Sorry for the update delay; my charger broke so I couldn't us my laptop :/ but I'm back now :D
Also, sorry for Lestrade's colourful language. I try to keep it at a minimum but it was necessary.
PS. Tell me how I'm doing! :)
"John, you need to go home." said Lestrade, placing his hand on the army doctor's shoulder.
"No I don't." replied John angrily, quickly realizing how childish he had sounded and feeling guilty. Lestrade was trying to help. He couldn't, of course. No one understood how John felt, except maybe Sherlock's mother. Was that John's role now? To be the father that his best friend never really had?
"You do, mate. Go back to the flat, have a shower, get a proper night's sleep. You've been here for what is it, five days, now?"
"I don't want him to be alone."
"He won't be. I'll stay with him."
"You don't have to do that."
"He's my friend too, you know. You're not the only one who cares about him."
John nodded finally, standing up and rubbing his eyes, partly from fatigue, partly to hide the tears. Lestrade watched him leave slowly, the door closing behind him. He sat down awkwardly in the seat that everyone saw as John's property, feeling that he was invading the invisible space taken up by his and Sherlock's deep connection. He didn't say anything at first, he just sat there staring at the smart-arse who had first walked into his office seven years ago, when they were both younger, less weathered. They had hated each other at first, but Lestrade knew then that he was one of the very few people that Sherlock actually cared about, and that mattered to him. A lot.
John unlocked the door of 221b, pushing it open slowly and deliberately. It was deserted; Mrs. Hudson wasn't around, and Sherlock...
He sat down in his usual brown leather chair, feeling that he should do something, anything to end the eerie silence. Perhaps he should do what Lestrade had suggested; have a shower, sleep in his own bed. He realized that it was three in the morning and decided to skip the shower and, not realizing how exhausted he was, fell onto his bed fully clothed and, to his surprise, sleeping instantly.
He woke just after nine in the morning, for a moment blissfully unaware of his- or rather Sherlock's -predicament, for a split second genuinely believing that all was right in the world, his world, the small, no longer repetitive world of Doctor John Watson, blogger, GP surgeon, and, in his spare time, assistant to the world's one and only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He thought, looking back, that it was the deafening, alien silence that fully woke him. Silence was something unheard of in 221b Baker Street.
John rolled out of bed, meandering along the small hallway into the bathroom, stripping off and turning on the shower, the hot water falling on his head. The steam, while relaxing, threatened to send him back into sleep, and as much as he wanted to drift of he forced himself to stay awake and face the day ahead, no matter how unsavory or mentally painful it would be.
He had only left to get a coffee. A bloody coffee. How, Greg Lestrade wondered, could the circumstances have changed so radically in two minutes?
"Where the hell is he?" the detective inspector yelled, barging into the neurologist's office; he had fallen asleep at his desk, papers crumpled around the fluff of his unruly blonde hair and peach-coloured face. He sat up, trying to hide the fact that he had been sleeping.
"Can't you see I'm busy?"
Lestrade tried to ignore the obvious insult on his intelligence, knowing that there were more important things to worry about than a twenty-something year old neurologist with a habit for being inconsiderate and annoying at the best of times.
"It's Sherlock Holmes. He's gone. Oh shit, oh shit...John's going to kill me...shit."