Hi guys! Hope you enjoy the story. Lots of feels guaranteed, both happy and sad! Please review and let me know what you think

John's hands shook as he sat in the cab. He didn't try to stop them from shaking; rather he just stared down at them as if they weren't attached to his body. He looked at the little dots of blood that covered them and felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed to make it go down but it didn't seem to help that much. He felt sick and the ride in the cab wasn't making it better. I wish Sherlock was here….I want him here, he thought. If Sherlock was here it might be easier to pull himself together; to forget the events of the day. But Sherlock wasn't here and so rather than just trying to pull himself to together he was also worrying about Sherlock and where he was. Though he knew that the detective didn't have emotions the way that normal people did, John knew he was affected. How could he not be? After what had happened? John wasn't stupid; he knew that Sherlock was upset. He had practically run away from the crime scene, faster than John could catch him. He was in a cab and racing away before John could catch him. He had no idea where Sherlock would be going or what he would do. John could only hope that Sherlock would be making his way back home. But that was simple, and Sherlock wasn't simple.

John balled up his shaking hands into fists, still studying the spots of blood. He felt vomit coming up his throat and he closed his eyes to stave it off. He felt like this cab ride was never going to end; he just wanted to get back to 221B. Hopefully Sherlock would be there; Sherlock always made everything better. Though, considering what had happened, John didn't know how much comfort his friend would be. At the very least, when he got home he could finally vomit and wash the blood off him.

When the cab finally arrived to 221B John paid the cabbie in a sort of daze and then got out of the cab. It was pouring the rain and even though it was early evening, it was already nearly dark. He walked quickly to the door, unlocking it and running with haste up the stairs. "Sherlock! Sherlock" he called out hopefully through the flat, checking the rooms. He had hoped that Sherlock might have simply been hoping for the comfort of home, but it was obvious that he had gone somewhere else. John felt his heart sink even further and he wondered where Sherlock had gone. He hoped that he wouldn't do something foolish or dangerous. He couldn't even begin to guess where Sherlock might have gone.

John's stomach rolled with the nausea that he had been holding back in the cab and he just made it in time to the toilet before everything came up. His lunch burned his throat as it came up; maybe Sherlock had a point about not eating while on a case. His throat burned and it left a horrible taste in his mouth, but his stomach felt much better empty. He clawed his way up from the floor, using the toilet to pull himself up. He turned on the tap and used his hands to scoop up water into his mouth. He swished it around a few times before spitting it out in the sink, washing away some of the nasty taste in his mouth.

John turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it and took off his clothes as the room began to fill with steam. When he got into the shower he simply stood under the water for a long time, allowing it to fall on his head, face, back. Running down him and burning his skin, it could do nothing to burn the images from his brain. With fervor he grabbed the soap and began scrub his skin as hard as he could. Even after the blood was gone, he still rubbed. It wasn't until he skin burned and was almost raw that he allowed himself to stop scrubbing and stand placidly under the water again.

It had been horrible, tragic, awful, the events of the day. This whole week had led up to a horrible conclusion. All week Sherlock and John had been trying to find a man who had killed his wife and 10 year old son. It was an awful situation in the first place, and it was only made more urgent by the fact that his other child, a five year old girl, was believed to be with him when he fled. Her body hasn't been discovered and it was everyone's hope that they could find him in time to save her life. Sherlock had worked exceptionally hard, even for him, working almost around the clock for the past six days. They had been running from place to place and every time that it seemed that they got close to finding him, he had vanished. Finally, today they had found him; he was holed up in a cheap motel and Sherlock and John found themselves in a dangerous hostage situation; the girl was alive but the man had a gun and he was extremely unstable. Lestrade knew where they were going but wasn't with them yet; Sherlock did his best to keep conversation going until he got there. John wasn't even sure how it happened; it was all a blur. The police coming into the room, Sherlock reaching out towards the girl as she managed to wiggle free of her father's grasp….then the bullets. John would forever be haunted by the sight of the girl's blood splattering all over Sherlock, reaching him just at the moment her father shot her in the back of the head, before putting the gun to his own head. John had seen the rare, crestfallen look come over Sherlock's countenance as he crumpled to the ground, the girl limp in his arms.

John allowed himself to stand under the water until it began to turn icy cold, leaving goose bumps on his arms, before getting out of the shower. He rapped up in a thick towel but he was still chilled. He abandoned his soiled clothes in the bathroom and walked to his bedroom. He was hoping to here sounds in the flat indicating that Sherlock was back, but no such luck. The flat was deathly silent and it made John feel even worse. He turned on the telly just for some background noise before going to his room to get some pyjamas. He put a warm set on and felt his empty stomach begin to feel nervous when he thought about Sherlock. He just wished that his friend was here; so he could know that Sherlock was okay. So that he could feel okay.

Sherlock and John's job often revolved around death and murder, but it wasn't often that they witnessed murder first hand. And they had never had a child be murdered in front of them. Though Sherlock did nothing wrong, John was almost sure that Sherlock was going to blame himself for what had happened. As much as he himself had been haunted by the girl's blood, the image of her dying, he knew that it had to be a million times worse for Sherlock who had to look in her eyes, see the light go out of them.

Not knowing if Sherlock was going to come home anytime soon, John allowed himself to go to his closet and pull down his blue threadbare quilt from the back of the closet. He had never allowed himself to find comfort in it when Sherlock was here but even if he did show up, John would just be happy he was back with him.

John took the quilt to the living room and tossed it on his chair, before going to the kitchen and pulling out the only bottle of alcohol in the house. Sherlock didn't drink and John tried to keep himself in moderation; he had drunk far too much in his younger days and he didn't want to come to rely on it. He rarely allowed himself to get drunk these days. But as he took the bottle and glass to the living room he knew without a doubt he was going to get drunk tonight.

John lit a fire in the fireplace to warm the chilled flat before sitting down in the chair. He pulled the old quilt onto his lap and poured himself a drink. He sipped it slowly; the rain outside began to pick up speed and it soon was a full blown thunderstorm. The telly was on but he wasn't watching or listening to it. He was getting lost in the thunder and lightning more than the crappy programs. The more he drank the duller the images of the day got, but in contrast the more he drank the worst he wished that Sherlock would come home. After what seemed like a very long time, he simply curled up in the quilt, pulling it up to his chin and missing his friend. The flat was simply too quiet and empty without him.

He felt a drowsy, alcohol induced nap coming on when he heard a noise downstairs. He sat back up quickly, hoping it was Sherlock. Only it didn't sound right at all; he thought he heard two voices, and one of them was singing, in French and very badly at that.

John was just about to open the door when it burst open to a most unusual sight. He not only saw Sherlock but Mycroft standing on his doorstep.

"What in the world?" John asked as he took in the sight in front of him.

Sherlock was leaning heavily on Mycroft; and he had been the one singing. Still was singing. John had never heard Sherlock sing. And he had never seen his eyes glazed and bloodshot like he was now. Sherlock Holmes was drunk.

"Is he drunk?" John asked the obvious of Mycroft.

Mycroft had a very annoyed expression on his face as he deposited Sherlock's leaning frame on John's shoulder. "Never seen Sherlock intoxicated before?" he asked.

"No" John said, "I didn't even know it was possible to get him to consume any alcohol"

Mycroft gave an amused smirk. "Well then you're in for a very interesting night" he said, before turning to leave the flat.

Interesting? hmmmm...wonder why he's saying that? :)