John sat there, in the same chair he'd sat on many different occasions, surrounded by people he didn't know who were busying themselves around the flat, not even casting him half a glance, and all he could wonder was how everyone could leap back into motion? After what had just happened, after what they'd just found out, how could everyone keep working? How could they even focus right now? John certainly couldn't. His ears were still ringing, and his heart hadn't yet plodded back down to its regular pace.

He diagnosed that he was in a state of shock; his breaths were shallow, his palms clammy, his eyelids were heavy. Classic symptoms of shock.

"John,"

Mycroft Holmes stood before the doctor and, for the first time not just in John's knowledge but everyone else's too, he looked at a loss. He appeared to be torn between acting as an older brother should (i.e. bursting into fierce fits of rage and/or tears, demanding answers), and as acting as a professional (i.e. forcing a stiff upper lip and acting with brilliant apathy as if he had no emotional ties to the situation whatsoever, like it was just an example in an exam). He seemed to be favouring the latter as he lowly passed on orders to those who tentatively approached him, eyes studying the room in a very Holmes manner, clearly seeing trillions of tiny, seemingly insignificant, details on what had exactly happened at 221b. John would have appreciated this if he weren't so damned worried. Not even having someone like Mycroft there comforted him, and he understood that he wouldn't be able to relax until he saw Sherlock again in the flesh and saw whoever had done this dead with his very eyes.

"John," Mycroft tried again, nudging the doctor's foot with his umbrella. John flinched at the contact and tilted his eyes upwards; they were sore and red, evidently he had been crying. He looked about ready to burst into a fresh supply of tears right there and then, so Mycroft swiftly continued whilst he had the other man in a reasonable and calm state. "I do need you to tell me exactly what you saw. Down to the very last and finest detail, do you understand me? It is vital that you tell me everything you remember."

John swallowed and provided a rigid nod in agreement. Mycroft turned and Anthea stepped forward, phone in hand probably with a memopad application ready to jot down notes so to speak. The room suddenly seemed to drop in complete silence and John shifted uncomfortably now fully aware that every ear was focused on what he was saying.

"Well..." he started hoarsely, his voice coming out all crackly and soft as if he was suffering from a sore throat. "How far back are talking here?"

"From when you lost him, John," Mycroft said, obviously struggling to maintain his patient and understanding tone.

John's mind twitched back to that instant when his lips were crushed against Sherlock's. He swore he could still feel the warmth against his own, and the urgency behind it all. How Sherlock had gripped him as if he was going to collapse if he didn't hold on tight, and how John held onto him in return, feeling precisely the same. John's cheeks burned. He wasn't about to tell Mycroft that as well as Anthea and the rest of those in the flat who he'd never met before in his life. It was probably a bizarre thing to get caught up on considering the circumstances. So what if they all raised their eyebrows and sniggered? So what if they nudged one another? So what if Mycroft glared at him? So what? Why did any of that matter? Sherlock mattered and that was all. All the same, John couldn't bear to utter that fatal first sentence. He couldn't even think of a way to begin, and a way to conceal all the gaps in his story such as why Sherlock got upset and so on. Mycroft's eyes were boring into him now, and John decided to study his own hands that were clasped together between his knees as he spoke, as if pretending he was simply talking to himself aloud.

"Sherlock came to Sarah's party," he explained slowly. "He was late..." Fashionably. "And he just seemed a bit—on edge. So, I suggested we went out into the hall. I thought he wanted to talk about what had happened between us and maybe about me moving back here. We started talking and he went funny..."

"Elaborate on that, John—please," Mycroft added the final word reluctantly, hoping it would somewhat encourage him to carry on.

"He just went really quiet and he started to—" The way Sherlock had looked at him when he'd told him they'd never kissed—that pain...pain that John had caused...was so blatant. Sherlock had always done his best to conceal when someone had hurt him or when he'd felt a pluck of emotion, but right then it was as if he'd forgotten that he had worn this wall all his life. Right then, whatever he was feeling, whatever emotion John had evoked in him, was so strong that even the man with the most complicated and focused mind had forgotten to hide it. John went to say that Sherlock had gotten upset, but decided to bury that part as well. Sherlock would have wanted that. "He just started to act—differently to how he usually does, that's all. Then out of nowhere he collapsed."

