Lost and Found || John & Sherlock

Sherlock watched as the pen crossed out the last name on a list of one-hundred-and-eight. The black ink pressing the paper with a new sense of finality.

Game Over.

One-hundred-and-eight people. Three years. Seven months. Fourteen days. And a promise.

"It’s all a trick."

Would John have noticed the warning? Probably not. He would know soon enough anyway.

He climbed out of the cab and wrapped himself in his dark red jacket hair much shorter now, and decidedly not brunette. He had had to disguise, and what better way to convince people that he wasn’t Sherlock Holmes than to make himself into the original Sherlock holmes?

He ran his fingers through his bright red curls and hesitated before sliding the key into the door. Would John even be there? After what felt like aeons he finally stepped inside the flat, looking around in search for something… new. The house was cold, dust gathering in the untouched shelves. His friend was obviously living somewhere else. Maybe he wouldn’t even return. And what’s the point in coming back home, if what made it home wasn’t there anymore?

Sherlock sat on his old armchair, eyes closing as feeling of dread sunk in his chest.

Too late.

It was too late.