A/N: The mystery plot is very loosely based on Arthur Conan Doyle's Adventure of the Five Orange Pips. Hope you enjoy! As always, reviewers are loved :)

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Chapter 5: Searching (1)

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John was running down the street, dialling Sherlock's number over and over again, before remembering he'd confiscated his phone that morning in case Mycroft tried to pry. He still couldn't believe Sherlock would just vanish like that after what they'd had. Thinking back on the sex and the jam, John could still feel the kisses given with reverence on his foot and stomach, the touch full of wonder that had sometimes seemed almost... loving. What could possibly have happened for Sherlock to rush out like that without a second thought for John? The doctor could see only one explanation: Sherlock had been more hurt by their little argument than he'd thought, and was now changing his mind, running away and... God knows what he intended to do.

John was very angry with his... whatever Sherlock was to him now, but fear overrode his irritation. Before all this ordeal he wouldn't have worried so much about his friend going off without warning, and would merely have felt annoyed and left out. But things had changed. He didn't trust Sherlock to take care of his own life. The idea was absurd but John knew the consulting detective hadn't been far from offing himself. And that was just yesterday, he thought bitterly.

Truth be told, with hindsight he wasn't sure Sherlock was the type to commit suicide. Or was he? What kind of 'type' would fit Sherlock anyway? He'd kept surprising John for the last thirty-six hours or so. His dance had fascinated him, his disappearance had terrified him – and never before had he thought of Sherlock as a danger to himself. Then he'd come rushing to the hospital, believing something had happened to John, and the doctor had never seen him more broken, not even during the Baskerville case. Then he just went on from surprise to surprise.

Sherlock stopping to talk.

Sherlock spreading his legs on his bed to let him have his way, face blank.

Sherlock letting go of the gun to come up to him and embrace him.

Sherlock kissing and sucking and biting his scar and stitches, making a mess.

Sherlock playing the violin piece he associated with him most while he was dancing.

Sherlock reacting to the belt.

Sherlock demanding more.

Sherlock reaching his climax with a whimper.

Sherlock being shy the next morning.

Sherlock confessing his friendship as if he were proposing.

Sherlock on his knees in the shower.

Sherlock finding a way to eat jam.

Sherlock coming just from the sight of him coming.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock...

He had to find him.

xXx

While John was leaving 221B in a frenzy, Sherlock was already buying a ticket at Victoria Station and catching a train bound for Horsham.

The ride wasn't long, but enough for the consulting detective to drown in his own thoughts. He was trying to focus on the case, but it was so easy he knew he'd figured out everything before he even got to Horsham. Just needed a bit more proof for Lestrade, though.

Lestrade. It wasn't the first time he'd snapped at the man. So why had John been so angry? He was usually upset when he was a prick with Mrs. Hudson or Molly, and Sherlock thought of it as John's natural gallantry. But he didn't usually get so irritated from Sherlock just refusing a case.

Right. Except that hadn't been a case. Just as he'd deduced, Lestrade had come because he was worried. Why was he worried? What had John told him? Sherlock couldn't bear the thought of the whole yard laughing at him or sending him pitying looks because he'd been...

He shivered. He had managed to annoy both Lestrade and John in the span of a minute. He wasn't too worried about Lestrade, because he was quite certain bringing him the culprit on a platter would be enough to be forgiven, but John...? Memories flashed before his eyes and he fidgeted a bit in his seat. He would never have guessed that one day he'd find his flatmate so beautiful. It truly was the word, he thought, remembering John's face as he lay back in rapture, coming completely undone in his arms. 'I love you!'

Sherlock swallowed with difficulty as he tried to concentrate on the landscape outside the window. He'd heard the words perfectly well, thank you very much. But what was he supposed to answer? He'd been so shocked to hear it that it had rendered him speechless. That, and John spreading his legs under him and screaming as he came all over him. Beautiful. He blushed furiously and fixed his gaze on the scenery in an awkward manner. God, this is so stupid.

But then he'd wondered. Had John expected him to say "me too"? Was that why he'd refused any other experiment before the night, and also the reason he'd snapped so easily and ran after Lestrade? Sherlock considered the thought. If love was purely physiological, then he definitely loved John. His body reacted to him even more than it had to Irene Adler – and he'd definitely been attracted to her. But John was above all his friend. Flatmate. Colleague. He was just so much more than Sherlock's image of a lover that he wasn't quite sure the word fit him.

