Short update but quite sweet. :) And John does a bit of cussing. (So, what's new?)

Chapter Forty-Four

John Watson was having a very vivid dream. It involved a full English breakfast and a large mug of coffee and was so real that, even after he opened his eyes, he could still smell food cooking. He turned his head to look at his alarm clock and very nearly had a cardiac arrest. It was seven a.m. and he had overslept. He leapt out of bed, cursing himself for forgetting to set his alarm the night before, and shot straight to the en suite to relieve himself. As he hurriedly washed his hands, he studied his chin in the bathroom mirror, wondering if he could get away with not shaving this morning. And that was when he realised, he could still smell the distinctive aroma of brewing coffee and frying food. And he could also hear the low buzz of conversation coming from downstairs.

Grabbing his dressing gown from the back of the bathroom door, he went out onto the landing, glanced into Rosie's room and saw that she was not in her cot, and made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen…where he found Rosie sitting in her highchair, tucking into something he didn't actually recognise, and Sherlock, in his shirtsleeves with one of Mary's frilly aprons over the top, standing at the oven, cooking something in the frying pan and providing Rosie with a running commentary on the process,

'…then one gently oscillates the pan to ensure the item is moving freely and not adhering to the base and...' he paused for dramatic effect and Rosie ceased chewing and waited with bated breath for the what she knew was to come. Then he deftly tossed the item in the air, where it flipped over onto its other side, and caught it in the pan again, to a rousing cheer from his appreciative audience '…then repeat the process for the second side,' he concluded.

As John entered the room, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder.

'Oh, Daddy's here,' he announced. 'Good morning, John.'

'What's all this?' John queried, looking around to take in the whole scene of the breakfast bar laid for two, coffee in the cafetiere and Rosie, fully dressed for the day ahead but wearing her cover-alls, to protect from food spillages.

Sherlock did a full visual sweep, too, following John's gaze, and replied,

'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think this is called 'breakfast'. Sit down. Yours is nearly ready.'

John pulled out a stool and sat at the breakfast bar just as Sherlock slipped whatever it was from the frying pan onto a warm plate and placed it down in front of him, with a flourish. It looked and smelled delicious but John simply stared at it.

'Come on, eat up before it gets cold,' Sherlock prompted.

'What is it?' John asked.

'Oh, good lord, John! Don't tell me you've never had Eggy Bread before?' Sherlock exclaimed. 'How is this possible? Your daddy is seriously deprived, Rosamund. Try it with maple syrup, it's delicious.'

'We don't have any maple syrup,' said John, at which Sherlock picked up a bottle of maple syrup from the other side of the breakfast bar and placed it in front of his friend.

'Where did you find that?' John asked, clearly in an advanced state of confusion.

'I found it in the corner shop, this morning, when I went to get the eggs, since you didn't have enough for all three of us. Mr Patel was most helpful and directed me straight to it.'

'What? So, you've been shopping, got Rosie up and dressed and cooked breakfast, all before seven o'clock, this morning?' John marvelled.

Sherlock pursed his lips, wondering why this was deemed to be so remarkable. However, if an explanation was required…

'I woke up just before six and went upstairs to use the bathroom. When I came out, Rosie was standing up in her cot. I asked if she wanted breakfast and she did so I brought her downstairs but, when I looked in the cupboard, you only had two eggs so we got dressed and went to the shop. Then we came back and I cooked breakfast.'

He waited for a comeback but John merely shrugged, poured a liberal amount of maple syrup over his Eggy Bread and – finally – took a mouthful. It was as delicious as it looked and smelled.

'Mmmmmmm!' he hummed, appreciatively. 'And when did you learn how to cook?'

'Between school and university. Mummy sent me on a cookery course during the summer break. She did the same for Mycroft, too. She was afraid we might starve, otherwise. But that's not where I learned to make Eggy Bread. That was at university, itself. I practically lived on it. But actually, John, assuming one can read, anyone can follow a recipe.'

'So, how come I had to do all the cooking when we were flat-sharing?'

'I don't know. You just did. I suspect you assumed I couldn't cook.'

John had to concede that was, indeed, the case.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had finished preparing his own Eggy Bread and taken his place at the breakfast bar, pushing down the plunger on the cafetiere and pouring two mugs of coffee before passing one to John.

'How is it?' he asked.

'Bloody lovely!' John exclaimed.

