The constant being together is grinding on their nerves and they both know it. Most likely it is not just being always together that is doing it, after all they are used to spending most of their time together but it is being stuck together whilst being utterly frustrated rather than being on the usual fun fuelled high of a chase.
In theory of course they are chasing after whoever has pushed them into this situation but it is a half-hearted search since all leads seem to have gone cold. The flat, normally kind and welcoming, is starting to feel increasingly claustrophobic.
In the end it is another message from the madman that pushes John into refusing their self-induced exile. He is standing by the window staring blankly out of the window. Sherlock is muttering something about breaches in the British penal system but John isn't really listening.
It is as though the world around them has gone gradually grey, everything that was once thrilling and exciting and wonderfully beautiful has blended to a grey mass of unexpected cruelty. John doesn't really fear being attacked and he knows in theory that the nasty messages are only meant to hurt him. It is the small things that are getting to him, the personal things. It is more than anything the fact that people he used to count as friends seem to be so easily roped into joining in the taunts.
The comments, of fat and stupid and useless would not hurt so much if they came only from faceless strangers who might for all intents and purposes really only be coming from one deranged lunatic. But they weren't just coming from strangers any more. His colleagues had completely stopped speaking to him although it seemed that some of them still frequented the blog but only to comment that John's apparent lack of writing must be a result of the same apparent breakdown that had had the clinic have to let him go… sad but then he always was rather a mediocre little man.
This wasn't the particular thing that was playing on his mind as he stood gazing out of the window however. Earlier that day he had with a stubbornness that came out of not truly wanting to give up entirely forced himself to get dressed, it was getting increasingly tempting to take a leaf out of Sherlock's book and just lounge around in his dressing gown, and had opened the blog and read through the latest comments.
There was a string of comments that parodied John's appearance, particularly as of late on crutches and looking a bit worse for wear. There was even a rather unflattering cartoon attached which showed John being beated up by a string of patients, little ladies with handbags and babies in diapers. It was entitled 'The runt of the litter'. It wasn't the comments or even the nasty cartoon that got to John though, it was a comment from his sister. 'I'm glad someone finally noticed. I've been saying that he's the black sheep for years. Seems like someone is trying to knock some sense into him… lol. Maybe getting fired will snap him out of his stupidity and he'll finally leave that nutcase of a friend and get a sensible job, something he is actually capable of holding down. Well, I don't hold out much hope.'
He had never got on with Harry so why did it hurt so much to have her join in the game? That was what was on his mind as he stood looking out of the window at the traffic going by. He did not watch the pedestrians, just the heavy flow of cars and busses that passed outside and hence he was only vaguely aware of the man who started to cross the road in front of them in between passing cars. When the man stopped in the middle of the road he assumed he was stopping for traffic but then the man lifted his arm and hurled something up toward the window where John was standing.
He opened his mouth to shout to Sherlock to get down but there was no time for that or for himself to do likewise. He had time for no more than a half turn and a shouted "Sher…" The window shattered sending glass flying around the room and something heavy struck John across the jaw sending him sprawling onto the floor among the remnants of their window.
"John! John are you alright" Sherlock burst out of his chair to crouch down beside his friend careful of the glass and relieved that today he had opted for wearing both socks and shoes, rather than going barefoot which was a regular occurrence.
"I'm fine. Get him Sherlock. Grey Hoodie, blue Jeans. Go." John waved a hand at his flatmate who hesitated for only a second before pushing to his feet briefly glancing out the window where he could see the figure described by John running south down Baker Street. He throws himself out of the door, without his coat or any other outdoor clothing and starts running down the street.
He didn't get him, by the time he reached the street he had already veered off into a side street and though Sherlock tried to deduce which way he would go he lost him cursing as he jogged back to the flat. Now that the chase was over he was a little worried about his flatmate and he hurried back.
John was sat in the kitchen with his bathrobe on, pressing an ice pack to the side of his face when Sherlock came pounding up the stairs. "Lestrade's on his way, we better not clean that up until he has been." John informed.
"How bad?" Sherlock asked walking up to John and gently guiding the hand holding the ice away from Johns face so he can see the cut which John has pulled together with steri strips and the bruise forming around it.
"I'll live. The only casualty is my shirt, it looks like a war zone." He indicated the discarded item of clothing lying bloody and cut up on the kitchen counter. He smiled at his own joke but the smile turned into something of a grimace as it made his jaw ache.
"We're going back out there to search for this guy Sherlock, I mean properly search, not just do research on the internet and make phone calls. If we're out there we can find out more and it might draw him out, if he gets sloppy we might catch him. John said in a determined tone looking straight at Sherlock.
"No John, you're safer here, don't make yourself a target. I'll go out and do some research if you want but you should stay here, I'll have Mycroft send someone over to keep an eye on you." Sherlock argued pleased with his own solution if somewhat wary of being separated from John.
"Sherlock, damn it, I am not a child who needs a babysitter. Besides this is a package deal." He says and holds out a rumpled note which is now stained with bloody fingerprints as John has been clutching it.
Sherlock read it carefully, and then once more to be sure he hasn't missed anything. 'Get out of that flat Doctor Watson. If you and Sherlock have not gone out by this evening I will find myself a new plaything. You have a rather fetching sister don't you, and there is that pretty pathologist. There's a string of ex-girlfriends I believe, it didn't work out but you must still care about them at some level. Or maybe I will do it the way I have with Sherlock, a comrade in arms might be fitting for you… I have so many to choose from... If you hide from me physically, I will break you mentally, just like I'm doing with Sherlock. If you keep yourself safe from me, no one you care about will be safe. '
There was no signature, the font was Times new Roman and the paper generic printer paper, utterly without any distinguishing features. He would examine it for finger prints but it was highly unlikely that he would find any other than John's bloody smudges.