John was dumb for not getting a taxi on his way to Baker Street. His brain suddenly malfunctioned. He only thought about going after Sherlock, aplogizing and making it up to the detective, until he felt tired and realized that he'd been running like mad for thirty freaking minutes.
Now, he was in front of the door of their flat, panting and gasping for air.
"Shit, shit, shit." He muttered and secretly wished that he won't pass out.
When he got his breath back (it took about fifteen minutes) he wrenched the door open and hurried up the stairs.
"Shit, shit, shit. I just got my breath back and now I'm running up this bloody stairs!"
When John reached the sitting room, he found no one. No consulting detective in sight.
"Sherlock?" He knocked on the door frame - loud enough for Sherlock to hear - before coming in. He looked around. Peered at places where Sherlock might hide.
No one sprawled on the couch. No one sitting on the armchair. No Sherlock. Maybe in his room?
He went to Sherlock's room, but there was no one in there. He went back to the sitting room, his shoulders sagged.
"Sherlock?"
No answer.
Dammit.
"Sherlock, if you're here, I need you to come out. We need to talk. I need to talk to you. Where are you?"
John took off his coat and threw it on his armchair. He started looking for his flatmate, but still, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John sighed, his eyes flicking back to Sherlock's armchair.
As stupid as it is, but John (who had lost all his hopes in finding his flatmate in a decent place in the sitting room) actually checked under the armchair and under the coffee table.
"Sherlock?"
"You don't find a person with your mouth, you idiot. And for goodness sake, I do not fit under that coffee table!"
John jerked up and looked around. No Sherlock. Seriously. What the fuck. Where is he hiding? The doctor looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. No, no. Sherlock isn't Spiderman.
John raised both his hands in the air as if defeated. "Okay, okay. I give up. Where the hell are you hiding?"
"Find me."
John sighed, "Sherlock, please. I ran from the crime scene to here and I'm really tired, so could you please just tell me where you are? Please?"
"You mean, you ran a kilometer for me?"
There was a pause.
"A kilometer? I did? Whoa, was that a kilometer? I didn't know it was a kilometer! Whoa." John sounded really pleased with himself, "But yes. Yes, I did. I ran. Yeah, I did."
"Why the hell did you run instead of getting a taxi?" John couldn't see Sherlock's face but he knew his flatmate's expression would be like Oh, John, you really are the epitome of stupidity.
The doctor bit his lower lip and came up with a lame lie, "I'm broke. Now just tell me where you are!"
"... Behind the couch."
John did a double-take, "What?!"
"Behind. The. Couch. Doctor. John. Hamish. Watson."
There was a pause (again) and then, "Seriously, Sherlock?!" John said, as if he discovered a top secret hiding place.
