When John woke up, the air of the room was so stiflingly hot that it was all he could think about for several glorious minuets. The air in the room was like an oven, the sunlight coming in the room burning his eyes before he opened them. His clothes clung to him in a sticky mess and he was about to bemoan the terrible summer heat when he opened his eyes and remembered heat was the last of his worries.

When he opened his eyes he found himself in Sherlock's bed, lying on his back in a sore, miserable heap and it all came back to him from the night before.

Hamish was gone….he was…John stopped his mental thought process. Even in his head couldn't bring himself to say the word. There would be so much to do…..so much to take care of…god, Mrs. Hudson didn't even know yet. But all John wanted to do was curl up in a ball and disappear. He didn't cry; there was nothing left after last night. Now he just felt empty and that was worse, much worse.

There was sound of cars and traffic, of people talking through the open window that provided no breeze; life was continuing for some people and it hurt. How could life still go on in world where Hamish was gone? It wasn't right, not right at all. It should at least be cold and dismal, with the whole world feeling pain. But they didn't; it was just him and Sherlock.

John uncurled from his position on the bed just long enough to look around the room and find no sign of Sherlock. It immediately worried John, wondering where he could be. When he noticed the shirt and pants Sherlock had been wearing last night on the floor, his worry increased. It surely could only mean that Sherlock had changed clothes and left the flat. But where would he go? And why would he leave him here alone? He thought about how Sherlock had begged him not to leave, even mentally last night and wondered where he might go. Forcing himself not to panic, John sat up on the bed, every movement taking an eternity to complete. He was slow and sluggish, the heat making him slower and increasing the pain in his chest. His leg ached like it hasn't since before he met Sherlock and he cursed it; what kind of mental person was he? After seven years of it not hurting, it was back with a vengeance. With a burning in his throat, he knew why that was. Hamish…the loss of him was overwhelming and yet it still was surreal.

John wanted to cry, needed to; anything to make the stabbing pain in his chest go away but he couldn't manage it. His body was hot and dry inside, everything expended from crying only hours ago. He was hit with the memory of holding onto Sherlock and how it'd not made anything different but how it had made things better; a part of his soul, the part that always been Sherlock's reached out in aching for him. He couldn't be alone now. His mind briefly thought about the kiss, the one Sherlock initiated, but he filed that in his brain under Things to Worry About Later.

John gathered the energy necessary to heave himself up, John got off of the bed and threw his shirt off, leaving him in just his undershirt. It was so bloody hot but changing would require going into his room and this was preferable. When John stepped out of Sherlock's room and into the flat he was surrounded by the sound of silence and his worry increased that he was alone. John checked every room in the house but found no sign of Sherlock. His heart racing, blood pumping erratically, John walked up to his door and paused. It was the only room he hadn't checked yet and John knew that Sherlock might very well be in there. He took a deep, steading breath and forced himself into the room.

It was eerie, as if John hadn't entered it in year when really he'd been in here yesterday. Sherlock wasn't in there as he had hoped but now that he was here, it was impossible to deny he was here. It didn't kill him…..but nearly. Everything Hamish was in everything all around him. The books on the desk, the telescope that Sherlock had once hated by the window, his superhero pants on the floor despite how many times John had told him not to leave his underwear lying about, the science magazines under his pillow…..it all screamed the silent noise of a ghost and it made John's heart ache. John lowered himself onto Hamish's bed, disturbing his pillow to bring it to his chest. Pressing it to himself it brought some measure of comfort. John could see the magazines, old ones of Sherlock's tucked into the headboard of Hamish's bed. Seeing a photo sticking out of one of them, John grabbed it and pulled it out. The image made him stop.

It wasn't that it was crime scene photo; sure, the fact that your child was hiding pictures of dead people in his bed might have been more disturbing had Hamish still been alive. Actually, it would have given him a heart attack a week ago to find it. But Hamish was gone and there was no point in worrying about where his morbid curiosities might have led him had he grown. But what startled him most was what the picture was.

