A/N: Hya folks! Long time no see. Terribly sorry about my updating, but lately I've been concentrating like mad on working to get ready for my GED math test which is on the 21st. Math unfortunately for me, is my worst subject. I'm really happy that you guys are sticking with the story, the reviews have been great and they still are.

Little info for Goodfairy: Grits is, I think, is sorta like porridge, I'm not sure :X


Here be the story...


8:40 A.M.

221b Baker St.

Sherlock was out of the flat before Mrs. Hudson could even open her mouth. Shrugging into his coat, Sherlock flung out an arm for a taxi. Cars clogged the street, honking madly, and he had to walk a block before he finally caught a cab.

"St. Bart's." Sherlock ordered briskly.

The ride was long, what should have been a thirty minute drive turned into an hour long. Sherlock tapped his fingers against the door handle, and he finally snapped. He had the cabbie drop him off though they were still a couple blocks away. Sherlock walked as fast as he could in the crowd of shoppers. St. Bart's loomed up in front of him and he could orange and red flames billow up from the gaping hole. Fire crews desperately tried to keep in control. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off nearly the entire main parking lot. Sherlock ducked underneath said tape and scanned the crowd of police officers, E.M.T.'s, and evacuees for Lestrade.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock found him surrounded by a group of co-workers, shouting orders. They quickly dispersed and Lestrade turned wearily to Sherlock.

"Where's John?" Sherlock had to shout to be heard over the din.

Lestrade's eye's widened and the weariness vanished from his face, "He's here?"

Sherlock bristled, "He had a shift today, where is he?"

Lestrade shook his head, "I haven't seen him, Sherlock, in fact, I don't think anybody has."

Before Sherlock could retort back, a commotion broke out by a nearby ambulance.

"Sir, please! You really should sit down!" A medic said, she insistently pulled the arm of a large, white-coated, barrel-chested man who had blood flowing into his left eye. He jerked his arm from the medic's grip and shouted, "Let me be, dammit! There are others worse than me! I don't need stitches! Just butterfly it!"

"But Sir!"

"No buts! Butterfly it!" The man finally sat down and the medic quickly got to work cleaning off the worst of the blood. "Ouch! Watch it!"

"Sorry, sir," The medic sprayed disinfectant on the ugly gash and placed a butterfly strip over it. "Really sir, you should get that stitched."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Dr. Moffat I presume?" Sherlock asked the large man.

"You presume right, whatdaya want?"

"Where's Dr. Watson?"

"How should I know? I'm not his keeper."

Sherlock barely managed to keep his temper in check, "When was the last time you saw him?"

The big man paled, "Aw, bloody-" Dr. Moffat swallowed, "Last I saw him, he was in the construction zone."

Lestrade swore.


Pain once again woke him up. He opened his eyes but his vision was still blurry and unfocused. A heavy weight trapped his right arm and legs. His left arm, however, remained free. He turned to the left and vomited again, but nothing came up, having emptied his stomach a while ago. The jarring force of his heaving sent him spiraling back in unconsciousness, before his vision dimmed completely, John thought, Sherlock, where are you?


A/N: Sorry peoples! I know you don't like cliffhangers but what's a story without'em? *cackles* Well, at least you know what happened to John...sort of...

Mwuhahahaha*coughchokesplutter* Leggo, Sherlock, I can't breath! Help!