Hey Everyone… Thank you for the interest in this! Just a gnawing thing in my brain! I apologize that this isn't longer. I anticipated having a nice long chunky chapter but there's a part I'm not happy with so I figured, instead of making you all wait till I figure out what I want, I'd get this up.

By the way… My fic is written as a friendship fic in my mind. But if you want to see it another way then I suppose that's fine too.

Thanks! Here ya go!

Numb…

That's all he could feel. It coated his whole body from the inside out.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since they made it out of the building. He also had no clue what time it was when the building suddenly imploded on itself. John was too busy cradling his friends' head in his lap, waiting on an ambulance… and then, surely, the coroner.

He didn't even think to care as the scene started to buzz around him. He ignored the shocked and pitiful looks from Donovan and Anderson as they arrived to the scene. He watched with dull eyes as Lestrade intercepted them and told them the news. John could see their eyes widen and knew then that the Inspector had dropped the bomb, no pun intended. He saw Sally's mouth utter an obscenity before looking back over at the pair.

But John didn't care… He didn't care what they thought or how they were feeling. He didn't have it in him to feel for himself… let alone give a crap about someone else's.

The Ambulance had arrived but did not engage. There was nothing they could do. No one had approached him and his flat mate for some time. He couldn't help to think that they were weary of Sherlock even in death. It couldn't have been him they balked at. No… not Timid-As-A-Mouse John Watson. He knew the sight must have been unnatural and too shocking to accept. Sherlock Holmes spayed on the cold pavement, eyes closed, unmoving and limp in John Watson's lap… a sight no one thought they'd witness.

Finally, a shadow loomed closer; taking slow and steady steps in their direction.

Mycroft.

The older Holmes's face showed no emotion as usual but his eyes didn't leave his brothers body. John couldn't read him. He didn't do that very well anyways. That was Sherlock's forte.

Mycroft had broken his stare at his deceased brother and looked at John, taking in the ex-soldiers obvious distress. He, like his brother, could keep his thoughts logical. He couldn't help his brother now, but he could help John.

No one had ever been this close to his brother. There had been a bond from the very beginning that kept Mycroft up at night at times trying to understand. Sherlock didn't have friends. He had acquaintances sure, but no one had ever accepted his brother as John Watson had. They both fed off of each other, grounded one another. Mycroft was thankful for John's influence on his impulsive and reckless younger sibling. Even as he lay cold and dead, John still clung to him, protecting him from any more harm. Keeping his friends dignity by holding his head from the unforgiving ground.

Mycroft shook himself from his thoughts and motioned with one finger and a wave of his arm. That small movement had set things in motion. People started to come in their direction and John blinked in annoyance, pulling Sherlock's still shoulders closer.

Crouching down, Mycroft laid a hand on John's shoulder. Red sad eyes looked lazily up at the older Holmes.

"You can stand down now John… He's safe now."

John blinked heavily and looked back down at his pale, still friend. It was several seconds before he released his hold, signaling the workers that came at Mycroft's call to take Sherlock from him.

John watched from his knelt position as they lifted Sherlock onto a gurney, laying him on top of a black material. They checked for a pulse once more before nodding to one another and John looked sharply to the ground as they began to pull the black corners up and over Sherlock. The only thing John registered was the noise of the zipper coming up slowly, making his friend disappear.

It was then that he noticed the hand still on his shoulder as it gripped him tighter. Mycroft had not turned away and his pain and sadness echoed through his touch. John didn't bother looking up. He was sure the older Holmes' face showed no sign of grief. His on the other hand was a tragic novel.

Before John knew what was going on, Mycroft was helping him to his feet and ushering him gently in the direction of his long black car. The door was opened for him and he slid into the leather seats, allowing his body to melt down into a boneless mass. The car had started moving but John stared out at nothing. He didn't care about his destination. He just couldn't seem to care about anything.

They took a few turns, stopped at some red lights and dodged traffic but the two men in the back seat said nothing. They didn't even acknowledge each other's presence until finally the door opened and the light from St. Barts filled the once dark car. John hadn't even noticed that they'd stopped and certainly didn't expect to be at the hospital. He wasn't sure what he wanted or where he wanted to be at that moment but he was sure he DIDN'T want to be at St. Barts. He'd have much rather preferred to disappear then be illuminated by the glow of the hospital sign.

John's door opened and he didn't know where the strength came from as his legs moved and he pulled himself out.

Mycroft didn't say a word but walked ahead of John into the doors and down the hallways. Finally they stopped at a desk and John forced his ears to pay attention.

"My friend here needs assistance. I believe you've been called."

John looked from Mycroft to the young nurse behind the desk. She nodded nervously and hit the intercom, speaking into it quickly. She'd obviously received the memo.

"I don't need assistance." John's face was still as blank as new paper but his tone deepened slightly. Did Mycroft realize that he didn't hurt? He couldn't feel anything let alone an injury. It didn't matter anymore. He didn't matter anymore.

"You need to be checked John. You were in the blast too. You may be a doctor but right now you can't take care of yourself properly."

