Chapter 10: Unanswered letters and a missing person
John was worried. More than worried. Was Sherlock angry that he couldn't visit sooner? Or had he written something that had hurt his friend?
He hadn't received an answer for over two months now and the last letter he had received from Sherlock had been short and written as if Sherlock wanted to keep something to himself. Not that John would ever pressure Sherlock into telling him everything but he had thought that the pen pal thing would be good for him. Someone he could tell things to that he didn't feel comfortable talking about in person.
Leaving the airplane on one of the few sunny days London had, John ignored the weather and got into the first cab, told the driver Sherlock's and Mycroft's address. He was desperate to see his friend and make sure everything was okay.
John didn't find what he had expected. The house was empty; placing his bag on the top of the stairs he sat down with his back to the door and waited. Mycroft should be coming home in the evening or later in the afternoon, but certainly sometime today.
The dying engine of a car woke him. John was a bit confused until he remembered where he was, Sherlock's home. Looking up he met with Mycroft Holmes' sad looking eyes and feared the worst.
"Where is he?" John was surprised he was able to say a single word. Mycroft stayed by his car as if he wanted to keep some space between them.
"I don't know." And that was not the answer he had expected from the man who was the British Government, or at least a man who was equally powerful.
"What do you mean 'you don't know'? Where is Sherlock?" John felt the anger in his chest burning away all hope and leaving only an ugly feeling back.
Without a word Mycroft walked over to John, walked past him and opened the door. Wordlessly John followed the man he had entrusted his friend to the living room and sat on the sofa. Mycroft disappeared into what John guessed was the kitchen and came back with tea a few minutes later. Before sitting down he walked over to a cupboard and fetched two glasses and a bottle containing an amber colored liquid.
"Something stronger, we will need it later." Mycroft said. John held his tea with both hands; after hours sitting on the cold ground he was frozen to the bones but hadn't noticed it until he held the warm cup in his hands.
"To answer your question. My brother is missing. I don't know where he is. I don't know what happened. One day he just disappeared." John opened his mouth for another question. "No, it wasn't Moriarty; we are sure on that point. My source told me Moriarty is busy with the Chinese and won't bother us for a long time."
"It… everything was all right with him." Mycroft continued. "He was happy with his chemistry, he liked his teacher and he was visiting his therapist. I spent as much time as possible with him and then he just disappeared. As if he had found another place to stay." Mycroft looked down on his hands, which were still holding the cooling tea. "I asked around, no one could tell me where he was. The last time he was seen was on the day he visited a party. He didn't go back to the seminars after that. He had left the party voluntarily. He stopped visiting Dr. Michelson's sessions at the same time. I was on a business trip at the time and was informed two days later when I came back. I couldn't find him. No one has found him until today. He is gone. I don't know where to look." John watched Mycroft in his misery, doing nothing to make him feel better.
How could that happen? John saw two of his unopened letters on the living room table. Sherlock wasn't here to read them. He knew about the party but what could have happened to make Sherlock run away? There was no better way to describe it. Sherlock had run away, to hide or disappear, John didn't know which. It didn't look like Mycroft knew anything either. "Did something change? I don't know: did he tell you something? Or the therapist? Anyone?" John asked hoping.
"I guess you know more than me." John wasn't too sure about it but before he could say something Mycroft continued. "It was our second night in this house, in the middle of the night he came into my room. A blanket around his shoulder and shaking. I could see he had had a nightmare but also that he didn't want to talk about it. He asked for my permission to stay with me. Of course I let him. I told him something from our childhood, I think he liked it and he slept peacefully the rest of the night. I never asked about the dream. He had nightmares. I know that. But there was nothing I could do. I tried once to comfort him but he blocked me completely. He wanted to be alone. Maybe it was wrong to do so." John listened; he knew about the nightmares, Sherlock had had them also before he had left for London but he had let John comfort him and it seemed he had looked for the same kind of comfort on his second night here. He had received it but the next time he didn't want it anymore. Why?
"We need to find him." John said with a force that surprised him. He took the bottle with the alcohol and filled the glasses for the first round. They would spend lots of time together. John didn't intend to go back before he was sure Sherlock was alright.