'Buddy yuv-yee!' chortled Rosie, earning John a severe frown from Sherlock.

'What have I said about 'Children present'? he censured. 'You know she's copying everything she hears, at the moment.'

John looked suitably chagrined.

'Sorry, Rosie,' he said. 'I'll try to remember.'

'I should think so,' Sherlock huffed. 'How's your Eggy Bread, Rosie?' he enquired, turning his attention back to his god-daughter.

'Yuv-yee!' she replied, with a big, cheesy grin, then added, 'Fan-too!'

'You're most welcome,' he replied.

Breakfast over, John left Rosie in Sherlock's capable hands while he showered, shaved and dressed for work. When he came back down the stairs, the breakfast dishes were loaded into the dishwasher, Rosie was playing happily on the rug and Sherlock was seated on the sofa, staring at his phone.

'Got a text?' John asked.

'Yes. A few,' Sherlock replied, distractedly, 'but I was wondering how one might locate the geographical origin of a call or text.'

'The police can do that,' John replied. 'They can establish which mobile phone towers a call or text pinged off and triangulate, to pinpoint the origin.'

Sherlock was impressed.

'John, you are amazing!' he exclaimed.

John shrugged. What was really amazing were the strange gaps in his genius friend's general knowledge. He would never get his head around that. But it was twenty minutes to eight and time to depart. He would drop Rosie at the child-minder's on the way and arrive at work by eight o'clock.

'What are you going to do today?' he asked Sherlock.

'I'm going to pay Lestrade a visit and see if I can persuade him to trace some texts and calls for me, so I can establish where I was when I sent them,' he replied.

ooOoo

As John and Rosie were leaving imminently, Sherlock begged a lift to Brockley Rail Station, which was on John's route to the child minder, and from there took the overground to Canada Water and then the Jubilee Line to Baker Street, arriving home just in time to meet Mrs Hudson on her way out.

'Hello, dear. I'm just off to the shops. Can I get you anything?'

'Some ginger nuts, perhaps?' he replied. 'Oh, and a pint of milk, if you wouldn't mind?'

Mrs H toddled off to the local shops and Sherlock took himself upstairs to his flat to take a shower and get changed, since wearing a two-day shirt and underwear was really not his thing. He emerged from the bedroom, suited and booted, to find a packet of ginger nuts on his newly acquired kitchen table. He smiled to himself at the associations that table now held, as he put on the kettle to make himself a mug of tea then took out his phone to call Lestrade.

'Hello. stranger,' Lestrade greeted him, laconically, but Sherlock brushed the inference aside and got straight to the point.

'I need some assistance in locating a missing person.'

'I see,' Lestrade replied. 'And how long has this person been missing?'

'Two days.'

'Do they have any previous history of going missing?'

'No.'

'Is there any reason why this person might want to be missing?'

'No, none.'

'And has this person been reported missing to the police?'

'Yes. I just reported them. To you.'

'Ah, that's not quite what I meant. They really should be reported to their local police and not to the Serious Crime squad. We're a bit too busy with other things to be looking for a missing person.'

'Lestrade, the person doesn't need looking for. We know where they are now, we just don't know where they were for those two days.'

'Have you tried asking them?'

'They don't know. They can't remember.'

'But if they're home, safe, does it really matter where they were?'

'Yes, it does.'

'Why?'

'It just does.'

Lestrade sighed.

'Sherlock, if you expect me to allocate precious resources to this, you're going to have to give me a bit more information.'

Sherlock sighed, too. He really didn't want to divulge the true facts but he knew he was going to have to.

'Last week,' he explained, reluctantly, 'I had a two-day blackout. I have no memory of Wednesday or Thursday but, during that time, I sent texts and emails from my phone. I would really appreciate it if you would trace the location – or locations – of my phone when those communications were sent.'

There was a protracted silence on the other end of the call, then,

'Sherlock, are you back on the spice?'

'Absolutely not. And I'll provide any samples you choose to prove it – urine, hair, nails, whatever.'

Another protracted silence followed but, at last, Lestrade capitulated.

'Come to the office. I'll see what we can do.'

When Sherlock arrived at the DI's office, he was greeted by a rather sceptical Greg Lestrade.

'So, what's this all about, really?' he asked.

'I told you,' Sherlock insisted. 'This isn't a trick or a game. It's the truth. I've lost two days. I need to get them back – or to try, at least.'

