AN: bonjour/good morning to everyone who's reading this!

I have to say that I'm extremely flattered by all your lovely comments and that I'm so happy that you're liking it! You are all warming my heart 3

But let's already stop with the thanking part...enjoy the new chapter! :)

John somehow managed to reach his flat. Everything was so blurry in his head that he was barely able to remember that he had hailed a taxi home. All he felt was emptiness. But not the normal emptiness he had felt during the previous months when he had no idea whether Sherlock liked him or not. This was a deep black hole of emptiness, the one in which everything was sucked. He didn't even know how his body could move since he was sure he had no control over it.

He opened the front door of his flat in a state akin to a dream, for he was sure it had been a dream. The whole day had been a dream and he had just imagined everything. He dragged himself into his bedroom and forced himself to close his eyes, to go back to sleep so he could wake up later with the acknowledgment that nothing had happened. Nothing at all. He pretended to sleep for a while, trying to focus on different thoughts. But sleep didn't come and he had to face that it hadn't been just a dream.

He could replay everything perfectly in his mind: the pub, the beer, the friendly conversation, the walk home, the…kiss. He could replay the kiss better than everything else. The soft touch of those lips he had so longed for, the wetness of Sherlock's tongue, the love he had put into it. And Sherlock had reciprocated. And then that wet blanket. 'That is wrong'. And Sherlock closing the door behind his back. And John standing there, empty. Why had it happened? John asked himself while rolling into the bed, desperately trying to hold back tears that were already forming down in his throat. He had no possible explanation for that. And every time he tried to give one, he only managed to feel so bad he could barely maintain himself lucid.

'That is wrong.'. What was wrong? Was it wrong because Sherlock was a student and he was a professor? It could've been a possibility if Sherlock hadn't been Sherlock. It had been him who had stated that formalities were boring, it had been him who had made John cross a million boundaries. It had been him who had kissed him first, months earlier. Was it a payback for that? Had Sherlock done this because John had refused him back then? No, it was very unlikely. It didn't fit Sherlock's character. So, what was wrong in that? What were the reasons under it, if there were any, actually? Why had he said that?

John felt extremely vulnerable and wrecked. His certainties had just been thrown away one more time. He, the man who hardly gave trust to anyone, had trusted Sherlock. He, the man who hardly had any friends, had considered Sherlock a friend. He, who for a whole evening and a three minutes kiss had thought that his feelings were reciprocated, was at a loss. With everything.

He got up from the bed and literally ripped his clothes off, as if he wanted to get rid of the smell, the touch, the warmth of the other man. He opened the shower and threw himself under the hot stream of water. The lump in his throat grew second by second and he felt like his chest was being cut open and his heart was being punched through the rib cage. He inhaled and exhaled deeply under the water, trying to let that feeling go away. He wasn't able to.

John screamed. In the silence of his small flat, his shout echoed loud.

"Fuck!"

He said, while punching the tile with his right hand.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

He repeated, while doing the same. He wanted to transfer the pain in his chest to his hand. He wanted it to ache and ache and ache until he could feel nothing else, until the emptiness had transformed in blood.

At the end his knuckles were red, but the pain didn't diminish. He let himself drop on the shower floor, water pouring on his face where the tears had started to run. He buried his head into his hands, slowly sobbing his sorrow away. He stayed there until he had no more tears to cry. When he got up, he felt weak, his legs barely managing to hold him upright. He took a towel and dried himself a bit, before throwing himself on the bed again, drained and lonely, the loneliest he had ever been in his whole life.

Later, while still questioning himself about the whole matter, he picked up his phone and, almost unaware of what he was doing, he sent a text message to Sherlock.

Why?

The answer never came.

Two months later nothing had changed.

He was still feeling the pain. It was soothing but John could feel it grow stronger now and then. It came when he least expected it: when he was in the shower, or when he did the shopping, or when he cooked. It was there. He had wished for that stupid sentiment to go away, but it hadn't. He had learnt to live with it day by day. There were days when he almost forgot about it, but they were rare. And there were other days where all he could think about was that damn 6th January.

