Gone

Chapter 5

Sherlock paced the empty flat, deep in his mind palace. Sifting through the memories, he muttered developments aloud to his skull but it didn’t seem right. Before John had come to live with him, Sherlock had been used to the silence and no replies from anyone about his observations, but now he found himself waiting for John’s confused “What? How do you know that, Sherlock?” and he found himself missing John. Missing him wasn’t that weird, was it? A strange, unnameable emotion rollicked in his stomach, making Sherlock uneasy. What was it? Was it fear? Or hatred? Or was it… was it… love? As soon as he thought that, his heart sang and his head screamed. Sherlock, always trusting his head, pushed the thought far from his mind and carried on surveying the facts. Except that there weren’t many solid facts to survey. Sherlock knew that John was somewhere near the sea, or a saltwater lake (How else would the captors have got saltwater?) and that the captors got him there in about 1 hour and a half. But the problem was the Thames was saltwater and it only took 15 minutes to get there and it was huge, with miles and miles of old factories and warehouses down the sides. John could be in any of them and Sherlock assumed that he would be in a disused factory or warehouse by the darkness in the photos and just that that would be the most likely place to put a hostage. He knew nothing about the captors other than there were more than one. Sighing grumpily, Sherlock threw himself on to the sofa and closed his eyes. No sooner had he done this, his phone rang. He picked it up.

“Sherlock, have you got anywhere with John?” Lestrade’s voice sounded tinny and hollow on the phone.

“No, not really. These captors know what they are doing and they know my reputation. I have no leads…” It felt weird saying that. Sherlock Holmes, great detective, stumped. He pulled a face and listened to Lestrade babbling on.

……

When John opened his eyes, it was dark. The sliver of light that had filtered through one of the badly boarded up windows had vanished, telling him it was late at night. For a moment, he wondered if Sherlock was still awake but then he realised how empty that statement was. Of course Sherlock was still awake; he basically never slept. He hoped Sherlock was looking for him, but he didn’t know whether or not to hold out hope. He never knew what to think when it came to Sherlock. He was a puzzle that was impossible to solve, a code that was unbreakable, a picture that was unfathomable. And John loved him for it. Before his head could mentally slap his heart, a loud, clear sound cut through the silence and John screamed.

……

Sherlock was waiting. Again. His fingers danced through his curly black hair and his grey eyes flitted from spot to spot around the room. Then, without warning, his laptop displayed a video feed of a darkened place. Sherlock squinted and made out John’s outline but before he could say anything, there was a gunshot and John screamed. The screen returned to his desktop and Sherlock sat, eyes wide, heart beating, hoping beyond hope that they had not killed John. The unfamiliar emotions continued to gurgle in Sherlock’s stomach and he tried to push the away, to delete them, to forget they ever existed but they kept coming back. Curling up into a ball, Sherlock slowed his breathing and watched nothing.