Where are you? SH.
Sherlock put the phone down and pulled the milk out of the fridge, sniffing it carefully, then eyeing the sell-by date, sniffing it again and deciding it was fine. He shut off the kettle and pulled out two mugs, out of habit, then scowled at the second one.
It was irritating that John wasn't home yet. Of course, it was always irritating when John wasn't home. Even when Sherlock was working and needed to concentrate, it was annoying if John wasn't there. And he wasn't working right now, and was growing bored. There were a lot of things he wanted to do with John at the moment, especially since the terrible weather outside had kept him mostly cooped up, and he'd resorted to watching crap daytime telly with Mrs. Hudson most of the day. He wanted John to come home, so they could enjoy a cup of tea together, then a good shag. Then perhaps some dinner. Then more shagging.
He fixed his tea to his liking and briefly considered hiding the tea sugar tin just to see what John would do if the tables were turned. But no, he preferred it when John hid it on him. Sherlock smiled slightly; the little game, that had started out as a misunderstanding and an empty sugar tin, had taken on a life of its own, and once John had found a hiding place so good it had taken Sherlock the better part of a day to track it down.
At one point, he'd put his foot down about the tin leaving the flat, saying Mrs. Hudson's flat was off-limits since he couldn't necessarily get in there without breaking in, which might upset her. It wouldn't do to upset Mrs. Hudson, at least not too much. She did, after all, control their rent.
He picked up his phone, frowning at it.
John, where are you? SH.
Sherlock went back into the livingroom, mug in one hand, phone in the other, and cast about for something to do. He was tired of watching telly, since he'd done so for a good chunk of the day, and he'd given up on the book of John's he'd been trying to read. Sherlock set his phone and the tea down and stood in front of the bookshelf, trying to settle on something else, but nothing really held his interest. John had any number of bad novels, which he was always trying to impress on Sherlock. There were some ways in which Sherlock doubted John's taste. Not when it came to men, of course.
Particularly since Sherlock was the only man John found attractive, and Sherlock knew it.
He selected one of his old favourites, which he wouldn't mind rereading, and settled down, then realized John hadn't replied.
This probably meant he was in the tube, which was annoying. When were they actually going to get that blasted network set up and running? He disliked that he was out of contact with John at any point.
He unlocked the phone and rang John's number. The voicemail picked up immediately.
"You have reached John Watson…" Sherlock scowled at the bland message recorded in John's voice, then tapped his foot absently, waiting for the beep.
"John, it's Sherlock. Where are you? You're running late. I need you to call me."
He rung off, then set the phone aside, picking up his tea and sipping it.
Two minutes later, he hadn't heard back, so he tried again. He got John's voicemail once more.
"John, it's me again. Return your ruddy calls."
Sherlock put the phone aside and forced himself to read, but the more time that slipped past, the more the uneasy feeling in his stomach pushed out at him and his eyes skittered over the words on the page, his mind waiting instead for the familiar ring of his phone or the sound of the key in the front door.
Ten minutes crawled past and Sherlock tried again.
"You have reached John Watson…"
"Blast, John, answer your bloody phone!" Sherlock snapped into the voicemail silence. "Where are you? Pick up!" He waited, as though this would magically solve the problem, then rung off before trying again, getting the same result.
John, pick up your phone! SH.
No reply.
Sherlock growled, in part to cover his unease. He stood, book forgotten, and paced back and forth, glaring at his phone as though this could somehow alert John into noticing and answering.
He chewed on his lower lip and tried John's number again, getting the same result. Sherlock stopped pacing and closed his eyes, arguing with himself, telling himself not to worry. John was probably on the tube, probably delayed because of the weather, probably out of cellular signal range.
Probably not wearing a semtex vest somewhere.
He snapped his eyes open, swallowing on a gasp, then clattered down the stairs, knocking on Mrs. Hudson's door. She opened it after a moment and seemed surprised to see him.
"I need to use your phone," he said, brushing past her without waiting for an invitation, finding her telephone, an old landline style, and ringing John's number. Perhaps it was his cellular service that was not working properly.
"You have reached John Watson…"
"Blast!" Sherlock snarled, hanging up, raking his hands through his hair. Mrs. Hudson was watching him with no small amount of concern.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I can't reach John," Sherlock said shortly and she looked alarmed for a moment, then glanced toward the window.
"I'm sure he's just delayed, dear," she told him. "The weather's frightful. You know how the tubes are."
Sherlock nodded mechanically. He's fine, he told himself. He's fine, he's fine. It's just the weather.
I don't believe you, another part of his brain chimed. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Mycroft!
