I'm falling on my knees right now, I'm covered in the mess I made.

I finally have internet! I am so sorry for the long wait but as it is with internet companies: It almost never works. But now I'm back, and I brought a chapter with me! The next one is already halfway written, so I hope I can successfully use the time in the train to work and back and give you a new chapter soon. That said, I still have a lot of work to do at my new flat so.. Not so sure about that. Sorry. :)

Thank you to everyone who is still here, who is still reading, and of course thank you to everyone that came here just now or a while before - I love you all. :)

Rise Against - The Black Market

John returned three days later, his head clearer and a plan on his mind. He had thought a lot about himself these days, and only little about Mary.
He had tried to listen to his heart and to feel what he was missing, and suddenly everything seemed obvious.

"Of course if was obvious, John, as always you see but you do not observe," his mind supplied in a perfect replica of Sherlock's voice.
But it was not enough. He didn't want to hear it inside his head, he needed it in front of him.
He needed the real Sherlock right now.

And it wouldn't take long until he could see the real Sherlock, and talk to him, and get criticised for his stupidity in reality, not only in his head.
Full of anticipation, he entered the cab he had called and told the driver his destination. It was around an hour until he would arrive, so he tried to doze off a little, skipping the boring fields and woods outside of the windows, but his mind refused to rest. He was too agitated, thinking about the look on Sherlock's face when he would tell him about the future he had thought about.
Because - he knew that now without a doubt - it would be a future of both of them together.

After a long and tedious driver, they finally arrived at Baker Street and John almost skipped to the front door. In his mind, he already sat in the living room upstairs, making plans by the fire and laughing with Sherlock.
His dreams crumbled into dust when the door opened before he even put his key in, and Mrs. Hudson looked at him, her face full of sorrow.
"Oh, John," she said, her voice wavering, and he knew something had happened.
She refused to tell him more until he had a cup of tea in his hands, but then she wasn't to be stopped anymore.

Sherlock had disappeared shortly after John had left, Mrs. Hudson wasn't exactly sure when. But she had wanted to bring him tea yesterday, even though she wasn't their housekeeper, but the last days had been kind of stressful, hadn't they, and someone had to bring the poor man his tea, and that was just as well because otherwise she wouldn't even have noticed that he was gone for there was constant violin music coming from the upper flat but actually it was empty and no one knew where he had gone and she had already called the Yard but the Detective Inspector had informed her that Sherlock had to be missing for 48 hours at least and she couldn't say that for sure, and after all it wouldn't be too unusual for Sherlock to disappear by himself, was it?
But Mrs. Hudson was sure something was off, she could feel it, and -

And here, John interrupted her by firmly saying: "Calm down, Mrs. Hudson. As far as we know it has only been one day, and that is absolutely normal for Sherlock, you know that as well as I do. He's probably just working a case. He promised me he wouldn't do anything stupid, and I trust him. He wouldn't risk his future now."

Our future, John added in his thoughts and tried to suppress the uneasy feeling in his stomach.
Mrs. Hudson regarded him with a look which showed that she saw right through him - they both knew he was trying to convince himself as much as her. But nonetheless she nodded and refilled his mug, then asked: "You'll stay here, won't you, in case he comes back?"
John nodded and cupped his tea with his hands, desperately reaching for the warmth inside, hoping it could keep the chilly nagging from his own mind.
Something was wrong here, but he couldn't pinpoint it, and there was nothing he could do anyway, was there?

As he lay in his old bed that night, he listened to the cars pass outside, the occasional dog barking and the wind blowing against the window, and suddenly he knew what had bothered him so much in Mrs. Hudson's narrative:

Yes, Sherlock used to listen to his own recorded violin playing, but why would he not turn it off when he left?

He couldn't find an answer to it, not that night and not over the next day. He tried to be patient and even convinced Mrs. Hudson to wait until the following morning to call the Yard, even though the old lady definitely wasn't happy about it.
But then Molly called, and John realised that the situation wasn't solving itself. Something very bad was going on.

