Chapter Seven

It felt wrong, but he couldn't imagine any other way of finding out what Sherlock had been up to. After a few minutes he had tried to call Mycroft again, with the same result. The overwhelming feeling that something was critically wrong made his head spin. He tried to disturb the chaos as little as possible, knowing that Sherlock would probably throw a fit if he tempered with the – at least to him – perfectly logical order of things.

Most of the names of cases didn't mean anything to John. Some papers were references to solved cases and he even found a stack of papers that turned out to be a printed out version of his blog. The sheet on top showed the entry he had written two days ago before he had gone to work. Two days ago, when everything had been as usual, when Sherlock had been brooding over something, fingers tapping against each other, thumbs tucked under his chin in a way that only movie villains would, but Sherlock had not even regarded him with an answer when John had pointed that out to him.

Then something else struck him as unusual. Last night in the kitchen he had said that he would tell Mrs Hudson to clean up in the morning, but he had known that she was gone. Why then had he told him that? Had he done it on purpose to distract from his intention to do it himself? That didn't sound like him. But he couldn't have simply forgotten. Sherlock never forgot anything, well, except for when it seemed unimportant to him. He let out a sigh. He needed to stop to overthink everything; sometimes the answer was just that simple.

John moved to the bed. Why hadn't Sherlock slept in it? There was, however, always the possibility that he hadslept in it and then made the bed in the same meticulous manner that he dressed himself, later adding the files and papers, giving it a seemingly chaotic air. John felt himself calming down. He started to see ghosts everywhere, and he couldn't let that happen. He refused to feel lost without Sherlock, who might just as well be off somewhere, having fallen asleep in the mortuary for lack of sleep that he himself had caused.

The files on Sherlock's bed did not help him at all. All of the cases were at least three years old and most of them were solved art theft cases. Then, on the pillow he found a folder that was adorned with a photo of an ape. Something about that seemed important, but he couldn't put his finger on it. John leafed through the sheets of paper inside, printed out newspaper articles, something about an exhibition at the British Library and a reference to the Origin of Species. He sighed and closed the folder.

When he had finished speed reading through all the papers on the bed he looked at the great number of boxes that were stacked up against the wall next to the door. He would never find anything here.

"Help me, Sherlock" He knew it was ridiculous, but he needed some hints. If there was any chance that Sherlock had known he might get into trouble, he would have left him a clue, and something obvious, even though John was not sure if Sherlock had any idea what level of obvious was needed for him to actually find it. He was far from stupid, but he would never even pretend to know a glimpse of what Sherlock knew and what he was able to perceive.

He turned back to the folder on the pillow and decided to take it to his room. It was funny to be consciously confronted with Darwin twice within a few hours. And then it dawned on him. The old lady had given him a clue, she hadspoken to him, and she had looked at that plaque on purpose. Something on the plaque must be able to tell him what was happening. But he knew it was impossible for him to go out now, even though he dreaded a night of immobility while Sherlock might be somewhere…

"Stop it." He tried to push the thoughts of his friend injured or dead away. No, if he was dead, the police would know. Whoever killed Sherlock Holmes would not stay silent about it. It was a small comfort, but it would have to do for now.

He quietly walked back into his room, drinking a bit of the tea that was now long cold. His computer was in the living room, but he needed it. With a sigh he climbed down the stairs, trying to make no noise at all. When he entered the living room he was again surprised how different it seemed, empty. His laptop sat on the coffee table next to Sherlock's violin case. He needed to find him. He needed him. That realisation let him stagger backwards against his chair. He was not simply worried that something might have happened to him, but he was worried that he would not come back, that he would not sit on the couch anymore, not pace the room, not twirl around when he had an idea, not be there, and he needed him to be there.

"God, Sherlock, what are you doing to me?" He whispered into his fists. For a few minutes he just sat there, staring at the wall above the couch, the bullet holes still visible. He had left him that night, unable to deal with Sherlock's mood, and unable to think too deeply about why it bothered him so much that his friend would go and shoot the wall out of boredom.

He turned and looked at the skull on the mantel piece. It stared back at him. No answers from Sherlock's only other friend. He suddenly felt the urge to take it and throw it against the wall. It was silly, but for a second he felt jealous, because he knew the skull had probably heard more about why Sherlock was gone than he had. Gritting his teeth he stood up and faced the fireplace. There was a small strip of paper tucked underneath the skull. His heart was taking up speed.

It was a small advert for the exhibition on Darwin that he had found in the folder. So maybe Sherlock had made sure to be obvious enough for him to follow the clues. As he turned around his eyes fell onto the floor in front of the fridge and his heart sank. Sherlock had always been able to surprise him, usually coming from completely unexpected directions, but always making sense in the end, yet this one act of him washing the floor and buying milk was more surprising to him than any deduction he had ever spelled out for him.