"I … cant…?"

"You may not feel anything now but later on you'll thank me."

John rolled his eyes in annoyance and didn't try in the least to hide it. Damn it you Holmes's! He didn't understand how easy it was for them to get into his head.

"You know I'm right." And that was that. The 'last word' in all its glory.

So very 'Sherlock'…

"Fine…" It was no use to argue. The faster he accepted he'd have to be looked at then the faster he could disappear.

"It will be quick I promise. I will wait for you... and then we'll go to the morgue."

John stalled at Mycroft's words. It was the first time tonight the man had lost a beat and reveal a chink in his armor. He hadn't tried to hide it from John either. That was not normal Mycroft behavior.

"Ok…"

Mycroft nodded and both men looked up as a short man in a white doctors coat walked up to them, introduced himself as Doctor Reeves, and motioned John to the closest curtain.

The tiny doctor was quick but thorough enough. John had some bruises and would hurt more in the morning once everything stiffened. He'd known that well enough on his own. He was sent on his way twenty minutes later with a script for a pain reliever, a belly full of Motrin and a sad smile from Dr. Reeves. John was still walking in a daze as he rounded the curtain and almost ran into Mycroft. The older Holmes actually did wait for him.

"Are you ready John?"

The doctor nodded but it was a lie. There was no way in hell that he'd be ready for this

The door to the lab was open and waiting for them when they arrived. John followed Mycroft in and winced slightly as he was hit with the strong smells inside. He may have been a doctor but that didn't mean it didn't turn his stomach upside down whenever he'd encountered it. Mainly Formaldehyde.

Sherlock had been lain out on a metal table. His clothes were gone and a crisp white sheet covered the thin frame up to just below the shoulders. The paleness of his skin made the sheet appear a darker shade of white but his dark curls caused everything lighter to be whitened out. It hurt John's eyes to look.

John's gaze immediately set on a ragged red line down his flat mates left cheek. A part deep inside of him briefly woke up… the part that would throw himself into caring doctor mode and reach for the nearest first aid kit. But he stifled it quickly. It didn't matter now. The cut didn't need to be cleaned. It wasn't going to get infected… it wasn't going to heal… it didn't matter anymore.

Mycroft walked slowly around the table, taking in his brother's stillness. The look in his eyes made it seem like this was the first time he'd seen him since the explosion. The man may have tried his damndest all night to put on a strong front and build his walls up for protection. But right at that moment, as he watched him stare down at his dead little brother, John could see the walls fall down in a giant collapse.

John knew as a man of great power that this moment was as uncommon as a full moon on the 29th of February and he turned his gaze away from Mycroft to the other person in the room to give him privacy.

"Who are you?" John didn't recognize the red headed man in the white lab coat. Where was Molly?

"Names Jerry…" The younger man held a hand out to shake John's; only the Ex-Soldier didn't offer his. Jerry looked someone dejected but put his hand back down slowly and smiled gently anyways. "I work the graveyard shift… um.. pardon the pun there. Sorry."

John ignored his sorry excuse for a mood lightener "I've never seen you here before. Where's Molly?"

Jerry was about to respond when Mycroft placed a gentle hand on the doctor's shoulder. "John… Ms. Molly left shortly after they brought my brother in. She couldn't seem to handle herself enough to assist tonight. I saw to it that she got home safely."

"Oh…" Poor Molly… her feelings for Sherlock certainly wouldn't have made seeing him like this easy. He never did understand how she worked in the morgue. Her disposition was better suited for the living.

"She was surely enamored with my brother."

John nodded absently mindedly as he glanced back over at the silenced form. "Understatement… but better this way. She has been through enough. Does she know…?"

"That her boyfriend was really the bomber and conspired to kill you both? Yes…" Mycroft cut in. "She knows everything."

"Oh…" Again... poor Molly. John closed his eyes to everything. He didn't want to see Sherlock, he didn't want to think of Molly or picture her tears. And he really REALLY didn't want to be here right now. Suddenly his equilibrium faltered and he swayed slightly on his feet. His eyes snapped open to regain himself and caught Mycroft eyeing him sideways.

"I expect a full report tomorrow… Jerry…"

"Williams…. Jerry Williams." The red head had taken a step forward slightly; clearly excited to be acknowledged but Mycroft kept a smug look on his face and ignored the other mans eagerness.

"Right… Jerry Williams. Be thorough and I want to know the COD as soon as its determined." Mycroft had begun to make his way toward the lab doors and John had moved his tired legs to follow when suddenly they both came to an abrupt stop at Jerry's next words.

"Sure… I can already tell you the cause of death."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose slightly as he turned back in the direction of the other man.

"Well…" John almost wanted to smile as Sherlock once again had shown through in his brother's tone of voice.

"Compression. His insides were crushed. X-Ray's show bone fragments punctured the heart. If it helps… I believe it was quick."

John couldn't take any more and abruptly stumbled backwards, grasping the closest empty table for support. He'd heard enough, felt enough, seen enough. He needed out.

