madimpossibledreamer

            Sherlock picks up his phone.  It’s about time John called.  He could hardly shop for more food without his wallet; forgotten in his room; John’s been forgetful lately; John’s worried about something.  Moriarty, probably.  Something happened during the kidnapping; something he didn’t feel he could tell Sherlock.  Why?  Because he was worried about how Sherlock would react?  Worried that he’d try to take revenge?  But no, there was a secret; something John didn’t want Sherlock to know; something that Mycroft knows about John that he doesn’t; how?  Obvious, contacts.  Not worth his time, not like John.  All these signs John is normal, average, and yet—
            And yet, he’s sympathetic.  Like he understands, how?  How would John know?  There’s the obvious answer, of course, his sister, homosexual, him having to protect her; doesn’t approve of her drinking, liked the wife, but he’d hardly stand for bullies going after his sister; but it’s not that, it can’t be; Mycroft wouldn’t know if that was it, he could be cruel and pretend he knows something, but that doesn’t explain John; John, who wants to explain, but doesn’t know how, John who thinks he of all people won’t believe—
            The phone rings.  He picks it up.  “Sherlock.”
            The singsong voice on the other end is unexpected, unwanted.  But then, he’d known Moriarty would survive.  “There’s something about John…he’s keeping secrets.  I could help you find out.”
            “Piss off.”  He hangs up before he realizes that was…that was emotional, that was wrong.  Moriarty could have John.  That could have been a subtle taunt.  And he just threw away a lead, though of course Moriarty wouldn’t have let him trace the call.  Still, he was Sherlock; he was better; he could have heard a train or some other clue to help him save John—
            He frets until John returns, and then unfortunately yells at him.  Both of them are being wound tighter and tighter, and it has to have an end.