Sherlock has been missing for five days. Five long, horrible days.

John is distraught.

A few hours ago John had received a call from a man apparently named Greg. He'd stared at Sherlock's chair while on the phone, unknowingly glaring at Victor.

No news. When he ended the call, John stood up, paralyzed in the middle of the sitting room.

"Where is he, John?" Victor had screamed at him, not caring whether or not he will be heard. "Where is Sherlock!?"

And it's as if John could hear the veracity of his voice because he shouted in frustration and threw his cup against the wall, breathing hard and glaring at the liquid slowly dripping down the wall.

"God, Sherlock. Where the hell are you?" John mutters and falls breathlessly into his armchair.

Now Victor watches him as he paces around the room glaring at everything that mildly resembles Sherlock. He can't handle being reminded that Sherlock is not there.

John's phones rings again and this time Victor cannot bear to listen in to the conversation. John scrambles to answer and before Victor can walk away he hears a voice shouting, " We've found him! "

Relieve courses through him as he stares at John, but the man doesn't smile. In fact, he looks more upset than he had before the phone call as more information is revealed.

"Fuck!" John shouts after ending the call and shoving his phone into his jeans. He is looking around frantically, but Victor can't tell what he's looking for. John stumbles his way to the coat rack by the door and right as he is about to reach for his coat, his knees give out.

"He's alright. Sherlock's ok," John says to himself, staring at his knees and clearly trying to calm his frantic breathing. Victor falls into the chair and stares at him. He's alright.

A few days later Sherlock is released from hospital with a graze from a gunshot on his thigh and a litany of minor injuries marring his body. He barely looks at Victor with his weary, bruised eyes as he limps into his bedroom. Victor smiles and takes a step toward him, but the door is pushed open a bit more as John walks into the room as well.

He stays by Sherlock's side for the next seventy-two hours.

It's agony. Watching John watch Sherlock.

Finally, they are alone tonight. Victor stares at the ceiling from his spot on the bed. Sherlock is sat on the edge of his side, fiddling with the bandages around his arm and it feels as though he is trying to stay as far away from him as he can. It's different and Victor is trying his best to ignore the tense air that swirls between them.

Something has changed between him and Sherlock, he can feel it in every brief second they spend together.

Sherlock will barely look at him and it's in the way Sherlock flinches when Victor reaches out to him that tells him everything he needs to know.

"He kissed you."

Silence.

"After you had been found."

"Yes," Sherlock says calmly. He turns and tries desperately to connect eyes with Victor for the first time in almost a week, but Victor refuses to meet his gaze, not wanting to see the emotion in them. Did he want it to happen? If he looks at Sherlock now, he'll see the answer in his eyes so he doesn't. He can't.

The dip in the bed disappears before the lamp is switched off. "Nothing is fair in life, Victor," Sherlock, before walking out his bedroom door.

"Nor in death," Victor whispers into the darkness.