The Only One in The World [Hiatus]

Chapter 1.

My phone buzzed against the wood table- another case from Lestrade, "John; case!" From the other room I could hear his pounding footsteps against the wood floor as I grabbed my coat and scarf and raced out the door, leaving John to run and catch up.

———Time Skip———-

My breath was caught in my throat, lungs heaving as John ran alongside me; the cab swerved along the road as we determinedly ran after it like hounds. I could hear John suddenly gasp for breath as he grunted and held his hand over his heart, "Keep running," he gasped, but something stopped me from chasing the swerving madman. My eyes lingered where he held his chest and the tension in his arm increasing as he clenched his teeth. I could tell he began to feel relieved when the tension leaked away and he cautiously stood up without a word.

"We lost the bloody cab, Sherlock, you could've kept running." I felt speechless, how could I say that some pang of feeling made me stop.

John and I gave up on the cab and took the tube back to Baker Street; I hadn't thought of my homeless network until later. My eyes wandered around John as I tracked his movements to look for more strange effects. Visually I didn't find any new clues, so I entered my mind palace. Going through memories and notes, the only new information I could pinpoint was the obvious bottle of aspirin on his side table... he'd had this pain for at least a week and hadn't told me. I opened my eyes to an empty seat in front of me, and John sitting next to me on his phone. I need to check his pulse; I grabbed his wrist, ignoring his verbal protest, and checked his pulse: abnormally high.

"Your resting heart rate is abnormally high, and you should be recovered from chasing the cab, and there were no inclines as we walked here." John sat silently, thinking over how to respond. He didn't say a word, but his silence told me to 'quit prying', so I did. He must be having a heart issue and doesn't want to tell me. I'll track his signs for the next week.

The tube lurched to a stop, and passengers exited in mild chatter; John and I walked to the street and I called for a cab. We climbed in and John shut the passenger door.

"221B Baker Street," I said, and the cabbie drove. The cab ride was filled with odd silence, even as the cabbie braked, and as we got out of the cab after I paid him. John hit the correct step on the stairs to the flat, and they creaked loudly in the white noise. I avoided the step going up, and John creaked the door open. I decided to ignore John's possible condition for the rest of the day and focus on the case at hand.

Ms. Hudson was away at the time as I sat in a chair and played with my violin, gently strumming a few strings to a melancholy melody; I still needed to find that bloody cab driver and to pinpoint who owned the pair of color-block converse with particles of soil from Ireland and type A blood lingering on the shoes' soles.

After some time, I noticed John walk into the living room while I was in my mind palace, but I didn't bother to aknowledge his presence except for the small statement, "It's a three-patch problem," and rolling up the one sleeve to basically say, 'Don't bother me, I'm thinking'. He nodded and took some pleasure into sipping his Earl Grey tea and typing on his blog... I had told him not to publish that case.

"Pass me a pen."

"A what?" John asked stupidly; he was too involved in that blog post.

"A pen. Get me a bloody pen- I envy your placid mind," I retorted as a pen was placed into my outstretched hand and I scribbled down a few deductions and researched on my mobile.

"John..."

"What Sherlock?"

"Stop dating Sharon."

"Shar- Sharon? Why?"

"It's obvious she's cheating on you for her optometrist."