Mycroft visibly stiffened.

"I tried bringing him round but he was out of it," John pressed on. "I started to panic so I left him to go and get help, to get someone at the party to ring an ambulance." He scratched the back of his head uneasily. Help! I need some help here! "Lestrade came with me back out into the hall but by the time we got there, Sherlock had vanished. Up and gone. The guests started to leave and I went back inside to get myself a coat—it looked like it was going to piss down—and then Lestrade and me left."

"What time approximately was this?" Anthea asked, looking apologetic for interrupting.

"Um..." he puffed out his cheeks and exhaled heavily. "Not sure to be honest..."

"Get out your phone," Mycroft interjected. "Look up what time I called you, that would give us a definite time. We can't do anything with approximations."

John frowned. "My phone?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Yes, I called you."

John shook his head, earning a deep and dark frown. "I left it back at Sarah's," John insisted. He patted his coat and jeans pockets so to prove he was telling the truth. "Why did you call me?"

"Someone answered that call," Mycroft said irritably.

"What call?" John threw his hands up in exasperation.

"The call regarding Raz." When John displayed genuine confusion and curiosity, Mycroft deflated. "Raz was found dead this morning in his mother's attic. He's been dead for at least a couple of months."

John felt a short pang of guilt. Though that kid had earned him an ASBO and had been Sherlock's dealer, he was still at the end of the day a kid. He couldn't even fathom how his parents were taking the news; the way Raz's mother had looked at him that day he'd sort of attempted to break into their home to search for answers flitted into his head and an extra weight was added in his chest.

"What does that mean?" he asked after a pause.

"It means that Raz hasn't been dealing with Sherlock—well, recently anyway," Mycroft clarified. "He did deal with my brother in the past but he hasn't as of late." John's eyes widened. "There was no phone on the body, and upon investigation and after interviewing his mother, we found out that..."

"He lost his phone," John gasped out, all feeling draining from his face.

"How did you know that?" Mycroft looked unusually perplexed.

"His mother told me," John said, turning hot at the ears. "Sorry, I forgot to mention that."

A fleeting look of anger crinkled Mycroft's features but then it dimmed and smoothed out, and he resorted to just glowering down at the floor as he spoke. "This means then that someone stole Raz's phone and then they murdered him."

"Why would they murder him?"

"So we couldn't question him, most likely. So we wouldn't figure out that he was in no way involved and also so we'd go on a wild goose chase trying to find him in Scotland or wherever it was." Mycroft waved an agitated hand as if to swipe it all away. "Either way, he was innocent, and someone else has been dealing with my brother."

John swallowed hard. "So Sherlock has been using again?"

Mycroft's mouth was pressed together in a grim line and he gave one minute nod as if he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud because it would make it more real.

"You and Lestrade came here," Mycroft said eventually. "Looking for Sherlock and then what?"

"I ran on ahead because—I don't really know why I just had the feeling Sherlock would be there," John went on. "Lestrade lagged behind. I think he thought Sherlock might have not made it back to the flat so he was checking round every corner and so on. I went upstairs and that was when I saw the blood." He glimpsed at the puddle now on the floor that was being photographed by some of Mycroft's men. "I saw my jumper on the floor and when I picked that up there was more blood. After that, I just looked out the window and saw Greg—I mean DI Lestrade and there was a sniper on him. I ran back out as fast as I could but..." he gnawed his bottom lip.

Mycroft grunted. "Thank you, John," he said gruffly. "I can't help but think that that isn't the whole story—" John looked at him in alarm, and Mycroft faintly smiled. "But it will have to make do."

John sagged with relief and felt immensely grateful towards the older Holmes sibling, though he wasn't entirely sure why Mycroft was letting him off the hook with this. For a brief second he wondered if Mycroft somehow knew, but the thought became too disturbing and he cut it loose from his consciousness.

"Sir," one of the men that were inspecting John's jumper stepped forward, holding something that John couldn't see between a pair of glinting tweezers. Mycroft's meek smile was discarded and he stepped forward to greet him, squinting.

