I won't watch my life crashing down on me.

Something you should know that I probably didn't add before:

My whole story plays after His Last Vow, but Sherlock did not get sent away. I don't know how I explained that in my head when I started writing the story but.. I'll think of something and then rewrite the first chapters to include the explanation and hopefully a clearer indication as to when it plays. Sorry for that!

Also, this chapter is way longer than the previous ones, I know. I did have the opportunity to cut it in two, but I thought I'd leave it like this and ask you: What do you prefer? Shorter chapters or longer ones? Especially with the plot I have planned, longer chapters should be doable, might take a bit longer to write though, depending on how busy I am with work and school.

Please let me know :) Thanks!

Ronan Keating - Last Thing On My Mind

Only when Mary had left for an hour John remembered that she had taken his phone away.

Panic started overtaking him, but then he found it on the coffee table, silently flashing to indicate he had missed a call.

Suddenly nervous, he disabled the lockscreen, expecting a message from Greg. Instead, it was a number he did not recognise.
With shaking hands he pressed Call back and waited, his beating heart almost louder than the free-line signal.

"Finally, John, I was almost scared she got her hands on you, as well."
"Irene?" John asked, not sure if he was happy or scared it was her.
"Yes, of course it's me, listen, we don't have much time. Cathy kidnapped Sherlock, and we both know it cannot end well.
There's this address you need to go to, it's 51 Ranelagh Grove. Get some back up, but don't rely on the police. You need to do this yourself. That's all I can tell you.
And John? Be careful."

With these words, she hung up and left John to decipher her message. He only knew one thing: this situation was not good at all.

Despite what Irene had said, John immediately called Greg and told him about an anonymous source and the address - he didn't want to discuss Adler with the DI now. Nothing good would come of it.
They immediately set out to secure the area and search for clues; John was once again told to stay home and well away from the investigation.
He let out a frustrated growl but decided to follow the orders - for now.
He suddenly felt so tired; he hadn't really slept for two days and his body demanded rest.
So he gave in, with the definite plan to investigate tomorrow.
But first, sleep.

When John woke up, it was still dark outside. He didn't feel rested, but after the nightmares he'd had, he hadn't expected to be okay.
All of that didn't matter now, though.
He had to get to that address Irene adler had told him, and fast. He didn't know what the police had found out yet, if they had found out anything, and Irene had sounded urgent. John didn't know what scared her so much about her sister, but he was also pretty sure he didn't want to find out.
Especially not with Sherlock as Cathy's playtoy.

He didn't check for matching clothes, just grabbed the first things he found, and splashed some water in his face.
He didn't look into the mirror - he was pretty sure he didn't want to see the rings below his eyes.

Mary had apparently not come back yet, John briefly wondered how they would proceed now.
He also remembered her threat as she left. Did she mean it? Or had she just said that to make him angry?
Unfortunately, both was possible. But he couldn't hide now. He had to go and find Sherlock, and if he had to put himself in danger, then he would.

In the cab to Ranelagh Grove, he kept repeating the fight they had had the previous day, searching for indications that she knew about Sherlock or Sophie. Was Mary connected to all of this? Should he had seen it coming? Could he have prevented it?

Yes, a voice in his head said, you shouldn't have fallen in love with Sherlock.
John flinched. Was that true? Was he in love with Sherlock? He had never thought about it like this, but his subconscious probably knew better than he did.
And of course, had he just paid enough attention to Mary, all of this wouldn't have happened.
If anything happened to Sherlock, it would be all his fault.

They arrived and John almost forgot to pay the cabbie, so impatient was he to get out of the car.
What he saw in the low light dawn brought upon the streets did not help him at all.
He stood in front of very similar houses, one next to each other. They were built from sand-coloured stones and had shabby white roofs on their third storeys, the windows all had white frames and were almost hidden by large ivy plants that threatened to overtake the walls. The only difference John could see from one to the next house was the colour of the front door: one was red, one was green, one was black. Other than that, he could not see anything of interest here, no clue on any criminal activities or anything else that might look different.
Had Irene told him a false address? Maybe she worked with her sister and wanted to lead them on a wrong track?
But why would she have helped Sherlock then before? And would she go after him instead of John?

Nothing of this seemed to make any sense; and John's sleep-deprived head started to hurt. He also noticed that his leg had started acting up again, but he had left his cane at home. He hadn't needed it for years now, and he refused going back to using it again.

So he limped to the house with the number 51, the last house in the row, not surprised when he found a to him unknown, very young police officer in the doorway, just hidden from sight if looked at from the corner.

"Sorry, no civilians allowed. It's a crime scene," he told John a little gleefully, apparently not recognising him either.
So John started improvising: "Sorry, I thought a friend of mine lived here… What crime?"
"I can't tell you, sir, I'm sorry," the young man flushed a little.
"Oh come on, I don't need details. Just a general heads up?"
John tried his best puppy look, and it seemed to work. The officer's brown eyes scanned his face doubtfully, then he said in a low voice: "There's supposed to be evidence for a kidnapping in there. The neighbourhood's safe, though."

That was enough for John to know. It meant Sherlock was not in the house.
However, there might be other evidence the police had overlooked…
He should definitely go in there. If there was anything he had learned from Sherlock, it was that the police were bloody morons.
Unfortunately, that included Lestrade as well, whom John had grown very fond of.

He bid the young police officer farewell and hoped they would not fire him later - after all, this wasn't his fault. This was just John being stubborn, but probably also right.

