It was the most frustrating day yet. I'd already had a row with everyone: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft, so on. This meant they were all, even Mycroft, keeping their distance. Up to this point, there had been a part of me that was rather impressed with Moriarty. But now, after five months, two weeks and four days, I wasn't impressed anymore. He was giving me nothing, absolutely nothing, and John Watson was still missing.

Five months, two weeks and four days.

Five months. Two weeks. Four days.

No leads. No hints. No clues.

Hell, the only reason I knew it was Moriarty was because he'd left a note. Missing you. xxx Jim That and the fact that no one else was this good.

We thought we had found some leads throughout the past five months, two weeks and four days. Followed them all and they all turned out to be dead ends. I had to keep reminding myself that if John was dead, Moriarty would have surely let me know somehow, would have rubbed it in my face. Mycroft and Lestrade had taken to trying to convince me to give up and move on. Which would explain why they were currently avoiding 221B.

My mind was moving too quickly with nowhere to go. It was maddening. I soon found myself tearing through my bedroom to find a stash of seven percent solution. The sound of the doorbell pierced through my thoughts just as my fingers closed around a syringe. I growled, letting it go. I couldn't risk being caught. I wasn't far enough gone not to realize that.

Whoever was at the door was impatient, jabbing at the doorbell repeatedly. Letting out a roar, I stormed to the door and flung it open.

No one was there.

No, wait, look down.

"John." The word left my lips as a gasp and I fell to my knees, reaching out to him. John was sprawled on the steps, unmoving. He looked... fine, actually. Physically, anyway. No blood, no broken bones. He just looked exhausted.

"John," I murmured, fingers brushing too-long hair out of his eyes. They were staring unseeingly, wide and emotionless. "John," I said louder, stomach clenching. Physically John was fine, but evidence was piling up against his being mentally okay.

Gritting my teeth, I wrapped my arms around John, pulling him to his feet. He'd lost weight, I realized immediately. A lot of it.

It was a difficult journey up to our flat, despite his weight loss. John was continuing to be unresponsive, meaning I had to literally drag him up the stairs. I pulled him to the couch, sitting him on it. He seemed to have control enough to stay sitting instead of toppling over, but his eyes were still wide and blank. I crouched down in front of him, trying to meet his gaze.

"John," I said firmly, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. His gaze shifted slowly, finally settling on me. I waited for some form of recognition, but it never came.

"It's me: Sherlock," I prompted. His eyes flicked down to my mouth and I frowned. "Can you hear me?"

No response. I lifted my hand from his shoulder and snapped my fingers centimetres from his ear. Still no response. Moriarty had done something to John's hearing.

John was still staring at me unblinkingly. There was still no indication that he recognized me, but the stare was so intense I believed I was acting as a type of lifeline for him. I moved my hand to his knee, giving it what I hoped was a reassuring squeeze as I pulled out my phone and dialed Mycroft.

"Oh, you're speaking to me now?"

"I need you to send a doctor to Baker Street," I said tersely, ignoring Mycroft's snide question.

"Why? What have you d-"

"John's back."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. "Take him to the hospital, Sherlock."

"John doesn't even recognize me. I'm not going to take him to a public building full of strangers."

Silence again. "I'll have someone there within a half hour."

"Good," I bit out, hanging up. John hadn't moved throughout the whole phone call. It was unnerving, really. He seemed empty, like there was no one behind those blue eyes. I shifted my weight, staying in his gaze, and waited for Mycroft's doctor to arrive.

Pale man.

Nice eyes.

Warm touch.



Doesn't matter.


Plump woman.

Cold hands.

Pale man nice eyes warm touch it's okay.

Focus on pale man.



Doesn't matter.


A/N: *buries head in sand* I don't think I have ever been working on this many stories at once. Four. Goodness gracious.

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