A/N: Sorry for the delay. I've been Ill because of the stupid heat so I had no energy to write.
This chapter will be from John's point of view.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Enjoy.
John's life went downhill instantly since Sherlock left. Everything around him felt different, even 221B felt cold these days with no Sherlock prancing around, either playing the violin, or doing some mad ass experiment. John left everything exactly how it was; the violin propped against the wall near the sofa, the experiments dotted precariously around the kitchen, so that if Sherlock were to return everything would be just how he liked it.
He was currently sat on the sofa, laptop on his knees, gazing around at the flat. The wall that Sherlock shot still wasn't fixed, and the TV that John bought months ago lay gathering dust in the far corner. He half expected Sherlock to strut in, say he had a case, and strut out again. In fact, he would give anything for that to actually happen, anything to get rid of the emptiness and guilt that he felt at this precise moment.
He slammed the laptop shut and placed it on the table. He couldn't just sit here whilst his best friend was god knows where, having god knows what done to him. Sherlock gave up his freedom so that John and the others were safe, but what was the point in being safe when your life is dull and meaningless all the time?
He needed to talk to Lestrade, get it into his head that Sherlock wasn't a fake and that Moriarty was real. Lestrade wasn't aware that Sherlock risked his life for him, he didn't know that the consulting detective actually cared for him. No, instead he listened to the likes of Donovan and hunted Sherlock down.
His stomach dropped as he remembered Donovan's name. He saw on the news what had happened to Anderson, and he knew who was behind it. Surely Lestrade would listen now that one of his own officers was dead.
He got up, grabbed a jacket and made his way downstairs. Once he got outside he called a cab and told the driver to take him to Scotland Yard. He pulled out his phone and dialled the familiar number that belonged to Sherlock.
"Sorry this number is no longer in service."
His stomach twisted as the phone cut off, leaving a dull silence. Sherlock's phone was his last lifeline and now he didn't even have that.
Reaching Scotland Yard, John noticed that the place where Anderson was shot was taped off. Faint red patches could still be seen on the floor along with something that looked suspiciously like vomit.
He made his way inside and up to Lestrade's office.
Lestrade was sat behind his desk, his head in his hands and a large pile of paperwork in front of him. He looked up as John entered and smiled faintly.
"John, what can I do for you?"
"I wanted to talk about.. Anderson," John said slowly, sitting down opposite the DI.
Lestrade's face tightened slightly, "What about him?"
John wrung his hands together and bit his bottom lip, "It was Moriarty who killed him."
"Moriarty doesn't ex-"
"Yes he does!" John interrupted, his hands now clenching into fists, "He does exist, Lestrade. He tried to blow me up, he was the one that had Anderson killed."
Lestrade wiped his brow with one hand, "John, look we -" he broke off as Donovan walked into the room, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of John.
"What are you doing here?" She spat, moving around the desk so that she stood next to Lestrade.
"Talking to Greg, what does it look like?" John replied coolly.
"If you're here about freak then we don't care," she said, "he's played you and now he's run off with that Richard Brook guy. I reckon they both set it up, and you fell for it."
"Richard Brook doesn't exist, Moriarty does. Seems like you're the one who fell for it," John sighed, "Moriarty has taken Sherlock, come on Lestrade, you were there when Mycroft told us."
Lestrade shook his head, "I don't have time for this, John. I need to sort out Anderson's paperwork and then try and find out what happened."
"Moriarty is the one -" he broke off, he was wasting his time. No one wanted to know, Lestrade had turned back to the paperwork and Donovan was sneering at him.
"If Sherlock was who he said he was then where is he? Where is this Moriarty that no one else has seen, hm? Where are they?" She asked, her eyebrows raised.
"I told you, Moriarty has taken Sherlock!" John said, his voice laced with frustration.
Donovan only shook her head, "They're both fakes, John. I told you to stay away from him, and now you see why."
John stood up and made his way to the door, "Sherlock is not a fake, and neither is Moriarty. I'll prove it to both of you."
"Go for it," Donovan shrugged, "It's your life that's being wasted, not ours."
John stopped with his hand on the door knob, "Yeah, I'm sure Anderson would say the same thing."
He watched as Donovan's face paled, and then left the room, a look of satisfaction on his face.
Okay back to Sherlock now.
Sherlock was getting fed up now. He was still in the small room, with the same large TV, except this time Moriarty had it tuned into British daytime television and Sherlock was now being forced to watch the Jeremy Kyle show. He half wished he could reach his gun, either to shoot the TV or himself, whichever would stop the pounding headache that he now had.
He wasn't sure where Moriarty went or even where he was, only that it was cold all the time. Going by the walls however, it looked as though he was in some sort of warehouse. That would also explain the complete lack of heat.
Moriarty had also decided to handcuff him to a small bed, making sure that Sherlock could always see the TV. The volume was kept up loud to ensure that Sherlock couldn't avoid it, even if he closed his eyes. The screams from the TV were seriously starting to drive Sherlock insane, and he tensed his face up in a bid to try and ease the headache that was now threatening to explode.
He hoped that John was now safe, and that he would slowly get over him. He also hoped that Mycroft would find out some sort of plan and save him. His brother was the British Government so it couldn't be that hard to do. He hadn't eaten since he arrived at this place, and was now starting to feel weak. Every part of his body ached from the attack and along with no food or water, was starting to make his life very difficult.
The door opened and Sherlock glanced over at Moriarty.
"Where do you keep going?" Sherlock croaked, his mouth painfully dry.
Moriarty flicked the TV off and beamed, "Business."
Sherlock didn't want to know what "business" meant, only that innocent people were bound to die again instead he closed his eyes and dropped his head onto the pillow, he could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness and felt his body welcoming it.
He was back at 221B Baker Street and it was Christmas time. John was sat in his usual chair, gripping a glass of white wine and humming along to the music that played. Mrs Hudson was lighting the fire and placing decorations around the flat, and he was sat on the sofa, violin on his shoulder, playing slow notes.
The door opened and Molly walked in, along with Lestrade and some others that he didn't know the name of. They took off their coats and smiled as they gazed around at the flat and how amazing it looked that night. Multi coloured lights trailed the windows, and tinsel hung low on the bookshelves. A small tree sat in one corner with green and red baubles hanging upon it, and three stocking were sitting on the mantelpiece above the fireplace.
Sherlock kept playing the violin, his eyes locked on the window, and pretended to be non different about it all although deep down he was happy. For once, he truly belonged somewhere.
A loud crash woke him up, and he looked over to see Moriarty smashing the TV with a metal pole. He caught Sherlock's eye and grinned.
"Your turn."