FicWad

John

It had been four days since John had seen the news report about his newest murder and he hadn't heard anything else about it. He knew that Sherlock was more than likely on the case, but after the text conversation they'd had he hadn't heard from him again. He was growing impatient. It could be that Sherlock was keeping news of the case away from the public on purpose, so that John wouldn't know what was going on, and he didn't like that. He wanted to know how close Sherlock was to figuring out the puzzle, he wanted to know how much Sherlock knew about his motives, but no one was giving him anything. John picked up his mobile and went to the text thread that he shared with Sherlock. He had wanted to keep his texts to Sherlock to one word, but this waiting was driving him mad.

What do you know?

He sent the text without a second thought, waiting eagerly for a reply. He put his mobile down on the table beside his chair and went into the kitchen to find some kind of food, but he hadn't been out of the flat in days, and he didn't have anything in. The only thing John had that he was remotely interested in was tea, so he put the kettle on just as his phone buzzed with a reply. He dashed over to the table and picked up his mobile, quickly swiping the screen to view the message.

Why would I tell you that?
SH

Because I'm your best friend.

John typed back quickly, sending the message and then going back to the kitchen to ready everything for his tea. The mobile buzzed again, the reply came more quickly this time.

You're the suspect.
SH

John smiled at the message he had received, everything was going according to plan, but he couldn't help but think that Sherlock was unhappy with him. Would that hurt John's chance of getting Sherlock to come back to 221B? Perhaps, but John didn't believe that it would keep Sherlock away for that long, he knew that Sherlock couldn't resist his lifestyle, he was surprised that he had dealt with it for the two years that he'd been away. John thought for a moment and typed out a reply.

I've made a puzzle for you. I want to know how close you are to solving it.

John didn't go back to the kitchen this time, the anticipation of the next reply was too much for him to handle. He sat in his chair, staring at the screen of his mobile with baited breath. This is taking too long.

I won't tell you what I know, but I will tell you something for your benefit. Stop doing this, John. You're not helping anyone. This isn't you. This isn't the John Watson that I knew when I left London. What have you become?
SH

I'm doing this for you!

John hastily penned his reply and poked the send button on the screen a little harder than necessary. This wasn't what was supposed to happen! Sherlock shouldn't be saying this! He should be happy that John has brought him back to London! He should be happy that John cared enough to set up a scenario so worthy of his attention that he had to come back to solve the mystery! Why was he behaving like this? John threw his phone across the room and into the leather chair that Sherlock always occupied while he inhabited 221B. He had the feeling that there wouldn't be another reply from Sherlock today. He needed to get rid of someone else now, someone that would motivate Sherlock even further to find out the motive behind what John was doing. Mrs. Hudson would be last, so that only left Molly Hooper.
Molly would most likely be at Bart's, she worked every day of the week, people do die every day, after all. It would be easy to get Molly alone, she was the only person that worked in the morgue of Bart's Hospital, and not many people visited her. However, John wasn't sure where Sherlock was residing while he was in London, and that could pose a problem. Sherlock was known to spend a lot of his time at Bart's, before his fall that is, but could he risk going there while he was supposed to be dead? John didn't think so, but he couldn't be sure. It would be a risk that he would have to take. John had thought up the perfect way to get rid of Molly, it would have to be poison for her. John had always been fond of Molly and he didn't want to ruin her appearance by marking her body, so poison was the only way to go. It would be easy enough, Molly trusted John. All he would have to do is slip something into her tea or bring a syringe with him while he visited her, wait for the right moment and slip it under her skin. It would hardly take any effort at all.
John had a fairly vast knowledge of poisons and all the symptoms they would cause, he was a doctor after all, and he knew the perfect poison for Miss Molly Hooper. Atropa Belladonna, otherwise known as Deadly Nightshade. The plant got its name because women in the middle ages used it as a beauty supply. When applied to the cheeks it would turn them a rosy color. However, every part of Atropa Belladonna is poisonous to humans. It would only take the ingestion of one leaf or five of the berries to send Molly spiraling to her death. John smiled to himself and set off to collect what he would need. He'd be paying Molly Hooper a visit in the morgue today, it's a shame she would never leave there alive.

