"Find what you wanted?" John asked as Sherlock took off his coat.
Sherlock snapped his head back towards him. "What?"
"The leads? You said you had leads."
His flatmate blinked at him. "No, nothing. Waste of time. Why, erm, why are you…" he gestured vaguely at John's attire.
"Halloween party," John said, placing his gun in the holster on his belt. He'd just finished removing the bullets from the magazine. He didn't have time to buy a fake gun for his 'costume,' so he'd compromised by emptying the bullets from his real one. Everyone would assume it was fake—few people could tell the difference—and the gun wouldn't be loaded if anyone asked to see it. "For the surgery; promised I'd go."
Sherlock was looking at him oddly, hovering around the door.
John frowned. "Are you ok?"
The detective scrubbed his hand over his face. His skin was even paler than usual. When was the last time he'd eaten? With a sinking feeling like cold lead John realised that in the chaos of the ball, the strip club, the cemetery, he had forgotten to make Sherlock eat. Jesus Christ, the last time he ate might have been more than three days ago.
Without thinking John crossed the room and grabbed Sherlock's slender wrist. Seemingly stunned, Sherlock followed as John guided him to the couch. John pushed him down onto it and found his pen light on the table.
John leaned over him, and Sherlock looked up at his face with a kind of muted curiosity. John held the detective's chin. His forehead was cool, no fever, too pale though. Pupils dilated. Hardly daring to push his luck with how docile his flatmate was being, he circled Sherlock's wrist with his hand, fingers resting on his pulse point. Heartrate elevated. God, he could faint.
"You have to eat something," John said.
"I don't—"
"Now."
John turned on his heel and walked toward the kitchen. "I'll make you toast."
When he re-entered the living room he was surprised to find Sherlock still sitting on the couch, though he'd crossed his arms sullenly. He must be feeling faint if he hadn't jumped up demanding to be left alone by now. John reprimanded himself sharply for forgetting to make him eat. It was one of his most important self-appointed jobs.
He held out the plate of toast to Sherlock, who merely glowered at it before glowering at him.
"Don't make me force feed you."
Sherlock looked at him defiantly.
"I've already proven I can pin you down," John said. "I can do it again if I have to."
"That would be very ambitious of you," Sherlock said, huffily pulling the plate out of John's hand. "Are all soldiers so annoyingly adamant about toast?"
John couldn't help smiling fondly at the obstinate detective. "Only some. I hear the Paras have strong opinions about sandwiches."
"You're an obnoxious person," Sherlock said, though he took a bite of the toast.
"I'm going to make you pasta," John said, going back to the kitchen.
"Why? Look, I've got toast. What do I need pasta for?"
"Plain pasta will be good; it won't shock your system after fasting for a week."
"It hasn't been a week," Sherlock mumbled.
"Maybe just a bit of olive oil—" John froze. He had turned around to find Sherlock standing directly behind him, eyes none the less piercing for his lack of nutrients.
"John, leave."
"Wh-what?"
"Go to whatever inane event you were going to."
"Forget it; I'm not going to leave you here when you're on the verge of a collapse."
"I'm not on the verge of anything. I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I know what I can handle," Sherlock snapped.
"You have no idea," John growled.
Sherlock grabbed the lapels of John's jacket to forcibly remove him from the kitchen. John reacted instantly, spinning them around and slamming Sherlock back against the wall. Sherlock leaned his head back; bright verdigris slatted at him through black lashes, and John did his best to keep his expression firm in the face of such ridiculously pleasing aesthetics.
"I could give you a note on your bedside manner," Sherlock said, deep voice purring in his chest.
John heard his own words rough by comparison. "Not a doctor right now, Sherlock. Soldier. I'm not letting you go until you agree to eat something."
For a moment Sherlock searched his face. Finally he said, "If you leave, I promise I'll make pasta."
"What's it to you if I go or stay?"
"I won't have you sitting in all night watching me like a concerned nanny."
John hesitated. "You would really make pasta?" It was difficult to believe, but on the other hand Sherlock seemed to be all right, and he wasn't eager to disappoint his colleagues. Again.
Sherlock glared. "It's pasta, not a soufflé. I think I can manage."
"And eat it? You have to eat it. You can't just throw it at the ceiling or something."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, I will eat it."
"And no running off," John said. "It's incredible you haven't already fainted; I don't want to get a phone call saying you're passed out in a gutter somewhere."
"I will stay here; I will eat pasta. Any other unreasonable demands you want to make while you're at it?"
"Some tea would probably be good for—"
Sherlock shoved John back.
"Fine." John straightened his uniform jacket. "I'll go." He walked toward the door. "Food and rest tonight; that's an order."
From the window Sherlock watched John get into a cab and drive off. He dropped the curtain back into place and pulled out his phone. He still had three more locations on his list that could be used to store a large shipment of drugs, and he fully intended to check them all.