Sherlock had asked for a few samples from the morgue and Molly had prepared them three days ago. But he hadn't picked them up, and now they had 'gone bad' and she had had to throw them away, and that was very unlike Sherlock, wasn't it?
The concern in her voice was the only thing coming through to John; the blood in his ears drowned out her words.
Molly was still talking, but John cut her off: "I'm calling the Yard. I'll keep you updated."

He didn't call the Yard, though. He went in himself, prepared to annoy any officers or detectives or the chief inspector himself until they'd send a search team for Sherlock. He had steeled himself on the way to the Yard, playing through so many different scenarios in his head that he mostly confused himself with them.
In his mind, he practised the captain's voice he hadn't used in so long.

In the end, it was surprisingly easy. He stormed in, was immediately let through to Greg, who only sighed and nodded, and together they filed the necessary report. The DI even overlooked the fact that John wasn't the last one to see Sherlock - he knew that when John was worried and prepared to work with the police, it was serious.

When they were done, Greg said: "I'm glad you came in so fast. I couldn't file a missing person report myself, but I'm worried. I don't know what that idiot did this time, but I hope we're not too late."
John only nodded, he had gone numb as soon as he had signed the form. Now it was out of his hands. All he could do was wait. He hated waiting.
"You should go home now. Get yourself some tea and a good book, or anything else that takes your mind off things. Let Mary distract you, or start fighting with her, whatever."
John protested. He wanted to help, he wanted to find Sherlock, they needed him!
And most of all, he didn't want to go back to Mary's flat. But Greg wouldn't have it.

"You are not allowed in the investigation. And I will not give you a special permit this time, either. You're too involved, you cannot investigate objectively. Go home to Mary and wait until we call you. We will find him, John, I promise."

Grudgingly, John obeyed and took a cab back to the flat he had come to hate over the last weeks. He hoped Mary wouldn't be home, but his luck seemed to have run out when he came back from the vacation home.
She was sitting on the couch when he entered the flat, her eyes locked on a magazine in her hands but her eyebrows rose judgingly.

"Look who's home," she said, toneless.
John flinched.
"Did you plan on letting me know you left or do you just not care anymore?"
Her voice was as cold as ice and John felt it seep through his bones until he was unable to move.
"I had… some things on my mind," he answered slowly. All his soldier's strength had left him and he felt powerless.

Mary snorted.
"Yes, I'm sure you did. Like how long can you cheat on me before you have to face our problems?"
"I never cheated on you!" John cried out but Mary waved him off.
"Details and definitions, I don't care anymore. Something has to happen, and it has to happen now."
She sounded like she wanted to say more, but the sound of John's phone ringing interrupted her.
"Excuse me," he said, a little relieved, and pulled it out of his pocket. In an instant, Mary was by his side and took it away from him.
"No, I will not excuse you," she snarled.
"We will talk about this now and there is nothing that will prevent this, not even this house breaking down."

John knew that force wouldn't do it, so he tried a different approach: he started pleading.
"Sherlock has disappeared, and the Yard might need my help finding him. Please, something terrible probably happened."
But this only made Mary laugh more.
"Oh, so your lover boy resorted to drugs again, boohoo," she spit out bitterly. "Maybe this time he does it right and we'll be rid of him for good."
She sat down and opened her magazine again, as if nothing he might say now could be of any interest to her.

Somewhere deep inside oh John, anger started bubbling up. Forgotten was the tiredness he had felt before, pushed away the despair over Sherlock's disappearance. Right now, there was only him, Mary, and hot rage about what she had said.
"So you wouldn't care if he dies? You'd just accept that he's gone, one of the most brilliant men in Britain, just because you're jealous or bitter because our marriage didn't work out? Are you so selfish? Oh, wait, yes you are! You killed our baby just to get attention! But you know what? I'm done with you. This time for real.
As soon as I find Sherlock, I'll request the divorce papers. And there's nothing you can do about it, unless you want to kill me, too."

At first, John had shouted, but as he spoke on, his voice became cold and factual. There was no need to be loud, the truth was scary nonetheless.
Mary regarded him without feelings. She closed her magazine and stood up; she looked into John's eyes with a calmness that made him shiver.

"You know what? Maybe I will," she said abruptly and then swept past him and left the room.