Chapter Six

Mrs Hudson! He had forgotten to get her the flowers. He pushed the pillow away and put the soup bowl on the mantelpiece. He would have to go out again and buy some. Just as he pulled on his coat, he heard the click of her heels approaching.

"Dr. Watson, what are you doing up? Your girlfriend informed me that you are ill and in need of some motherly care." She looked him up and down. "You certainly look tired. And are you feeling cold?" He nervously ran his hands over his coat, knowing that there was no way of him getting out of the house now. "Come, we'll get you to bed."

"Mrs Hudson, I just wanted to say thank you."

"Oh, not at all my dear. I'm glad to feel useful."

"No, I mean, for everything else you do for us. Particularly for cleaning up the kitchen this morning and buying milk."

She gave him a strange look. "It must be the fever," she muttered to herself.

"No, I don't think it's fever, and I am serious. Thank you, for what you do for us. I wanted to get you flowers but then…I forgot." He felt his cheeks flush.

Mrs Hudson took a proper look at him and held the back of her hand against his cheek. "Definitely fever."

John knew that there was no way of making her see that he wasn't ill at all and that he was serious with his appreciation, but Mrs Hudson was clearly enjoying her role as the mother.

She took him by the arm, obviously concerned that he might not be able to master the stairs on his own and led him into his bedroom. She looked around, raising an eyebrow, but she didn't say anything. His bedroom was clean and very ordered. Everything had its place and purpose, and there nothing that he did not need or use. He had only been in Sherlock's room once, and he had been surprised that his friend did not injure himself on the way from the door to the bed. It was stuffed with all kinds of things. Not only weapons that had to be illegal in Britain, but also boxes full of pictures and files, test tubes and a lot of things that he hadn't managed to identify in the few seconds he had stared at the mess.

Sherlock had brought him into his room so he could help him carry down a few boxes of files that he needed to review, and he had given him a look that clearly told him to shut up. Surprisingly, Sherlock had managed to step over the barricades without much ado and found the boxes without even looking for them. Long legs certainly seemed to be an advantage in his case.

After Mrs Hudson had made John take off his shoes, he was pushed down on his bed with gentle force. "I will bring you some tea and a hot-water bottle. Please lie down and get some rest. I will check on you now and then. Oh, and where is Sherlock? I expected he would be here, because he had mentioned that he would when I told him that I was going to leave for Brighton for two days."

"Wait, what do you mean, for two days?" John was confused now, and he wasn't sure whether it was because it now seemed that it must have been Sherlock who had cleaned up and bought the milk or because he had intended to be at home when Mrs Hudson came back and wasn't. She saw his confusion and shook her head. "Never mind, dear, he must have gone out then. Don't worry."

For one second John expected her to actually tuck him in and press a kiss to his forehead like his mother had done to him when he was sick, because she most certainly behaved like his mother right now. But she left him sitting there, a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach.

He wished he could do what Mrs Hudson had suggested, he wished he could just close his eyes and forget what was happening, but then again, he knew that a few things needed to be thought through, and no matter how strange they were, he could not avoid dealing with the problems presented to him.

He took off his jacked and let it drop to the floor. A little disorder couldn't hurt, could it? Lying back he closed his eyes, tucking his arms under his head. This was definitely not a normal day. Normal days were filled with Sherlock pacing the room, his face lighting up as soon as Lestrade called him, an outrageously happy grin when he knew he was dealing with something new, something he didn't know the answer to right away. Normal was, when he was on his feet in a second, walking over the coffee table, searching for data on the internet on his phone and at the same time throwing on his coat, stopping in the door to turn around to him with that wide smile, not having to say anything, because John would follow him, that was a given. That was normal. Even Sherlock being bored and ending up being so incredibly stupid for someone so incredibly intelligent that John had to take away his toys, usually a weapon of some sort, or at least an extremely toxic chemical, so he wouldn't kill them both.

This, all of what was happening right now, was not normal. And he suddenly realised that things weren't normal, because Sherlock wasn't with him. He was missing, not only in the literal sense, but his presence was missing, his energy and his excitement, his smile and the spark in his eyes and his soft voice when he said his name.

John's eyes flew open. This was definitely not going into a direction that he had intended. But then it must have been Sherlock who cleaned up that mess and who had bought milk. Sherlock had bought milk. The feeling of triumph was for one second overriding the feeling of anxiety, now mixed with confusion.

But why wasn't he here? Why didn't he answer his messages and why had he not turned up for dinner? Had he flown to another country spontaneously, following a trace? Was be so intently focusing on a case that he didn't even notice the incoming texts? Was he dead, lying somewhere in a deserted alleyway? "God, John, stop that." He needed to think of something else. He was driving himself mad and he had no reason to. Except for all the obvious clues, a little voice said in his head.