Sherlock in person, articulating with such sincerity, was enough to convince Lestrade.

'Ok, give me your phone.

ooOoo

Molly's second consecutive night shift was done, at last. It had run over by an hour because an urgent post mortem was required – yes, it did happen from time to time – and she had delivered. But now she was on her way home, yearning for her bed. First, however, she needed to check on Sherlock, make sure he was OK. She dialled his mobile number but it went straight to Voice Mail. Perhaps he was on another call, or maybe on the Underground and there was no signal. She didn't bother to leave a voice mail but texted a message, instead:

Hope you're OK. Call me when you get this. And she added a little heart emoji.

She caught the bus and travelled home. Too tired to bother with breakfast, she brushed her teeth, cleansed and moisturised her face and changed into her nightwear. Still no text or call from Sherlock. She drew the curtains in her bedroom and got into bed. Still nothing. She snuggled down under the duvet and slipped the phone under her pillow so it would wake her when it rang or pinged. Then she closed her eyes and was almost immediately asleep.

When Molly awoke, she opened her eyes and rolled over to look at her bedside clock. It was six hours later. She must have slept through his ping. She slid her hand under the pillow and pulled out her phone but was disappointed to see that there was still no response to either her call or text. She tried calling again…and, once again, it went to Voice Mail. This was too much of a coincidence.

Molly sat up in bed and dialled John's number. She knew he would be at work but this was an emergency so she had no qualms about disturbing him. The phone rang several times but, eventually, John picked up.

'Hey, Molls,' he greeted.

'Sorry to bother you at work,' she began.

'No problem, I'm just catching up on some paperwork between patients. What can I do for you?'

'Do you know where Sherlock is? He's not answering his phone.'

'Oh,' John replied, 'when I dropped him at the station this morning, he was going to see Greg Lestrade…'

Oh shit! he thought. He'd gone to see Greg about tracking his phone and he didn't want Molly to know about that. Shit!

'Oh, has he got a case?' Molly asked.

'Er, yeah…yes, that's right. He has a case,' John declared, exhaling his relief.

'That's typical of him,' Molly huffed. 'He thinks work is the answer to everything. He got straight back to work after Mary died, even though he was heartbroken…oh, sorry!' she gasped, remembering who she was talking to.

'It's OK to talk about Mary, Molls. And I know Sherlock was heartbroken when she died, so no need to apologise.'

'Yes, OK, sorry,' she replied and then, 'Oh! Sorry for saying 'sorry'…Oh dear!'

John laughed at Molly's dilemma. She was a perennial apologist! And she laughed, too, then said,

'Well, if he's working, he's probably too distracted to check his phone so I'll just leave another message and try not to worry.'

'He seemed fine this morning. He even made breakfast. And went shopping. And dressed Rosie!'

Yes, that sounded like Sherlock. He wasn't very good at saying 'thank you' but he often showed gratitude in other, small ways.

'OK, thanks, John. I'll let you get back to work.'

'No problem. You still OK for next Wednesday…Oh, that reminds me, Sherlock knows about my date.'

'Oh, did you decide to tell him, after all?'

'Not a chance! No, he deduced it, of course.'

Molly laughed. One couldn't keep a secret from Sherlock for very long.

'Was he OK with it?' She knew he would be.

'Yes, totally. Said he was glad. Said it didn't suit me being alone.'

'He knows you too well.'

'Apparently so.'

'OK, well, yes, I'm still good for next Wednesday. Looking forward to it.'

Molly broke off the call and, huffing a disgruntled sigh, she climbed out of bed and went to use the bathroom then made her way downstairs to the kitchen to get something to eat.

She was so disappointed that Sherlock was on a case. Now their relationship had progressed to a whole different level, she felt a compelling need to be with him as much as possible. She knew the sense of urgency would mellow over time and they would relax into a steady companionship but right now it was all so new and fresh and desperate. And, to make matters worse, she had a run of night duties - the very week she could have really done to be on days! She was working while he was sleeping and vice versa. They were completely out of synch. She was feeling his absence like a pain in the gut and she needed him to know that. Taking up her phone again, she typed:

Missing you so much right now. Counting the seconds until we are together again. Love you more than life itself. Can't wait to hold you, taste you, feel your hands upon me.

And she pressed send.

ooOoo