A child, a boy six years old, splayed on the street, his head in a pool of blood and his eyes open and unstaring. No doubt Hamish had been fascinated by the similarities between himself and the kid in the picture. But John remembered the case; he and Sherlock had worked it no more than a month before. The boy's body had been found deserted on the road, a hit and run. Sherlock had worked it all out simple enough but John had found himself worrying about the parents. He had thought at the time how horrible it must have been for them, losing their child before his time, how much they must have grieved. Cases involving children were always tough emotionally but this one had hit him especially hard. The little boy had looked so much like Hamish and it was the first time he thought more about the poor parents whose lives would never be the same again.

John dropped the picture on to the bed, clutching the pillow to his chest as a pain shot through his body and his breath seized in his lungs. It would have been easy, tempting even, to give into the anxiety attack that wanted to claim but he forced himself to breath and calm himself. With shaky hands, John fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed Sherlock's number. It rang numerous times before ending on voice mail.

"Sherlock…..this is John" John said, his voice sounding unlike him; it was too panicked and weak. "Please…..please…tell me where you are. I…..uh….call me….."

John hung up the phone and immediately sent a text message, knowing Sherlock would be more likely to respond to his texts than calls.

Sherlock…I need you here…please come home…

John dropped the phone on the mattress next to him, not knowing what to else to do. John felt his mind begin to get consumed with worry. Where would Sherlock possibly go? Where could he go at time like this? John knew there were things to do, arraignments to be made but John knew Sherlock wouldn't do any of that stuff, especially without him. So, where would he go?

Seized with purpose, John picked up his phone and dialed the number he had only used a handful of extreme times.

John's stomach was churning painfully as he listened to one, two, three rings before the phone answered. "John…I'm so sorry…" John knew things must surely be terrible; even Mycroft sounded genuinely sad and sympathetic.

John swallowed hard, unable to say anything to acknowledge the pain that Mycroft was apologizing for lest it drag him down in suffering again. "Where is he, Mycroft…he needs to be here." John said, every word careful and slow; painful.

Mycroft paused. "I'm afraid that I can't tell you. I have no idea where he is" he said regretfully.

John felt something inside of him break, making him angry; he almost welcomed the anger that rushed through him. Mycroft always knew everything that wasn't his business to know about him and Sherlock. He watched every detail of their lives with stalker like intent and yet now when John needed him to know something, when it was really important, he didn't know anything. John let out a string of curses only an army man could have thought of. "How can you possibly not know where he is!?" John lashed out. "You always follow him, always and now, you have no idea where he is?!"

"John, you and Sherlock have suffered a terrible tragedy, one I'm afraid to say that you're much more equipped to handle" Mycroft said, his voice almost tired. "Sherlock doesn't know how to handle these things. He's never lost anything that meant anything to him; really he's never had anything that meant anything to him. The fact that I can't find him tells me he doesn't want to be found. Unfortunately, I'm afraid you'll have to give him space; I'm sure that he'll return to you soon enough."

John let out another string of colorful curses. Mycroft's slothfulness was enough to make John want to kill him. Sherlock was not a man who would be trusted to be alone when he was compromised. John had already had years taken off of his life the one night he'd found Sherlock overdosed and unconscious on the floor of his bedroom five years ago; the thought that Sherlock might be strung up somewhere at this very moment made John mad with worry. "How can you possibly say that? You know what he's like" John said. Mycroft tried to say something but John barreled on. "You know what; I can see you're obviously not concerned. Do me the common courtesy of letting me know if you happen to hear something from him. His place is here."

John hung up the phone, falling onto the bed and curling into a heap with his face in Hamish's pillow, trying to delude himself into thinking this was a horrible nightmare.

….

The heat increased in the room and the shadows moved across the walls, cruel in their telling of the passing of time. John didn't know how long it must have been since he'd moved; hours, maybe an eternity. Ten phone calls, 15 text messages and zero responses….it was all consuming. John was vaguely aware of pains, distant calls of his body to attend to needs but he couldn't gather the energy that was needed to care enough to figure out what it needed. He just lay on Hamish's bed, curled into a sweaty ball and tried to will himself to stop breathing.

Sometime later, a voice broke the silence of the flat and caused him to jump. "Oh my god…John…"

John turned his sore neck to look up and see Mrs. Hudson standing next to the bed beside him. Her face was pale and her eyes red from crying, a handkerchief clutched in her hand; she already knew what had happened. For a fraction of a second, John allowed himself to hope that Sherlock was back and he had told her but somehow he thought that wasn't the case. She was clearly distraught but she was trying to hold back tears for him. It wasn't necessary; if he had to start talking, he would soon be crying himself.