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Molly

Molly had been in her office when she heard the doors to the morgue swing open, she walked out to see Sherlock standing in the middle of the room, obviously angered by something. She walked over cautiously, it was a rare thing to see Sherlock angry, he normally didn't let his emotions show, and she didn't know how she should handle it or if he might lash out at her for trying to help.
“Are you okay, Sherlock?” Molly asked quietly, slowly inching toward him from the door of her office.
“He thinks that he's doing this for my benefit.” Sherlock answered, never looking at Molly. “He thinks this is something I would enjoy.”
“Well, you have been known to enjoy a good murder. I think that might be a direct quote.”
“Molly, don't talk, you're really not helping.” Sherlock snapped, his eyes stared daggers at her. Molly didn't say another word, she just stood there in silence while Sherlock paced around the room. He stopped at an autopsy table and pulled himself onto it, steepling his hands under his chin and closing his eyes. He'd be in his mind palace now, and that meant he wouldn't be communicating with anyone for a while. Molly decided that she would go and grab lunch while she waited for Sherlock to stop being absorbed in his thoughts. The cafeteria in the hospital never had the most appetizing meals, but she couldn't go the whole day without eating, so hospital food was better than nothing. She got a small salad that had strawberries and blueberries with a raspberry vinaigrette, and a glass of water and went to sit at a table by herself.
“Molly, long time no see.” A familiar voice called out as someone sat at the table across from her. She looked up from her food to see John Watson, she tried her best not to look shocked. She doubted John would know that she was aware of what he had done.
“Oh...hi John.” Molly stammered, forcing herself to smile as he sat across from her. “What brings you here today?”
“Just thought I'd pop in to see you, it's been a while. How have you been? I think the last time I saw you was...” John trailed off, Molly knew exactly when the last time they had seen each other was. They'd both been at Sherlock's funeral, she'd tried to comfort John the best that she could, but it was hard for her to take it seriously knowing that Sherlock wasn't actually dead. Maybe if she just would have told him then, she could have stopped all of this from happening.
“I've been well,” Molly said with a slight smile, as hard as she tried to hate him, John was still a very likeable person. “What about you? How have you been lately?”
“Oh, I can't complain. I've been trying to keep myself busy, job hunting and things like that. It's hard to find a job in London these days. Have to have some way to pay Mrs. Hudson for the flat.” John chuckled lightheartedly. How could he seem so normal? He'd just killed two people in cold blood, but here he was, sitting in Bart's with Molly having a chat over lunch. She knew she should find any way that she could to get away from him, but she wasn't good at things like this. She couldn't think of a way to get away without seeming terribly suspicious. Besides that, he had to have a motive for being here in the first place. What did he need from Bart's.
“I'm sure it won't be hard for you to find a good paying job. Doctors are always needed. People get sick all the time.”
“Tell that to every clinic that's turned me down.” John laughed. Molly's mobile vibrated and she slid it out of her pocket to stare at the screen, it was Sherlock. She quickly opened the message.

Where have you gone? I need you here.
SH

“I'm sorry John, but I have to run. Duty calls.” Molly said awkwardly, grabbing up the rest of her lunch and closing the lid on her salad to take with her to the morgue. “We'll have to do some more catching up some other time.”
“Of course, I don't mean to keep you from your work. Give me a ring some time.” John smiled, standing up and walking out of the cafeteria.

