It's been over two weeks of waiting and John is feeling restless. His muscles are painfully tense, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice. He's packed his bag, just the essentials – a change of clothes, a map, and binoculars, basically everything he needs for tracking. All he needs now is a direction and there have been no definitive news. John finds it oddly disconcerting that Mycroft, the British government, the most dangerous man he'd ever meet according to Sherlock (although in hindsight that was before he'd met Moriarty), the Mycroft Holmes had no news of his brother whatsoever.

There have been a couple of dubious leads, hotel reservations across several countries. John, as determined as he is, cannot be in five to ten places at once. And Mycroft's men can only know Sherlock through the file Mycroft has on him. They are not equipped, despite all their elite training, to deal with him, to find him, as well as John could. John knows Sherlock for real, the only one who had ever gotten close, the one who had come the closest; and that is his biggest advantage.

John wants to scream, to punch something, to do anything actually. Might even take to shooting the wall. He is so sick and so bored of all this waiting. He wants to find the stubborn tosser as soon as possible before anything remotely horrible happens to him, something that John won't be able to fix.

John has paced the floor of 221B so many times that he's worn patterns into the rug. He's dialed Mycroft so many times the past few days, promptly hanging up before the call is put through, before the first ring. He needs Mycroft to focus, to filter through all the extraneous details and reports and find the one that'll lead them to Sherlock. Mycroft needs to focus right now, and screaming in his ear will do neither of them any good. It won't even settle John's nerves, not even a little bit. And Mycroft is probably just as frustrated as John feels, having had no decent leads despite his numerous contacts and resources. It probably doesn't happen to him that often.

And so John waits and he waits and he feels like he's losing his mind. Finally, the restlessness becomes too much and John just grabs his coat and leaves, searching for a lead of his own.

For some reason, he feels compelled to head to Battersea Power Station where he had once met Irene Adler. He retraces his steps, remembering where the mysterious woman had led him, himself thinking that it was actually Mycroft's doing. He remembers the colour blue, the tall windows and the high ceilings, as well as the wall of buttons and levers. He pictures Irene Adler walking out to meet him, recalls his shock giving way to the anger and hurt on Sherlock's behalf.

He wishes he could have thanked her in some way. Sherlock had seen the body in the morgue, had thought she was dead and yet she wasn't. John had seen Sherlock fall, felt the absence of a pulse and yet he wasn't dead either. If Irene hadn't set precedent, he would have stayed in the flat, sitting limply and staring blankly, feeling sorry for himself, feeling sorry in general.

He shakes his head roughly, not wanting to relive the crippling and paralyzing wave of sadness. He's alive. Sherlock is alive, he thinks for good measure, trying to fill himself with hope instead. The thought resonates within him, and that happy warmth starts spreading through his body and his heart starts beating just a little bit faster as if exerting all its efforts to carry that hope. Sherlock is alive and you'll find him and you'll finally be home. Because home is wherever he is. Home is by Sherlock's side with his gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans and a mouthful of praises that never conveys enough of everything. The consulting detective and his loyal blogger, John smiles at the thought.

He takes in the room once more with familiar eyes. He notices how the windows paint the room in light and shadows and he can appreciate why Irene would choose this place for her big reveal. Sherlock would have loved the drama of it too. He wonders why he felt like coming here. As if he'd find something. As if Sherlock Holmes would just walk out and say "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner." I would punch him so hard he won't even know what day-

The thought freezes in his head as he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.

"No," he whispers and despite the warm sunlight pouring from the windows, he feels a sudden chill of excitement. "It isn't possible," he says a bit louder, but his heart is thumping fast in his chest and he can't seem to move. Sherlock couldn't possibly be in London without Mycroft knowing, John thinks. He just couldn't. And yet Sherlock does the impossible all the time. It's what he does. It's what heroes do.

Hell, I didn't think he was alive until just a few weeks ago.

He clenches his fists after a few minutes, as if to remind himself that he can actually move. He whips a phone out of his pocket and releases a breath of air he hadn't known he was holding. It was just Mycroft.

Slovakia. Sending car to your location. It's all in there. Earliest flight leaving right now. I'll have them hold the plane for you. – MH

John doesn't even ask Mycroft how he knows where he is. He doesn't even want to think about what the other people on that flight must be thinking, who they must think they're waiting for. Has to be someone bloody important. Anyone less than the Queen would be silly.

John lets out a breath of laughter, remembering what Sherlock had said when they had tea at the palace. One last look around the place and John turns and marches out of there. The game is on.

Author's Note: wow, three updates this week. Hmm. Anyone tired of nothing happening yet? lol. Next chapter will be gore-y. sort of. About as much as I can write it anyway. REVIEWS MAKE ME HAPPY. :)