Okay so I'm introducing a new P.O.V.: Mycroft. I'm not sure whether I'll be using it again but it just felt right for this chapter.
I hope you guys agree with my take on Sherlock when he's agitated, once again I just went on instinct.
Enjoy, love BellaD

Mycroft's P.O.V.

I silently observed the lean figure of my brother, sitting with his violin clasped under his chin on John's chair in 221b Baker street. The only sign Sherlock was aware of my presence was a single shrill note before he resumed coaxing a haunting melody out of the rosewood violin. As I approached him from behind I saw a piece of creamy paper tucked in the chest pocket of his shirt.
Just the fact that he had not yet snarled at me was a worrying sign.
"What do you want Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was resigned, with a hint of raw, agonizing pain.

" I assume you've been tracking John's movements on the internet then?" I figured the hurt in his voice could only be caused by his acceptance of what he was going to let happen: John's death.
"John was a good man 'Lockie. You should at least TRY to persuade him from this suicide mission of his!" I wasn't shouting, but I was astonishingly close. John had been good for my brother. I thought Sherlock might actually care for this one. Apparently I was wrong.

"You know I hate it when you call me 'Lock... Wait.. suicide mission! What-do-you-mean suicide mission!" hmm... apparently he hadn't been keeping up with John. He clearly didn't like the sound of John and suicide in adjacent sentences... I had not heard him meld his words together like that since he was three.
" Well Lockie," I drawled, pulling a laptop out of my suitcase, "there's this thing called a laptop, and if you had put your self-pity on hold long enough to check it you might have already known."

My brother sent me a glare cold enough to freeze the sun, before looking down at the screen. I watched his face transform as he read the message written over and over on the message boards I had loaded on various tabs.

Fear-anger-hurt-fright-exasperation-fury-worry,all flitted across my brother's lean features in the blink of an eye; before he stood up and whirled furiously through the apartment. Flashing through incoherent sentences as he thought and deduced.

Sherlock's P.O.V.

How had I expected a bloody idiotic TWAT like John to stay safe. Bloody-minded adrenalin junky with a hero complex the size of London bridge!
My anger fuelled my mind as I threw things into a bag. I ignored Mycroft's amused smirk and flung deductions at him as if they might wipe that damned look off his face.

"Can't have gone by public transport, too easy to track. Can't use a car, not mobile enough. So, motorbike it is. But John doesn't know how to... of course! Strong grip and powerful twist in his hand, good balance, loves speed, impatient with traffic. Of COURSE John would have learned to drive a motorbike.

My eyes flitted across the room. What else did I... oh, yes, obviously. I dashed briefly into my room. Emerging seconds later in full motorbike leather. With a grin plastered on my face, I saluted Mycroft before dashing out the door.
If I was going to find John I was going to need transport equally fast as his. And I knew just the Italian restaurant that could help me out.

I kept my end of the bargain, with six reviews the poem was posted and a new chapter was put up before the end of the week. I got some nice reviews about my poem ( I know my writing style is rather abstract, so thanks for bearing with me on that).
I say we do the same again, I get six (or more) reviews and there will be another poem and a chapter up within a week. Deal?
Lots o' love, BellaD

PS. Lumoa, I edited chapter six and hope it makes more sense, I know my writing is a bit confusing at times! oh and thanks for the poem X) I'm glad you liked mine :D