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Summary
The messages get shorter and more desperate, and the most recent one is wordless: a blurry shot of Johnny’s sweaty nape, fist tight in the blond curls she is pulling to expose it. Sherlock runs the last block and up the stairs. Inside, she triple-bolts the door and shoves a stopper under it, checks to make sure the windows are latched, and throws off her coat, following the needy sounds into her bedroom.