John stepped out of the bathroom, more like was forced out by his conscious, 3 minutes later. He walked to Sherlock's, their, room in hopes of clarifying anything, if anything, that needed to be clarified, only to find nothing, or rather no one. Sherlock was gone. And when Sherlock was gone, bad things happened. Oh, ok calm down. He can't have gotten far. Ok maybe he could have. John dropped the towel he held loosely at his hips. How strange that before when he performed that move, it was in anticipation, not in fear.
He rushed to Sherlock's closet, which, over time, had become their shared closet. It was more inconvenient than John simply keeping his clothes in his room, what with the various, very strange costumes Sherlock had acquired over years, but John enjoyed the knowledge that even their clothes shared something. He opened the double doors and pushed aside the clown costume. Oh, Sherlock. He reached for jeans, a shirt, some pants, and a jacket; he would probably need to actually go out to look for the man. He rushed through the kitchen, nearly fell down the stairs and was reaching for the door handle when he heard a voice.
"Oh, John, if you're going out do you think you could bring me some eggs from Tesco's? It's fine dear, it would be very nice though." Mrs.Hudson's voice came from his left. How long had she been there?
"Uh actually Mrs.Hudson." John was conflicted as to whether tell her or to not tell her about Sherlock. She does worry much. He continued, "Actually...Sherlock's gone. And he's not in the flat and he didn't tell me where he was going."
Her face was immediately stricken with worry. John didn't hear much of her ranting. Something about 'have you tried his mobile' and 'you know how he is' and 'I didn't even hear someone go out'. John muttered a thanks and fled the building.
He tried, he really did and no one can tell him he didn't. He called Mycroft and Lestrade multiple times, hell he even called Harry. But it was now an hour before midnight and he had been searching for his flat mate/best mate/secret boyfriend for 10 hours now. He wasn't ready to give up, far from it, but he needed a break. He was no Sherlock Holmes; he, unfortunately, needed sleep. His footsteps were heavy on the wooden stairs. He didn't even care to lunge over the creaky step. He threw himself onto the couch Sherlock had seemed to claim his. Well, they were kind of meant for each other. That couch seemed to have accepted Sherlock into its every crevice and Sherlock did not reject it. He buried his face into the place where Sherlock laid his head. His beautiful head. He could faintly smell Sherlock's shampoo there. He could fall asleep here. And he did.
YOU ARE READING
A Name
Fanfiction"What mattered was now, this exact moment, when John loved him. What mattered was that Sherlock had found a reason to smile. What mattered was that John's fingers had found their way to Sherlock's chest and were gently running along his skin below h...