He made his way back to the corner where the cabbie had dropped him off, walking around the first house of Ranelagh Grove. If he peered over the wall, he could see that all the houses were connected by small gardens, which meant there had to be backdoors.
Ignoring his paining leg, he hoisted himself up until he was sitting on the wall, then he gently dropped on a stone on the other side. Careful not to trample any flowers or leave any footprints on soft soil, he tiptoed through five gardens before he finally reached the last one.
Luck was on his side: The backdoor opened with a soft click, but otherwise almost silently. John slipped through and immediately closed it behind him.

After his eyes had got accustomed to the sudden darkness, John found himself in a tiny hallway, packed full with closets and dressers. At the far end, he could make out the front door, the police officer's back was visible through the glass panels that decorated it.
If he turned around now…
John shook his head. He just had to work quickly, and the low light would hopefully protect him.
It also meant he didn't see that much, of course, but he would manage. For Sherlock.

One by one, John went to the furniture pieces and opened them, trying to feel what was in or on them, pointedly not thinking about the danger he put himself in by sticking his hands everywhere.

But he didn't find anything. No clue, no trap, only dust.
It was evident that this house either hadn't been inhabited for a long time or its residents couldn't care less about dirt.
Suppressing a sneeze, John hoped it was the first option.

He had just finished with the hallway and wanted to open one of three doors that led to different rooms when he heard the young officer's voice.
"Yes, sir, he was here. Asked what was going on. I don't think he just left, sir. Sorry, sir."
The sigh that followed this statement was one John was too familiar with.
So they had tricked him, he had to think quickly. The backdoor was no option, they would only see the light.
He didn't know what was behind the other doors and he did not want to risk anything right now.
That left the closets.

He went back to the one he remembered as the biggest, quickly slipped inside and pulled the door shut. His heart beat in his throat as he heard the front door open.
"John? We know you're here. If you come out now and leave the grounds, I promise there will be no punishment. Otherwise I will have to arrest you for obstructing police investigations. Please, John, just let us do our job," Greg Lestrade pleaded loud enough for the whole house to hear. Since everything stayed quiet, it probably meant the rest of the house was empty.
John, however, had no inclination to just give up now. Sherlock needed him and he would do his best to help him. If that meant playing cat and mouse with the police, so be it.
The thought that he wasted important time and resources didn't even cross his mind.

He shifted his weight to prevent his left foot from falling asleep - and suddenly the wall behind him moved. John almost fell, but he managed to regain his balance just in time. In the hallway, he could hear passing footsteps and occasionally his name being called, and he decided he should check out that hole in the wall before Greg started opening the closets.

Feeling carefully at the edges, he found steps that descended into even darker darkness, and before he could think about it twice, he crept down into the hidden basement.

He faintly heard the secret door close behind him and forced himself not to panic. If this had been a trap, he had gladly walked into it if it meant a chance to deal with Sherlock's kidnapper.
Step by step he moved down until he had lost all sense of height. He could be six feet below the ground or twenty, he wouldn't know. But suddenly his feet found flat ground, and as if on command, a soft light went on. John flinched and looked around but he was alone in the small stone cellar. There was nothing here except for the old, rusty lamp at the ceiling and the table if hung above. On the table, though, stood a box.
John knew he shouldn't open it, he shouldn't even get closer, in case it was a bomb or otherwise dangerous.
He really should call the police and let them investigate it…

His fingers touched the lid of the brown cardboard it was made of. It smelled dusty, matching the cool air that gave John the feeling no one had been here in decades.
Slowly, inch by inch, he lifted it - and almost dropped it again. Nothing happened.
He risked a closer look at the object in the box, setting aside the lid.
Out of the box came Sherlock's coat.
John whimpered.
It looked crumpled and dirty and, worst of all, the sleeves were cut off. Sherlock would never have allowed his beloved coat to be treated like this, but as they had feared, he didn't have much say in it.
John only hoed the cut off arms were not to be taken literally…

Carefully, he put the coat back in the cardboard box and picked it up with his hands inside of his sleeves. He might as well try to avoid more fingerprints, even though he guessed the object was completely clean.

Now was the question how he got out of the basement.
He very much hoped it had not been meant as a trap, but the the coat indicated a clue; Cathy probably wanted to play some sort of game with him.
Well, they had won against Moriarty, they could take on some Adler sister.

Even if it wasn't actually 'them', just 'he'. And it had been mostly Sherlock last time.
John suddenly felt very lonely and hopeless.

Before he could panic or break down, he climbed up the stairs again, only flinching slightly when the light went out behind him.
As he reached the last step, the door automatically opened itself and John found himself in the closet again.
Very convenient.

Everything was quiet, but John still waited a couple of minutes before making his escape through the back door. He walked to the next street in the other direction, not wanting to risk meeting the police after all, now with a very suspicious box in his arms.
But he did not relax until he was back at Mary's flat.
Things there were still untouched, but John didn't mind. He really didn't want to face Mary again, or even just the reminder that this issue still wasn't solved.
He really had enough on his mind right now.

He got his dusty fingerprint kit out of his wardrobe - he hadn't even used it once. He normally wouldn't even need one - Sherlock always did those parts of their investigations, John only listened and blogged - but they had agreed on him having a backup. If things got rough.
Well, things were rough now, and it wasn't too hard to use.

It only took John thirty minutes to discover he had wasted his time.
Cathy had been very careful.