He swung on his coat and reached for the door, but he hesitated. He walked back to the coffee table and picked up a piece of toast. He chewed it, impatiently observing how long the process of chewing can take. He picked up the next piece.
Orders from a doctor were one thing. Orders from an army doctor, in uniform, were quite another.
It was an hour into the party and John couldn't shake a nagging sense of unease in the back of his mind. He was listening to one of his colleagues—an orthopaedic surgeon dressed as a radiologist (doctor humour, he supposed)—drone on about her garden when it struck him.
"Sorry, I have to make a call." John ducked out of the room and leaned up against the hallway wall, searching for Mrs. Hudson in his contacts.
He knew what it was, that sense of uneasiness. It was a memory. The memory of the last time Sherlock had agreed to do what John asked too quickly.
"Er, milk, we need milk," John had said half to himself as he was on his way out. Where had he been going? Probably to see one of his old girlfriends…
"I'll get some," Sherlock had replied casually.
"Really?" John stared in disbelief.
"Really." Sherlock wasn't looking at him.
"And some beans then?" John had hardly dared to ask.
"Mmhmm," Sherlock had agreed.
Extraordinarily abnormal behaviour for his shop-allergic flatmate. It was a red flag that John had missed. He should have known. Sherlock was going to get Moriarty, not milk.
And then tonight: "I will stay in. I will make pasta. I will eat it."
Right. Sherlock was going to stay in and eat pasta tonight the same way he'd gone to the shop for milk all of those years ago. John couldn't believe he'd fallen for it again.
"Hello?" Mrs. Hudson answered the phone.
"Mrs. Hudson I need you to go upstairs and check if Sherlock is in the flat. It's important."
"Sure, I'll just be a moment."
The moment seemed eternal.
"No, dear, he's not here."
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Got to run."
John sucked in a deep breath. The MIA status was nothing unusual for his ceaselessly troublesome flatmate. However, it was more common for Sherlock to disappear without a word than it was for him to bother lying. The fact that he'd lied meant there was something he was hiding. The thought made his stomach want to roll over in protest. Because John's past experience with Sherlock lying to him—it tended to end spectacularly badly. Semtex and swimming pools and rooftop phone calls.
But John couldn't think about that now. He needed to focus. How could he find Sherlock? He could be anywhere in London. Calling him wouldn't help; if Sherlock had lied before, then he wouldn't tell him where he was now. His only hope would be if Sherlock had talked to someone—if someone else would know where he'd gone.
He called Molly.
"Have you heard from Sherlock today? Did you see him last night?"
"No, I haven't seen him in a while. Is everything all—"
"Yes, it's fine, sorry to bother you, thank you."
John hung up. Damn it. He could call Lestrade, but he doubted Sherlock would involve the DI in something he wouldn't even tell John about. Mycroft, definitely not. He knew it wouldn't prevent him from calling both of them in about five minutes if he couldn't think of anything else.
Billy. He could call Billy.
"Yeah, that's right, I saw Shezza last night, innit. Oh, and then again, earlier today."
"Do you have any idea where he might be right now? It's really important."
"Yeah sure. He was looking for drug dealers."
John's heart slammed into his rib cage.
"Gave him a list of places," Billy continued. "Told me today he didn't find what he needed though. He only had three places left on the list so I doubt he's going to find what he wants. I told him you can't be too picky. You got to take what you can get, innit? There's plenty of high quality stuff around—"
"Do you remember where those three places were?"
"Sure, I've got a photographic memory haven't I. I'll text them to you."
"Thanks, Billy," John kept his voice cordial though he would have liked to bash the junkie's face into a concrete wall for being such a lousyenabler. But right now the information was more important. He would have to threaten Billy with more than a sprain some other time.
"All right, no worries."
He hung up.
Drugs, Jesus Christ, why now? What had happened last night at the cemetery to make him tear off like that? To make him look for drugs again? As angry as he was with Billy, a small perhaps more rational part of him knew that if Sherlock had made up his mind he would get what he wanted, regardless of whether Billy helped him or not.
The text came through. A quick search told him the first place on the list was also the closest to Baker Street. Sherlock would probably start there.
He babbled something about a family emergency to whoever was closest as he bolted out the door.
God fucking damn it, Sherlock, he thought, knowing he would never forgive himself if he was too late.
Sherlock snapped the chain across the warehouse door with the pair of bolt cutters he'd brought for the purpose. He pushed on the door and it gave only slightly. He put his shoulder into it and the rusty hinges swung open.
He stood in the dark for just a second before dim lights flickered, illuminating the enormous space. He blinked rapidly, eyes adjusting to the light. There was a group of men standing just a few metres off. They all turned to look at him.
It was hard to say who was more surprised to see the other, Sherlock Holmes or Sebastian Moran.
