So, here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it. I really appreciate the reviews so thank you to you all. I'm not happy with this chapter; forgive me if it is truly as bad as it felt when I was writing it. I also apologise for the distinct lack of length to this chapter, I've had a hectic day, but do not fear. Normality should be restored tomorrow.
This isn't how things are supposed to be
It was a restless couple of hours, full of worry and constant pacing that John was sure would result in a severely worn carpet if he carried on. Lestrade went out with his men, trying to track down Moriarty and Mycroft sent his men out on a search, some were ordered to assist Lestrade but many were conducting their own investigation. They were smart; they had to be to work for Mycroft Holmes for any length of time. The main man, however, remained in 221b, partially to keep an eye on John to make sure he didn't go off looking himself, and partly because he did not enjoy doing legwork. Most of the time was spent on the phone, reviewing evidence and the rest of it was spent staring at the text from Moriarty, trying to deduce where the men were.
The time in which John did not know where Sherlock was, although this was a relatively short period of time, was tense, terrifying and seemed to drag on for an eternity. He didn't know what he would do if Sherlock really was dead this time, if he was buried and the proceeded to remain buried. Technically he had never been buried in the first place but it felt as if the man had risen from the dead. Even if the man had been injured, even if was only superficially, he didn't know if he would have been able to forgive himself. He shouldn't have ever been left alone, not for one moment. He would happily risk his life to save Sherlock.
"Stupid, stupid!" shouted Mycroft, half in frustration and half in relief. "He's at St Bartholomew's, obvious really. Come on, we have to go, any time spent with Moriarty can prove to be fatal." He needn't have commented on the last part, by the time he had finished speaking John was half way down the stairs and had his jacket on. The elder Holmes hurried down the stairs behind him and they both clambered into the sleek, black car and they headed off.
Not a single word was uttered on the journey, they were both too nervous, they were aware of the car full of Mycroft's men tailing them but if there was damage to be done to Sherlock it had probably already been done. As they rushed up the stairs at the hospital all John could think was a mantra of, 'Please be ok, please don't be dead. They burst out onto the roof, weapons drawn and at the ready. "That took you a while Mycroft," said the distinctive, sickly sweet voice. "You're getting slow." The man was Moriarty, obviously, and as he spoke his eyes never left the shaking form of a man as the master criminal towered above him.