Hello lovelies :) I'm sorry about the angst, but here is some more for you. I'm really happy that so many people like this story! A big hug to my new followers/favouriters: Old Ping Hai, OwlSky15678, akiraoftrevon, Amalie03mus, DarthVadersPersonalHouseElf and mixed array, thank you so much :) An equally large hug to all my old followers/favouriters as well, you mean so much to me!

To the guest who reviewed: Mycroft and Lestrade is actually one of the biggest ships in the Sherlock fandom, so that's why I brought it in. I hope you don't mind too much, and that you might end up liking it. They are actually rather cute together (if I might say so) ;)

Comments/reviews are as always, much appriciated. Enjoy! :)

Chapter 17

John sat in the sofa at Lestrade's flat, an untouched cup of tea in front on him. Three days had passed, and he still hadn't spoken to Sherlock. He hadn't spoken at all come to think of it, other than to call in sick to work. Lestrade hadn't asked any questions, just opened up his home. John felt immensely grateful to the man, but he was currently not in the state to express this. He had barely been home at all, so John had had the flat mostly to himself these last couple of days.

Now, he was sitting across from John however, a worried look on his face. He seemed determined not to break the silence, but as it was starting to get ridiculous to just sit there, he finally put down his tea-cup and cleared his throat. "John look, I know about you and Sherlock."

John's eyes snapped up from the floor. "No. Wha- How ca-? He spluttered out, before realization dawned upon him. "Oh. Mycroft." He stated, and returned his gaze towards a stain in the carpet.

"Yes Mycroft" Lestrade nodded. "I've known almost from the beginning, but I wanted to give you a chance to tell me yourselves when you felt ready." John once again marveled over Lestrade's utter kindness, but didn't know what to reply. But Lestrade kept talking "I also know what happened between you and Sherlock. I have let you stay here, and I don't mind at all, but you have to talk to him John!" John made an effort to speak, but Lestrade held up his hand. "No wait. I know about the text and everything, but I also know what you said to him. It was probably a heat-of-the-moment-thing, but I think you feel guilty about it, and that is why you won't talk to him."

John was silent for a while, processing what Lestrade had said. Yes, he felt immensely guilty for the words he had thrown at Sherlock. He had been so angry, he was still angry, but he hadn't meant it. Not really. But instead of saying this, he said "He cheated on me, Greg."

"No. He didn't"

"What do you mean? You said you knew about the text!" John said annoyed. He definitely didn't want Lestrade to take Sherlock's side in all of this. If there even were sides, he didn't know anymore.

"Yes, but I also know the background story. I wanted Sherlock to tell you, but I don't think he'll mind." Lestrade took a deep breath, and John watched him, against his will he really wanted to know. "Remember the drug-dealer Sherlock hand-cuffed to that toilet a few weeks back?" John nodded. "Well, it turned out he wasn't working alone. This Ryan-fellow turned out to be equally important in the organization. So while we had taken the first guy, Sherlock tried to play them against each other. The information we had received from the hearings, he used to get close to the center of the organization, which was Ryan, the leader. And the information he received from Ryan, we managed to use on the first guy and so on. It's all a big mess, but Sherlock has really helped us these past weeks. He agreed to see Ryan again, and that way we would finally be able to take him. I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier, but I really thought you knew."

But John wasn't satisfied. "I know that he did it for a case, Greg, that is not the problem. The problem is what he did. What kind of proof did he give to be able to arrange a second meeting?" He shuddered at the mental images conjured in his head at those words. "I can't stand that he sleeps with random people just because he needs information or something for his damn work! I have some bloody pride left, and I won't tolerate it!" He tried to sound fierce, but his voice cracked at the end.

Lestrade looked shocked. "Oh my god…is that what you..? Oh no. No no John. Sherlock didn't…he wouldn't do that, ever! Not to himself, but especially not to you. I won't lie, he did kiss him, but that was it. And believe me; he looked absolutely nauseated when he returned to my office. And if I know him right, he has probably beaten himself up for it for two weeks, debating whether or not to tell you. I understand if you're still mad, I really do, but you needed to know the entire story."

John felt like a bucket of ice-water had been dumped over his head. Sherlock hadn't slept with him. He hadn't…oh god. Just a kiss. A kiss, he could live with. He knew what the work meant to Sherlock, and John could sacrifice a kiss, even though it stung. The guilt came creeping through his body. He hadn't even bothered to listen to Sherlock; he had just drawn his own stupid conclusions, and look where they were. Suddenly the anger was swooped out, replaced by guilt, and fear. He had said horrible things to Sherlock, what if he wouldn't forgive him?

"I'm a bloody idiot." He said so loud that Lestrade jumped. But John didn't notice. He didn't want to waste any more time. "Greg I don't…I just….Thank you." John said, and Lestrade smiled, he understood. "It's nothing John, anytime. But get your ass to Baker Street right now before you start to cry on me." John chuckled, but it got stuck in his throat, and he could already feel the burning behind his eyelids. He grabbed his jacket, and ran down the street. He managed to get a cab, and ten minutes later he was running up the stairs to their flat. His heart was racing of nervousness; he had no idea how Sherlock would react. He opened the door and let out a gasp.

It looked like a bomb had exploded in their living room. The furniture was upside down and their glass-table was smashed into pieces. Papers and books were scattered across the floor along with some stains of red. John panicked once he realized it was blood, and he darted through the flat in search for Sherlock, screaming his name, but there was nothing. He found several blood-stains in the bedroom and the kitchen, and the fear hit him like a slap in the face. He wanted to break down and cry, but instead he took a deep breath, and slipped into soldier mode. He called Lestrade who picked up immediately, as if sensing something was wrong. "What has happened?" He said shortly.

"It's Sherlock. He's gone."