A/N: *waves* First off, thanks to all who reviewed, followed, etc. this little drabble. I decided to try and turn it into a story, so bear with me...

In five minutes it would be officially four days since John last saw Casey. Four days. He didn't know what to do with himself. Didn't know how to help his grieving wife or track down Moriarty. Didn't know how to find Casey.

But there was one person he was counting on to know what to do.

The doctor stood in front of the steps of 221 B, staring at the door but not seeing. Four minutes till four days now.

Moving forward, one step at a time, John opened the door, not bothering to knock. He had only seen Sherlock once since the incident. The consulting detective made a run-through of the hospital with Lestrade in search of clues before holing himself up like he did whenever he was stuck on a case.

After pulling the door to behind him, Watson climbed the steps in a swift, mechanical motion. Mrs. Hudson came down, a tray of stale food and cold tea in hand.

"Oh John," she sighed. "How is Mary?"

He bit the inside of his cheek. Mary had hardly spoken and paced everywhere, her lips pressed in a thin line. John could tell she was scheming. He could see the gears turning behind her sad eyes but, much like himself, there was nothing she could do either.

"She's um," John cleared his throat.

"Oh I shouldn't have asked," Mrs. Hudson apologized, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I can't imagine…."

John swallowed the lump in his throat, desperate for a subject change. "Is Sherlock….?" He pointed up the stairs.

She nodded. "He won't eat," she complained, glancing at the food in her hands. "I keep wasting food."

John smiled slightly. "That's the great detective for you."

Mrs. Hudson continued her descend, murmuring about how Sherlock Holmes' eating habits were very unhealthy. John's smile fell.

Three minutes now.

He stopped outside the door, hand hovering over the knob. The only sound coming from inside was the faint plucking of violin strings, then Sherlock's voice. "Are you going to come in, or stand there all afternoon?"

At least some things hadn't changed. Sherlock was still…. Sherlock.

"Any news?" Once John asked, he knew it was a dumb question. "Yeah, yeah," he waved his hand when Sherlock looked at him. "I know. You'd let me know if there was anything."

Sherlock repositioned himself in his chair, plucking away. John wandered over to the wall where the detective had hung up photographs, news paper clippings, and post-it notes scribbled on with illegible writing. It looked like a load of rubbish to John, but he knew it somehow made sense to Holmes.

"The hospital staff is clean," Sherlock stated. "No signs of manipulation or threats."

Not looking away from the wall, John asked. "Well how did he get in?"

Putting his violin down, Sherlock leaned forward, elbows on knees and steepled his fingers under his chin. "The same way I get into most places. It is quite fascinating, the places you can get into when you hold yourself in such a way that portrays you belong."

"And here I always assumed you used your charm."

The bantering didn't feel right, John thought. He looked at his watch. Two minutes. He looked at his best friend over his shoulder. "Any idea as to why yet?"

"Too many," was all Sherlock said.

John noticed the fresh tray of food Mrs. Hudson must have brought. The tea was still hot. He watched the steam curl and evaporate into the air for a moment.

"I'm not the only one who isn't eating," Sherlock stated.

"No appetite," John murmured.

"No sleep or personal hygiene either."

Watson didn't answer. Now it was only one minute until four days.

Sherlock continued. "Counting down minutes and hours won't help."

John felt his fists clench at his sides. "Do you honestly thing now is the time to show off your detective skills?" he snapped.

The high functioning sociopath didn't so much as blink at John's outburst. He lowered his hands, leaning back in his chair. "That was not the deductions of a detective," he said. "Merely the observations of a friend."

All the pent up aggravation that had built up in John, deflated like a balloon as he sunk into the couch, burying his head in his hands. "I'm sorry," his voice was muffled. "I'm just-"

"Doing what any desperate parent would," Sherlock finished. He stood, walking over to the wall of tacked up information, his eyes scanning everything. "And I will do what a sociopathic god-father does."

John glanced up at Sherlock Holmes. "And what is that?"

Sherlock began removing the stuff from the wall, piece by piece to start afresh. It was officially four days since Casey's kidnapping now. The detective set his jaw in a determined expression, one John hadn't seen before as he answered:

"I will find my god-daughter."

Please keep in mind that this is still a major WIP. I think I have a good idea on where I want to take this but I guess we'll see how it goes!
Review and let me know if you'd like more! (your reviews are the only reason I wrote this chapter ^.^ )