettling way. John. He hadn't replied to the message Sherlock had sent earlier. John. His eyes grew wide and he practically sprinted as he retraced his steps to Lestrade. He was still standing next to Irene, though they'd released hands. Anderson had arrived at some point to stare obnoxiously at her and drool on himself.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock's voice was high and squeaky with worry. He cleared it and hoped no one had heard. "He's got John!"
"What? How do you know?"
"He hasn't replied to the message I sent."
"So?"
"He always replies, you don't understand!"
"Oh, isn't that cute, the freak's boyfriend never misses a text."
"Shut up Anderson!"

Sherlock stared in surprise. The words had been on the tip of his tongue, but he hadn't got them out by the time they'd been said by almost every officer in the vicinity. He felt a stab of immensely strong triumph that was quickly overshadowed by his worry for John.

With a deep breath and hoping the one person he wanted to hear would pick up and no one else, Sherlock held down his first speed dial number and brought the phone up to the side of his head. It began dialling, and had almost reached the end when he heard the click that signified someone had picked up. There was silence.

"Hello?" Sherlock began cautiously.

Another pause.

"Sherlo- aah!"
"Come and get him, Sherlock!"

Click.

Sherlock's face twisted into something ugly and he brought the phone away from his ear, stabbing the home button angrily.

"Moriarty's got him. For sure."
"Christ. Do you know-"

Sherlock's phone dinged.

Carl Powers. Come alone, Sherly, or Dr. Watson's going to be very unhappy indeed.
- JM

"Do I know where?" Sherlock finished for him. Greg nodded in confirmation. Sherlock slipped his phone into his coat pocket.
"No. Unfortunately," he affected a scowl. "I let him go because this one (- he jerked his head at Irene -) was being annoying and deliberately provocative. I have no idea where he was taken off the street or where he's being held now."

Neither of those technically a lie, per se.

"But," he held up a finger to stop any interruptions. "I can find out. Here," Sherlock said as he shoved Irene bodily towards Anderson. "Have a weasel-man."
"Hey!"

With that, he was off, running back to the place he'd left the cab and, upon seeing there were none there at that moment, shifted and streaked away in favour of waiting another second.

John.

Just wait, John.

I'll be there.