All is Fair in Love and War

Elvanston Street

Lestrade's statement was met with a deafening silence.

John sank slowly to his knees, feeling like the ground was falling away beneath him. Sherlock made some sort of exclamation; John could not tell what he had said through the thick fog descending over him.

It was like being underwater. Everything was blurred, and sounds seemed muffled.

Lestrade said something about shock, at which Sherlock tried to pull him back to his feet. John did not resist; he let himself be led from the floor of the manor to the veranda. How fresh air was supposed to ease his despair, he didn't know, but he decided to humor the detective inspector. Besides, there was something in Sherlock's expression that drove him to quiet compliance. The dark-haired genius rarely displayed concern for others, but the fraction of John's brain that had not ground to a screeching halt recognized the worry and self-loathing in Sherlock's features and responded accordingly. 

"John."

A series of synapses fired, and the doctor registered that Sherlock was shaking him hesitantly by the shoulder. John turned slowly to face the detective, but his mind was miles away.

"John. I'm... I... I don't know what to say," Sherlock finished lamely, staring at the ground.

John opened his mouth. He closed it, then opened it again.

"I suppose that makes two of us," he said finally.

"John," repeated Sherlock, still staring at the ground, "I need you not to go into shock right now. I... was not exaggerating when I said I would be lost without my blogger. And if we -"

Lestrade approached the veranda. Apparently, he had gone down to his patrol car after seeing the doctor safely outside. John hadn't even noticed.

"Get in," he said, not unkindly. "I'll drive us over to Elvanston Street, shall I?"

Taking John again by the arm, Sherlock led him down the drive to where the police vehicle was parked by the gate. The whole way there, the detective looked as though he were fighting with himself. The little twitches, out-of-place blinks, subtle puckerings of his lips, would have been indistinguishable to the casual observer, but John, who knew him better than most, saw on that usually-expressionless face a veritable battleground of emotions, and for once, the doctor felt he could keep up with the detective's train of thought.

Sherlock did not want him to see his flat, or what was left of it, plain and simple. The detective knew, however, that John required closure, would not rest until he saw for himself what Moriarty had done. So when they reached the police car and Sherlock began to say something presumably awkward and well-intentioned but poorly worded, John stopped him.

"Sherlock. Shut up. I need to see this."

The taller man blinked, his face sliding back into its typical mask of calm composure.

"That's... actually not at all what I was thinking about just now, John, but as you say, I'll not stop you."

The doctor tried for a disbelieving scoff, but suspected it was affected somewhat more with hysteria than he would have liked.

On any other day, John might have marveled at the novelty of sitting in a patrol car without wearing handcuffs; today, he leaned back in the plastic seat and took a deep breath, staring blankly at the scenery as it flashed past.

Elvanston Street was a mess of ambulances, police, and fire trucks. A swarm of curious bystanders were being ordered from the scene where, with a thrill of horror, John realized his flat used to be. When Lestrade stopped the car, the doctor stumbled out, Sherlock catching the door behind him. Donovan was on crowd control; seeing them approach, she cut an aisle through the gaggle of onlookers and let them through, for once in her life saying nothing at all. There was a line of sagging yellow tape stretched across the front of the ruined building. John stood before it on the charred remnants of his sidewalk and tried to take it in.