A/N- By the way, Sherlock has no sexual thoughts running through his head. At. All. He's oblivious, he just wants to sleep in a warm comfy bed with his cuddly Jawn! :'(
Sherlock had tried to sleep, he really had. It's what John wants, for me to be healthy.
He'd gone to his bed for once instead of lying on the couch. After about half an hour, he took John's pillow from the doctor's room and brought it to his bed. Then he tried to sleep again.
And after that didn't work, he took his and John's pillows and his sheet and went to John's room. The consulting detective curled up in his friend's bed and stuffed his face into the blankets, trying to inhale as much of John's scent as possible.
But it wasn't as comforting as Sherlock had imagined it. He lay, eyes closed, and thought. I'd always imagined John's bed… better than this. Warmer? Fuller? With John actually in it. Hmm, I bet John snores. But just a bit; more like loud breathing.
Would he kick me if I came into his bed? Not on purpose. And he'd probably let me have more blankets than him…
Sherlock found that he couldn't sleep. Not without John safe. He stayed up all night, grinding his teeth and trying to ignore his pounding headache.
The consulting detective woke that morning to Mrs. Hudson sitting by his bed. "What are you doing here."
"Well, Sherlock dear…" She sighed. "We've been a bit worried about you."
" 'We' meaning…" Sherlock let her finish the thought.
"Your brother and I," answered the landlady. "I know this is hard on you, but you have to go to the police eventually."
"No, can't." Sherlock sat up. "They'll kill John."
"Get up, alright? We'll fix this all up." Mrs. Hudson trotted downstairs.
Sherlock sighed. He stood up and reached for his phone.
There was a text. From Moriarty. The consulting detective read it.
Old Saint Clair's. Come and play.
Sherlock watched the clip attached, feeling sick. What did they do to him? He felt something like never before pull at his soul; he was physically hurt.
The consulting detective almost couldn't stop himself as he raced down the stairs and out onto the London streets. Not that he would have wanted to stop. The taxi ride to the old church seemed too slow, and Sherlock found himself yelling at the cabby more than a few times.
When he arrived, it was nearly noon and the sun beat down on him. Finding the doors locked, Sherlock wasn't going to try and pick the bolt; that would take too much time. He backed up and slammed his shoulder into the crack between the two tall doors and raced inside. "Moriarty!"