John simply sat there, dumbfounded by this complete turnabout of events.
What the hell could anyone possibly have said that would have Sherlock so upset?
We are a go for Thursday on this side. Looking forward to it.
-GL
He rolled his eyes at the message and huffed, hauling himself off of the floor before pounding his fist against Sherlock's door.
"Sherlock. It isn't what you think. Lestrade and I were just going to the pub for a chat."
No response.
"Look,I know how that looked, but bloody hell do you honestly think that I would cheat on you? Especially with Lestrade of all people. I mean I love YOU you git. Only you."
No sound of movement of any kind.
"Sherlock?"
The doctor twisted the door knob, a knot of dread forming in his stomach.
Even though it had been mere moments, Sherlock would most likely have found a way to endanger himself somehow.
Sure enough, he entered a room completely devoid of the lanky detective.
"Oh fucking hell."
John zipped his jeans up and pulled his shirt around him, noticing with a gran that half of the buttons were gone.
Ah hell.
He cast the shirt aside and leaned out the window, feebly hoping that the detective may still be in sight.
With no sign of him prowling around the afternoon streets of London, he slammed the window shut.
Think.
Where would Sherlock go if he was extremely pissed off and hurt?
Home.
Here.
No good.
Who would he talk to if he need to figure something out?
Him.
Shit.
John ran is fingers, through his hair, frustrated.
"Come on Watson, think."
He pulled open the drawers of Sherlock's dresser, scanning them for any sort of clue to the detective's were about.
Aside from an alarming number of vintage T-shirts - one of which the doctor slipped into, for convenience of course- there was nothing.
His desk?
Nothing.
The Bathroom?
Nope.
Closet?
Nothing.
He was completely gone.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. And John seriously considered throwing it at the wall.
Instead, he glared at it.
Another message, this one from Sarah, at the clinic.
Doctor Vora has left early. Need you to come in. Just until 6.
-SS
John ran his hand over his face and marched to the living room, any thoughts of what had happened previously gone from his head.
He sent one text to Sarah
On my way.
-J
And one to his detective.
You're an idiot. I have to go to the clinic. Please don't do anything stupid.
-J
He picked his crumpled jumper and jacket from the floor, untangling them and slipping them on, opening the door and heading down the stairs.
As soon as the door slammed, Sherlock crawled out of his place from underneath the bed, shaking slightly as he flopped onto his bed.
He was furious, not with John or Lestrade, but with himself.
He had jumped to conclusions, and now John was gone.
How is he going to fix this one.
Think.
His phone buzzed on the side table, and he glanced at it.
You're an idiot. I have to go to the clinic. Please don't do anything stupid.
-J
Sherlock flopped back on the bed, willing himself to seep through it into oblivion.
He needed to get out, clear his head.
He needed to fix things with John.
He needed a cigarette.
That meant leaving the flat.
One sweeping glance around the room, and his gaze came to rest on John's shirt.
One crumpled wad of fabric with missing buttons and the sort of comfortingly normal warmth that could only belong to his blogger.
Sherlock shot off a series of quickfire texts, while scrambling into some clothes.
Not wishing to deal with buttons or hooks, he simply pulled himself into an old pair of jeans.
Bent on simply wearing a T, he pawed through the drawer, immediately noticing that one was missing.
One of his favorites.
And the only place that it could be would be on one John Watson.
An idea blindsided Sherlock, the brilliance of it making hims smile.
This would work.
He was sure of it.
After all, wasn't turnabout fair play?
John had managed not to draw too much attention as he made his way to his office, though many wayward glanced seemed to settle on his neck.
Not a word was said, that is, until Sarah caught sight of him.
"What happened to you then?" You get a few days off and lose a fight with an octopus?"
The laughter rang through her voice, and John rolled his eyes tiredly.
"It's been a hell of a ride, Let me say that.
He picked up the chart that was currently sitting on the counter and flipped through it.
Mary Morstan: Female
Age: 31
Weight: 126lbs
Ailment: Mandatory followup on punch biopsy.
"You have that one, two colds, one concussion followup, and two dressing changes."
John nodded, grabbing the stack of charts and making to moce to the exam room, when Sarah's laughter stopped him.
"What?"
She shook her head, grinning at him.
"I just won fifty quid."
John raised an eyebrow, curious, and turned. He made it to the exam room door before-
"Congratulations on making it official John. Glad to see you two finally hooked up."
For a split second, he debated between denying it or coming back with some witty retort, bit decided against it.
He simply waked quickly into the room, shrugging out of his jacket and jumper, and into his lab coat.
Once he had everything settled, he called for the patient.
Now, John Watson had survived many things:
High School.
University.
Medical school.
Afghanistan.
Sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes.
Getting romantically involved with said flatmate.
Your elderly landlady finding out about said relationship.
Followed by Mycroft Holmes attempting to get him to get engaged to his flatmate/lover.
Having to reveal his relationship to a woman who was infatuated with Sherlock.
A random woman on the street seeing a very provocative message from Sherlock, before handing him back his phone.
Lube Shopping with Detective Inspector Lestrade.
The "First fight" with Sherlock over a text from the DI.
The past 8 items on this list of events having occurred in the past 24 hours.
Now he was sitting in his chair, staring, open-mouthed, at the very same woman who had picked u his phone earlier.
The universe fucking sucked.
"Mary Morstan ?"
He croaked, his voice catching.
The woman looked at him, her eyes wide and cheeks red.
"YOU are Doctor Watson."
She pointed an accusatory finger at him.
He tugged at his collar, regretting it as he saw her eyes glue to the purple bruising there.
"Yes, yes. Take a seat."
He gestured to the exam table, where the woman managed to place herself, despite her eyes ever leaving the doctor.
"So, we are doing a follow up on a mole removal, right?"
She nodded, holding out her arms to show the small circular wound.
John stood, examining the wound for any sins of infection.
Satisfied,he leaned back against the counter and flipped open her chart.
"Alright. So your wound looks great. it's heal wonderfully, and your chart here says that your tests came back negative. No signs of melanoma."
The woman let out a sigh and seemed to relax.
"That's good. Great really."
John smiled at her.
"Yes, now do you have any questions about anything?"
His phone buzzed in his pocket, he quickly silenced it.
"Medically, no."
The doctor's throat tightened.
"And otherwise?"
The woman's blush returned, and she coughed slightly, looking away.
"Are you really Doctor John Watson? Like the one with the blog?"
It was Johns turn to blush.
"Yes, actually, you've read my blog?"
She nodded, and then stood.
"Alright then. Thank you Doctor Watson."
She was gone.
John blinked.
Once.
Twice.
the buzzing resumed in his pocket, a reminder of the texts he had ignored.
They were from Sherlock.
He quickly flipped to them, praying that the detective was alright.
On a case
-SH
Don't bother waiting up.
-SH
Won't be back for a while
-SH
John groaned, glancing at his watch.
Three hours left to work, and then back to an empty flat.
He sent a message to Lestrade.
Mind going out for that drink tonight?
-J
There was barely a pause before he got a response.
Sure. Tel me all about it tonight. Same place. Say 7?"
-GL
John smiled.
Sure. That obvious?"
-J
It was clear that the DI knew the Sherlock had something to do with the sudden change in plans.
Yea. But you still have to love him.
-GL
The doctor had to agree.