John isn't getting a reply to that text. Instead, he might discover at some point Sherlock came home not long before the morning siren. He brewed himself a cup of tea and has been staring listlessly into it since. There's blood on his trousers-- Carrie's blood-- and no expression on his face.
When he received no reply, John sent another message to his friend. Robin and her murderer may have been killed tonight, but the world kept turning and his sense of moral obligation led him to Skye Medical, where he intended to help prevent any more pointless loss of life.
But Sherlock would have received a sequence of texts over the evening -- intermittent and the messages themselves varying -- though the intent of them remained the same. Talk to me. It was almost a relief when he came back to the flat and discovered Sherlock sitting alone, his breath caught in his throat at the blood.
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is Moriarty one of the new arrivals?
[ never let it be said that Bats waste time beating around the bush, okay. ]
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How do you know his name?
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ok, thanks.
how do you think?
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I have no idea.
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[ he'd ask how he knows that, but everyone seems to know him. ]
Is there something I can help you with?
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But Sherlock would have received a sequence of texts over the evening -- intermittent and the messages themselves varying -- though the intent of them remained the same. Talk to me. It was almost a relief when he came back to the flat and discovered Sherlock sitting alone, his breath caught in his throat at the blood.
"How long have you been home?"
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[John's shift at the hospital ended about two hours ago, and he rarely dawdled in coming home.]
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John. Have you left your phone off again?
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Are you alright? Where are you?
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I'm driving over to the hospital now.
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