elysium ≫ wholock [[ON HOLD]]

iii ➳ ahead

John expected he'd find Molly Hooper in the lab of St. Bart's. She frequented the place. He didn't bother with any officials he passed. The words think like Sherlock still running through his head, John burst into the lab.

"Oh, hello, John," said Molly. She stopped leaning over the microscope she was peering into and took out the current slide, replacing it with a new one.

"Molly, how did we meet?" John stood across the table from her. She gave him a confused look, much like the one Lestrade had given him.

"What?" she asked, sounding concerned.

"It's important - just trust me on this," John insisted. "How did we meet?"

"Um, uh, oh," Molly stuttered a few times, then suddenly remembered. "Through your friend, Mike Stamford, I think. He brought you here to divert your mind from the leg injury."

John shook his head and looked down. Wrong, wrong wrong, he thought. All wrong.

"Molly, what about Sherlock? Don't you remember fancying him?" John continued with his short interrogation.

"Who...who's Sherlock?" Molly asked timidly.

"Are you serious?" John muttered under his breath, then to Molly, "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective. I share - well maybe shared is a better word for it now - a flat with him. For God's sake, Molly, you were practically all over him when we first met!"

"John, are you alright?"

John heavily sighed. He wanted to know what was happening around him, and he wanted to know now.

"Yes, but are you?" He leaned forward onto the table. "Why don't you remember him? Why don't you remember Sherlock?"

"What are you on about?" Molly said quietly, more to herself than John. "John, I don't know what you're talking about."

"No use," John mumbled. He started towards the door. "No use!" He kicked at the door a single time. "NO. USE." He stormed back out of St. Bart's.

John hailed another cab, this time asking to be taken to 221B Baker Street. The ride was short to John, who was trying to control his anger. He leaned against the closed front door once he was inside the building, taking a few deep breathes. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted after a few moments, not taking notice to his shrill tone.

"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson who came bustling out of her own small flat. She placed her hands on her hips.

"Is...Is Sherlock here?" John said slowly. He avoided eye contact, instead staring up the stairs, expecting Sherlock to come bounding down them, trench coat, scarf and all.

"Who - John, what are you talking about?"

He sighed. Where was Sherlock to save him?

"Sherlock Homes. Lives in the flat upst - " John cut himself off. Sherlock lived upstairs.

Despite his bad leg that still would never get used to any vigorous actions, John sprinted up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson calling after him. As he shoved into the flat, he heard her footsteps following after him.

"Oh, my God," John muttered.

The flat was clean. Sherlock's violin that John secretly admired was missing. The fancy-patterned wallpaper was free of its previous yellow spray paint smiley face and bullet hole adornments. The desk didn't have its comforting clutter, nor did it have Sherlock's laptop sat on top of it.