Jim slicked his hair back angrily. Clearly this was his night for kindness, though nobody told him. He spun on his heels to pretend to talk to John like his nephew, just in case Loser was listening through the door, and found to his utter shock (and slight relief) that John had vanished.
He stared at the empty couch blankly for several seconds, as though the toddler would reappear, slipping of a magic ring or throwing away an invisibility cloak. He shook his head and stared again, but it became clear that John had simply absconded from the couch.
"Little rabbit." Jim thought bitterly. It was in no way a compliment, as Jim thought of himself as 'the wolf' most of the time.
Jim began the search, scanning his room for even the slightest of hiding places, but his living room was purposefully devoid of small nooks and spaces where assassins or traps could hide. He'd once walked into an apartment he was keeping to find that someone had rigged the floor with pressure points which, when pressed, activated a crossbow-style barrage on his door. Luckily he was faster than he looked.
"One two three…" Jim sang crouched low, hunting around his shelves for books and boxes that had been moved. "Here comes me… four five six… enough of tricks!"
He stood up and glanced around for anything out of place, still half-singing his eerie song, when he noticed the box of biscuits was not on the counter. It had been knocked onto the floor, and raided.
"Seven eight nine!" He exclaimed, the song gone from his tone. "That was mine!"
He turned himself towards his bedroom, and found that the door that he had left ajar was now shut. First mistake.
He checked the time on his phone. Less than ten minutes left till his appointment at Baker Street.
On the tips of his toes, Jim slunk to his door silently, wishing very much to scare, or at least startle the toddler. He decided he liked John better when he was crying.
He eased upon his door, grappling with the sticky knob in mute horror, realizing that John was in his room with sticky hands making all of his things sticky and spreading his germs on every sticky surface.
Jim pushed the door open silently. Absolutely silently; without even a whisper of sound. He craned his neck and peered into the blackness, making out a shape lying motionlessly on his bed.
Jim flinched. "On my bed." He muttered, imagining the crumbs and snot soaking into his plush cushions, saturating the feathers in his down pillows. He almost had a spasm of horror, but he managed to hold it down.