John woke up in a dreary haze. He couldn't believe that he had spent twenty out of the last twenty-four hours sleeping.

Making up for all those weeks of lost sleep.

John patted his chest and was concerned when he didn't find Sherlock's hand. He turned abruptly to see Sherlock was missing. He searched the sheets.

What am I doing? He's not a cat.

John looked over the edge to see if he rolled out of bed.

Maybe he's just in the loo.

There was a knock at the door. Three taps. Polite yet urgent.

Since when does Sherlock knock?

John got out of bed and walked cautiously towards the door. He took in a deep breath and opened it.

"Mycroft what-" Mycroft pushed his way through.

"Where is he? And don't play dumb." He threatened as he searched the room.

"I-"

"How could you? How dare you!" Mycroft shouted.

"I didn't invite him out here!" John said defensively.

"You should have called me the moment he got here." Mycroft pursed his lips. "It isn't safe here John."

"Why? Why isn't it safe? You keep saying it isn't safe!"

"Moran has escaped and four top international assassins have relocated within spitting distance of 221B. Now, is there anything you care to share with me?"

"I'm moving?" John laughed nervously. Mycroft gave John a look of detest.

"It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?"

"Moriarty?" John asked with a gulp.

"He promised Sherlock he'd come back. We both know what's coming, John. Moriarty is obsessed." Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground. "Now, is there anything you would like to share?"

"H-He said you were off to Moscow… nine days. That he'd need your spare key. He didn't tell me his plan."

"And do you have your key?"

John searched his pockets. He looked back to the side-table. "No, he must have taken it."

Mycroft looked at John sorrowfully. He ran his hand over his face, obviously looking for the words to say. "I had better go check."

"I'll go with you." John turned to grab his trainers.

"No. No." Mycroft let out a sigh. "You've done quite enough." Mycroft brought two fingers to his temple.

"I'm sorry." John looked at the floor. A deafening silence fell upon the room. John shifted uncomfortably. "I am so sorry. He came back for me."

I lured him back.

"I just want to know… You knew about the night club, you knew from the beginning. You had to have been watching me. I knew this early on yet it never crossed my mind that you would continue your surveillance once we started..." John paused. "I just want to know… what you know."

"John, now isn't the time." Mycroft said with a sigh.

"Please… I have to know." John pleaded.

Mycroft took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "You've been intimate on four occasions. Once before Gregory Lestrade, once during, once when we were pretending, and once when we were not." Mycroft let out a sigh through his nose. John's blood ran cold.

"Is that why you sent Sherlock away?" John asked fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

"I knew he would be safe in Oxfordshire." Mycroft said plainly.

"Is it true? What he says… about this whole thing being just an act?"

Mycroft looked John straight in the eye. "You tell me." Mycroft's phone chimed. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled it out. He gave the phone a quick glance and put it back. Mycroft grabbed his umbrella around the middle and opened the door.

He left John alone with his thoughts.

Sherlock is OK. He has to be OK. Mycroft would tell me if he wasn't. I should have told him. Why didn't I tell him?

John rushed to open the door. He looked down the stairwell and Mycroft was gone. He clung on to the banister with such force his knuckles turned white.

How could I be so foolish?

John took in a breath.

Maybe he's fine. Yes… he's fine… He's at the high-rise, likely got caught breaking in. They're holding him there. Everything is fine.

John tried to ease his mind with comforting thoughts.

Have a cuppa, calm your nerves. I believe in Mycroft… He only has power because people believe he has power… damnit Sherlock.

John walked uneasily down the stairs. He was weak at the knees and his stomach felt like it was in knots. He knew he was close to a panic attack and needed to calm himself down. He opened the door to the sitting room.

His attention was immediately drawn to Sherlock's violin.

Why would he set his violin on my chair?

On the side table next to the chair was a tea tray. John walked closer and examined the set up.

He used the fine china… and loose leaf tea… why would he make a whole pot of tea for himself?

In the middle of the tea tray was a solitary cup, half empty. John looked towards Sherlock's chair. His face dropped and he turned ghost white. He walked over to Sherlock's chair and reached out to see if what he was seeing was real.

His fingers ran across the waxy surface to the exposed browning flesh of the bright red apple.

"I owe you." John felt a tightening in his chest. He stood frozen for what felt like an eternity. Embedded in the centre of the apple was the instrument used to carve the letters. John picked up the apple and turned it to pull out the object lodged inside. He gave it a good tug, placed the apple back on the seat cushion, and held the small object in the palm of his hand.

He stared at it, not wanting to believe any of it.

Mycroft's key.

John darted out of the room with the key clutched in his hand. He ran up the stairs to his room and flung open the door. He went straight for his mobile. His hands shook as he pulled up Mycroft's contact information. He pressed call and prayed.

Please answer, please answer.

John ran his thumb over the key, his eyes started to well with tears. The call went straight to voice-mail. John groaned in agony. He pressed end and composed a text in hope that Mycroft was still reachable.

Turn back, it's a trap.

John threw the phone and key on his bed and ran his hands through his hair. He began pacing the floor nervously.

Greg.

John reached for his phone and searched his contacts.

"Shit!" He screamed.

Mycroft transferred all but Greg's number. Fuck!

John picked up his phone once more and stared at it. His mind flashed to a poster he'd seen on the tube. 101.

Oh please patch me over to the Met.

John prayed as he dialled. The automated voice system informed him he was being sent through to the Metropolitan Police and John shouted "Yes!" A woman's voice answered and John cut her off immediately. "I need to speak with Detective Constable Lestrade, it's an emergency."

"Sir, this line is reserved for non-emergencies." She snapped.

"I need to get a hold of TDC Lestrade." John tried to keep his voice down. "Please… it's important." There was silence on the other end.

John's heart jumped out of his chest as he heard Greg's voice "Hello?"

"Oh thank God, Greg."

"John! What are you doing calling me at work?" Greg asked slightly annoyed.

"Sherlock's missing."

"Not our division. You'll be wanting missing persons."

"For fuck's sake Greg!" John shouted.

"Call 999. File a report."

"It hasn't been twenty-four hours!"

"Doesn't have to be, you can call em the moment you think a persons gone missing. Now come on John, I've got work."

"It's Moran Greg." The phone went silent. "Greg?"

"I'll be over. Give me time."

"We haven't got time! He's there now. Mycroft as well… by God… I've sent them both to their deaths. It's all my fault."

"What are you going on about?"

"Moriarty has them both. He's kidnapped Sherlock and Mycroft went looking for him and I don't know what to do! I'm freaking out! This is madness! How could I let him out of my sight for two seconds with that madman on the loose? By God Greg, what do I do?"

"Hold tight, I'll be there, fast as I can." The phone went dead and John whimpered. He bounced up and down on his feet. He couldn't hold tight for ten seconds let alone ten minutes.

John ran down stairs once more and started searching the flat for additional clues.

Moriarty was obviously here, but where has he taken him? They had to have intercepted Mycroft at the high-rise. Or before… or after… Fuck! I'm not bloody Sherlock Holmes, I can't do this!

John scanned the room from floor to ceiling.

Not a speck of dust out of place.

John turned and walked through the kitchen. He entered Sherlock's room to find it untouched. The bed was made with military precision with hospital corners.

Sherlock didn't make this bed.

John stripped the covers to find a book. He stared at it in disbelief.

The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

He reached out and grabbed the book. When he lifted the book a coin fell out of its pages. John picked up the brass coin and flipped it over several times, examining it.

What does a quid have to do with Shakespeare?