John, unable to contain his interest, rose to his feet and leaned forward to inspect it. He saw faintly between the tweezers a short dark hair, nearly black. Mycroft took it from the man and held it up to the light.

"It's too short and straight to be Sherlock's," he remarked in an oddly calm way.

John's stomach twisted. "Do you think its Moriarty's?"

Mycroft didn't reply. He handed the tool back and the guy rushed off to take it elsewhere for thorough inspection. John eased himself back down into the chair, his joints creaking as he did so as if he had aged a good fifty years.

[SH]

A grimy ceiling...

His body felt like it was prickling like white noise...

His eyes kept rolling back into his skull...

They felt safer in the blackness because then they knew where they were...

His abdomen felt wet...

It pulsed as if it was one giant heart on the outside of his body...

The world was out of sync...

The voices were disconnected from the lips...

Dark eyes...

Dark...

Dark...

"I won't let you die, Sherlock... when the time comes, I want to squeeze it out of you..."

[SH]

Sarah was panicked by the amount of police cars and the ambulances sitting in Baker Street, and was even more set beside herself when a female officer stopped the cab and told the driver that the area was off limits. Before the driver could do as he was instructed, she let herself out of the car to have the officer hold up their hands.

"Sorry, do you live on this road?" they asked.

"No, but my—my boyfriend does," Sarah said; only partially a lie, she reminded herself. "221b?"

The officer quirked an eyebrow. "Your boyfriend is Sherlock Holmes? Sarah nodded, not bothering to correct her. The policewoman crossed her arms. "Either way, we have strict orders that this street is off limits to civilians."

"At least tell me what's happened," pleaded Sarah, dismayed that her fib had fallen in miserably.

"There was a shooting. One of our detectives was wounded. We're evacuating the area until we're sure the culprit is caught or long gone."

Sarah ran a hand through her hair. "Do you know anyone called John Watson?" The officer nodded. Sarah dug into her coat pocket and produced a mobile phone. "Can you give this to him? It's his phone, he forgot it."

The policewoman looked a little confused though agreed to either way. Before she could pry anymore, Sarah had climbed back into the taxi, all the while looking up almost wistfully at 221b.

[SH]

Sherlock's room had been silently assigned as off limits. John hadn't even needed to be told. He gathered very hastily that Sherlock was an immensely private man and that his room, despite not being used very often, was a private place that John wasn't mean to impose on. Oddly enough, that law still seemed to stand as firmly as before, but John felt that this instance was an exception. A dozen men had tramped right in and practically tipped it inside out looking for clues, a dozen men Sherlock most likely didn't know—surely out of them and John he'd rather the doctor be in there.

John still couldn't cast aside that shudder of guilt that passed through him when he first stepped over the threshold, folding his arms over his chest and peering around as if it was just a short and brisk inspection and he'd soon turn on his heel and leave.

221b was empty now, and the silence seemed to devour and regurgitate itself. Mycroft promised to come back later after finding out whose blood it was that was on the floor and on the jumper, and John felt misplaced just sitting around waiting.

Sherlock's bedroom didn't really feel like a bedroom at all. More like a spare room that was only ever used on rare occasions. Rather than an inhabitant, Sherlock was more like a guest when it came to this place. The only inclination that it was used at all was the clumsily made bed and the mirror with a great crack splitting the centre. John crossed over to it, running his index finger down the break, vaguely wondering what sort of awful mood Sherlock had been in when the mirror had taking a pounding. John almost felt inclined to make the bed properly, but he couldn't quite bring himself to.

He eased himself down onto edge of it and cast his eye around a second time. Moments like those, John wished more than anything that he was as intelligent as Sherlock yet he was utterly aware of what a, excuse the melodrama, curse it was at times. Sherlock wasn't able to accept anything anyone told him, he would be aware of every little thing, and he would be absolutely useless when it came to relationships. Look at their relationship—it was living proof. Sherlock was incapable of opening himself up to people, and whenever he did, it was so awkwardly delivered. Like when he'd told John moments after waking up in hospital that he was relieved that John wasn't hurt too badly. It had touched John, but then again who could really survive on instances such as those. The only time one would hear something remotely touching from Sherlock was after they'd nearly died. No one would want to be in a position of nearly losing their lives just so Sherlock would open up an inch more.

