On the day that John returned to 221b Baker Street, he could tell something was wrong.
He’d had no correspondence from Sherlock in the last 3 days of his holiday, and although he hadn't expected much from him,
he’d received semi-frequent text messages throughout the rest of his trip.
He tried the door and, upon finding it locked, produced his key from his pocket to let himself in.
Mrs Hudson was not to be found, and he presumed she’d gone to see her grandchildren, as she did most weekends.
There was no noise coming from upstairs, and the hairs on the back of John’s neck stood on end as his mind wandered to worst case scenarios.
Burglaries, shootings, hostage situations? Anything could happen with a home-alone Sherlock Holmes.
His time in the army had made his reflexes quicker than most, and he knew he could take down one or maybe two men of average build. With more, he’d need backup.
His hand wandered to his pocket as he contemplated texting Sherlock first, but pulled away when he realised the implications that could have.
What if one of the men heard the phone and knew he was here? He just had to go for it.
He looked around, his eyes fixing on a rolling pin in the corner of the kitchen. He took a stride over and took it in his hand, gripping it and making his way slowly up the stairs.
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