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Sherlock

“Where did you go?” Sherlock asked as Molly walked into the morgue.
“I went to get lunch. You went to your mind palace, you weren't very good company.” Molly answered, pulling the lid off of the remainder of her salad and downing the rest of it quickly so she could get back to work. “Did you think of anything that would help with the case?”
“No.” Sherlock answered curtly. Why couldn't he just figure this out? “It seemed like John was going to kill the people closest to me, but the second victim had no connection to me whatsoever. Why would John go after someone so random, what was that man supposed to tell me? Can we look at the autopsy report again?”
“Sure.” Molly walked to her office and Sherlock followed closely behind. She bent down to bring up the file and let Sherlock sit in her desk chair so that he would have a better view of the screen.
“Aldon Porter, why does that name ring a bell. Something...familiar. Aldon Porter.” Sherlock was murmuring the man's name to himself over and over again, trying to come up with where he had heard it before. “He works for my brother.”
“Why would John kill someone that works for your brother?” Molly asked, trying to puzzle out the explanation for herself. Sherlock took his mobile out of his pocket and immediately dialed Mycroft's number, then pressed it to his ear impatiently. He drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited for an answer.
“Mycroft, Aldon Porter worked for you.” Sherlock said into his phone quickly, then waited for a response from his older brother. He remembered that Molly was in the room and put the conversation on speakerphone.
“Well, yes, I had him following John Watson, just to keep an eye on him.” Mycroft answered, his tone started out plaintive but he gained understanding as his sentence progressed.
“You told me that you didn't have any suspects.” Sherlock chastised Mycroft, his eyes gleaming with anger.
“I didn't suspect John of anything before Lestrade was killed. Aldon witnessed John placing Lestrade's body at the London Eye, but he escaped before John could retaliate. I suppose I should have taken him off of John's tail after that...” Mycroft trailed off as he realized that the murder of Aldon Porter was probably his fault.
“You deliberately kept information from me.” Sherlock hissed into the phone.
“As did you. You never once mentioned John Watson's name to me as a suspect, Sherlock. Are you trying to protect him?” Now it was Mycroft's turn to chastise.
“I'm not protecting him, I just think that if I can find out why he's doing this, I can convince him to stop. Maybe I can save him from himself.” Sherlock replied, he felt too vulnerable admitting this to Mycroft.
“Sh-Sherlock...” Molly stuttered, the word slurred as it passed through her lips. She was flushed and looked as if she wasn't feeling well. Molly stumbled, as if she'd lost her balance, but caught herself on the back of the desk chair at the last minute.
“Mycroft, I'll call you back.” Sherlock hung up the phone and placed it on Molly's desk, removing himself from the chair so that he could help Molly into it. Sherlock put himself at eye level, her pupils were dilated.
“What's happening?” Molly slurred, blinking rapidly as if something was caught in her eye.
“What did you eat?” Sherlock asked quickly, pressing his index and middle fingers to Molly's neck. Her pulse was racing.
“I had a...a salad...from the cafeteria.” Molly stuttered.
“Where did you put it?”
Molly pointed to the small bin in the corner of her office and Sherlock dashed to it, tearing the container that had held her salad out and opening the lid. There wasn't much left of what had been in the container before, only a few small scraps of lettuce and a blueberry remained. Sherlock pulled a small leather pouch from the pocket of his bell staff coat and removed a pair of tweezers from it, using them to pick up the berry that laid in the bottom of the container, along with whatever else remained. He fumbled around the office until he found a specimen jar and placed the evidence in, screwing the lid on tightly.
“I need a microscope.” Sherlock said quickly, he pulled Molly up by her hand and placed an arm around her waist to support her, then practically drug her out of the morgue and into the lift where they rode up to one of the labs that Sherlock used to work in.
“Where are we?” Molly asked once Sherlock had placed her safely in a chair and gone to work at one of the microscopes.
“We're at Bart's, in one of the labs. I think you've been poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Molly asked, her words seemed to become more slurred every time she spoke.“Sherlock...in the cafeteria...someone...”
“Someone was there?” Sherlock asked quickly. “Who?”
Sherlock watched Molly carefully from his place behind his microscope. She was swaying from side to side in the chair he had placed her in, her hands pressed to her temples. She was blinking more quickly now than she had been in the morgue, could she not see? Sherlock got up and went to kneel in front of her, he placed his hands on her shoulders.
“The lights...they're hurting me...” Molly said, that wasn't helpful. Sherlock moved quickly to the wall and flipped the lights off. He heard a sigh of relief from Molly as he made his way back to kneel in front of her. Only a small amount of light was coming through the windows from outside, but it still seemed unbearable to her.
“I...I don't understand.” Molly said in a small voice, she swallowed hard and tears began to roll down her cheeks. “What's happening? What's going on?”
“Molly, who was in the cafeteria with you?” Sherlock asked again. It was clear that Molly was confused and disoriented, it seemed that she couldn't keep her thoughts straight.
