Author's Note: Apologies for the lengthy delay in updating this story!
Sherlock's lengthy talk with Mycroft had proved to be...enlightening at the very least, and so the detective reluctantly spent the long cab journey back to 221B committing the conversation to his mind palace for future reference and analysis, something that he rarely did for talks with his brother. Some of the points raised, especially those regarding sentiment and Sherlock's capacity to experience it, had been so delightfully controversial that the detective had become engrossed in them, and had therefore blatantly ignored the incessant chiming of his phone as it was bombarded with text messages, calls and voicemails that demanded his attention. Now, as Sherlock finished processing the conversation, he extracted his phone from his jacket pocket and began to deal with the volume of information that he'd been inundated with.
Most of his texts were from John, which was to be expected as the doctor knew of Sherlock's preference for texting over calling. A couple of them were from Molly, but the detective deleted them immediately. There was no need for Sherlock to open and read them, because he knew that those messages would either contain unwelcome invitations for coffee, or reminders that there was a cadaver waiting for Sherlock to complete the final stages of his coagulation-of-saliva-after-death on in the morgue. The missed calls and voicemails were from Lestrade, which Sherlock suspected were pleas for assistance with a case on Anderson's behalf. His suspicion was soon confirmed upon opening the first text from John. He smirked at the contents.
Lestrade just rang with a new case. It's been made to seem like a burglary gone wrong, but apparently the evidence doesn't add up. Anderson is utterly confused but refused point-blank to ask for help. Interested? JW
By the way, we really need to talk when you get home, Sherlock. Say hi to Mycroft for me, and ask if Anthea's okay after that nasty incident in France. JW
Don't pretend like you've actually obeyed the rules of The Diogenes Club and switched your phone off to be considerate to others. You never switch the damn thing off, so stop ignoring my texts. We can't all 'deduce' your responses, you know. JW
Fine. Change of plan. I'm stopping at Mike's tonight. No point in me staying at home to be ignored. You and I will definitely be having a talk when I get home though, Sherlock. JW
Sherlock frowned, and his stomach began to churn. John thought he'd been ignoring him? That was a bit not good, wasn't it, especially after the things Mycroft and Sherlock had just talked about? The detective quickly typed a response, and awaited John's reply, trying to ignore the lump of apprehension forming in his throat.
Why? SH
Sherlock's phone bleeped a couple of minutes later, much to the detective's immediate relief, but then he frowned upon reading the contents of the text. Apparently John had been expecting some sort of explanation, but Sherlock doubted the doctor would believe him if he told the truth.
Oh, so you're still alive then. Nice to know, even if I don't qualify to hear the reason behind your latest disappearing act. And I've already told you why I'm going to Mike's - I'm not staying at home for you to ignore me when there's somebody out there who'd appreciate my company. Don't you pay attention to anything I say unless it's about skulls? JW
I meant why do we need to have "a talk"? We're talking now, just tell me whatever it is and let me get back to what I was doing. SH
I know that you seem perfectly comfortable on talking to me when I'm not there, but I physically can't have the conversation with you now, and the fact that you don't understand why that is just emphasises how important it is that we have it when I get back. Switching phone off now, see you tomorrow. JW
Sherlock didn't bother replying to that, because as soon as he had finished reading it, the cab pulled up outside 221B. In the hope of catching John before he left for Mike's, Sherlock sprung from the cab, threw a couple of twenty pound notes in the general direction of the driver, burst through the front door and bounded up the seventeen steps to their flat.
"John, I'm back!"
The butterflies in Sherlock's stomach went into overdrive as he realised that he was calling to an empty flat. John had already gone, and had left the detective behind, just as Sherlock had feared.
"I'm going to kill you, Mycroft!" he shouted, the cry echoing around the flat, even though Sherlock knew that John's absence wasn't his brother's fault, which made a change. Sherlock was the one who had chosen to go and confront Mycroft; his brother hadn't demanded his presence, kidnapped him, or coerced him in any way. Sherlock had nobody but himself to blame for John's departure, and he didn't even know what he'd done wrong. This was certainly not how the detective had imagined the day to progress, especially after what he'd discussed with Mycroft regarding John.