Sherlock preferences

Who said love was dead?

This part was requested by IsilwenofRivendell I really hope I've done your idea justice!
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As you looked out from your apartment into the hazy London sunrise, you smiled to yourself and inhaled deeply, taking in some of the cool, sharp, morning air from the open window. You reached up, tying your hair up into a messy ponytail before drawing the blinds to get dressed.

After your usual, normal, monotonous, boring morning routine was over, you grinned to yourself girlishly and exhaled, trying to compose yourself. Every day, the best part of your morning is passing John on the corridor... You never actually strike up a conversation, just the usual
"Morning John" passes your lips like a rewound cassette playing again and again. Before you could even reach your front door, however, you heard a crash come from your kitchen. You froze rigid like a monument, unable to control your limbs from fright. You slowly turned on your heel and you felt a tension pull tight against your lungs leaving you gasping for oxygen.
"H...hello?..." You half-whispered in the now silent flat. A few seconds passed.

Nothing.

You took a few cautious steps forwards and winced as the floorboards groaned beneath your heeled boots. As soon as you got a glimpse into the kitchen, your hand clapped up against your mouth and all colour drained from your cheeks. There was a man. A man with a gun.

He stepped forward and muttered "hello sweetheart" before pulling the trigger, sending you into a cascading whirlpool of blackness and pain as you hit the ground harshly. "Goodnight sweetheart..." An Irish voice echoed through the darkness as you lost your grip on the last strings of consciousness  you possessed. You were out cold.

Downstairs, John loitered in the hallway for just a few more seconds: hopeful that you would show yourself.
'Maybe she's just a bit behind schedule' he thought to himself as he frowned. Even though he had never had the courage to talk to you, you were the highlight of his morning, every day, same time. John waited a minute more, tapping his foot in the oak flooring with a sad nervousness before turning and walking down the stairs, a long sigh accompanied him.

John arrived at work saddened, however, this expression of melancholy was swiftly removed and replaced with one resembling concern when he heard Sherlock and Greg discussing something rather frantically in his office. He could hear their muffled voices through the shuttered glass
"Sherlock, it's all well and good to know where she is but she could possibly even be dead already!"
"Shut up! I'm trying to think!"
"Sherlock, a woman is DYING THINK HARDER!!"
John swallowed hard before cautiously pushing open the office door. Sherlock and Greg turned and as they saw him, solemn looks befell both their faced: reddened from shouting. John widened his eyes in panic as he clocked a picture of a girl on the wall with large, bold letters spelling:

"Missing, Possibly dead"

John's body shook. Blood began pulsating horrifically through his veins as he clutched his head, falling backwards into a chair.
"You know her" Sherlock stated respectfully, eyeing up John's condition. John could do nothing but nod.
"Her name is (y/n)... She lives in the flat above us... You've never met her because you always leave for work early."
After deducing John's mental state, Sherlock began to speak.
"Well... There is a chance that-"
"Sherlock no!"
John's head snapped around to make eye contact with Sherlock.
"What? A chance that what?" He demanded.
Greg rubbed his temples, seething at Sherlock for leading John on.

"Well. We do know where she is... Just not whether she is dead or alive..."

Sherlock broke his eye contact with John, tears welling up in his eyes at the pain of seeing his friend so badly scarred. John placed his head in his hands and murmured,