'This is really getting out of hand now.' He thinks as Sherlock walks towards him with a new cut on his face.
"John," Sherlock greets him.
"Sherlock, let me guess. Door on your face again?"
"No actually."
He raises his brow. 'Hope he tells me the truth this time.'
"I fell and a nail hit my face. Cut up pretty bad. But I was able to fix it."
"And why don't I believe you?"
"How would I know? I'm not a mind-reader!"
"Sherlock, just tell me. Please, what's wrong?" he asks.
"Nothing," Sherlock shrugs.
"Sherlock, please."
"John, your unnecessary begging won't get you anywhere."
"Sherlock, I beg you. Tell me what's wrong."
"There's nothing wrong with me, Watson."
'Oh. So I'm Watson now? Something's definitely off.'
"Why won't you tell me?"
"Because I have nothing to tell! Unlike you, I'm fine. I'm just clumsy! But not as clumsy as your father. I don't need your endless questions. I don't need to talk about emotions because nothing is making it move or work. My emotions are done and there's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock's talking rapidly. "Do you want me to prove it? No. Of course not. You'll probably get angry because I'm so smart and you can't keep up. Is that how your life works? Because that would be a terrible way of living. Adding up to a drunk sister and a drunk father. Clearly your mother has been too busy and now you have to handle the drunks, right? Oh what a night! And you even got the girl, Mary's number! You expecting to shag her, Watson? Because that's all you, ordinary people, do right? Brainless, endless questions, relationships, sleep with her, sleep with him, eat, sleep, be normal, boring, dull. Well I'm not like that. There's nothing wrong with me as you can see I can deduce right now which means that I am not defective. I am functioning pretty well so just. leave. it."
"That's it."
He turns around and starts to walk away.
"And where are you going?"
"Leaving."
"Why?"
"I need some air."
"You already have some air!"
"Air that doesn't have you contaminating it."
"What do you mean, 'contaminate'? I don't have a disease!"
"You're a disease, Sherlock. One I want to avoid."
"What? You're avoiding me? For what?"
"For not talking."
"Why would you want me to talk?"
He stops and looks at him. "You know what? I'll just leave you alone since you don't even care and you won't even tell me what's bugging you from the start. Don't you trust me?" Sherlock opens his mouth but John cuts him off. "You probably don't. All you care about is yourself. Well, then that's good, right? Is that good? Should I leave you with your heartless lonely self now? Because I'm offering you my friendship but you won't give me yours. You insult me in many ways and you have been basically making my girlfriends scream away when you talk to them. You laugh at my family but we're happy! It's none of your business if they drink! Maybe you are as weird as people say you are. Like the freak everyone thinks you are. Because I trust you enough to endanger my life because of your 'massive intellect' and I suppose I shouldn't have a problem with that right? But no. You don't trust me. Well then. Goodbye, Sherlock."
He turns around and walks away. He doesn't hear anything behind him. He must have shut him up. He doesn't even remember half of what he said. It all just came out of his mouth. He's just so furious. But he doesn't know why.
As he walks, he dares to look back. He doesn't see him much because he's already far away but he can see the coat. The unmoving coat. There's Sherlock. Standing on the pavement where John left him. He looks like he's very still. Unmoving. John could mistake him with a statue. But he's angry so much he turns back around and keeps walking. He doesn't see Sherlock walk the opposite direction and heading to an alley.
He screwed up. He panicked. John's gone. He wants to go back to his wife: cocaine.
Sherlock hasn't called him in two weeks. His phone won't let him call. It always goes on either voicemail or it cannot be reached. 'What's wrong, Sherlock?'
His father found the mahogany box where he keeps his drugs.
Hit. Hit. Slap. Punch. Kick. Throw. Punch. Slap. Boot. Shoved. Pulled. Slapped. Hands on his collar. Pulls him by the neck. Can't breathe.
His mother comes in. His father removes his grip.
