The Case of the Missing Detectives

by Little Jessit

After Sherlock's fall, John finds himself in the middle of a string of police kidnappings. At the same time, he has a growing suspicion that his friend may not be dead after all. John can only hope he lives long enough to find out the truth.

8. Chapter 8

John spent the remainder of his afternoon and evening wandering about London, considering what he knew. Rather than dissipate his anger at Mycroft, John's walk seemed to have strengthened it. Why did talking with Mycroft always lead to more questions than answers? Why would he prevent an autopsy? Why would he have Sherlock's body removed? What did Mycroft have to hide?

Eventually finding himself standing in front of 221B, John pounded up the steps to the flat. After removing his jacket he put on the kettle for tea and opened the refrigerator. No bloody milk. In a fit of fury John did something he had not done for over 18 months. He took out his phone and texted Sherlock. Childish, he knew, but satisfying.

Text message sent 9:27PM: Where are you? Need milk. -JW

Throwing his phone onto the couch, John turned back to the kitchen to turn off the kettle. He had just opened a cabinet in search of something to replace the tea when he heard a sound from the living room. It couldn't be, he thought to himself. Unless he was going crazy, he had just heard his phone's text alert noise. John's heart skipped several beats. It could just be a coincidence – Lestrade wanting to grab a pint, or Harry complaining about another fight with Clara.

After rummaging around in the sofa cushions, John picked up his phone. Sure enough, a new text message had arrived, but from a blocked number.

Text message received 9:36PM: 32 Church Street. 10:00PM. Might be dangerous. -SH

Looking at the clock, John saw that it was nearly twenty minutes to ten. A quick estimate told him that, if he were lucky and caught a cab right away, he might be able to make it to Church Street in time. John threw on his jacket and ran halfway down the stairs before turning around. Might be dangerous, the text had warned. He ran up the stairs to his bedroom and removed his gun from his bedside table. Then he flew down both flights of stairs into the street, not registering Mrs. Hudson's scolding as the door slammed loudly in his wake. As if on cue, a taxi turned onto Baker Street.

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