John is missing, Sherlock plays with dead things and Moriarty has the sniffles.
Now that he thinks about it, John would be yelling at him right now.
But he's nowhere to be seen.
For a second, Sherlock's consumed by panic, until he lifts up the narwhal on the couch to confirm that no, he had not crushed John under his (dearly departed) unicorn of the sea. With a sigh of relief, he starts to look around the room, seeing things he had previously ignored in favor of his narwhal.
The hideously ugly rug is scuffed up, folded as though someone had tripped on it. The direction of the fold suggests that John was headed out of the flat. Sherlock then heads up the stairs to John's room, pausing to examine the Holmes family photo that Mrs. Hudson undoubtedly put up so she and John could have a good laugh. He draws a handlebar mustache on 16-year-old Mycroft, and with a moment of thought, blacks out a few of his teeth, and continues to John's room.
He flings open the door with a flourish, expecting to see John sitting on his bed with his laptop, typing a wannabe-Shakespeare poem to his current girlfriend (secretly a pornstar, but what John refuses to believe won't hurt him), but John's not there either. His room looks practically the same as it did that morning.
Not that Sherlock spends his mornings examining John's room.
He simply checks on his flatmate before he leaves everyday, making sure that he's not having a nightmare, and chucking a heavy object in the general direction of his head if he is.
Sherlock ruffles his hair and travels down into the "toxic waste and experiment chamber" (kitchen) to see that John had apparently left the flat right in the middle of drinking his tea.
Since the inner mouth region is more apt to picking up temperatures than the fingers, Sherlock sips John's tea and deduces that he's been gone for 2 hours, 13 minutes and 34.5 seconds. Approximately.
John's never gone for more than an hour without telling Sherlock where he's going.
Helping himself to the rest of John's drink, the consulting detective fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket and sees that he has, indeed, missed a text from John's mobile.
421D Freemont Avenue. Come and play. -M
If choking on something solid is just choking, then choking on a liquid must be drowning.
And so there stood Sherlock Holmes, drowning on dry land.
He scrambles to the door of the flat, thrusting his (John's) unfinished cup of tea at the lifeless sack of blubber on the sofa with a muffled, "Hold this."
He flags down a cab with his magic-cab-calling-powers (John's words, not his) and rattles off the address, giving the cab driver a thorough once-over with his piercing gaze.
If there's one thing Sherlock Holmes has learned not to trust, it's cabbies.
When he shows up to the address 16 agonizing minutes later, he's somewhat surprised to see that it's a relatively pleasant and expensive looking building, as opposed to a pool or a rooftop.
The door is unlocked (of course it is) and the inside of the building reminds Sherlock somewhat of Irene Adler's not-so-humble abode. Taking the stairs 4 at a time, he stops outside 421D, pausing out of habit to flip the collar of his coat up. He braces himself and opens the door, expecting to see John hurt, tied up or drugged, Moriarty standing menacingly in the shadows with that stupid weasel-like smirk on his face.
What Sherlock does see is far more horrific than even his worst nightmares could have predicted.
The room is clinical and pristine-looking, appearing deceptively cozy, and the color scheme is a mix of grey and white. This isn't what Sherlock is worried about though, even if the curtains do clash horribly with the carpet.
No, what renders Sherlock speechless for the first (blessed) time in his life is that John is sitting, quite unharmed, on the light green sofa, and he's being snuggled by none other than James Moriarty. The consulting criminal doesn't look all that threatening now that Sherlock takes a closer look at him, hair tousled and wearing a faded "Kiss me, I'm Irish" shirt, swathed in several blankets and resting his head on John's chest.
John glances up at the sound of Sherlock's entry with a rather strained expression on his face and says, meekly, "Hi."
Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it again, opting for a hostile glare at Moriarty, who lifts his head up and looks at Sherlock with bleary-eyed glee.
The detective's glare doesn't falter.
"Let me guess. You were feeling poorly, so you kidnapped a doctor."
Jim nods and noticeably tightens his grip on John.
"And I was feeling lonely, so I kidnapped your doctor."
John looks at Sherlock again, with his trademark "help me" expression, the same one he gives Mrs. Hudson after Sherlock does something particularly... Sherlock-y.
Sherlock crosses his arms and says irritably, "Well, if you two are done here, then I'll just be taking him home now."
John's eyes widen, and he starts to say,"No, Sherlock don't-"
Sherlock starts to cross the distance between them and stops when a lazer appears on John's forehead. Jim giggles maniacally and rests his chin on John's shoulder, blinking his huge eyes up at Sherlock and saying, "If I'm going to be miserable, you two are going to be miserable with me."
After a moment of fierce internal struggle, Sherlock plops down on the sofa beside John, curling up and tucking his neck back into the collar of his coat like a pissed-off turtle. The title screen of Mean Girls pops up on the television and as the movie starts to play, Sherlock turns his head to look past John at Moriarty and says, "The couple that lives here... did you kill them or are they just unconscious in the basement?"
Jim chuckles and returns, "The latter. They didn't put up much of a fight, rather, I didn't give them much of a chance."
John turns a little green and turns up the movie volume.
The rest of the evening is filled with chick-flicks, popcorn, a fake Mean Girls movie trailer that is immediately forwarded to everyone, and a gunfight that ends abruptly when Moriarty pukes all over John.