How does he know?

This is a story on the adventures of Sherlock and John. It is in the perspective of john Watson. It's full of dangerous acts, and crazy cases. I will try my best to use as much British lingo as much as possible, though I am not as British as I want to be. Warning: may include a little bit of JohnLock ie: kissing, but that's it.


1. Disaster in 221b

When I walked into the flat, I knew something was off. Sherlock wouldn't have left his skull on the floor. Or his violin laying in a puddle of what looked like punch. Oh God, I hoped it was punch. I set the groceries on the table and crouched down towards the violin to have a closer look. I wrinkled my nose. "Nope, Definitely not punch." I frowned, stood, put my hands on my hips and looked around the flat. No Sherlock in sight. Damn. Where is he?

"MRS. HUDSON???" Her slight figure ran to the door frame with a worried expression.

"What is it?" She asked.

"When was the last time you saw Sherlock? Where did he go?" She frowned.

"I don't know dear, Last time i saw him, he was playing a new symphony. Composing actually."

"So you didn't see him leave the flat?"

"No, I didn't even know he left!" She looked worried beyond words.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson, I'm sure he just stepped out for a little bit."

"Oh, well i hope so..." She left the room wringing her hands. I didn't know what to do, so I searched the room for a note, or a clue... something! The room was too messy to search properly, so I put away the groceries. When I opened the fridge, a leg almost toppled out at me. An actual leg, cut off just above the knee. "Ugh!" I then gingerly put it back in a way that it didn't jump out at anyone. I turned around and leaned my hands on the table. What do I do? What do I look for? Who's blood is that?

The questions boiled in my head, ready to explode any moment. Suddenly, I realized that my fingernails were grinding into the table. Quickly, I let go and began to search again. I put the skull back on the shelf where it belonged, but decided not to touch the bloody violin. Sherlock would have to deal with that when he got back.

With that thought, I got an idea. I took a small vial and an eyedropper, made sure they were clean, and squeezed a sample of the blood into the vial. I'll take it to the lab, maybe find out whose blood this is.

I slipped on a light jacket, and making sure a tight cap was on the vial, I placed it carefully in my pocket. If Sherlock was in trouble, I was the person to get him out.

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