After that day, there had been no more messages from the young man, no unexpected visits to his flat, no new cases. Yet Sherlock hadn't missed a single lesson of his at the university. Every day he was there, sitting on his chair, barely paying attention to the world around him. It gave John contrasting feelings: a mix of sadness and hope that he couldn't really classify, that he couldn't really get rid of. Nevertheless, Sherlock was there and, somehow, that was all John needed while doing his lessons. For he knew he wouldn't have been able to watch that empty spot in the last row another time.

But he would never have admitted that he missed Sherlock, the Sherlock he had known, more than everything else in his life.

That morning John woke up exhausted, like he hadn't slept at all. He had the impression he had dreamt about something that had troubled his sleep, but he couldn't quite remember what it had been. Usually he could retrieve his dreams easily, but this time he was just extremely confused.

He got up five minutes later, prepared and ate his breakfast, then got ready for another Monday lesson at the university.

It was a very nice day of March. The sun was shining in a crystal clear blue sky and it looked more like a day of mid-spring, instead than a late winter one. Some buds were already starting to grow on the naked branches of the trees which gifted the city with a joyful atmosphere of rebirth. A sweet breeze coming from the sea blew through the streets and gave the air a lively smell of distant lands and remote places.

The environment contrasted a lot with John's state of mind, but he enjoyed it nevertheless. It was the start of a new cycle of the year and he somehow desired that it would have meant a new cycle for him too or, at least, that it could have helped him forget his sorrow. He wasn't asking anything difficult. Just to be serene. Just to be finally at ease with the whole world. For John wasn't an easy man to go along with and he was starting to think that the only person who really understood and liked him had been the young man. This thought, which had started to take form in his mind, was the saddest of all and he desperately tried, not succeeding, to lock it away.

The only good thing was that students were keeping him really busy during those months: people asking for advice, people asking for help, people just asking questions about everything. That gave John the opportunity to distract himself a bit more and not think about what was still happening inside his heart.

At ten o'clock, on time as always, he stepped into the classroom, he waited for the students to sit down and started his lesson. He didn't, as he had used to, keep his eyes fixed on Sherlock for the whole lesson anymore, because it made him uncomfortable and he was sure that the young man would have analysed his thoughts just from that futile gesture. But now and then he gazed at the last row, certain that he would have found those soft black curls. Yet that day of March the spot proved to be empty and John's mind went blank.

"And…"

He was explaining something. What was he explaining? Words, knowledge, everything disappeared from his mind in the blink of an eye. Sherlock wasn't there. After two months of constant presence, the chair was empty. Sadly empty. And John had to fight hard to restart thinking properly.

"…the oxides will react with…"

With what? Why Sherlock wasn't here?

"…the alkaline…"

Alkaline? Alkaline what? Where was the young man?

His mobile phone buzzed insistently from his pocket. He ignored it, while trying to resume what he was explaining. The mobile stopped, then started again. He hated when students took theirs out to check for messages or calls. He had never said it out loud but he found the behaviour disrespectful, so he tried to resist the urge to answer the call. Yet, when it buzzed for the fourth time, he couldn't reject it anymore. He took it out from the pocket, wondering who the hell was so impatient to speak with him in the middle of a lesson. As he read the name, he had to lean his hand on the table to keep himself upright. Lestrade. Why was Lestrade calling him?

"Sorry…", he muttered to the students who were all watching him.

Then he took the call.

"Lestrade?", he asked hesitantly.

"John!", the DI answered, voice slightly cracked "I'm sorry to disturb you but…Sherlock has disappeared since Friday."

John's vision went white and he was more than certain that he was about to faint right there in front of his students. A wheeze came out of his mouth, like he had been stabbed right through the heart. The DI wouldn't have called him if it hadn't been something serious. He swallowed.

