The Baker's Detective

| The Clue and the Trap |

It's six forty five. Sherlock has been in the bathroom, rustling his curls, shaving. He's wearing a purple button down shirt, the nicest thing he has in his closet save a tux, and that's far too formal — as John assured him.

"It's nearly seven, should I go?" he asks. His palms are sweating.

John turns the telly down. Sherlock hasn't even been able to pay attention to the show, whatever it is. "You have ten minutes," John says.

"Yes, but that's not too early... is it?"

John chuckles. "Go ahead. I'm sure she won't mind even if she isn't ready."

Sherlock chews on his lip, worried by John's wording. "Are you sure?"

"It'll be fine."

After another moment of worrying — what if she isn't ready? What if she's changed her mind? — he decides to bite the bullet and go.

"Good luck," John calls.

Sherlock hurries down stairs, tries to walk more slowly to Lily's front door, give her more time, but then an odd sight catches his eye.

Her door is open.

Maybe she stepped out to the garden? But why would she do that this close to a dinner date? Did she step into Mrs. Hudson's flat? It's possible. He knocks on the door.

Mrs. Hudson answers the door with a vacuum in her hand. "Oh, Sherlock. You look nice."

"Is Lily here?"

Her brows furrow. "Why, no. I haven't seen her all day. Why?"

Sherlock wordlessly points to her open door, trying not to panic.

"Well... that's odd."

Sherlock knocks on the door despite it being open, because she's down there and doesn't want him to just barge in.

He receives no answer and knocks again. "Lily?" Nothing. "Lily!" Once again, silence. He can longer fight his growing panic and slings the door all the way open, rushing down the stairs two at a time, eyes frantically scanning the kitchen and the sitting room. "Lily!" He runs down the hall, ducks in the bathroom and the bedroom and the closet. Empty. He runs back into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson is standing there, pale. "Get John."

"Alright," she says quietly, running upstairs. Sherlock spins around, hands in his hair. He's trying not to panic, not to assume the worst, but he's very quickly realizing he's running out of reasonable, safe explanations. Her purse is still here, her keys are still here. Why would she leave without her keys and purse unless something was wrong?

"Lily," Sherlock says, weakly, trying not to cry. This is Robert. This is Moriarty. He knew this would happen and yet he couldn't push her away and all of this is his fault.

John's footsteps thunder down the stairs, Mrs.
Hudson behind him. "We called Lestrade. She's not outside and we checked the street-"

"He took her," Sherlock says. "Of course she's not."

"Okay. Okay, let's just take a breath-"

"John-"

"Let's stop and think, okay? You do this every day. You can find her. Don't panic."

"It's a bit too late for that!"

Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands, searches the kitchen as if Sherlock could have missed her. She walks towards the island. "There's a note here. And a lily."

Sherlock runs to the counter. How could he have missed that?

It's about time we talked again, Lily. - M