A/N: Thank you to all who followed, favorited, read, and reviewed (those reviews are wonderful to read, guys, thank you for the encouragement!) I'm in a bit of a rut with this at the moment. It seems that these eleven chapters have nearly written themselves, but now, after this one, it's not running so smoothly. That being said, this one as well as the last one pretty much wrote themselves. So, you're not allowed to be mad at me. Blame the characters. They're not mine, obviously, so I can't tell them what to do.
Simultaneously, John's stomach dropped while his heart leaped. He knew it was some kind of sick joke, but that didn't mean the sight of the familiar text signature was any less welcome.
Or maybe it was very unwelcome, but John was much too frazzled to focus on that part.
With shaking hands, he hit the reply button and began formulating a response. Due to both his trembling as well as his muddled, racing thoughts, it took him twice as long to tap out a sufficient message.
After staring at his message for a while, though, he let out a shaky breath, deleted his text, and retyped the simplest yet most important question he could think of.
Sherlock?
John waited five minutes before he shook his head, tore his eyes from the screen, and pocketed his phone. He waited fifteen before pulling out his phone, rereading the texts, feeding the nervous fire in the pit of his stomach. It was forty five minutes before he couldn't take it anymore and tapped out another message.
You know what? Don't text me again. This isn't funny in the least. Sod off, whoever it is.
He didn't even hesitate before hitting the send button, his thumb jabbing with perhaps a little too much force on the delicate touch screen. With a clenched jaw and racing heart, he glared at the phone for just a moment more before shutting it off and tossing it carelessly onto the couch. He was finally getting his life on track. He wasn't going to let his world turn upside down –again- by some dick journalist looking for a scoop or some punk kids trying to prank him.
John grabbed his coat and wrenched the front door open before turning back to look at his phone nestled on the musty cushions. He just couldn't let it go. Internally scolding himself for his ridiculous inability to move on from actions and subjects that could be potentially damaging, potentially crippling, he walked to the couch and snatched the phone back.
Maybe it's just time for a new number, he thought to himself as he shoved the phone into his pocket and walked out of the flat.
As he walked to a nearby café- his favorite one to kill time in- he hoped that with the blog being taken down, he wouldn't have to worry about sadistic nut jobs prank calling and prank texting him. It had only happened once or twice, but it was never anything quite like what had just happened. Never before had he received a message from someone sick enough to claim they were Sherlock.
He realized with a wave of disappointment that this kind of vicious, appalling behavior from someone didn't even surprise him anymore. He supposed he had Sherlock's cases and criminals to thank for that one.
John took his time eating, took his time with his two or three cups of coffee. He nursed his food and drinks for as long as he possibly could, just stalling. Enough time had passed since Sherlock's death and his breakdown for him to be okay in the flat, but after the brief moment of false hope, he couldn't shake an uneasy feeling about being there. He knew from experience that if he were to take his time getting back, he'd be fine when he finally did return, but it was taking longer than normal this time.
All through his meal, his procrastination, he kept glancing at his phone, which sat on the table next to his plate. It was still powered down. He kept forcing himself not to turn it on. John was unbearably curious to see if the unknown Sherlock impersonator had tried to text him again, but he knew better than to check. He ignored the tugging in his stomach. He ignored the uneasy feeling that nagged at him about going back to 221B.
John spent two hours walking around the city, wandering through his favorite areas, before he became agitated enough to sit down on his favorite park bench, wrestle his phone out of his pocket, and power it back on. It took a moment for it to turn back on, but once it did, his phone flooded with texts.
John, don't be an idiot. -SH
Rather, don't be more of an idiot. -SH
I see. You've turned your phone off. Ignoring me? And you said I was the child. -SH
John was beginning to get mad at all of this. No, mad wasn't even the right word. Angry, furious, pissed. Who in the hell was getting off on this? He hit the reply button and quickly sent a message in reply.
Whoever this is, you had better stop. I happen to know people in the position to have you arrested for harassment.
It wasn't much of a threat, but John hoped that it would scare off any immature kid getting a kick out of this.
His phone chimed again.
Fine. Don't respond. You're in danger. Get back to the flat. -SH
John couldn't help but feel as if that last one was a threat right back at him. He clutched the phone in a tight grip and continued walking. It was a few minutes before his phone chimed again.
Don't make me involve Mycroft. You know how tiresome I find him. -SH
John had absolutely no idea who the hell this person was, or how they were able to know all of these little details. He ignored it, and considered turning it off again. Not even five minutes passed before the payphone nearest to him began ringing.
Just a coincidence, John thought to himself.
That was, until the sleek black car pulled to a stop right next to him.