"W-what have you just said?", he managed to keep his voice low.

"He has disappeared and I'm starting to fear he's in great danger…"

This time John couldn't stop himself from screaming.

"Fuck!"

Lestrade stayed silent. The whole classroom flinched on their chairs. John had never shouted, but now it was no time to think about it. All he was able to think about were two words: Sherlock, danger. Everything else didn't count.

"I'm coming to you!", John said, already grabbing his jacket and his briefcase.

"I only wanted to inform you, it's not necessary that…"

John didn't even listen.

"I've said I'm coming."

And he closed the call.

"Fuck!", he said out loud one more time, some fifty students looking at him in astonishment "Sorry, it's an emergency…", he managed to say "…I need to go…lesson suspended."

And having said that, he stormed off the classroom, running to the exit of the building, while the corridors echoed of his perpetual chorus of 'fucks' and 'damns'. He hailed a taxi to Scotland Yard. It seemed to John that the cabby drove so slowly that he would've reached the location faster, if he had run there. The heart in his chest, on the contrary, was racing and pounding like a heard of galloping horses. He was finding it difficult to think, to reason, to breathe. Everything around went blurry and he had no idea why he was still perfectly able to keep himself conscious, despite all his vital functions failing him. For he was totally sure that there was nothing left in his body, except pain. Not a dark, sorrowful pain this time. It was a burning one, that cut his way through flesh and bones, that devoured him from the deepest depth of his body to the outside, that filled every cell, slowly leaving a pile of ashes behind. It burnt and burnt.

His head was full of questions he had no answer for: 'what was happening?' and 'where was Sherlock?' the two prominent ones.

Pain intertwined with fear during that endless ride to Scotland Yard. If Lestrade had called him to inform him about that, he was absolutely sure that his concern wasn't in vain. What if Sherlock was…? No, he couldn't be. But what if he was…? No, he couldn't be. But what if…? He didn't want to think about any of the possibilities that were popping in his head. He started sweating and his whole body was shaking. When the taxi finally stopped, John barely managed to plead his knees to resist and not let him fall on the pavement. They did, but John really didn't know for how long he could keep moving in that state.

He had to inhale and exhale deeply to help the blood reach his brain one more time. He entered in the building of Scotland Yard like a fury, blindingly walking to Lestrade's office, not noticing all the gazes of the various employees fixed on him. He reached it two minutes later. He saw the DI through the glass door talking with two policemen and patiently (not really) waited for him to finish. Lestrade noticed him and nodded, answering John's silent question: is this all about him?

Two minutes later the two men left the room and John entered, feeling every step he was taking harder to do. His mouth went cotton dry as soon as he crossed the threshold and suddenly he had to fight back the urge to run away, not wanting to know the truth.

He stared at Lestrade, eyes burning with a confusion of doubt, pain and anger.

"John…", the DI started "you shouldn't have come."

"What has happened?" , he shot point blank.

Lestrade seemed to gather his thoughts before speaking, like he didn't know himself what was going on.

"Two weeks ago I called Sherlock for a case…", he exhaled, trying to avoid John's pressing gaze "that involved a very dangerous drug traffic."

John held his breath.

"I needed his help. I've been on this case for three months and the maximum I have got from my investigation were three useless pushers, but I needed their boss. They hadn't the chance to say anything useful. They got killed as soon as they stepped into prison. I only managed to apprehend their boss's nickname: Viper. He is almost invisible and he is extremely cruel. He kills everyone who has the disgrace to cross him and he has already killed four policemen in cold blood. I really didn't know where to bang my head on anymore. Hence, two weeks ago, I asked Sherlock for help."

John was listening in a state between a dream and a nightmare. He felt his feet hammered to the floor and his head suspended in the outer space. He was listening and not listening at the same time, anger, fear, pain rumbling in his ears louder than Lestrade's words. Yet he didn't say anything and kept on listening..