John faintly wondered if Sherlock had ever said anything like that to anyone else before. He doubted it, and that doubt gave him a flicker of pride that he was, most likely, the only one to see that side of the consulting detective.

In the end, John decided that his neat nature would not allow him to leave Sherlock's room in such a mess. The men who had dissected it around an hour ago had just shoved everything out of sight to give the impression of tidiness. John made Sherlock's bed, collected up the pieces of paper with scribbled notes on, and put them in a pile on the chest of drawers.

It was when he went to refold some of Sherlock's shirts that he found something unexpected. He had started to empty out the drawers and when he'd gotten to the wooden base, he found something surprising sitting there. John blinked in bewilderment as the face of a younger Sherlock Holmes looked up at him. He lifted out the photograph tenderly as if it would rip like a moth's wing even at the slightest of touches.

John saw that it was Sherlock standing next to Mycroft; most people when having their photo taken would at least fake a smile or put their arm around the person next to them. John allowed an honest grin to spread across his face as he saw that Sherlock didn't bother with such trivialities, and it warmed him to see something so familiar to him. Sherlock and Mycroft just stood rigidly next to each other with their backs straightened, looking directly into the camera. The eldest sibling had a roundness to his face, and John felt let into the entire 'how's the diet' quip that Sherlock had barked out all those months ago. Sherlock didn't look alarmingly different; his hair was a bit tidier and shorter, he wasn't as skinny though still very thin, yet there was something about him that told John that this was before—before the drugs. John never knew what Sherlock was like before them or even during them really. He only knew the aftermath. Still, he could gather that Sherlock was different just by looking into his younger face.

"I was certain he'd thrown that way..."

John's hand dramatically sprang to his heart at the sound of the older Holmes' voice and he slumped against the drawers when he realised who it was. Mycroft, ignorant as to why the doctor had reacted that way, strode over and glanced over John's shoulder, touching the photograph though not taking it away. His face was unreadable, but John understood that he was touched. The doctor didn't want to speak first and so stood there feeling slightly perturbed, feeling as if he was an intruder in this instant that should really be a private one.

"Our father hated children," Mycroft said after the lengthened pause. "He indulged in Mummy's wishes to have them, but refused to talk to us until we were—intelligent enough to engage in conversation with him. There's seven years between Sherlock and I, you see, John. So by the time our father had started to talk to me, Sherlock was still deemed, in a word, unsuitable so I understand he felt left out a lot of the time. He adored Mummy though. He wanted nothing more than to please her, and our father always made her feel guilty for supposedly forcing him to have children. Sherlock tried to become more intelligent so to please him just so he would talk to him and make Mummy feel better. Of course, this alienated him from the other children as he devoted all his time to studying. Our father left us in the end. Sherlock felt it was his fault."

John listened intently, trying to imagine how that would feel. To believe with all your heart that your mother is made miserable because you aren't growing up fast enough, because you aren't smart enough...and then to find out you're a failure and made things worse for those you cared for most...you would wish you had never been born. John's blood turned cold at this notion and involuntarily shivered.

"He tried to kill himself once, you know," Mycroft choked out thickly. "He was nineteen. He'd come home from the summer from university, and about four weeks in, he disappeared. We all thought he'd runaway over the night; we searched for hours. We found him four days later in the attic space in the stables. He'd tried to overdose, had taken too much, and had thrown them all up. It looked like pneumonia would kill him for a while. I think that's why he moved to the city as soon as possible you know...so he'd be as far away from that moment as possible, away from Mummy, away from that—that blame."

John could hardly picture Sherlock as a country boy, though it did make sense. He had a fascination with the city, one that wouldn't be so strong if he'd lived there all his life. Living in the middle of the countryside had to be lonely too, at times.

"I'm thankful for you, John," Mycroft continued, turning to the doctor for the first time. "You've made him want to live again."

"What do you mean?" John inquired, puzzled.

"Sherlock never felt like anyone needed him before, let alone wanted him," Mycroft said, gently pushing the photograph to John's chest in an indication that it was now his. He put his hands behind his back, clasping them together in a nonchalant way. "You make him feel like he's given you something and you appreciate it." John went to settle the picture back down in the drawer but Mycroft touched his arm, stopping him. "Keep it for now. Give it back to him when we find him."