He pulled out his phone again quickly, then paused, because even now, this was distasteful. His brother would be pleased that Sherlock had asked for his help, and gloat in that quiet, superior and not-at-all-gloating way he had when Sherlock needed something. His thumb hovered over the phone's screen, over Mycroft's number, and he stared at the call icon, uncertain.
For John? he asked himself. Memories of John in the semtex vest replayed themselves and Sherlock felt himself shudder. He bit his lip, a final moment of indecisiveness, then hit the call icon before he could change his mind, because nothing outweighed John, no amount of self-satisfaction from Mycroft would matter if John were in trouble and he hesitated.
He breezed out of Mrs. Hudson's flat as the call rang on the other end, leaving her confused behind him, and took the stairs to his own flat three at a time. He was just shutting the door when someone answered.
"My brother. Now," Sherlock snapped.
There was a moment of silence, in which he could hear some shuffling. The tone changed as the phone was passed off and Mycroft came on the line.
"Sherlock?" he asked. "Not particularly a good time."
"John. Where's John?" Sherlock interjected, not caring about the timing, not caring about the interruption.
There was a pause.
"I don't have him with me, if that's what you're asking. Why?"
"I can't reach him," Sherlock snapped, feeling a low tremor in his stomach. He leaned against the door, staring unseeingly at the flat. It felt too large and empty all of a sudden, without John's presence.
"He's probably stuck on the tube," Mycroft said.
"He should be off the tube by now," Sherlock retorted. As though he didn't know John's schedule. As though he didn't pay attention. As though he weren't aware of where his partner was at all times.
Not right now, he realized. He had no idea.
"Sherlock, have you checked the news at all?"
Sherlock frowned, a quick, fleeting expression, eyes narrowing at a brother whom he couldn't see.
"What's that got to do with anything?" he asked, but there was suddenly a feeling like lead in his stomach and he went cold, crossing the flat in two long strides, grabbing the remote and turning the telly on, finding BBC One.
He's fine, he's fine, he's fine, he repeated, like a mantra.
"About half the central system went down thirty minutes ago," Mycroft said. "And a number of the lines further north."
Sherlock heard this with half an ear, the other part of his brain registering the newscaster's explanation.
"… reports of power failures in large portions of the tube system, particularly in the Victoria, Westminster, Soho and Bloomsbury areas in central London, as well as lines running through South Tottenham and Finsbury Park. The cause of the power outages is currently unknown, but there are unverified reports of disruptions in key transfer stations across the city. This is coupled with loss of power for residences in the South Tottenham and Finsbury Park areas, as well as regions in central London. Currently, it is unknown how many passengers are stuck on the trains, nor how many trains are aff – "
Sherlock nearly cursed out loud when the flat when dark, the telly shutting off abruptly, along with the lights, plunging him into blackness, leaving only the tiny glow from his phone to illuminate the empty-feeling flat.
"Mycroft, John is down there," Sherlock said with certainty.
"There are thousands of people down there, Sherlock, and large parts of the city without power."
"I know, I've just lost mine," Sherlock replied, but this was incidental, secondary. John was trapped in the tubes, and with the storms, it was uncertain at best when the power would be restored. "It doesn't matter. John is trapped down there."
There was a pause, then a sigh.
"Yes, and what would you like me to do about it?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it, glaring, as though Mycroft could see this – he could probably sense it, at least – then put it back, trying to hold down on a snarl.
"Find him!" he snapped. "Do not tell me that you can't, Mycroft! With all of the resources your command, you can find a man on a train!"
"In the dark, underground, without knowing what train he was on?" Mycroft enquired.
"You know what line, and you can narrow down which train based on the time and the schedules. I can give you John's usual travel schedule! You've still got power, because you'll have back up systems and back ups to those back ups."
"And you want me to pull people off other things, off dealing with all of this, to search the tubes?"
"Yes," Sherlock snarled. "What is this isn't the weather? What if this is staged?"
"You think it's Moriarty? Not really his style, is it? Nothing's blown up."
But John, John is down there. And hundreds, thousands of other people.
People died. That's what people DO!
Sherlock shuddered the memory away and glanced across his darkened flat toward the windows. Outside, it was eerily, unnaturally dark and he found himself crossing the floor, avoiding obstacles from memory, to peer outside. The street was lit with headlights, phones and torches, but nothing else. No street lamps, no lights from other flats in the area, no signs, no traffic lights.
Not today, he thought. Even if it was the weather, not today. Not John. Not ever.
"Send a car," he said to his brother. "Get your people down there. You want to be concerned about me and brotherly? Then find John, Mycroft. Get your people down there and find John."