John grabbed his laptop and walked back upstairs, not caring for noises anymore. Back in his bedroom he called Sherlock again, this time anticipating the two worded message.

"Sherlock, call me, text me, send a pigeon, a message in a bottle, a fire signal, anything. Just let me know you're okay. I need you…" he stopped, blinking for one second before he continued. "I need you to be okay."

His room was awfully quiet when he put down the phone. He felt that he was making a fool of himself, and he wasn't sure if Sherlock would understand why he was sounding so freaked out. He had never seen Sherlock panic, he had never seen him react before thinking things through, he had never let emotions come in the way of his deduction.

Switching on his computer, he wrecked his brain, trying to remember if Sherlock had ever mentioned the British Library at all and if Darwin had popped up in their conversations lately. No, he couldn't think of anything that might suggest that Sherlock had been thinking about either, but then again, he had the folder lying on his pillow. So in case he had actually slept in his bed, no matter how neatly made it had looked, he must have thought it important.

The British Library was only a few minutes away and in the morning he would go and check if he could find anything suspicious. It was strange, because the Museum of Natural History was much more likely to have an exhibition on Darwin, why would Sherlock care for the Library? He searched for information on the internet, but it was flooded with endless pages on the scientist's 200th birthday. The library page only mentioned a few books, some original writings, pages from Species. It just didn't add up to anything. There was no reported theft, no police reports, nothing that seemed to be out of the order.

With a sigh he got up, walked to the window and dialled Lestrade's number.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade sounded on edge.

"No, it's me, John Watson."

"Dr. Watson. Have you heard from him?"

"No, yes, maybe. I don't know. Have you?"

"No, not a word. I can't believe he's not getting in touch. But what do you mean, you don't know."

"I think I've received a message, but I'm not sure. Today I encountered a woman who was talking to me, completely out of context…well, it doesn't matter. She said, 'don't wait for him.' I didn't know what to make of that, but she said that as she was looking at the Darwin plaque down in Gower Street and I just found a folder with information on a Darwin exhibition at the BL. I'm not sure what to make of that."

"Listen, Dr. Watson. There is something I haven't told you, something confidential." Finally, some answers, he breathed a sigh of relief. "The threat we received, the first one, it concerned you."

"What?" He felt as if he had been punched, trying to make sense of what the DI was telling him. "What do you mean, it concerned me. Why was I not informed?"

Lestrade hesitated. "I shouldn't tell you this, but considering that Sherlock has disappeared I might as well tell you what the reason for that might be."

"Me?" He started to understand that Sherlock was possibly in danger because of him.

"You." Lestrade waited a few seconds before he continued. "Someone sent us a threat, saying they would…eliminate you for interfering with police work. We had no idea who it was or where it might come from. It basically said not to involve you again if we wanted you to live."

"It's not really dangerous."Sherlock had known, and he had tried to protect him. He had made it seem as if everything was fine so he wouldn't follow him. He had known that he was in danger and had managed to pretend that nothing was wrong. He hadn't been bored, and John had not been able to see through that. He had realised that something was off, something about the way Sherlock looked at him, the way he reacted to him, the way he had followed him into the kitchen and surprised him for the first time, when he had made tea, and again at night. He had not slept in his room, but on the couch, knowing he could defend their place better from the living room than from his own bedroom. That was why the bed was made and covered in files and that was why he had been there so quickly when he had drank the milk.

"Oh God!" John felt his knees give. With his free hand he held onto the window sill and slowly let himself slide down the wall, cowering there like a scared child.

"What was the second threat?" He did not want to know, but he needed to.

"Well, that one was directed at Holmes. It pretty much said that he was to ensure you would not interfere with our work anymore, but that they could not trust for you to do that, so they would make sure by holding him responsible for your action. Essentially, it said the same as the one that was directly intended for you, but the second one was sent to Sherlock."

"Wait, so it was him that told you about the two threats?"

"He phoned me, yes, but after that we lost contact."

"How is that possible? Why would he…? Never mind. Does that mean if I just sit around here and do nothing, we'll all be okay?"

Lestrade sighed audibly. "Possibly, but I'm afraid even this conversation might put you and Holmes in danger. And obviously they don't think that you can stay out of it."

"Why haven't they told himto stop interfering with your work? What good am I to you without him. All I do is help him collect data, so I'm more or less working for him."

"And he's working for us."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Neither do we."

A.N.: To the confused Anon: thank you :) I'm still trying to get the hang of FFN , but it seems it is impossible to differentiate further than just in progress and finished work. This fic is finished, but I haven't uploaded all the chapters yet. I know some people only read fic that is not in progress, so I wanted to make sure that people knew that it's done. I hope that makes sense?