Dear Readers,

I am SOOOO sorry it has taken me this long to upload another chapter. Things have been SO crazy and busy. Thank you for being patient with me! I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Sherlock Holmes slammed his fists angrily on his brother's dark walnut office desk. Mycroft cleared his throat and gently steadied his quivering coffee mug.

"Brother please- " Mycroft began but Sherlock cut him off."

"Don't, Mycroft! I'm tired of hearing excuses. I want John found! Now." Sherlock stared intensely into Mycroft's eyes, daring him to voice any denial of the sort. Mycroft sighed, took a drink of his coffee, and calmly sat the cup down again.

"Sherlock, you know as well as I do that if we knew where John was, he would be back home safe and sound by now. But we simply just don't—"Sherlock cut him off with an enraged cry, simultaneously reaching across the desk, grabbing Mycroft's mug and chucking it against the wall behind him. The cup shattered and the coffee ran slowly down the walls, but Mycroft did not cringe. He simply sighed again, stood up from his desk, took his suit jacket off and shook it gently, in an effort to remove the excess coffee that had ricocheted off the wall and onto his back. Sherlock only stood stiff, his arms straight by his sides, his fists tight, glaring at Mycroft.

"You know your problem, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock did not respond. "You're impulsive," he continued. "You don't think about the consequences." He laid his jacket down on the back of his chair and approached Sherlock. "Be aware. The consequences of your uncontrolled emotions will most certainly be the death of your dear friend." Sherlock's eyes softened and his eyebrows furrowed at the thought. "We are doing everything we can. I promise you."

"It's not enough," Sherlock responded, the slightest trace of ice still lingering in his voice. "It's been 14 hours now. Anything could have happened to him, and while you and the other imbeciles that work here sit on your arses all day, John could be that much closer to death!" Before Mycroft could respond, Sherlock continued. "Just forget it. I'll find him myself." He then grabbed his coat and scarf and stormed out the door.

Sherlock muttered curses at his brother as he waved down a cab. What was he going to do? Each moment that passed placed John in more and more danger. It had been exactly 14 hours and 37 minutes since he had gone missing. Sherlock knew that was just enough time to hide John anywhere in London, that was if he still was in London.

"Fuck!" Sherlock became even angrier at the thought. The possibility that they had taken John out of the country was a high one. If it were true, Sherlock knew that he may never see John again… He shuttered at the thought and tried to shake it from his mind. He tried to focus on other things as he climbed inside the cab car that had pulled in front of him.

"Baker Street," he ordered to the cab driver and climbed inside. The drive was short and Sherlock didn't think much on the way back home, to his surprise. When the cabbie pulled in front of his building, he got out immediately, handed the driver his change and headed straight inside.

As soon as he stepped inside the building, Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of the doorway of her flat.

"Oh Sherlock you're here. I was wondering if-" But Sherlock cut her off.

"Mrs. Hudson. Do try and cease your incessant babbling. I don't have the time." He left the old woman speechless at the bottom of the stairs as he headed up them. He stepped through the door of his flat and closed it gently behind him.

The flat was eerily quiet and Sherlock hated it. He missed John's endless chatter and questions. He missed John. Sherlock threw his hands up to his head in frustration and walked over to the front room window.

Sherlock gazed thoughtlessly outside. He didn't move, didn't think, didn't even breathe it felt like. He was…numb. His life felt empty and cold since John had gone missing. Sherlock winced as his best friend's name crossed his mind. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and gripped his hands tight behind his back. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes and glanced at his violin on the table in front of him.

During the years before John, the old, worn instrument seemed to be his only companion, his only friend (if you could give such an object the human characteristic of companionship). In those well-used strings and that ragged old bow were some of Sherlock's deepest feelings and memories. Each time he played, he poured his heart and soul in the strings, burying his emotions deep inside with each bow stroke.

Sherlock gently lifted his hand and caressed the violin carefully. He savored the feeling and the comfort such a simple motion brought him. He took in a calming breath and then picked up the instrument and its bow. He placed it gently between his shoulder and chin and rested the bow hairs on the strings. With his fingers at the ready on the violin's neck, Sherlock took in one breath and began to play.

The melody was not one of his more cheerful ones. Why should it be when all that stirred inside of him at that moment was anger and heartbreak? John was gone and as each hour passed, Sherlock's heart grew heavier and heavier and the emotions inside of him filled up more and more, ready to burst at any moment. As he continued to play, the thoughts in his head fueled his passion and the song elevated and surged, sounding as if at any moment, it might erupt, just like Sherlock's heart. His bowing became faster and faster, elevating the intensity of the eerie melody in the room. All too soon, the pressure became too much and Sherlock threw down his violin and bow roughly on the table in front of him with an anger-filled cry, his hands gripping the edge so tight his knuckles became white. His heart was beating fast and his breathing was shallow. He shut his eyes tight and tried to control the emotions, control the tears that he could feel were pushing their way to the surface, threatening to spill over at any moment.

"Oh John," Sherlock exhaled in agony. The tears spilled over then as Sherlock let all the pain and heartbreak of the past 14 hours fill the small room, leaving him feeling vulnerable and very, very alone.