John, suddenly remembering that the man who was the centre of their conversation was missing, jolted back to reality. "Did you find out whose blood it was?"

Mycroft turned grim and nodded. He didn't allow too great a pause so not to get John's hopes up. "It was Sherlock's."

John's fingers curled into his palms to form a strong fist. "And the hair that you found?"

"Not a match as of yet," Mycroft admitted. John's shoulders sagged. "It is highly likely though, that it is who you think it is." It was as though he couldn't even utter the name, as if it was acid on his tongue.

"Moriarty," John murmured. When Mycroft nodded, John wanted nothing more than to lash out at something. Maybe that mirror, it was already broken anyway. It may as well be thrown away because it was pointless. He didn't notice he was trembling with repressed rage until Mycroft clasped his shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. "How's Greg?"

"He's in a critical condition, but I am assured that he will pull through," he reported with his usual frankness now it was no longer addressing his brother. "No one was found on the scene that could be held accountable. I will position two of my men to keep an eye on Baker Street so if anyone does show up, I will know about it. Where are you staying?"

John went to say Sarah's but then closed his mouth. "Here," he said, somewhat uncertainly.

Mycroft looked about ready to protest but then supposedly decided not to. Instead, he just told John to call if anything happened.

"Oh before I forget," he was halfway out of the door when he said this, retracing his steps and holding out a phone. "This was given to one of the officers from a woman who said she was Sherlock's girlfriend." When he saw John's stunned expression he laughed. "Don't worry, if my brother was in a relationship I would know about it. No, I am confident it was Sarah."

John relaxed and took the phone, mumbling thanks. When he was left alone again, he turned his phone on to find he had a text from the woman herself. It read:

I gave them your phone. U left it back at the flat.
I hope ur okay, John. I dont know what's going to happen to us 2 nw.

I'm not happy abowt it bt I'm happy for u.

Luv Sarah xoxox

John went to reply, his thumb hovering over the buttons. Reflecting on it, he had no idea what he was going to say. What could possibly be said? It was blatant that this was her breaking up with him. Then why wasn't he sad? Why wasn't he crying or even angry? Why was he just okay with it, like how you're okay with finding out that a plan that you weren't too keen on in the first place had been cancelled? He felt a hint of relief, even. It wasn't that Sarah wasn't good enough for him, or that he'd never liked her or whatever. He'd been crazy about her in all honesty. She was a wonderful person, and he did feel upset about maybe not having her around anymore. That was the thing; he was more upset about not having her around rather than not seeing her in a romantic way anymore. He hadn't been planning to spend the rest of his life with her, so there wasn't that. There was just—acceptance. John accepted their relationship was over, he accepted that he wasn't going to wake up with her entangled in his arms anymore, with only a slight sting.

This made him feel awful as well as bemused.

In the end, he settled on texting her back something along the lines of 'Okay, thank you for everything, stay in touch'. It was short and he had wanted to say more, however couldn't find anything suitable to say. He didn't want to lie to her, and he didn't want to say anything that could be misunderstood.

John set his phone aside and sat on Sherlock's newly made bed once more. He was comforted by the consulting detective's faint scent that had been woven into everything in the room. At some point, he'd lain down and had just drifted off to sleep, his body so drained and worn from the day's events.

TBC

I know it was supposed to be up next week but I was so encouraged by the reviews I started getting inspiration and just wrote this in one sitting, which is bizarre for me. I hope you like this chapter. Just to assure you, Greg Lestrade is alive. And where's Sherlock? You'll find out soon. Little is actually known about the Holmes' family back-story so all of this is invented by myself. I was reluctant to add it in case the TV show mentions it and completely make mine a false interpretation but anyway, I just wrote the scene and couldn't bear to cut it out. Please continue reviewing.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed; thank you to IcedTea. Your review really made my day and it's a pleasure to see that my story is being so enjoyed by someone. You sort of urged me to write this chapter by your support, so in a way this chapter is dedicated to you. To everyone else, your reviews were lovely and are greatly appreciated.