Disclaimer: I own nothing.

I don't know how long this story will be, but it shouldn't end up being a fucking book like some of my other stuff. At least one more chapter will be added though, as long as I think people are enjoying it. See, I have a lot of stuff going on in my life right now, so if people do not seem interested in this story, I won't bother continuing it. So really, if you like this, favourite or review it, because if not, I won't bother to write another chapter.

That is all.

There had always been a possibility that John would end up in real danger. With what they did, it wasn't even an unlikely possibility. He'd found himself in harm's way several times because of the work he did with Sherlock, but Sherlock had always been able to save him. It was never a question. Sherlock knew, deep inside whatever essence was possibly inside of his body, that he would always be there to save John. Even when he had been away, after the fall, he'd been watching, protecting John. Now that they'd been living together again for several years, it was even more of a firm fact. Nothing could ever happen to John Watson when Sherlock Holmes was around.

But he had been wrong.

One day, John just suddenly wasn't there anymore.

Sherlock woke up, and he was sitting in the front room. Somehow, he'd fallen asleep off schedule. He hollered up the stairs, "John, I want some tea!"

No response.

Sherlock continued to think silently through the morning, almost forgetting about John. But then he became confused again.

"John?" he called up the stairs. "Aren't you due at the surgery soon?"

No answer this time either, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He actually bothered to remember John's work schedule and John wasn't even there to acknowledge it? Unacceptable.

Sherlock fluidly stood from his spot on the settee and went up the steps three at a time.

He pushed the door open, forgetting too late that John hated when he didn't knock.

But nobody was there. John's bed stood unmade and empty.

Sherlock's brows creased. This was strange.

He considered for one sixteenth of a second that John might've gone to work early, but then a suspicion filtered into his mind, one that made his eyes widen and made him literally run down the stairs.

He picked up the mug that had contained his tea from the night before. He wiped his finger along the edge and sniffed. Nothing. But that didn't say a thing.

An hour and a lot of chemicals and microscopic examination later, Sherlock's suspicion had been confirmed. A sleeping agent had been given to Sherlock.

And because of this… John was gone.

Sherlock went outside and hailed a cab by walking in front of it. The only way to quickly get its attention.

He went straight to New Scotland Yard, barging in the door like he really worked there and up to Lestrade's department.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked when he saw him, munching on a donut.

"God, the freak's comin' in even when there isn't a case now?" complained Donovan, but Sherlock completely ignored it. He didn't have time for her—or anyone else, for that matter.

"John's gone missing."

"Probably he wanted to get away from you for a tick," Anderson said, having peeked his head in when he saw Sherlock walk in.

"Anderson, out," Lestrade commanded, and Anderson rolled his eyes and withdrew his head. "John's missing? Have you sent him a text or anything?"

"He should've been home this morning, only he wasn't, and then I realised I fell asleep on the couch, and yesterday was a Tuesday, I never sleep on Tuesdays, so I checked the mug I was using last night and there was a trace of GHB on the rim. I was drugged and then somebody took John from the flat."

Apparently, that was enough for Lestrade. He stood up and started packing things up.

"Kidnappings aren't your department, you know," said Donovan through the door.

Lestrade glared at her. "This is John, Sally. When my friend goes missing, I plan to take a look."

She blinked up at him, apparently surprised by his reaction. Then she looked up to Sherlock. "You're quiet," she noticed, a suspicious look on her face. Even though Sherlock had proven he was not a psychopathic murderer, she was always suspicious of him.

"Give it a rest," snapped Lestrade, coming loyally to Sherlock's defense. "His best friend's gone missing."

"More like his boyfriend," Anderson sneered.

Sherlock didn't even bother to argue, and both Donovan and Anderson seemed to realise that.

"You're not honestly dating him, are you?" Donovan asked.

Finally, Sherlock glared down at her. "Your idiotic curiosity is not helpful in the least at the moment. As an officer, I rather thought your moral compass would make you overlook the fact that helping with this would be a favour to me, because John is a good man and deserves every man on the damn planet to be looking for him."

Both of them looked up at Sherlock from their desks in surprise. Had Sherlock just honest-to-god lost his temper? And called John a good man too.

And then, to the shock of everyone in the room—other than Sherlock, who had intended to play her like a violin—Donovan quickly began to pack her things. "You comin'?" she asked to Anderson.

He looked exasperated, but then sighed. "Fiiiine."

The four of them and some people who were actually from the Adult Missing Persons Department all headed for the flat. Sherlock got his own cab and didn't let anyone else come with him, and then he met them outside.

The men did their work. No sign of forced entry at the door, but there was definitely a sign of struggle in John's room and damage to the bins under his window. They figured that was how the kidnapper got in and out. Sherlock had already deduced that from a single glance at the outside lock, but was not really in the mood to brag. How had he, the great Sherlock Holmes, been fooled so easily? Now John was gone and they didn't know who took him or where he was now.

Or what state he was in.