“I can't see. Everything's so blurry.”
“I need you to focus Molly. Tell me what you remember.” Sherlock pressed, her condition was worsening. He pushed her chair over to sit beside the microscope he had been working at before. He crushed the berry and placed it on a slide to examine it. If Molly had been poisoned, he was running out of time to save her. She was losing the ability to form cohesive sentences, and that wasn't good for Sherlock. Someone had been in the cafeteria with her, and that could be the key to what was happening. He examined the slide carefully, but it baffled him.
“What are you?” He asked himself, taking his attention off of the slide for a moment to look at Molly. Tears were still streaming down her face and her hands were still pressed to her temples. Accelerated heart rate, pupil dilation, confusion, slurred speech, sensitivity to light, staggering, headache, flushing. Those were all the visible symptoms, but what were they the symptoms of? Obviously poisoning, but which poison? There were so many, it would almost be impossible to narrow it down before...
“Sherlock.” Molly called for him in a whisper and reached out in front of her, obviously not remembering that he had moved her to a position beside him.
“I'm here.” He answered. Molly struggled to turn herself in her seat to face him.
“What's happening to me?”
“I don't know.” He answered. He hated not knowing.
“The man in the cafeteria...someone I know...” Molly's speech was even more slurred than before, she seemed like she was about to say something else before she broke into violent convulsions. She was thrown from her chair and to the ground where her body shook violently. Sherlock scrambled to steady her, to try and help, but he still didn't know what was happening to her. He didn't know what to do. It seemed like a lifetime before the shaking stopped and Molly lay still on the ground. Sherlock stared at her for a moment.
“Molly?” He called her name, but there was no answer. Sherlock pressed his fingers slowly to her neck. No pulse. She was dead. Sherlock clenched his jaw and let himself fall back to a sitting position beside Molly's lifeless body. He still didn't know what had done this to her, but he had a pretty good idea of who. How could he not have seen it sooner? A man came to visit Molly while she ate her lunch, and now she's dead, poisoned. The man she had been trying to tell him about was John, she knew that she needed to tell Sherlock about him, but she couldn't find the words. He'd been here, in the same building, and gotten away with yet another murder. Even worse, it had been Molly. Poor, sweet, mousy Molly. The woman that counted. Moriarty's big mistake had been overlooking her, but John knew better than that. He knew that Sherlock cared about Molly, no matter how it looked to everyone else, and he'd picked a terrible way to kill her. She suffered and choked and died. She was terrified and confused, and John didn't even care. John would kill all of Sherlock's friends until he was the only one that was left, and then what would he do? Would he try to kill Sherlock? That seemed like a reach. Probably the whole reason he was doing this was to get Sherlock back to London, but why did he need to kill all of their friends?
“I'm sorry Molly.” Sherlock whispered as he pulled himself off of the ground and left the room to find one of the hospital staff to take care of her body. Once she had been removed from the lab, Sherlock went back to work. He stared at the slide for what felt like days, tearing through reference book after reference book, trying to find something that matched. Finally, Sherlock found a match. He'd lost track of how long he had been there, but the sun had set while he worked. Atropa Belladonna. A deadly poison that, if ingested, would kill in a matter of hours, mainly by asphyxiation, caused by the convulsions. John must have given Molly a fairly heavy dose, judging by how fast it started to affect her. Virtually every part of the plant was toxic to humans, he'd slipped the berries into her salad and she hadn't even noticed. The berries could easily be mistaken for blueberries, and have a sweet taste when ingested. She didn't even know, and neither had he.
Sherlock ripped the slide from the microscope and threw it across the room where it hit a wall and shattered. How could he have been so stupid? If he had just put everything together sooner he might have been able to save her. Atropa Belladonna has an antidote, but he couldn't figure it out fast enough. Molly didn't deserve this, no one did. Sherlock took his mobile out of his pocket and dialed Mycroft again.
“I thought you had forgotten about me.” Mycroft said as he answered, his usual sarcastic tone dripping from his words.
“Molly Hooper is dead.” Sherlock said solemnly, Mycroft didn't have a witty comeback for that. “I don't want it in the news. From now on, none of these murders go to the news.”
“You think John did this?” Mycroft sounded surprised.
“I know he did. He put the berries of the Atropa Belladonna plant into Molly's lunch. She ate them without even a second thought. She convulsed and died on the floor of one of the labs of Bart's, and John did it. We have to stop him. This can't go any further, Mycroft.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I'm going to Baker Street to confront him. Send some of your men to watch outside, if you want, I don't think John will hurt me. I'm going to try and talk him out of hurting anyone else.”
“And if you can't do that?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock didn't answer, he just hung up and slipped his mobile back into his pocket, then walked out of the lab and headed for Baker Street.