"John… I think its time we got you home."

All John could do was nod.

He had nothing else to give…

And as John began to follow Mycroft once more down the empty hallways, a hitch caught in his step and a slight limp returned.

John's steps were heavy, his weary body dragging from overuse… physically and emotionally. The aches and pains from the night's events were starting to sink in. He'd been given some ibuprofen at the hospital but it had been a few hours now and its helpfulness was dwindling.

He didn't want to look at anything in the flat. Everything would remind him of what he'd just lost. A comrade… a friend… a lifeline. But with the help of the dull morning light seeping through the open curtains, John made out the skull on the mantle, the laptop resting on the side table where John had last seen him sitting watching crap telly. Damn it… he should have known something was up right then. Sherlock didn't watch those things, had no interest, thought it to be dull and a sorry excuse for his time. And then there was his offer to go shopping.

John sighed loudly and let himself collapse onto the sofa. He put his elbows on his knees as he pushed the palms of his hands into his aching eyes. He'd been a fool not to notice these small differences.

Maybe if John had called him on it he'd have told him everything.

But… then again… this WAS Sherlock Holmes he was talking about.

Sherlock didn't want to include him in this. And instead of John feeling bad about being left out of an important meeting with Moriarty, which had backfired on Sherlock anyways, he was grateful. Sherlock didn't want him put in harms way because of the "Game" he and that psychopath were playing at.

He'd become an unwilling participant anyways.

"Knock knock!"

John winced openly and worked on pulling his weary body off of the couch cushions.

He'd forgotten about Mrs. Hudson…

The little old landlady bounced into the room with an energy he wasn't sure was natural for someone her age and John tried to stifle the groan coming up his throat. He didn't know if he could do this… Why did it have to be him?

"Morning John. Late night again I take it?" The older lady scampered into the kitchen and dropped a paper bag she had been holding onto the cluttered kitchen table. "I don't care much for you and Sherlock scamping about in dark alleys at night but when you go out could you please turn off the telly? Kept me up for hours. I came up and turned I off about 3:30. I swear that boy would forget his head when he's into one of his cases.

"Mrs. Hudson… I'm sorry… I…" John had tried to cut into the woman's ramblings but apparently his intrusion wasn't strong enough.

"No no dear… its alright… Its not like I have to head to work this morning. I hope you don't have work today dear. I see a nap in your future." Mrs. Hudson finished putting the stuff in the bags away as best she could and finally walked over to John. The doctor had his hand on the mantle, desperately trying to gain some strength from the old wood and metal.

"Mrs. Hudson… I have to tell you…"

"Maybe you should call in today. You look a bit peaky. I'm sure Sarah would understand. Such a sweet woman John… I like her."

John sighed and shook his head slightly. Sarah… damn it he'd have to call Sarah to explain why he'd never made it over. But right now that was the least of his troubles.

"Ma'am…"

"Where's Sherlock dear?" Mrs. Hudson stepped away from John and went to the side table to tidy up some newspapers. She always reminded them that she was not their housekeeper… but she was a mother and some actions she could not help. "Did he solve whatever case you were both working on? He's so smart… I'm sure he did. Such a clever boy… When he gets back I'll bring you boys up some tea. You look wiped."

John squeezed his eyes shut from the sight of Mrs. Hudson unconsciously cleaning up their flat and gripped the mantle tighter. Why was this so hard to get out? There is never a good time for this news but this lively little old lady was giving John a rather good fight… and she didn't even know it.

"Mrs. Hudson… Sherlock's not coming back."

The old woman stopped her actions at John's words. She'd looked deep in thought for a moment before shifting back into gear… only this time a bit nervously as her ramblings became a bit more high pitched.

"Well then later on. I'll bring him up a Tea… but you young man should be in bed. You look awful." Mrs. Hudson finally turned in John's direction and froze at the sad gaze the doctor returned.

"No… John… Don't say it? Please don't say anything." Mrs. Hudson wasn't a stupid woman but she had no problems sharing her emotions with the world as John witnessed tears fill her eyes. John stared at the liquid longer then he should have. He'd been around people the last few hours that didn't show such raw emotion. He was actually comforted in knowing that it was still possible.

"I'm… so sorry. Sherlock… He… umm…." John stopped, trying to collect his thoughts and felt a trembling hand cling onto his forearm. It gave him a moment of strength to continue. "There was an explosion and… he didn't…"

John's words faded and he looked down to the floor, unable to look at the woman's emotions dance on her face any longer. Her fingers gripped his sweater tighter and then suddenly let go. John's eyes popped up to make sure she was ok but she was already turning in the direction of the doorway.

John let her go. He understood needing time to wrap around the news. He'd check on her a bit later. He knew Sherlock was like another son to the old woman. She always treated him as such and he'd let her.

John ran a hand over his face and squinted as he turned toward the ever-growing morning sun through the window panes.

Screw the sun… he didn't want it. He didn't need it anymore. With hard steps and vicious tugs, John closed the curtains tight, shutting out the daylight… and the world.