A collection of Johnlock oneshots

Where? ('Text' part 2)

(A/N yay! Another update today! Because I'm feeling kind! And the last chapter was literally 3 pages. 😂 And I have 300 reads which is awesome ☺️ Bye! Enjoy!)

"Sherlock, I'm home." John shouted as he walked through the door to 221b.

The detective was nowhere to be seen, which was extremely odd. He wasn't in his chair, nor laid down on the sofa. He wasn't conducting any exotic experiments on the the kitchen table or even reading, which he did a lot more than you would think.

"Sherlock?" He called, peaking his head around the door to his bedroom to see if he was there, but alas, he was not. The fact that he was not worried John tremendously.

He went downstairs again to the flat that belonged to their landlady.

"Mrs Hudson?" He asked as he knocked on her door.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called a little louder, when she didn't reply.

John sighed as he made his way back up to his own flat. Where had he gone? Maybe, it was very unlikely he would've, but maybe he went out food shopping, or to get some more milk for his tea.

John checked the fridge.

One and a half bottles of milk. Enough chicken to last the two of them at least a week, some veg, carrots, potatoes etc. and more.

If Sherlock had had no reason to go food shopping, then where was he?

He could've-

John's train of thoughts were interrupted by a loud, swift knock on the door.

So, again, he went down the stairs to answer it.

He opened the door to no one. He looked left, then right. Probably just some teenagers, think they're funny, he dismissed.

That was when he noticed the envelope resting on the stone steps, leaning against the doorframe.

John picked it up, examining it with caution. Nothing unusual about it, just an ordinary, white, office envelope. There was no name or address on the front, but apart from that, there was absolutely nothing suspicious.

He didn't open it until he was inside. The front door closed.

John dipped his fingers into the opening he had made, and gasped in a mixture of shock and horror at what was inside.

A lock of thick, black, glossy curls, that could only have come from one man.

Sherlock.

Sherlock's hair.

In a panic he tipped the package up, letting the contents spill out into his hand.

A million questions ran through his mind.

Who had sent him this?

Why did they have Sherlock?

What did this mean?

Was Sherlock safe?

And then a small pice of paper fell out and onto his palm.

It read;

Dear me, Johnny boy. Dear me. Where have you been? All day I've had him, all day. And not a single. Word. From. You. He even said please for goodness sake. You have 12 hours.

And then it was signed. Signed by the worst possible person John could imagine. Signed with the initials that haunted John on a daily basis.

Signed by

-JM