Mumbles. That's all John heard, as his eyes cracked open. With a glance over to his office door, John saw that it was open. How long had it been? With a grunt, John pushed himself up, off the chair and moved to the kitchen.

"Hello, there," said Mary, with a sense of welcome in her voice.

"How'd it go?"

Mary knew what her husband was speaking of.

"Good," she muttered, taking a sip of tea. She seemed to be trying to change the subject. Neither of them wanted to talk about the meeting in the office.

"Where's Sherlock?" John asked, still waking up.

"I don't know. He seemed to have all the information he needed, thanked me, and left. He was going to wake you, but decided not to."

The doctor thought this was a little touching, but quickly grew concerned for his friend. Mary saw this on John's face.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Who knows where he could have gone?" John asked, grabbing his jacket. "All morning, he was snapping in and out of a daze. Now, he's searching for a psychopath who's aimed at killing him."

"Sounds like a normal day to me," Mary said with a snort, trying to keep the mood light.

With a chuckle and a peck on Mary's cheek, John left and went on yet another search for Sherlock.

It didn't take long to find the detective. He was in the flat, scrolling through something on the laptop. Sherlock didn't acknowledge his friend when he walked in.

John spoke up, "What are you looking for?"

Seconds passed before Sherlock spoke up, "Anything."

Nothing else was said. John supposed that that was enough information, given the current circumstances. John checked his watch. It was almost 7:00pm.

"Do you want to go get something to eat?" he asked.

"No."

Not again.

"Sherlock, you have to eat." John hoped his nudging tone got his message across: You haven't eaten all day.

"I'll find something," stated Sherlock. Through all this, his eyes did not leave the screen.

The doctor trusted his friend, but made a mental note to keep an eye on Sherlock. Though he was a genius, Sherlock could forget to take care of himself. John would pelt the man with grapes if he had to.

The next day, two days after the message on all the screens, John had to work at the clinic. Though he was working and seeing patients, every hour, he would send an email to Sherlock, asking if he was okay or found anything. The second question only came up twice. John didn't want Sherlock to feel rushed, even though he kinda was. That pressure could make Sherlock even more careless.

There were no responses to the emails at the end of the day, so of course, John had to go by 221B and check on Sherlock.

Minutes later, the door opened and John's eyes widened. At the desk, sat Sherlock. He sat in the same position as 24 hours earlier.

"Oh my gosh!" spoke up John, trying to finally gain Sherlock's full attention. There was no response, so he walked closer. "Have you even moved? Sherlock!"

Over Sherlock's shoulder, John could see that the computer was still scrolling through search results. Not being able to take it any longer, John reached out and shut the computer. Sherlock simply pulled back his hands in retreat.

"Oh," he said innocently, "Hello, John."

"Oh," John said, mockingly, "Hello, Sherlock. Have you been sitting here since yesterday?"

"No," Sherlock replied, "Only since you left."

Shocked and sick of Sherlock's cluelessness, marched over to the window and yanked back the curtain, letting in streams of orange light from the setting sun.

"I. Left. Yesterday." John spoke, holding back a gushing river of frustration and anger. How could his best friend care so little? How was he still going?

"Oh."

Sherlock simply stood. The already tall man stretched to where he almost touched the ceiling, then clapped John on the shoulder, like he acknowledged his friend's sympathy. Without a word, Sherlock walked over to the couch and laid down in the familiar praying position. Was he seriously going into his Mind Palace, again?

John knew that Sherlock was pushing himself to his final limits. It was one thing for Sherlock to come back, but Moriarty? How could he? His blood was splashed across the concrete. His skull was shot to pieces on the roof of that building...hospital...height...falling...cries...falling...crack...pain...loss…

No. He had to snap out of it.

While Sherlock seemed to be distracted, John picked up the laptop and placed it on the shelf. This wouldn't hide it for long, but hopefully Sherlock wouldn't care to look.

"I'll come over tomorrow," John said to Sherlock's concentrating form, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice or acknowledge the remark.

The doctor just shrugged his shoulders and left. Maybe the next day would hold some evidence.