24-2

It had been three hours since Moriarty had kidnapped John. Sherlock knew how long it had been down to the minute, because he couldn't help but become more and more frantic as time went by. He felt helpless and lost. His brain wasn't worked the way he intended it to, facts were coming out muddled, and his thoughts held no real correlation. Every second he wasted was a second away from catching Moriarty, a second away from seeing john alive again. He knew he couldn't trust that Moriarty wouldn't harm him, wouldn't torture him to death. He was that sort of man to take it a step too far, to go over the edge of a cliff and laugh while doing it.

After the first hour, Sherlock got an email. A young couple were on the news after mysterious toxins had leaked into their flat. The woman lay in the hospital in critical condition; however the man had previous health issues, and was found dead in the flat. Their deaths were being treated as suspicious, the deadly gas was unknown. The email was sent from an unknown source, signed off with '9. Love, M xx'. He had thrown his desk chair at the wall, leaving a considerable dint, before returning to his documents, even more determined. He expected Mrs Hudson to come up to ask what the loud bang was, but he heard no sound of her. He tried to return to the sheets of paper; sure his frantic attitude to the situation was clouding his judgement. He was trying to forget about John, trying to almost entirely erase Doctor Watson from his brain, but he worried himself, he knew that if he denied everything too much, he would forget why finding him was so important, why it meant so much to him. He pored over the documents again, determined to be calmer, to make his mind clearer. He was missing details, he was sure of it.

When the second hour passed, he received a text message.

Turn on the news. Love, M xx

He flicked on the TV, to see the breaking news story. Man shot dead in Leicester Square. Surrounded by thousands, out with his friends, yet nobody saw a thing. Police expect the killer was a trained marksman; they are appealing for information on the death. This time he threw nothing, instead he shouted and screamed, roared until his throat was so sore that no more noise could possible escape it. Mrs Hudson still didn't come up to see what all the noise was about. Perhaps she was out. Perhaps Moriarty had kidnapped her, even killed her. He didn't care at this stage, all he wanted was John. He went back to his board on the wall, trying to find a connection between all of the cases, looking at the dead ends, concentrating on every miniscule detail that he had collected from the previous cases he had linked to Moriarty. Something had to be wrong, something had to connect things. There was a detail he was missing, he was being stupid, acting careless, and crucial facts were getting away from him.

By the time the third hour passed Sherlock fell to his knees and wept. The alert came this time again by text, encouraging him to switch on the TV. A black cab had exploded on Regent Street. Ten people were in hospital, the cab driver was dead. Police weren't treating it as suspicious. He knew what they were really thinking; he could read it in their expressions. Three suspicious murders, three hours; terrorist attack, what else could it be. He almost laughed then, laughed at how clever Moriarty was being, he almost revelled in the man's genius until he was brought back down to earth and realised what was going on. It was then that he fell to his knees and wept. He knew he didn't have time for stupid sentimental emotions, but he was becoming frantic. His doctor was in the arms of a madman and he had no clue what to do, or where to find them. He sat there for fifteen minutes, all he would allow himself, and hugged his knees to his chest while fresh tears fell as if they would never stop. He had to give himself two minutes to compose himself and bring himself back into concentration mode. The episode had helped him slightly; he felt his mind was less blurred with potential grief and sadness. He stood up and composed himself quickly, wiping his face and smoothing down his shirt. He brought his laptop to his chair and began to research anything which might help provide a clue. Any odd occurrences, anything like that could be potentially helpful, and he had to try anything.

He knew he should be grieving for those who had been murdered; he knew it was a human thing to do. But as usual human traits had slipped by him and he felt no emotion for them. There was nothing he could have done to prevent their deaths, as he was sure there was no way he could solve this puzzle any quicker. Moriarty was taunting him terribly, trying to get him to crack, to break, but he resisted. Not that the urge wasn't intensifying by the second. He had to again black everything from his mind, he had to think in terms of John Doe again, but of course, it was still John, and he knew that it was still his John that could be lying somewhere half dead. He would carry on searching; he would scour every clue possible until something turned up. The past had to hold some sort of information, there was no other explanation. Sherlock would not let John die. He did not care for anybody else, and at this moment in time nothing else in the world concerned him, other than the intense need to ensure that John Watson was safe and alive.