13-2
Sherlock had spent most of the day lazing around the flat in his favourite dressing gown. He currently lay upon the sofa, staring at the ceiling completely consumed with boredom. He had run out of things to occupy himself, and since he had promised John he would stay in the flat until he returned from work.
How dull, he thought to himself. There was literally nothing to do that would entertain him. He finished the book John had given him two hours ago. While it wasn't something which contained generally new information, he enjoyed reading a volume which was dear to his roommate. He devoured the weathered and dog-eared book with zeal. It was like seeing into the doctor's intellectual mind, exploring his interests and learning the medical facts he found fascinating. When he had finished with the medical text he lay onto the bed, daydreaming about his flatmate. It was strange how they had come to be flatmates, stranger still how they had come to be lovers. John was the first person Sherlock had met to not respond to his skills with rage and bitterness towards him. Granted to begin with John had been confused at the whole situation, but upon their next meeting, John had complimented and admired Sherlock, the first time such a thing had ever happened. He guessed that was one of the qualities that had drawn him to be seemingly attracted to the man, that and he was brilliantly clever. Not in the same was as Sherlock was, but in a way made up of compassion, energy and bravery. Not many men would shoot to kill for a stranger, or be whisked off to a crime scene by one neither. After everything he had been through, John should have been a withdrawn and solitary character, but instead he was lively and energetic, and Sherlock admired him so.
He didn't feel scared when he was with John, he felt safe. He knew he was by far an easy man to deal with and he imagined his outburst the previous day would have been the last straw, would have caused the doctor to leave in fear. Instead the man had stayed and cared for him, made sure he was not alone until he felt less afraid. He felt like John Watson was a complete equal to him, in his work and in his personal life. A man to be admired and never to be underestimated.
After drifting off for an hour or so, he had risen and made his way into the living room, walking around aimlessly. He felt guilty looking round the flat, realising how many things were either broken or completely missing. He made a mental note to replace everything so John wouldn't have to worry. After all, he was to blame. He found it odd that he cared over stupid things such as a broken refrigerator, but really he knew it was John's feelings that concerned him, not the ruined flat.
He had then searched through the cupboards in vain for food, and spent some time gazing out of the window at passers by. It was then, after the sight of the people outside had bored him, he retreated to the sofa, defeated by boredom, clueless as to what to do with himself. He couldn't even conduct an experiment; he had no supplies left in the flat. His mind drifted to supplies he used to keep in the upstairs bedroom, but he was sure John would have removed them by now. He reminded himself that he must ask John how he felt about maybe moving some of his belongings downstairs; if they were to keep up the current arrangement it seemed only logical.
It was then, when Sherlock was on the cusp of jumping out of the window with boredom, he heard a faint ringing. He recognised the noise and the location immediately; John had left his mobile phone sitting by the bedside table. Sherlock walked in to retrieve it, imagining it was probably John ringing from the office for some reason. Illogical since John could have probably rung Sherlock's mobile, but maybe he didn't know the number, or maybe this was the first idea to pop into his head.
He picked up the phone glancing at the screen. Unknown Number. Sherlock found this incredibly odd, the clinic number was never unknown, and it was pinned upstairs on John's notice board for when he needed to ring Sarah about work. He resisted answering it, he knew it would be wrong, and rather odd to invade John's privacy and answer his calls. He placed it back down when it stopped ringing, only to pick it back up again when he saw the number had left a voicemail. Of course he couldn't resist that, it was as if he had no choice! He dialled the number for voicemail services, and lifted the phone up to his ear.
Johnny boy why won't you answer! You would think after yesterdays warning you wouldn't be so careless as to ignore me, you know what I'm capable of!
Sherlock recognised the voice, of course he did, and it disgusted and fascinated him at the same time. He found he was holding the phone all too tightly, not paying attention as the options for the message played through. He threw the phone on the bed, getting dressed quickly as he glanced over at the clock. He had three hours until John got back from work. He closed his eyes, searching the all important section of his brain which held short term memories, remembering the phone call in its entirety.
He heard traffic, in the distance, but not too far, probably a street away. He heard voices, strained to remember them, foreign, Asian, most likely Chinese. He heart clatters, chinks, plates, cutlery. He opened his eyes. He didn't know where exactly the man was, but he knew he was going to make a damn good attempt to find him. He had three hours until John got home from work, and in those three hours he would get Moriarty.