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John

He couldn't really explain the feeling he got after every murder he had committed so far. He didn't think he'd ever gotten it when he killed while he was deployed, at least he couldn't remember if he had. It was like happiness and a sense of satisfaction, like he was doing something right in the world. He smiled to himself as he sat in a small cafe, and not one that he frequented. John didn't feel like going back to 221B just yet, he'd just killed Molly Hooper and knew that Sherlock wouldn't be happy about it. He didn't think that Sherlock would go to 221B looking for him just yet.
John sipped the coffee that he'd ordered, it was a bit dreadful if he were to be honest about it, but nothing could bring him down from the high that he had now. He was growing to enjoy the feeling that he got after he killed someone, but only because he knew that he was doing the right thing. He only felt a bit bad for killing Molly, but he knew the way that he'd done it suited her. Everything about Molly Hooper would be perfectly preserved, Atropa Belladonna wouldn't damage her skin, preserving her beauty. At least he'd left her a pretty corpse. He thought Molly might appreciate that. Mrs. Hudson would be next, although he hadn't quite worked out which way he would kill her yet. He wouldn't be able to poison her, with Molly it had been easy enough, but Mrs. Hudson would be a different story. She was always rushing around, trying to make sure John and Sherlock had everything they needed and never letting them give her anything in return. She wouldn't accept something like John making tea for her, he'd have to resort to physical actions.
With Lestrade, John had only slit his throat, which would have been a somewhat slow death, but not too painful. For some reason, John felt like he needed to make Mrs. Hudson suffer the most. Sherlock would be the most enraged by this death regardless, but he really needed to drive his point home. The longer Sherlock Holmes is away, the worse the situation will get. That was the point he was trying to make here, and Sherlock wasn't getting it. Mrs. Hudson's death would make him see. He couldn't do it now, though. He would give Sherlock a while to figure out what was really going on before he completed his masterpiece. John smiled again, downing the rest of his coffee and placing the cup on the counter of the small cafe, then walking out into London to enjoy the rest of his day.