Mrs. Hudson sat down on the small edge of the bed that John wasn't taking up. With her free hand she pushed back the wet hair on his forehead in such a loving gesture it stirred John's heart enough that he could actually feel something other than pain. "I'm so, so sorry John" she said, her voice breaking. "I know it doesn't mean anything but I hate so much that this happened. I still can't believe it. "

John couldn't believe it either; at any moment he was still hoping that someone would walk into the room and tell him that this was some horrible mistake. He tried to speak but he couldn't manage to think of what to say; tears began to trickle out the sides of his eyes and run down his face, mixing with sweat.

"Mycroft called me…..he wanted to me to check on you. He told me about Sherlock" Mrs. Hudson said carefully.

Normally, John would have scorned it; Mycroft didn't care enough to check himself so he sent someone else. But now he could recognize that if Mycroft cared enough to send Mrs. Hudson to check on him, then he really thought there was cause for concern. He hadn't found Sherlock and maybe he wasn't coming back at all.

Feeling a wave of crashing, unendurable pain, John sat up and embraced Mrs. Hudson, crying a fresh wave of tears that he didn't think his body was capable of producing. "Oh John…." Was all Mrs. Hudson could manage before she too was crying a fresh torrent of tears.

John sobbed until he was again sure that he didn't have anything at all left, his chest aching and his soul feeling as empty as ever. Mrs. Hudson reached over to the desk and grabbed a handful of tissues to hand him and it reminded him he wasn't completely alone. He was grateful to have someone there, even though the loss of Hamish and the potential loss of Sherlock was strong enough to kill him.

"Sorry…what a mess I am" John said, moping his eyes and nose with the tissues, gripped by a sudden self-consciousness that he had lost it so completely.

"Nonsense" Mrs. Hudson said, dabbing at her own eyes. "It'd be wrong if you weren't upset. You just lost your child…..of course you're upset"

John sniffled heavily "I can't believe he's gone" he said. "everything in this house feels like it is attached to him. Like he's a ghost here…when he should just be running around and laughing and chatting nonstop about everything." John felt a pain in his chest; to say out loud that Hamish was gone made it seem more real, like the memory of his death, of holding his dead body in his arms, had taken shape and form and had become solid and less transparent.

Mrs. Hudson looked around, deep in thought. "It's quieter in here than I've ever heard it. Its eerie…..you can tell he's not here because he filled everywhere he went with so much life and happiness…" He choked back a sob. "I think about the last time I saw him awake…"

John had thought of that so many times…how he'd hugged him as he dropped him off at Mrs. Hudson's never knowing that it would be the last time he ever spoke to him. But the fact that he'd spent the last hours of his waking life happy and playing with Mrs. Hudson had brought him comfort and he knew he should tell her that. "I'm so glad he got to have such a happy time with you…..right before" John said thickly. "I know he was nothing but happy in the end."

Mrs. Hudson had to put her handkerchief to her mouth and sob for a moment before she could compos herself again. "Thank you John…I like to think he was too" she admitted. It was quiet for a long moment and John didn't know what to say more, or if there was any more to say. Crying had made him tired and he thought about letting unconsciousness swallow him again.

"Sherlock will come back you know" Mrs. Hudson said, breaking him from his thoughts.

John felt a pain like a kick to the stomach, having to think about Sherlock. Mourning the pain of losing Hamish was bad enough without having to worry about where Sherlock was. Or even worse the thought that Sherlock had left him. "That's what Mycroft seems to think…..why am I the only one that's worried about him?" John asked bitterly.

"Oh, don't misunderstand" Mrs. Hudson said sadly, clutching her handkerchief. "I am worried about him. I know he can get into trouble. But he's so upset right now; he won't know how to grieve. But I know whatever trouble he might get into, he'll still always come back to you."

"You see so sure…..wish I could be" John said, feeling what energy he had left deflate from him like a flat balloon.

"His place is here and he'll be back because he loves you" Mrs. Hudson said a touch of sadness and sentiment in her tone.

