Chapter III
"messages"
Winter this year is awful and Sherlock is soon shivering, soaking wet under his paper-thick coat when he runs out from the ghostly warehouse. Snow melts onto his flushed face quickly, its crystals constantly getting caught up between his eyelashes. It's mid-afternoon, street lanterns already drawing circles of fierce orange, blue and gray across his eyelids, puddles as deep as an ocean catching one of his feet from time to time into their depths. Sherlock stumbles, lack of nicotine going up to his head. He didn't have time to buy new patches, he didn't have time to sleep, to eat, to think out his actions thoroughly. It's all going to hell, piece by piece.
A sudden noise sobers him up a bit, a buzzing sensation going up his tight. He quickly snatches his mobile from the pocket, its pink as bubblegum casing looking as out of place and ironic as usually.
There's an icon of some new messages. He pushes the buttons blindly, trying to unblock the keyboard. He leans on a banister leading up some staircase to a three-storeyed block of flats. This time he's not even surprised upon not noticing it earlier, mind focused on just one thing.
Where are you, John?
His fingers are cold and the mobile burns his hand with its heat, making Sherlock quiver with frustration. A rambling stream of curses is the only sound being heard in the alley the moment he perceives he cannot unblock the mobile.
"The hell is wrong with it now?" He's got no time for that, hands trembling. This mobile has never caused him any problems so far. Now the time for some, huh? The realization dawns on him the next second.
He forgot the password.
He forgot the motherfucking password.
"FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" It must be a dream, a messed up, horrible nightmare. Firstly John, then that pitiful excuse of a brother and now the only thing being able to help him get his blogger back. The whole pent up anger, frustration of those past few lonely nights get to Sherlock finally. He kicks his feet around, coat opening and swaying around him like some cheap parody of bat's wings. He's cold, hungry and tired. Tired of worrying, trying to keep up his cold mask of a face, to not feel afraid after the meeting with Moriarty. It's all too surreal to be true, even the snow on his lips tastes funny, lemon-like. Finally, he slams his big toe on the metal banister in front of him and accidentally, one of his hands too. "Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"
It all hurts like hell and Sherlock's fairly sure he's just broken one of his fingers, tears gathering in his eyes at the pain. Or maybe something else too? He grits his teeth at the thought, salty, lemon-like water pouring lazily down his cheeks.
It's been already eight days since John was gone and that bastard, that pompous brat didn't find it important, didn't find it needed to pass the knowledge of that fact on him.
Sherlock thought John stayed the whole week at Sarah's. It was... highly probable, at least in the beginning. He himself told Sherlock that after so many rows the two have had in the previous months, it was high time for him, John, to get some fresh air. To be with someone who truly admired and liked him for who he was. And he certainly wasn't anybody's sidekick.
And so, with two suitcases full of clothes, books and a new shiny laptop tucked under his arm, John Watson left Baker Street on Monday, the 17th at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning and took a cab directly to...
Where to, exactly?
Sherlock promised himself that day, after playing violin just for kicks for at least an hour as there was no one currently to tell him off for doing so, that he wouldn't call. Neither that day, nor the next one. He would wait for the doctor to give in and admit he had been wrong for leaving him behind just like some old piece of furniture.
But the call never came.
Sherlock, to his own astonishment, was beginning to get worried after the fourth day without any signal from John. Sure, it did happen before that one of them would disappear soundlessly into the night but never without contacting the other at least two days after such a decision. Days without John beside him, were BORING. Boring, boring, boring and well. Lifeless, to sum up all of Sherlock's thoughts on the whole situation in just one word. He couldn't ask anyone to look for the phone he had in his breast pocket, check out latest updates on John's blog peeking from behind his arm, sip tea for hours in that warm kitchen of theirs while John would read his newspaper. And he couldn't drink milk once again, for as always the fridge had been deprived of it earlier by no one else but John.
It was sad to not have John for such a long time around. He texted him that evening, on 21th at exactly 8 o'clock in the evening, asking where the hell he thought he was. He texted Sarah and Harry too. And Lestrade, just to mess up with the poor guy's head.
Sarah wrote him that she hadn't seen John for two weeks now for she was currently in France, doing some business Sherlock didn't even bother to read about. And Harry called him some minutes later, slurring and mixing up words he couldn't understand at all.
John should have called immediately, just like always. But a call from him never came.
Sherlock has never panicked before, especially because of some trivial things like emotions. And over people, pawns in the whole game of the universe.
But it was and is all about John.
John.
John.
John.
John.
That's it! "John" is the password!
Sherlock types it quickly, almost dropping the phone in relief. He goes to the messages' section. There are two new messages, both from... No one?
Sherlock doesn't want to admit it, but with every minute he doesn't know where John actually is, he slowly begins to feel somewhat frightened and vulnerable . He opens the first one with a quivering finger, half wishing it to be Mycroft complaining about his broken cheekbone. Stupid scoundrel, Sherlock should have, now he's sure of it, break something far more dear to a human than just a single bone. A whole ribcage would have suited him just fine.
The first message is only two lines long but it's enough to make his insides stop.
Puppy's sick. Fancy a shot?
But it's the other one that does the trick and Sherlock fists a scream of utter frustration and misery.
Oops. No cash left, oh dear.
He tries to steady his breath afterwards, gritting his teeth. The next second he's waving for a cab.
Something tells Sherlock he must get home as soon as possible.