Chapter Three

He felt like shit. Something told John that he had slept well past noon and that his late night adventure had not helped at all to make him feel better. Checking his own pulse, which had become a habit when his sleep was frequently disrupted with nightmares about the war, he found that it was perfectly normal. Why then did he feel so irritable? He couldn't quite remember falling asleep, but he was surprised that he had even fallen asleep so easily when he had gone back to bed.

When he came down into the kitchen he found the floor cleared of any evidence of the accident, and he made a mental note to thank Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and there was neither a note nor a text explaining his absence. Maybe he had decided that the case might not require John's help after all. The slight feeling of disappointment settled in his stomach and then, a much stronger feeling, namely that of guilt rushed through him. It was Wednesday and he should have been at work hours ago. He walked back into the living room and just as he picked up his phone he saw that he had received a voice mail message.

"John, it's Sarah. Your...colleague...friend, whatever he is, called in to say you're unwell and I just wanted to make sure that you're alright. I could come over and bring soup if you want me to, after work I mean. Just let me know how you are. Okay? Bye."

He smiled. Her voice made him much happier, he found. And then, distinctively, also the fact that Sherlock had lied for him so he could sleep in.

Back in the kitchen he decided he needed something stronger than tea, but remembered that he had emptied the last milk on his feet last night. With a sigh he opened the fridge, almost ready to find a new extremity waiting for him. He had started to mentally prepare himself to find body parts in the most unlikely of places before he opened the fridge, but last night, he had not even bothered to look, knowing exactly where the milk stood.

He was more than a little surprised to find a new and untouched carton of milk in the fridge. He would have to bring Mrs Hudson flowers. And Sherlock had obviously taken the time to inform her as well that he was still in bed and unable to clean the floor and buy milk. It would have actually been the first time that they had finished the milk and not gotten into an argument about who would buy more. He wondered why Sherlock was so completely opposed to grocery shopping.

So he ignored the new set of fingers that were floating around in a rather murky looking liquid in a jar, and took out the milk, for one second expecting a deep voice to surprise him again and he smiled to himself as he made coffee. The day was definitely getting better.

He sat down on the sofa, pondering on the fact that it had just the right length so that Sherlock could lie on it without having to pull up his legs or distort his body in any other way. That was probably why he had chosen it as his number one place to think. The second one was in front of the window, the third one the armchair opposite his own and he fourth, as Sherlock had told him once, was in the bathroom. He had not inquired further, remembering that he had once read in an article that most of the grand ideas had actually been born on top of a toilet seat.

Grinning, he leaned back. The world looked a bit different from the new perspective, and he wondered if Sherlock would mind if he found him sitting on hiscouch. He sipped his coffee and reflected on yesterday. He had been incredibly irritable and now that he had calmed down, it seemed silly. But then again, he had felt really strange when he had woken up.

His phone rang, but he was sure that this would not be Sherlock. He never called if he could text, just as his brother Mycroft would never text if he could call. But then he felt guilty. There wasn't really a reason to ignore the caller and he wasn't really ill, so he might as well answer. It was Lestrade.

"Dr. Watson? Could I possibly speak with Holmes?"

John raised an eyebrow. Why wasn't he with Lestrade, and if he was working on a case, Lestrade should at least know where he was.

"I'm sorry, but I haven't seen him all day."

"That is strange. His phone is ringing out and I need to speak to him. Where are you?"

"At home," he sighed. "I overslept." No reason to lie to the police. "May I ask why?"

"Why I am looking for him, you mean? Well, we received a threat yesterday. At first it seemed as if it was nothing at all, but then during the night, we received a new one, and this time it was clearly a threat directed towards him."

"Are you saying someone threatened Sherlock?" His voice rose an octave, and he checked himself.

"It seems like this is the case, yes. The problem is that we haven't had contact in the last sixteen hours and that is not like him, not when he is on a case."

But that wasn't entirely true. "He could be with his brother, you know?"

"Do you really think that when suddenly someone mysteriously threatens the consulting detective of the police he would simply disappear and run to his brother's help, which he has never done willingly, as far as I remember...".

John didn't have an answer. It was true. Sherlock had been more than reluctant to help his brother and his strange political affairs, and only when there had been some kind of bribery on Mycroft's side involved, Sherlock had helped him. And he had usually complained to John about that fact as well.

"Well, he was here last night. He didn't leave the house until sunrise at the earliest."

"And how do you know that?"

He sounded confused, and John was sure he was implying something, but he decided against explaining their nightly encounter in the kitchen. "He was downstairs, I heard him. He must have experimented with explosives. I was wondering why nobody called the police, thinking someone had been shot." So much for not lying to the police. He hoped his story would sound reasonable. The good thing about Sherlock was that there was literally no way of telling whether something was a figment of imagination or reality. The stranger it seemed the more likely it was to be true.

"Well, and you checked on him? The mad bastard is going to blow himself up one of these days, and it might have been an actual shot."

"Of course I did. He was perfectly fine."

"Good, so we can establish that he has not been out of contact for sixteen, but eleven hours. Please let us know when you hear anything."

"I will."

"Good day."

He stared at the phone. Lestrade was obviously concerned about Sherlock, and that was something he had not experienced before. He wondered what the threat had looked like and whether Sherlock was aware of it. He had seemed distinctly relaxed last night, and yet it made sense now that he had been up, checking on the noise in the kitchen. But he had said that it wasn't dangerous.

Knowing it would be futile, he tried to call Sherlock. The phone rang out, just as Lestrade had said. So instead of calling, he texted him, considering the possibility of him being unable to reach the phone, but the text would appear on the screen, so he might at least be able to read it.

He tried to think of something intelligent to write, something which would mean something to Sherlock, but not his possible enemies.

Am awake now. Will get flowers for Mrs Hudson. Where are you?

Nothing. He put the phone on the table. He wondered why he was starting to worry. He had only been half joking last night when he had said he would like to for once not save his life, but Sherlock had said that it wasn't dangerous, and if he had known that it might be, he would certainly have informed him. But Lestrade's concern had been evident and he felt uneasy now.

Dinner tonight at 6? Tas?

He tried to think like Sherlock might. If he was just away, for whatever reason, he would at least answer him, or just show up. He might not always tell him what he was up to, but regular dinner talks had become an outlet for Sherlock to keep John updated on his brain activities. And he had never missed an invitation. John wondered about that now. It seemed as if their dinners, usually somewhere close to Tottenham Court Road, were something distinctly human and normal, which Sherlock had come to enjoy. He wasn't always eating, but he would always and unfailingly show up.