All he knew was that now he'd met him, he wouldn't be complete without him. In a very basic, practical sense of course: John was his partner in Work and his blogger. He was amazing as a conductor of light and Sherlock found he made his own genius even greater. He recorded every case they did, always taking notes, being his biographer and very first admirer, bestowing sense and meaning on his life. Naturally it was nothing logical, and what the detective did was nothing like the romantic adventures John described on his blog. What he did was a science, that of deduction, but John didn't seem to care much for that and focused on unnecessary details instead – what he knew and didn't know, what he did and why he did things – always interpreting Sherlock's actions very freely, making him look human. Sherlock didn't think he was very human, but John told facts and then wrote words that didn't make sense to Sherlock but that made him seem... human. And he could almost believe him.

In any case Sherlock felt somehow fuller with John around. It wasn't very rational, but if he wished to rationalize, then he'd say that John was his doctor and kept his health in check, his colleague who protected him when the need arose, his blogger who brought more clients and so more cases, chasing the boredom away. He was so much part of his life that Sherlock kept talking to him even when he was no longer in the room. His presence always surrounded him.

Having John confess to him had made Sherlock very scared and very happy all at once. Scared, because he had no idea what the proper behaviour was in such situations, but he was pretty sure he'd messed up since he hadn't answered anything, almost passing out from the orgasm, and too knocked out afterwards to explain. Not that he knew how he could have explained what he felt. He wasn't even sure himself.

He'd been happy, though, because he'd felt relief. If John loved him, he was more likely to stay. His joy had been short-lived however, when he realized that unlike friendship, love was rarely very lasting, except in books. John was straight, and Sherlock couldn't imagine him not wanting children. He'd marry someone eventually and build a family. He'd leave.

If he was straight, how could he tell Sherlock he loved him? The detective knew it hadn't been a lie – the cry had been too pure, too raw. Unalloyed. That didn't mean however that John was right. He believed what he was saying, but how could he be so sure it was love? Obviously, because of the sex. So John loved him because of the sex. Perfectly logical assumption.

Well, he probably loved him as a friend, too, or he wouldn't have put up with him till now. But he did say that he wanted him from day one. Would he stay, then? Now that he'd had him? Or would it have been better if he always kept hoping, having a reason to stay? What if he grew bored? Sherlock shivered. What if he himself grew bored? He dismissed the thought. John could never be boring, because even when he was (and he had been, at times), he wasn't. That was perfectly logical, too.

No, it wasn't. And that was the problem. John wasn't logical at all. He wanted the thrill and needed Sherlock for that, fine. But he was also a very, very proud man and Sherlock certainly didn't stroke his ego, quite the contrary. Yet he continued being his flatmate. John wasn't one to trust people easily, yet he'd trusted him of all people, when no one else did. Nobody was ever sure with him, and Sherlock was used to it by now. People doubting him. But John didn't, ever. John called him an idiot for putting his life on the line just to prove he was clever, but he didn't call him a psychopath. He even disagreed with his own assertion of high-functioning sociopathy. John trusted him, would trust him with his life – and that terrified Sherlock who was at a loss as to what to do with such faith.

John put too much hope into him, admired him far too greatly. Sherlock just knew he'd disappoint him one day – irreversibly. One time too many. And if Sherlock thought he could deal with a straight John leaving him for a wife and children, he knew he wouldn't bear it if John just turned away from him, and left him because of him. Because of what he was. A freak – never a hero.

As he felt something sink inside his chest, he shook his head and tried to get a grip, distracting himself with the case at hand.

John Openshaw lived in Horsham but he was killed near Waterloo Bridge so he was followed.

Elias Openshaw was killed in Horsham Park Duck Pond.

Joseph Openshaw was killed on Portsdown Hill where he'd gone to visit an old friend.

The question was : why did John Openshaw come to the police in London ? Because he was not believed in Horsham. The killer must have thought there was some danger for him, since he didn't wait for John's return and followed him to London to get rid of the threat. Elias was killed because he was to give the killer some papers which he burnt in challenge. Joseph was killed because he was explicitly asked to give those papers back, but obviously couldn't since they had been destroyed. John was merely the next on the list, with the same impossibility to comply. Fortunately for him, Sherlock thought, he didn't have any children. Well, 'fortunately'...

John's grandparents divorced when their sons were very young still, and Mr. Openshaw moved to Texas bringing little Elias with him, while the mother stayed in England with Joseph.