"What's he done this time?" Violet Holmes asks.
"This," Siger holds up the box to Violet and Mrs. Holmes gasps in horror. She sees red and nods once to Siger.
Then it continues.
Did he say something completely out of line? No it's impossible. Sherlock doesn't feel. But what if he does? Should he tell him he's sorry?
He hasn't eaten in three days. Locked in his bedroom. Oh look! They gave him dog's food.
He texts Sherlock.
'Look Sherlock. I'm sorry about what I said.
Call me back as soon as you see this text. JW'
He never called back.
He'd rather die.
'Where's Sherlock?'
He runs to his window and manages to get down after spending an awful time tying things together - thank goodness for bed sheets. He runs away from his house and goes to the alley and finds a place to sleep.
Hopefully, Bill Wiggins is there. Bill is a loyal part of his Homeless Network. Helps him in finding things out. The Homeless are good spies. Will do anything for food.
He manages to get a place under a bridge. 'Better than the manor.'
He's walking quietly and the phone in the phonebox rings. It's been happening to him since this morning.
He takes the phone, "Hello."
"There's a camera on the building to your right."
"Who's this?"
"Do you see the camera, Mister Watson?"
"Yes, I do."
"Watch." The camera turns.
"How are you doing that?"
"There's another camera on the building on the lamp post to your left, d'you see it?" He hums. The camera turns as well. "And now the camera on the building opposite you," it turns.
"Who are you?"
"Get in the car, John Watson." And a car drives in front of him and a man opens the door for him.
It's cold. Withdrawal is a bitch so he'd rather not go in there. He shoots up.
He enters a very posh building. And is told to go an office. That's when he sees a man in his twenties standing by the fireplace.
"Have a sit, John."
"No," the man looks at him. "Who are you and what do you want?"
The man laughs, "The bravery of the will-be soldier. Though bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity. I insist, sit."
"Who. Are. You?"
"Do you know a sixteen-year named Sherlock Holmes?"
"Depends."
"I want you to tell me where he is."
"Why?"
"Because I'm interested on his whereabouts."
"Interested in Sherlock's? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."
The man laughs, "You've met him. How many friends do you think he has?"
"One."
The man narrows his eyes at him. "You're very loyal."
"Will you just hurry up? I'm late for dinner with my family."
The man tilts his head at him. "Just tell me where he is. Now."
"Why? Why would I do that?"
"I worry about him. Constantly."
"Right."
He starts to stand up. "Stop and sit down." John crosses his arms. He looks at the man. He isn't smug anymore. He seems business-like. He meant business. He sits down. "Has he ever called you?"
"I want a deal."
The man leans back on his chair. "A deal?"
"You tell me who you really are, and I'll stick with not talking at all."
The man raises his brow. "He's been missing," he tells him instead.
"Who's been missing?"
"Sherlock."
"What?" John's full attention goes to the man.
"I have been on the job to take an eye on him. Cameras outside of his house, his school. Although he manages to hide from my cameras, he cannot simply vanish out of thin air. I manage to track him down before with his mobile phone but his phone is abandoned somewhere on the streets, dead. We cannot find him and we were hoping you'd know his whereabouts."
"Why do you need to find him?"
"Because I have to."
"Why?"
"He's been gone for three weeks. No phone calls. No traces. Completely disappeared. We need your help."
"Then tell me who you are and tell me why you need my help to find him."
"My brother and I have such a difficult relationship and you seem to gain his trust and therefore you could be informed of his whereabouts. I have seen the new found happiness in his eyes, now where is he? Did he leave? Where is Sherlock Holmes? Have you seen him?"
He's blank. 'So this is the infamous Mycroft.' He thought Sherlock has been exaggerating when he said his brother is a stalker.
He clears his throat to answer. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I don't know where he is. He hasn't called back."
"Would you know why he would leave so suddenly?" The two becomes silent as they both think of reasons.
He can't think. He doesn't know what's wrong.