He fished for his jacket on the floor and pulled out his phone. He called him, but again his phone was ringing out. He waited, until the voice mail announcement started playing. He was shocked by how comforting he found Sherlock's voice.

"Busy, obviously." The beep that followed sounded too loud in his ears.

"Sherlock, it's me. Please, please call me back. I need to know you're okay. Just call me, please." He knew he sounded desperate, but he could no longer trick himself into believing that he was okay. Something had gone wrong, something that Sherlock had not anticipated.

He heard Mrs Hudson come back up the stairs and he lay still, pretending to sleep. If he slept she would leave soon and possibly take longer to check on him again, and he needed to look for clues.

She sighed as she stopped to look at him. "Poor lad. Completely exhausted." Another sigh and she placed a cup of tea carefully on his nightstand. Then she placed the hot-water bottle that she had promised against his chest, making sure it'd stay there and quietly left the room.

John waited until her footsteps had disappeared. He felt incredibly touched by her action, and decided that she would get flowers anyway. He got out of bed, trying to move as quietly as possible. He knew that Mrs Hudson rarely heard Sherlock when he called to her from upstairs, but John also knew that she decided not to hear. He started to understand why Mrs Hudson had felt the need to unplug her phone only days after they moved in. She had said that nobody would call her anyway these days, but it occurred to John that Sherlock had known the real reason, looking at her in a strange inquiring way that she completely ignored. Now he wished for nothing more than for Sherlock to call.

But where could he start? Downstairs, and risk Mrs Hudson hearing his footsteps? No, two floors up he would be relatively safe, and he could hear her and pretend he was just using the bathroom, in case she decided to check on him. Sherlock's room it was, then.

He had the strangest urge to knock before entering his room. It didn't feel right to do it without permission, and there was still the possibility that he might come home any minute. He was desperately clinging onto that hope, but deep inside him he knew that he would not just come back.

With a silent apology, he opened the door. The room looked very much the same as he remembered. Boxes everywhere, books, pictures, newspapers sprawled about the floor and the bed. Something seemed strange about that, and as he stood there, taking in the chaos and trying to make sense of it, he understood that the bed looked like Sherlock hadn't slept in it. John drew his hand through his hair. What had he been up to?

He stepped into the room, carefully avoiding all the objects on the floor, trying to make as little noise as possible. If he didn't sleep in his bed, where did he sleep? For once second he imagined Sherlock having a girlfriend, a lover, someone who he spent his nights with, sneaking away in the middle of the night only to return in the morning, keeping up appearances. He couldn't help but chuckle. No, he couldn't see Sherlock with a woman.

When he had made his way to the window he looked outside. Everything seemed normal. It was dark and the street lights dipped the street into a dim yellow light that made it almost impossible to see anything, especially since he had turned on the light in Sherlock's room. But he did notice movement down on the street. It was as if a dark form suddenly detached itself from the shadow of the door of the opposite building, moving almost fluidly down the street, disappearing from his view.

What was going on? He could only imagine that Mycroft had sent someone to check on Sherlock, who, seeing light and a person in his room, was satisfied that he was back home. Mycroft, he should ask him about Sherlock. He would surely know what was going on, where he was, and why he did not answer his messages. He dialled the number, but instead of a ring or even Mycroft's voice mail, he only got white noise.

That freaked him out. For a few seconds he stood there, by the window, forcing himself to breathe steadily. He could not let himself panic, not now, not ever. He realised that in the past, he had been fearless and strong, as he should be as a soldier, but he was not in Afghanistan anymore, where he had been fearless and strong because he needed to be. And back in London he had been fearless and strong because of Sherlock, because he needed him to be. And now he was gone and he felt at a loss of what to do. There had always been a path to follow, a path that Sherlock walked down, making it unnecessary for him to think too deeply about what they were doing. He trusted Sherlock completely, and therefore he could focus on the task at hand. But now that he was alone, he was completely unsure of what to do.

He waited for the familiar adrenaline rush. His body should be alert, his senses expanding, his thoughts clearer; but it did not come. Instead he felt his heart hammer away in his chest and his spirits sinking. Closing the curtains, he decided that the only thing he could do to move forward was to look for clues, just like he had intended. He knelt down on the floor and started reading through the papers scattered all around him.

A.N. Just to make sure nobody is confused by two aspects of my story: Baker Street is North Gower Street in my fic, so all references to places etc. work with the assumption that Baker Street is located just off Euston Square. The second thing is the location of the bedrooms. For whatever reason, I don't know why, I imagined both bedrooms to be upstairs, so this is how it is in this fic. Both bedrooms are on the second floor, whereas the living room and the kitchen as well as a storage room are on the first floor.

Thanks for reading