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Sherlock

Sherlock had rushed the cabby so much that he charged him extra for the short ride to Baker Street, but he didn't care, he had to get in that flat and find out exactly what John Watson was trying to do. More than that, Mrs. Hudson would obviously be in danger. If John was going after everyone that Sherlock cared about, then Mrs. Hudson was perhaps in the most danger out of anyone else. He used to have a key to this door, but he didn't know what had happened to it after his fall, perhaps Mycroft had it somewhere. He lifted the knocker and knocked quickly, trying to hurry someone to the door. When Mrs. Hudson opened it, she looked at Sherlock in complete shock.
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson, did you miss me while I was gone?” Sherlock asked in a pleasant tone, but his facial expressions didn't match how pleasant his voice was. He wanted to get into the flat, to run past Mrs. Hudson and scour the whole building to try and find John.
“You're...” Mrs. Hudson started, but she couldn't finish the thought. Her mouth just hung open as she stood in the doorway.
“Not dead, I know, surprise! Is John here?”
“No, he left earlier but hasn't returned all day. Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“No, but you are.” Sherlock said, finally pushing past Mrs. Hudson and walking down the hall into her kitchen. He removed his coat and scarf and placed them on a hook inside the small room. Mrs. Hudson followed closely behind him and closed the door upon entering.
“What do you mean I'm in danger? What have I done?” Mrs. Hudson sounded terrified. She sat herself down in one of her kitchen chairs, fanning herself with one of her hands.
“Someone has been killing people that are close to me. Lestrade and Molly have already been killed, and I'm afraid you're next. You're not safe in your flat anymore, you need to come with me. I'll take you somewhere that they won't find you.”
“Who's doing this?”
Sherlock stared at her for a moment, wondering if he should divulge that much information. No matter how far gone John was now, Sherlock still didn't want to tarnish his name. If he could help it, no one else would ever find out what John had been doing.
“I don't know yet,” he lied, “but I do know that you need to get away from here. I need to hide you.”
“If you think it's a good idea.” Mrs. Hudson agreed, she wasn't one to argue when Sherlock asked her to do something, and he was thankful for that just now. “Where will I go?”
“I'm sure Mycroft can find somewhere safe for you. In the meantime, you'll stay with me. You are not to be left alone again.”
Sherlock stalked around the kitchen, trying to puzzle out exactly what John might be doing right now, where he might be. The number one thing that had to happen was talking to John, that was the only way this was going to stop. He had tried to get John to meet him somewhere before, but it hadn't worked. He refused the offer and then he killed Molly. If John's whole plan was to bring Sherlock back here, then why wouldn't he meet him?
“Mrs. Hudson, do you still have a key to John's flat?” Sherlock asked quickly.
“Yes.” She answered, handing it over to Sherlock without even asking what he needed it for.
“Gather your things and be ready to go in five minutes.” Sherlock demanded before he rushed out of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and ascended the stairs to John's flat two at a time. He reached the door and inserted the key, turning it quickly and bursting into the flat. Everything in the place looked exactly as it had when Sherlock had left it. His violin and music stand still sat under the window by the fireplace, the skull that he used as company before John came along sat on the mantlepiece undisturbed, it was as if Sherlock had never left. He walked through the kitchen and down the short hallway that lead to what used to be his bedroom and swung the door open slowly. Just as had been the case in the sitting room, not a single thing had been moved. Sherlock felt happiness and sadness all at the same time. Nothing had been touched, not a single thing out of order, and he knew that was because John was trying to preserve his memory. He only allowed himself to reminisce for another moment before setting his mind back to the task at hand.
“You have to have left something here for me to find, John.” Sherlock said to himself, scouring every inch of his room. He looked through the large wardrobe that sat against the back wall of the room, nothing. Next were the end tables that sat on either side of his bed. He pulled the drawers out of the tables and up-ended them on the bed. He sifted through crumpled pieces of paper and other trinkets that he had forgotten in those drawers over the years, but he didn't find anything there except for the mobile phone that used to belong to Irene Adler. He tore the whole room apart before he was satisfied in believing that there was nothing to be found there. If there wasn't anything here, then there had to be something in the sitting room, or perhaps John's room.
Sherlock had never ventured into the room on the third floor that John occupied, but now seemed like a good time to do so. If there was anything that was going to lead him to why John was doing this, it would be in his room. Sherlock strode down the hallway and into the sitting room where he stopped only for a moment to pick up his violin. He didn't want to leave it there any longer, and John would need to have some way, albeit small, of knowing that Sherlock had been here. He was surprised to find the door to John's bedroom open slightly as he stopped at the top landing. A trap, perhaps? He looked around the outside of the door, there didn't appear to be any trip wires or anything of that nature, at least not on the outside. Before he opened the door fully he felt around the frame for any wires that might have been hidden from his sight, but still came up empty. Once he was satisfied that he was safe, Sherlock opened the door slowly.
The room was plain, much like Sherlock's own room in this flat had been. The walls were a boring light blue color, and the bed frame and wardrobe were painted white, the paint had begun to peel off through the years, but no one had ever bothered to fix it. The room looked ordinary enough, Sherlock had half expected to find pictures pinned up on the walls, the faces of John's victims crossed out with a giant red 'X'. He was thankful that there was no such thing here, it might have been upsetting to see something like that. It seemed that the longer this went on, the more upset Sherlock found himself feeling. He didn't like that. Usually he could control himself, for the good of his cases, but this one was getting to him. He was too close, but he was the only one that could get to the bottom of it.
Sherlock shook the troubling thoughts from his head and went on looking around the room. He looked through drawers and under the mattress of the bed, but there was nothing to be found here either. He had hoped that he would find some kind of written plans somewhere. John had always liked writing things down when they investigated together, and Sherlock didn't see why he would break that habit now. If John was hiding something, he was doing so very well. Sherlock didn't think that John would expect him to come back here, but maybe he had been wrong in assuming that. It looked as if John was just as innocent as any other person in London, in regards to the murders of Lestrade and Molly, but there had to be something here. Something he was missing.
Feeling exasperated, he opened the wardrobe and dug around on the bottom of it, pushing hanging clothes out of the way to get a better view. He found nothing on the bottom, but as he worked his way to the back of the wardrobe, he could feel something hanging. He quickly started removing the hanging clothes to reveal three pictures. Sherlock's heart sank when he realized what the subjects of the photographs were. The pictures were all of John's victims. Lestrade, Aldon Porter and Molly. Lestrade and Aldon's photos had been taken after the fact, but Molly's photo had been taken only moments before he'd poisoned her. She was staring at her mobile, her lunch sat on the table in front of her. Molly had been distracted by a text from him. That was when John had slipped the poisonous berries into her meal. Sherlock ripped the photos from the back of the wardrobe and laid them all out on John's bed. He was going to let John know that he had been here. He left the pictures of Lestrade and Aldon, but took the one of Molly, John was especially not allowed to revel in her death.
Sherlock heard the door to the building slam closed and his eyes grew wide with surprise. Someone's here. He thought to himself, dashing out of John's room, not bothering to close the door behind him. He grabbed up the violin that he'd left on the second floor landing and rushed down the second set of stairs to see who had entered. When he got to the bottom he saw no one.
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled through the flat, pleading inwardly for a reply, but he didn't get one. He searched frantically through all the rooms in Mrs. Hudson's flat to no avail. The only thing he had found was the suitcase that Mrs. Hudson had been packing, it sat open on her bed. Finally, when he had exhausted himself looking, he went back to the kitchen. He placed his violin and the picture of Molly on the table and glanced around the room. Something caught his eye, a note pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet.

I knew I would find you here, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson and I have gone for a stroll, but we'll be back soon. Please come back tonight around nine. I'll be expecting you.

John