Elias Openshaw came back from the States in the 1970s, not liking the turn things took after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act in 1965, it seems. Segregationist, then. He moved to Sussex where his brother Joseph still lived, along with his friend James Calhoun, a university pal, and they opened the Lone Star. Joseph, on the other hand, had become a history teacher. After his first wife's demise from illness, he was left with little John who was only 5 at the time, and two years later he remarried. His second wife was his colleague Adanna Ndiaye, who specialized in Africa's Modern History. The two brothers, who weren't very close to begin with, stopped talking to each other altogether after the wedding, but little John was a boy much to Elias's liking and he always welcomed his brother's kid whether at home or in the Lone Star. John was well-known among the clients and spent more time with his uncle than with his own father, although he loved his stepmother very dearly.

Three years after her wedding with Joseph Openshaw, Adanna Ndiaye went missing and was never to be found. It was a blow to the poor man, who could no longer keep up his job as a teacher and opened a small bookshop. His brother, Elias, worried for his brother's health after his loss, dropped his position as co-founder of the Lone Star, and let Calhoun handle it alone, while he henceforth worked at the bookshop with Joseph. This lovely reunion of the two brothers who heartily disliked each other didn't seem to bother anyone. Idiots, Sherlock thought. They believed it was only natural they'd reconcile when Joseph was so depressed and couldn't take care of his son anymore – they were brothers, after all. Nobody considered it the other way round : that perhaps Elias had wanted to leave the Lone Star, and not to help his brother. John had told the police in his report that he didn't go to the bar so much after that – nor did his uncle. It didn't strike anyone as strange that the two best friends, Elias and James Calhoun, would grow apart so suddenly and for no other reason than Elias changing jobs.

The night he received the orange pips, Elias, in a fit of rage, burnt a whole case of papers from his student days in Texas, then went out. He never came back, and was found the next day drowned in Horsham Park Duck Pond. The police concluded it was an accident, as the body they found was that of a drunk man. Only John had witnessed the reception of the peculiar letter, for he was, as usual, hanging around his uncle's place that night. He saw his uncle's rage. But no one took him seriously, all the more so as the envelope and the pips were never found when they searched the flat. John himself was so shaken he ended up believing he might have invented it all.

That is, until his father received the very same warning, this time with a few typed words : Put the papers on the parking meter. There was only one parking meter they could think of, which was in front of the bookshop. The problem was, they no longer had said papers. Joseph Openshaw didn't take it seriously and was found dead the next day in Portsdown Hill where he'd gone to visit an old friend.

This time John Openshaw could show the police the five orange pips, but his father had just fallen at twilight over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, so the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes'. Nobody cared about pips and a suspicious envelope.

Hence Openshaw's panic upon receiving the dreaded warning himself. He took the first train to London to talk to the police there, but nobody believed him either. He was found dead a few days later without any sign of violence on the body, but this time the cause of death was suspicious enough to alert the police – since he had sounded so afraid to die only a few days before, they couldn't conclude suicide. If he'd come to me, that man would still be alive, Sherlock thought grimly if a little smugly.

Now, the question was: why was there no sign of violence whatsoever on the bodies when they obviously had been killed? Because the killer must be someone they knew. All three of them. And in the file Lestrade had shown him, only one person appeared to have been close enough to the three victims, although he was only mentioned once, and no one had paid any attention to him.

xXx

John had been roaming the streets of London for two hours already, asking every homeless person if they knew Sherlock and had seen him, texting Lestrade in case he'd gone to the Met for some reason – but John didn't think so. He'd checked all the places they had gone to together, anything he could think of from the Chinese restaurant to the National Gallery. After an hour of fruitless searching, he was so worried he actually called Mycroft, but the idiot didn't answer his phone – he just replied with a text saying he was busy but would love to see John later in the evening. He'd actually sent one of those black cars after him, John had noticed, and presently a beautiful woman (the third in the span of an hour) was waiting for him at a street corner beside the car.

"John?"

"Yes, it's me, but tell Mycroft he can just take my calls if he wants to talk to me! Oh and inform him his brother is missing, by the way."

He dashed off before she could answer anything. John was very angry with Holmes the elder for treating the matter so lightly. He hadn't even wanted to call him at first because he felt stupid for letting Sherlock out of his sight, and guilty that he had left without a word. He shouldn't have reacted to him like he usually did – he was a doctor, for God's sake, and he knew the dos and don't with rape victims! Yet he'd snapped at Sherlock for being his usual jerky self. It was irresponsible as a doctor, unforgivable as a friend. How could he have been so stupid?

Well... because Sherlock had seemed fine. Precisely because he'd just been moping about, whining for a case to come and then had rejected Lestrade who was bringing him one. It was such a familiar situation that John had almost forgotten what Sherlock had been through just the previous day, how fragile his mind must have been. He'd snapped and left him alone in the flat.

