Someone Took my Bed

Sherlock and John had spent most of this dreary Wednesday out to do some shopping because their kitchen needed restocking. It was just after 4:30 when they finally returned home and John, being exhausted from running all over town and dealing with a tantrum-throwing Sherlock, just wanted to sit down with his laptop for a while to finish writing the blog post from the case from the week before. He left Sherlock to manage putting the groceries away but he knew he'd have to end up doing them anyway.

. . .

Sherlock, white in the face, hands shaking, hair disheveled, and eyes wide, stands with his legs apart and his head straight forwards and mumbles to John.

"We have a problem."

John, being used to Sherlock's hobbies of disturbing experiments and shooting the wall whenever he gets bored, doesn't look up and instead keeps typing the newest blog on his laptop. "Let me guess. Microwave thumbs exploded in our new microwave? Disembodied head in the fridge opened its eyes?"

"Um.. no."

"Then what is it, Sherlock? Can't you see I'm in the middle of typing?"

Sherlock raises one shaking hand to his head to scratch at something that doesn't itch and he shifts his weight to one leg and uses the other to rub the back of the weight-bearing calf. The sudden motion catches John's eye and he looks up from his computer. The blood drains from his face.

"Oh no."

Sherlock gulps.

"Sherlock... what's wrong?"

John slowly moves his laptop away from the edge of the desk and stands up. Sherlock looks from the wall across the room from him to the man now standing a few feet to the right.

"I, uh," Sherlock gulped again.

"Ok, Sherlock? I need you to take a breath with me. Ok? Can you do that?"

Sherlock nods and as John's chest began to rise, Sherlock follows suit. Then John exhaled, and Sherlock does the same.

"Good. Now, we've only been home for two minutes. What happened in those two minutes?"

"I found something in my room."

"What did you find?" John raises an eyebrow.

"My bed is gone."

John sighs.

"What do you mean your "bed is gone"?"

"Someone took my bed. And-"

Sherlock inhales sharply.

"And what?"

"And replaced it with a coffin."

"A what?"

"There's someone inside."

If there was any blood left in John's body, it drained immediately.

There they were. Two roommates with the worst luck on the planet, and a coffin in the bedroom.

"Are they..."

Sherlock shakes his head.

John's hand, now shaking, rose to cover his mouth. He shakes his head and picks his phone up.

"We need to call Lestrade. We need to call Molly." John cleared his throat and started to dial Molly.

"We can't." Sherlock's head was still shaking.

"What? Why not?"

Sherlock's only response was him slowly turning to face his room. He takes one step towards it. And another. Confused, John follows his lead and started towards his room.
He pushes the door open wider and his phone hits the floor.

"No..."

Sherlock couldn't say anything.

"No... That can't be... Sherlock."

John and Sherlock's eyes were fixating on the corpse that lay in the coffin on the floor. The only thing that stared back were the glossy, pale eyes of Molly Hooper.