John set about tidying the flat, the scrap having left it in more of a shambles then usual and with nothing else to do and so fell into thinking about he and Sherlock's burgeoning relationship. It seemed that the unattainable genius was finally his. Sherlock had folded sweetly into him last night as if it had been their way for a life time. The man was a vine, twisting and twinning his way around Johns body the same way he'd done to Johns heart all those years ago. He fit into the crook of Johns shoulder perfectly, the weight of him there creating a warm soothing pressure on his scar. They had slotted together from one position to another throughout the night subconsciously/consciously exploring each other, hands roaming and resting on warm exposed flesh, it had been dreamlike perfection. John, sign at the pleasant thoughts and noticed he was sitting in his chair. How did he get there? He wondered where Sherlock was in that moment.
"Bollocks!" Realization hit John like a ton of bricks. Sherlock hadn't told John where the meeting point was, and there could only be one reason for that. The location must have been an obvious trap. He texted Sherlock, frantic.
Sherlock where are you?
JW-
No answer. Shit shit shit. John sprinted up to his room, (pain be damned) threw on some clothes and called Lestrade.
"Where are you?" John asked breathlessly, as he stepped out of Baker St. looking for a cab.
"Well, ugh." There was clear hesitation in Lestrade's voice. John stopped in mid motion, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"He's not with you is he?" But John didn't really need an answer. He knew.
"Gave us the slip soon as we got here. But the parks not that big, we'll find him."
"Park. Which park?" John was nearing panic, as he climbed into the back of a cab.
"Finsbury."
"Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's not in the park. He's in the revisor. It's a trap Lestrade." John felt his vision swim before his eyes.