"Sherlock, I'm back!"
John threw his keys into the bowl and waited for a reply. He didn't get one.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"
He was getting so pissed off with Sherlock's behaviour lately. Her distant attitude meant that John could go out for hours on end and his disappearance wouldn't even be acknowledged. He was so sick of her not caring about anyone or anything, it was like she was the only person on the planet who really mattered, like the whole damn solar system revolved around her. She was an arrogant little sod, with a behaviour to match. The way she just swanned into a crime scene like she owned the place, it really irritated John to no end, and when sh-
John stopped mid-thought. That noise which had come from Sherlock's room. It wasn't one he'd heard in a long time. There it was again.
Oh my god, he thought. Sherlock Holmes is crying.
But Sherlock never cried. Sherlock couldn't cry, could she? And why? Why was she crying? Shit, something really bad must have happened to make the great and almighty Sherlock Holmes be reduced to tears.
John put away the shopping and leaned against the kitchen counter, contemplating his next move. What if someone had hurt her? Nobody could hurt Sherlock. At least, that's what he thought. Maybe something happened to her. Had she been injured? No, she'd be able to keep a face of stone even if her arm had dropped off.
It was no use. He'd have to go and check.
"Sherlock? I'm coming up, okay?" John slowly went up the stairs and gently pushed open her door. What he saw nearly reduced the man to tears himself. Sherlock was laying in the centre of her bed, in her usual nightwear, her favourite vest and shorts and her socks. And surrounding her bed was her favourite notebook, her life and soul according to her, ripped into thousands upon thousands of tiny pieces. Sherlock looked like a train wreck, or an empty shell of a person. Something was very, very wrong. A sob escaped Sherlock's throat and John instantly ran to her side. He sat on the bed and scooped her up. He cradled her in his arms and let her cry uncontrollably, knowing that whatever the hell had happened, it was serious and it had really hurt Sherlock. She trembled and clutched his shirt tighter to her, still crying, and John stroked her hair, keeping her close, constantly cradling her and kissing her head. He pulled the duvet up and around him and Sherlock, and there they stayed until the afternoon of the next day. She had to eat, John decided. At some point during the night she'd fallen asleep, but John would not leave her side. He couldn't bring himself to.