Hello again! First of all, thank you: Inspyre, benedicks, Okami . Lupus, kiras70 and Wolfsbane Hallow for fallowing/favouriting this story recently! Second of all, well enjoy the chapter, that's all! Any suggestions/opinions on the story, feel free to tell me.

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Chapter 18

Lestrade and Donovan were trying to locate Sherlock's mobile as John stepped into Lestrade's office, his entire body burning with worry. John had already thought of every place possible for Sherlock to be, so he answered Lestrade's questions almost automatically. Just as Mycroft stepped through the door, Donovan finally got a signal. "It looks like he is somewhere in the port. I think he mentioned it sometime, that they had their headquarters at some place there. Said they wanted to be close to the shipping-boats." She said to the room and no-one in particular. John quickly rose out of his chair and looked at Lestrade, waiting for him to follow.

"You are not coming along John." He said sternly.

"Of course I am."

"I appreciate your help, but you are not a police John. You don't have the expertise or the authority to this sort of mission."

"I was a soldier for god's sake Greg!" John said loudly. "I invaded Afghanistan; I think I'm quite able to come along on a rescue mission." Lestrade opened his mouth to argue, but Mycroft cut him off. He put his hand on Lestrade's shoulder, and said

"Greg, I actually agree with John. And this is Sherlock. He'd want John to come with you."

"Fine" Lestrade snapped. "But if I lose my job because of this, you're bloody well paying for it."

John didn't even bother to listen, and ten minutes later he sat in a police-car going full speed, dressed in a bullet-proof vest and equipped with a gun. He tried to ignore the worry that seared through every vein of his body, and he refused to close his eyes to stop the horrible mental images to get to him. Since they had absolutely no idea what they were to expect once they got there, Lestrade had decided to send in the special-force.

According to the GPS, Sherlock were in a big warehouse, just behind a huge shipping-boat. Or rather, Sherlock's mobile was there, and John could only pray that the owner of it would be there as well. They stopped behind another warehouse, and Lestrade sent in his special-force. John did not approve of this way of dealing with the situation, just sitting in a bloody car and not being able to do a thing besides wait, but he knew it was pointless in arguing. Every second that went by, he was sure that he would get bad news from the radio. After what felt like an eternity, they got the report that the warehouse was empty. They had found Sherlock's mobile on the floor, and there were clear signs that he'd been there. But now it was completely empty.

John felt like he was going to break. He'd clung to this straw of hope, and now that it was gone he was sure that he would crumble into pieces at any minute. He had barely eaten or slept in three days, and now the worrying took his last energy. He felt the soldier-façade cracking at the edges, and his eyes were rapidly filling up. He rushed out of the car, hyperventilating, tears running along his cheeks. He sat down on the ground and put his head between his knees to stop himself from fainting. He felt, rather than heard Lestrade's presence but he neither of them spoke. Lestrade just stood there, waiting for John to get his panic-attack over and get a grip on himself. He didn't mention it with a word, just offered his hand once John could breathe properly again. The ride back into town was silent and tense. Lestrade dropped him off at Baker Street, urging him to sleep and promised that they would do everything they could. Before he drove away, he looked at John and said

"Don't do anything stupid."

John didn't even register the words; he had already slipped from soldier mode into some sort of zombie-wannabe. He really thought that Sherlock would be there. He had absolutely no idea where he was, he felt sick when he looked at the blood-stains still clearly visible against the white walls and the guilt suddenly hit him full force. He hadn't spoken to Sherlock in three days. The last words he had said to him… oh god, it was terrible. He lay down on Sherlock's bed, their bed, and he let himself scream Sherlock's name into the pillow.

He woke up a couple of hours later to a loud beeping from his phone. Immediately wide awake, he fumbled with it until he could view the text, and he cursed himself for falling asleep. It was from an unknown number and John didn't know whether to laugh or cry when he read the message.

"Boxhill Street 7. Please come.

SH"

He didn't hesitate for a second longer than necessary. He grabbed his gun and shoved it at the back of his trousers, before sprinting out of the flat, throwing himself into a cab. He didn't even think about calling Lestrade, all he could think was 'Sherlock is alive. He is still alive. I can save him.'

The cabbie dropped him off at the right address, and eyed him suspiciously before he drove away. John couldn't really blame him though, the street was dodgy and the houses looked like they could've used a restoration about 20 years ago. He quickly crossed the street and tried to examine number 7 from a couple of bushes. A shadow at the window in the door indicated that someone was guarding it, so John quickly ruled out the front-door as an option for his attempted break-in. He crept, hidden behind the bushes, into the backyard. What had once been a garden were now an almost forest, which John found very useful at the moment. He stayed down, counted the windows and tried to deduce how many people that was in the house. He managed to make out three different shadows at the bottom-floor, and if he weren't completely mistaken, the second-floor was empty. He had no idea where Sherlock would be, but he figured he would deal with that problem once he was actually inside the house. Luckily, there was a tree growing just beside one of the second-floor windows and John climbed it without difficulty and as quiet as he could, he shoved the window open and leaped inside.

John suddenly realized he'd just broken into a house which most likely was the head-quarters of one of London's largest drug-cartels, he had no idea where Sherlock were, and he hadn't even called the police. He was probably out of his mind, but then again, so were Sherlock, and right now he was the only thing on John's mind.

As silently as he could, John crept out of the bedroom from which window he'd just entered. He had the gun raised, and he listened intently at any noise that would indicate a human being in his near presence. He stood in a hallway, and there were three other doors apart the one he'd just exited. One of them lead to a bathroom; one of them seemed to be some sort of walk-in-closet. The third and last remaining door were closed and bolted with a chair underneath the door-handle. John tip-toed across the hallway and, abandoning all his cautiousness, he moved the chair and flung the door open. Relief flooded through his body, but it quickly stopped as John threw himself forward.

Sherlock was lying on a rusty bed; his clothes ripped and messed with blood. He had a large gash across his forehead, just above his left eye, and there were several cuts over his arms and chest. His ribs were clearly visible as though he hadn't eaten in days, 'which he probably hasn't', John thought and he tried to push away the guilt that came second. He reached out his hand and touched Sherlock's cheek.

"Sherlock? It's me." he whispered. No response. "Sherlock?" He brought his fingers down to Sherlock's neck and searched hysterically, but there was nothing.

Sherlock had no pulse.