"I handed him the case and he started working on it. In less than one week he had gathered proofs I haven't been able to find in a three months' work. I advised him it was a very dangerous job, but he assured me he would have been careful. And he was. He always called me to inform me about every new piece of information he had, he dropped at Scotland Yard, I went to his flat. Then on Friday morning he called to tell me he probably had the right name and asked to meet that afternoon in Hyde Park. I went there and he didn't come. I thought it wasn't normal, that there was something wrong, but, you know, it wasn't the first time he didn't came to an appointment. Since then I had no news from him. And sincerely I believe that the Viper has something to do with this …"

John swallowed everything with a calm that was well hiding his rage. When the DI finished, John couldn't force himself to be quiet anymore.

"So you're basically telling me that you have given Sherlock a case on one of the most dangerous criminal of London?", he shouted, making Lestrade jump on his chair.

"I didn't think…it wasn't the first time! It's not the first time that Sherlock deals with criminals of that sort!"

"Four! Four policeman dead! And you've just let him investigate alone!"

Lestrade stood up and planted his fists on his desk.

"He wasn't alone! He knew it was dangerous and he agreed with it!"

John leaned on the desk with his fists too.

"Four bloody days and you haven't managed to find him! Four days!"

"I have a whole squad on it, but it's not like we could go around and just ask: 'sorry do you happen to know where a drug lord may have taken a young man?'! It doesn't happen like that! It takes time!"

"Time! Time!", roared John, whose hands were itching with the urge to punch the DI "By the time you'll discover it he might as well as be already dead!"

Just the sound of the word 'dead' made John shiver. He felt the very well-known lump in his throat pressing on his chest, his sternum squeezing the heart behind, his lungs barely able to keep him constantly breathing.

"I know!", screamed louder the DI "I bloody well know!"

"If you had known, you wouldn't have let him go through such danger!"

"I'm fucking aware of it, John! I'm so fucking aware! And don't think I'm not caring about it! Don't think for one second that I'm not blaming myself for it!"

As Lestrade said the last sentence, silence fell. Both of them were panting and looking into each other's eyes, both of them broken and both of them wanting to go back in time and avoid what was happening at that moment.

John's rage slowly quieted down and he let himself drop on the chair in front of the DI. He didn't know what to say, what to do, what to think. He was hollow, empty, blank. He was drained of everything that counted. The DI went on.

"I can assure you, John, that I'm doing my best to find Sherlock, to bring him back…", his voice sounded feeble and lost.

John nodded as a sign of understanding.

"I know.", he eventually exhaled "I know you're doing your job at your best."

Lestrade gave him a puzzled look.

"Thanks.", he said, collapsing on his chair again.

"And sorry.", John continued "I shouldn't have got this mad at you. You barely have any fault."

"No. You were right. I shouldn't have given him the case. I knew how dangerous it could have been."

"But you couldn't imagine that this would have happened."

"I should have."

John shrugged his shoulders and hesitantly smiled.

"It could have been worse."

"How?", asked the DI "Isn't this the worst of the worst?"

John shook his head.

"No, he could have been on a case on his own. At least we know who has done that."

"That doesn't make me feel better at all."

"Plus", added John, pointing at Lestrade "he's got a great friend helping him."

Lestrade tentatively smiled back.

"If that 'friend' means you, I'm going to agree.", the DI said, teasingly.

"Then there are two friends helping him.", John said "Even it's a one-sided friendship, I think. But who cares?"

And John didn't really care about anything at the moment, but having Sherlock alive and unharmed.

"Yeah.", answered Lestrade "You're right about everything."

"So…what now?", asked John.

A glimpse of resolution crossed the DI's eyes.

"We're going to save him!", he said, standing up.

"Obviously we're going to save him!", answered John.

"Let's go then!"

"Where to?"

"Sherlock's place…he's got all the useful files there. We need to start from the beginning."

And they walked out of the office, aimed to 221B Baker Street, both ready to go through fire and death to save Sherlock Holmes.