Falling...

Chapter Two - A Waste of Time

"Have you found him yet?" Mycroft asked, simultaneously announcing his presence.
He made John jump, since he hadn't been expecting him to be stood outside 221B, and was too busy finding his keys to notice him.
It'd been three hours and nothing had been heard from Sherlock. At that point, even his emotionally-detached brother was beginning to get concerned. After all, a man going missing straight after arranging to meet a master criminal was a little worrying.

"No, I haven't," John replied.

"Where have you looked?" Mycroft asked bluntly. His tone suggested he didn't trust John to search for his brother properly.

"Everywhere. At least, everywhere I know about. I reckon half of London heard me calling for him," He muttered, climbing the steps to the door. Mycroft turned to follow him.

"And you didn't think to look here first?" He questioned.

"Well, going home seems a little obvious, don't you think?" John turned back to him. A small, patronising smile spread on Mycroft's face.

"Precisely my point," He answered. The Holmes' were equally annoying, cryptic and vague.
John rolled his eyes, turning the key to the door. If Sherlock was there, he had some explaining to do. In a hiding place, it'd be understandable to ignore calls and texts to remain hidden. However, at home, there was no excuse.

"John!" A voice called. John paused going through the door, and turned to face the street. Lestrade jogged to the bottom of the steps. Molly came after. "I couldn't find him," Lestrade stated.

"Don't worry: you're not the only one," John replied. He motioned for everyone to come in.

"Um, who's that?" Lestrade momentarily stopped whilst passing John, motioning to Mycroft. Molly looked equally curious to whom the other guest was.

"Oh, right, that's Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's brother." John proceeded to shut the door, then follow Mycroft upstairs, Molly and Lestrade towing after.
Lestrade mouthed the word 'brother' to himself, looking very confused, but went along with it all the same.

"Sherlock?" John called into the flat. No response.

"God, what if he's dead? What if Moriarty killed him? Left him in some alley to rot!" Molly exclaimed, her voice breaking toward the end. Lestrade patted her shoulder in comfort.

"No, Moriarty's more likely to leave him somewhere public. Somewhere everyone would see the body. Or perhaps take a photograph and broadcast it..." Mycroft corrected. At that point, Molly begun crying.

"Thank you, Mycroft. Very comforting," John muttered sarcastically, flopping down into his chair. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"It's not meant to be comforting. It's meant to be the facts." He readjusted his grip on his umbrella while he spoke, making it so he was leaning on it rather than just holding it.

"Where could he be?" John asked no one in particular, rubbing his face. Lestrade moved to sit on the Clients Chair. Mycroft remained stood by the fire place and Molly by the desk, crying.
Sherlock had disappeared with nothing but the assurance that he was meeting Moriarty, God knew where or why.

"Do we know if he actually met with Moriarty?" Lestrade asked, leaning back in his seat.

"We don't know if he actually did anything," John mumbled, his eyes set on the floor as he tried to think.

"I suppose we can't know if Moriarty did anything either. The guys a crazed maniac, there's no telling what he'd do..." Lestrade muttered shaking his head. John nodded in agreement, frowning.