The Coffee Shop

Chapter 10 - Thursday 6th April, 19:00

"He's not there?" John said, flabbergasted. "Then...where..."

Mrs Hudson spoke to him over the phone.

"He's gone to see Mycroft. I suggest you leave him alone, for a bit."

"Mrs Hudson," John began. "That man was my best friend, for years. I grieved him when I thought he'd died. You can't expect me to just leave him alone. He... I..."

Mrs Hudson waited patiently.

"...I need him." John said eventually, his heart breaking. "I need to see him."

"Then you'll be patient." Mrs Hudson told him. "He wanted to call you today, while you were at work. I told him not to. You want to call him now, while he's at work. I'm telling you not to. Give it some time."

"We haven't got time!" John answered back, frustrated. "That boy needs our help!"

And he hung up.

He picked up his briefcase and his coat, and left the office, then stretching out his arm to check the time on his watch, he saw that it was quarter past five. "See you, Rachel." He told the receptionist, and left out the door.

He was going to find Sherlock, whether it was the right thing to do or not. James Grant was in danger, he told himself. That was his priority.

She had told him he'd gone to see Mycroft. Mycroft could be anywhere, but John rationalised his thoughts. He could be at his home, or at work, or at the police station. Not 221B, as he had just spoken to Mrs Hudson there, and though he didn't get on too well with the old woman, he doubted very much that she would lie to him.

So. His home, first.

"Taxi!" He yelled, signalling a black cab. The car pulled over immediately. He opened the door, and got in.

"Where to?" The driver asked.

"84 Windsor Road." John supplied.

The driver nodded, and began to drive. John sat in the back, thinking over what to say when he found the Holmeses.

He wanted to fight Sherlock, just like he had when he discovered the man wasn't dead. He wanted to hug Sherlock, because the man had hugged him when Mary died.

He wanted to kiss him, just to shut him up.

He knew he would do none of these things. He put his head in his hands, conflicted.

"Rough day?" The cabbie asked.

"You have no idea." John replied.

The cabbie laughed appreciatively.

"Why are you going to central, then?" He asked.

"I'm seeing a couple of friends."

"Should be nice," the cabbie said good-naturedly.

John wanted to tell him about the case, but it was through his friendship with Sherlock that he even knew any of the details, so he kept quiet.

"Fancy friends you've got though, eh?" The other man attempted to joke. John smiled, grateful.

"Yeah, definitely."

They allowed a comfortable silence to descend, and John looked out the window as the driver steered them through the city. It was not a sunny day, just mild, and people were walking the streets in coats and shirts and trousers, dresses and shoes. There were children with their parents; some families walked dogs.

Looking at the scene outside, you'd never guess their intentions.

John shivered.

Everyone had the power to do anything. And that, for all its whimsey, was a prospect so grand that John despised it.