John's head whipped up; the idea that Sherlock loved him was almost laughable. It would have been laughable under any other circumstance. Sherlock didn't love anyone, except Hamish. "I'm sure everyone would love to believe that me and Sherlock are in love but that's not true" John said bitterly. Hadn't everyone around them always wanted he and Sherlock to be together, Mrs. Hudson included? But it had never been true. The memory of kissing Sherlock last night intruded upon his brain unwanted. It had been the least romantic kiss of his life but somehow the most meaningful. It had nothing to do with sexual attraction and everything to do with wanting connection with the person he cared about most in the world through his greatest pain.

"I wasn't implying that you're in love" Mrs. Hudson corrected. "I was simply saying that he loves you. In his own, unique way he cares for you. I know it might not seem like it, but that man would rip apart the whole world to save you. I really hope you know that."

John paused; if he was fair, he knew Sherlock did care. Of course he did; if they both didn't care deeply for each other they probably would have killed each other long ago. But that was hard to remember when he wasn't here. It was hard to remember when John felt like he had left him when he needed him most.

"I know he doesn't show it like normal people" Mrs. Hudson continued when John remained silent. "And you know, there was a time that I thought Sherlock was incapable of love. After Hamish came along, it was undeniable that he could love and love deeply; anyone could see that. But I could see that way before Hamish came along. He cared about you like he's never cared about anyone. And that's why I know, even though this seems like a terrible betrayal he'll be back.

John swallowed hard, trying to believe what she was saying. Hamish had always wanted to know so much that he and Sherlock loved each other and now it was all John wanted to know. The world was so hard without Hamish and John needed Sherlock. He'd never told him anything close to that; he'd kept an amount of pride in the fact that he never let things get 'sentimental' between them. But if he could get him to come back, that's not a mistake that he would make again.

…..

Mrs. Hudson stayed in the flat with John that night; she didn't ask and John didn't tell her to leave. Under the circumstances, it was unwise and unnecessary that they should be alone. They moved around in silence, saying nothing but comfortable to have each other around. Mrs. Hudson made some easy meal for dinner and forced John to eat it; he ate mechanically, not even able to remember what it was. They ate on the couch, watching the telly with unseeing eyes until eventually Mrs. Hudson fell asleep on the couch. Feeling no obligation to fight any longer, John curled up in Sherlock's chair and fell asleep.

John's sleep was broken and unyielding, giving him no rest. When he woke up in the early morning hours, he was greeted with what he considered to be a most unwelcome sight. Opening his sore and tired eyes, he could see Mycroft sitting in his own chair across from him, watching him sleep. As many times as John had woken to the sight of Sherlock watching him sleep, he never got used to it and it was still unnerving.

"What the hell, Mycroft?" John croaked, his voice broken and unused. He lifted his aching, sweaty head from the chair and sat up, looking at the elder Holmes with annoyance. The sun was beginning to rise outside the window, pink soft light filtering in. He saw Mrs. Hudson was still curled up asleep on the couch. "What do you want?" he asked Mycroft irritably. He was consoled in some small part to see that Mycroft was uncharacteristically unhinged. He was red and flushed from the heat, his prim suit rumpled. John wanted to see concern of some kind in his face but he didn't.

"I came here to check on the state of affairs" Mycroft said, "Given your history of alcoholism I wanted to make sure you were not in a poor state."

John felt annoyance rise up in him and he was almost glad for it. Being annoyed at Mycroft was something familiar, something that didn't make him feel like he wanted to die inside. "I'm not a bloody alcoholic" John retorted, giving Mycroft as seething a glare as he could manage in his state.

Mycroft fiddled with his ridiculous umbrella that he couldn't possibly have needed in this godforsaken heatwave and gave John a flat look. "Perhaps it would have helped if I said you had alcoholic tenancies…..which you do."

John had always despised how Harry had become so consumed with drink; she'd let it ruin her life just like their father had. Knowing his genetic predisposition toward it, John tried to be careful about drinking though he knew sometimes he pushed it. But the grief of yesterday had made him understand how one could get lost in it; John might have let himself succumb to it had Mrs. Hudson not been there. It would have been glorious to just stop thinking for even a few hours. "Is there something you want to say? Or than just insult me?" John asked pointedly.

