John stood in the doorway, flabbergasted. "Right. Where is he?" he demanded of the empty room, before searching the whole flat. He didn't find what he was looking for, so he stomped downstairs.
John took a moment outside Mrs Hudson's flat to compose himself, then knocked calmly on the door. "Have you seen him?"
"Sorry dear, I haven't. Maybe he went out?"
"I hope he has, for his own sake. Thank you, Mrs Hudson." With that, John turned on his heel and strode out the front door. He flagged down a taxi. "To Scotland Yard, please."
The cab pulled out onto the empty street, and within minutes they were outside Scotland Yard. John paid the driver, and swept into the building. A minute later, he stormed into Lestrade's office. "Where is he?" he demanded.
Lestrade looked up at the glaring man. "What's he done this time?"
"He's only wrecked the bloody flat!"
"How?"
"Where do I start? It smells of smoke, the curtains have huge holes in them, and smell of smoke, the sofa is burnt, and there is a large bloodstain on the carpet."
Lestrade winced. "Nasty."
"Yes. Yes, it is. Now, I will ask one more time. Where. Is. He?"
"He's gone far away, overseas. He mentioned you might want to speak to him."
"Where overseas?"
"New Zealand, I believe."