The past two days had been so confusing John still didn't know what to make of it. He didn't know where they stood, didn't know what Sherlock was to him (everything, a voice whispered in his mind), what he was to Sherlock... Obviously, not much, if he'd give up everything after one little argument which wasn't even serious.

Don't be ridiculous, John. The matter of the argument isn't the problem – you leaving him was the problem.

But why would Sherlock have been hurt to the extent of vanishing without even leaving a note? He never leaves notes, stupid. OK, so John had told him he was always rude. But was that all? Had it been the fact that he'd run after Lestrade and left him there? On second thought, he should have just told Sherlock to go and apologize, or brought him along with him. Why had he gone out so abruptly? He just hadn't thought.

You never think, John. You see, but you don't observe.

John bit his lip. Once again, Sherlock had been right.

xXx

"I'll have bourbon, please."

"Right away."

Sherlock observed the bartender of the Lone Star closely as he prepared his drink.

"Actually, can I have an orange juice?"

The man turned and stared, obviously finding the request very bizarre.

"I'm sorry sir, we don't serve juices here," he answered mockingly, a tinge of scorn in his voice. Sherlock smiled sweetly.

"Really? Then you use oranges in cocktails I guess?"

"We don't have oranges."

"Oh. That's too bad. Well, a bourbon, then."

The bartender eyed him somewhat suspiciously but Sherlock kept a blank face, and looked completely oblivious.

"Hey there, Captain Calhoun! Beer, please!"

"Hello, Charlie."

Sherlock turned to the man who was obviously a regular customer and sent him a friendly smile.

"Hi, there. Traveller? Never seen you in the Lone Star."

"Oh, yeah, I was on my way to London but my next train is in four hours so I have time. I messed up the reservations when I bought the tickets."

"Ah."

"Here we go!" Calhoun said as he brought their drinks. "Haven't seen you in a while, Charlie."

"Well, I came by on Wednesday, but you were closed."

"Oh yeah, I went to my sister's because she was ill."

"In the States?" Sherlock inquired.

Calhoun stared.

"Why do you say that?"

"Just because of the American accent, that's all."

"I came here a while ago, if you want to know."

"I see. Sorry for intruding." Liar. You don't have a sister.

"So you came back only today?" Charlie asked.

"Nah, yesterday. She was fine, just complaining as always."

"And where does your sister live?" Sherlock broke in again. Charlie looked puzzled at his constant interfering.

"In London. This an interrogation or something?" Calhoun laughed it off.

Sherlock smiled, throwing coins onto the counter.

"Not yet. Thanks for the bourbon!"

He left the bar and both men exchanged glances.

"What a wacko," Charlie said, "He's not even touched his drink!"

xXx

Now night had clearly fallen and John was becoming frantic. That bloody car following him was getting on his nerves as well – he'd snapped at one of the women and told her he didn't give a damn about what Mycroft had to say if he didn't help him find his brother first. He'd never follow until he'd found Sherlock.

His phone rang and he started. Mycroft.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" John almost shouted. "He's gone, all right? Have you seen him anywhere on your bloody cameras?"

"I'm sure Sherlock is fine, Dr. Watson. Won't you just get into the car?

"What the... I can't believe you."

He hung up furiously, cursing the man. Did he even care about his brother? He had so much power and yet...

John never finished his thought: two men jumped on him from behind and pressed a tissue to his face, immobilizing him. The word 'chloroform' crossed his mind fleetingly before everything went black.

xXx

Upon his arrival at Victoria station Sherlock jumped into a cab and shouted '221B Baker street!'

He wanted to tell John he'd solved the case, not realizing how akin to that of a child (or a puppy) his behaviour was. He just needed to prove that perhaps he wasn't worthless and hear John call him brilliant or fantastic or amazing and so on. Right now, he was so excited he could no longer tell whether it was from pride, relief, anticipation or fear – or maybe all of the aforementioned.

Desire too, perhaps. He had so many ideas for tonight's experiment, but he was ready to give all of them up to do whatever John would want – because he felt he had to be forgiven. And there was nothing he wouldn't do to dispel the disappointment in his friend's eyes and replace it with whatever John was willing to give him – admiration, fondness, understanding, connivence...

When he arrived in front of 221B he raced up the stairs and burst into the living-room without any consideration for poor Mrs. Hudson who must have been sleeping and called:

"John!"

But he only called once. The room was dark and quiet; there hadn't been anyone here for hours, he could tell. A shiver ran down his spine as he took the stairs two at a time to John's room, his hand shaking slightly as he pushed the door open... No one was there and he was met by nothing but the void.

The flat was empty. John hadn't come back.

xXx

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tbc