"I asked Mrs. Hudson to kindly check on you" Mycroft explained. "when I didn't hear from her, I became concerned. But I can see now that you're in quite capable hands."

"Have you found Sherlock yet?" John asked in a clipped tone, hands gripping the arm rests of the chair tightly. He didn't want to waste time putting on a show of normalcy for any longer than he had to. Best to get to the point of the only real reason John cared enough to not just through Mycroft out.

Mycroft took a deep breath and John already knew what his answer would be. "Sherlock has been trying to evade me his entire life…it seems that for once he's several steps ahead of me. He doesn't want to be found." He said with a note of regret.

John wanted to yell at Mycroft but he didn't have the strength. "You're real rubbish at this whole tailing everyone business" he said unemotionally. "You know every detail about our lives until the one point it matters."

"Don't think I'm going to stop trying" Micro almost snapped. "I guarantee I will find him."

"Just leave" John said, rubbing his eyes, fighting sleep again even though he'd just woken. "Please just go"

Mycroft rose, though he looked unhappy about it. "You make a mistake in thinking that you're only one who cares for Sherlock, the only one who is concerned about him" he said, not turning to look at John before he walked out of the door.

John couldn't care about being rude; the conversation had left him searching for his mobile in a desperate hope. John found it where he had left on the table last night after dinner. With a shaky hand, John checked his texts and missed calls but found nothing. Feeling the sinking of despair, he sank into the kitchen chair, beakers and petri dishes clinking as the table shook. Dozens of Sherlock's unfinished experiments lay in various stages of disarray, no doubt expelling the odd scent in the kitchen. John dialed the ever familiar number, the sound of the phone oddly loud in the quiet of the flat. Sherlock didn't pick up; John didn't expect him to. But John was a little encouraged that the phone didn't immediately go to voice mail; at least Sherlock now had his phone on.

John steeled himself up for what he should say; because his phone was on, John felt he actually might hear this message. He felt it should go beyond the simple "please come home" that he had sent a dozen times yesterday. All of his feelings for Sherlock were gathering inside his heart like a storm and he couldn't stop it; overwhelming need for him, consuming love and burning rage. John's hands shook as he held the phone to his ear.

"Sherlock, I don't know if you've been listening to these messages" John started. "Actually, I don't know which is worse to imagine; that you aren't even doing me the respect of listening or if you're listening to my pleas and dismissing them. Either way, I have to say this because if I don't it will burn inside of me." John had to pause, gathering his breath lest he start crying and he didn't want to give Sherlock that. "How could you do this to me? Literally, how in the world could you leave me like this? After all I've done for you, after all we've been through….we come to the biggest tragedy we've ever faced and you leave me like this? I know you're hurting…..I am too. I loved that boy….still love him…more than I thought was humanly possible. I feel like a piece of myself has been ripped from my soul. He's in everything here in the flat and the weight of it…kills me." John took a long steading breath. "I know you're suffering but you can't do this alone. I can't even properly mourn Hamish's death because I'm so consumed with worry that you're out there on the streets, strung out or worse. You have to tell me you're alive, that you're alright…if you don't it might kill me. Hamish was our son; he was so essential a part of us that we need to mourn him together. I can't even bloody bury him, Sherlock, without you. Think about that….if you don't care about what this is all doing to me…..at least think about the fact that your son can't even rest in peace until you come home. Care about him…..even if you don't care about me."

John pressed his thumbs into his eyes and willed himself not to cry. Even thinking about the possibility that Sherlock really cared so little for him that he wouldn't come home was enough to send him in despair. They'd lived together for over seven years, working together, being friends, being family…if all of that was pulled out from under him he didn't know what he'd do. He did love Sherlock; in what way he didn't exactly know. It would take his mind at a much less emotionally unstable point to figure that out. But he knew he needed him; he knew without him his life made no sense.

"I don't know you if you care about me…"John started again, his voice thick and emotional. "But I care about you a lot. I don't just think of you as my friend or partner…you're my family. The only family I've got left…..I've lost my child…..our child….and I can only bear that if I still have you. Sherlock, if you care about me at all…if I've mattered to you at all…please, please come home."