Sherlock woke up, surprised John wasn't at the hospital yet. 'He must have been really tired', Sherlock thought to himself. After several more hours and still no sign of John, Sherlock began to worry. Sherlock watched the hospital carefully and planned his escape. If John was in danger, he needed to rescue him. After hiding in several utility closets, behind trees, and exiting out the back, Sherlock was able to escape the hospital with nothing but his gown on. He hailed for a cab (which was slightly more difficult than usual) and rode back to Baker Street. As he approached the front door he knew something was wrong. The lock was broken and knocker was straight instead of slightly tilted to the right, someone with OCD then, but not his brother because the foot prints and the finger prints on the door handle were to large, a taller man then. As he entered the flat he knew in an instant who it was, a foul scent filled his senses and his stomach turned as he growled the name,
"Charles Augustus Magnussen."
He quickly climbed the staircase and began to slightly panic about John's safety. What he had hurt John? Even worse, what of he had killed him? He did nothing short of kicking down the door and stomping into the room, his eyes quickly falling on Charles, who had made himself comfortable on their couch. Sherlock groaned and searched the room for John, but only saw 2 other men who had accompanied Charles. He didn't take any thought before lashing out,
"What have you done with John? Where is he? If you lay one finger on him I swear..."
"Nice to see you too", Charles replied in a calm tone.
"I'm serious, where is John"
"I have no idea where your little 'pet' is. Though I'm surprised he's not here, he usually follows you around like a little puppy."
Sherlock lunged forward and reached his arms out grabbing for Charles neck. His men were quick to stop Sherlock though and they grabbed him holding his arms back and pushing him into a chair.
"That's really not a good idea Sherlock."
Sherlock just glared in response and tried to free himself from the death grip of Charles' men.
"Is the bathroom like the rest of the flat?" Charles asked in disgust.
"Yes sir." One of the two suites men replied. Charles sighed and walked over to the fire place, unzipped his pants, and began to urinate. Sherlock wrinkled his eyebrows in confusion at the man's odd behavior and sighed.
"I'm going to ask you one last time, where is John?" Sherlock spat out, through gritted teeth.
"Once again Sherlock, I don't know where he is and I honestly don't care." The man zipped his pants up on the last word, and turned to face Sherlock.
"A shame that you trusted Mary, your skills are lacking Sherlock, is this because of sentiment? Weren't you the one who always reminded people that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side? Does that you the loser Sherlock?" With that Charles walked to the door, gesturing for his men to follow. "It was nice seeing you Sherlock, glad to see you're not dead."
Sherlock walked to the window and watched as the man left the flat and entered a car, driving a way. He walked away from the window and walked to his bedroom, collapsing onto his bed. 'This gunshot wound is really getting in my way', Sherlock thought to himself as he felt the pain begin to overtake his body. As he rolled over he noticed a note lying on the bed. He grabbed it and unfolded it, instantly recognizing Mary's hand writing. His heart stopped for a second but he quickly read the letter.
Sherlock,
I have something that you might want. You owe me, after all I did save your life. Let's meet up, you have my number, call or text me with the location.
Much love,
Mary
Sherlock whipped out his phone and texted Mary a location and a time quickly pulling himself out of his bed. He changed into some actual clothes and rushed out the door, his eyes welling with the pain from his injury. His injury could wait though, John was in danger and there was no way he could lose the one person he loved.