This characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doile, and partially to the BBC. However the story belongs to me. I hope you enjoy it, plus it is my first fic so I would appreciate it if you could be kind to moi.
Sherlock had not arrived to the flat last night and john was starting to worry. If he was not here by midday, the doctor had decided, he would go out and look for him, even if he had to walk all the way trough London. But just as he finished this thought the door to 221b opened and in came Sherlock, who didn't even acknowledge Johns presence, and simply walked straight to his room. John followed him and studied him as he walked, his tall figure, his broad shoulders, his long, slender neck, as he was looking at him he noticed a small wound near his left shoulder. He took Sherlock by the arm and stopped him. "What happened?" He asked looking into the detectives big and profound eyes, he stared right back trying not to give anything away. "Nothing. Just the usual case." He told John, looking away and staring at the bedroom wall as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. John looked at him for a bit longer then tugged at his shirt for him to look his way. Sherlock was confused that John was taking his hiding things from him so well but preferred to stay quiet. "Tell me the truth" The doctor pleaded, but it came out more like a broken question. Sherlock sat on the bed and john turned his back on him. He did not like when Sherlock kept things from him, specially when it was something important. And if it had gotten him injured, even if it was just the smallest wound, it was important to him. Tears where starting to form in Johns eyes. He did not speak, in fear that it would come out as a sob. Sherlock noticed that john was starting to break down and stood up to go and hold him, he even made the move to drag him along towards the bed, but then he remembered what he had been speaking about with Microft. He was not allowed to confide on John anymore. It was dangerous for him. So he decided to sit back down. John didn't want for Sherlock to see him cry, so he slowly started walking towards the door. he stood on its frame for just a second, and then walked past it and went to his room. Where he melted down into a puddle of tears. Neither Sherlock nor John slept well that night. And, for the first time in a long while, they did not slept together on sherlocks bed. The detective sat on the sofa and fell asleep there for a couple hours. John slept a restless sleep, on his old bed, which smelled of dust and fabric softener and had not been used since he and Sherlock had started sleeping together. It wasn't a good night, Sherlock thought, and all thanks to Mycroft. Now his relationship with John was at stake. He promised himself he would work things out as soon as possible.