Sherlock felt like he'd seen seven or eight Baskerville Hounds and was at a complete loss for what to do.

Which was an unfamiliar and quite unpleasant feeling for him.

It took him a long time to realise that someone was trying to talk to him. He'd been standing in front of 221 for a long time, letting the Met do their jobs. But now almost everyone was gone, and Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were still there. Lestrade was trying to get his attention, the other two were standing to the side, impatiently waiting for Lestrade to be done talking to Sherlock.

"Oh, Inspector," said Sherlock, shaking his head to clear it.

Usually, when he didn't respond to people, he heard what they said, but was ignoring them. This time, he had no idea what Lestrade had said to him.

Lestrade looked concerned, but said, "There's not much more to do at the flat. The AMPD are out looking. Other than putting up fliers, there isn't much—"

"Of course there are things I can do," Sherlock snapped. "I'm going to look for John."

"You've got no clue where he is. Or who took him."

"I'll find a clue. There's always a clue."

Probably, Sherlock looked more manic than usual, because Lestrade looked a little frightened and the other two had stopped chatting to look at him in something between shock and disgust.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade muttered.

"You can go, Inspector. Text me the moment you find anything."

Lestrade looked about to speak again, but then sighed and nodded. "Will do."

And then Sherlock began the hunt.

Sherlock was pacing the flat. He was missing something. He had to be missing something. All physical evidence of the crime was gone by now, withered away with time and by the seasons, but there had to be something. He was no closer to finding John than he was the day he vanished.

There was a knock at the door. He'd stopped being surprised by this. Suddenly, everyone came to visit. Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, even Sarah once or twice. They were worried.

He didn't bother to answer, because whoever it was would let themselves in if they really wanted a chat.

And they did. It was Lestrade.

Lestrade's eyes widened, probably at Sherlock appearance. Like he hadn't slept, eaten, or showered in so long that Sherlock probably honestly couldn't remember when he last did any of it. Unshaven probably being the oddest part. Like he had time for that now, when there was a case to solve.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, you look like a dead man walking!" yelled Lestrade, skipping his usual pleasantries.

"I need to solve the case."

Immediately, there was sympathy on Lestrade's face. "Sherlock… John's gone."

Sherlock turned on Lestrade with fury burning like fire in his eyes. "He's not gone! He can't be!"

The sadness on Lestrade's face was only more annoying to him.

There was a long, long silence.

Then, "Sherlock, I didn't know you could feel this way about someone."

Sherlock looked back to him for long enough to say, "My regrettable sentiment was revealed to you after my fake suicide, was it not?"

"Sentiment, sure, but Sherlock… blimey, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were in love with him."

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped at the words. He quit pacing. He looked to Lestrade, dazed.

"What, you've never considered that before? John's been gone more than a year and you're still as desperate to find him as you were fifteen months ago."

"Wouldn't you be?" Sherlock demanded harshly.

"If it were just a friend, I'd be sad, and have some hope, but I wouldn't be like this, no. But… if it were my wife, then yeah, I'd still be like this. Because I'm in love with her."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He swallowed hard. He felt his eyes burning in an unfamiliar way.

Lestrade saw it. "Geez, Sherlock, are you crying?"

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. "Of course I'm not," he snapped, forcing the betraying wetness to recede back into the lacrimal canal where it belonged.

"Sherlock… I'm sorry, I really am. But this isn't healthy. You're going to kill yourself, and John wouldn't've wanted that."

"You're speaking about John in the past tense," Sherlock said. "You know how I feel about that."

"Well I don't bloody care. The past tense is the only proper way to think about him! Sherlock, he's gone. I'm really, truly sorry, but he's not coming back. You need to find a way to forget him or you're going to fall over dead."

And Lestrade, in apparent irritation, stormed out of the flat.

Sherlock was left standing there, stunned.

Sherlock had never—not once in the fourteen months, twenty one days, twelve hours, and forty-six minutes John had been gone—considered he was actually gone.

But now that possibility was flooding in him, making him feel like he never had before. Like he was drowning, like his lungs had vanished from his chest, like he was free falling without a parachute, like he was being dragged behind a car going a hundred miles an hour, like he was being hit by a train on either side, like he was being bludgeoned in the head. All at once. Over and over again.

And before Sherlock knew what was happening, he was on the floor, curled into a ball and crying. Sobbing. Weeping for the loss he had never bothered to accept.

That was when Lestrade re-entered the room, apparently over his little spout of anger and wanting to continue to convince Sherlock to try to live normally—or semi-normally—again.

"My god," he said, kneeling down in front of Sherlock. "I… wow… I didn't mean…"

Sherlock couldn't even care that he had an audience now, because he was too busy being killed in every possible way in his own mind. He had never in his life thought that losing a person could affect him this deeply, but now he was feeling it all at once and he literally felt like his body was shutting down.

His mind. He couldn't think. His brain was the only thing that mattered and it wasn't even working anymore.

Lestrade clearly didn't know what to do, because he must've figured touching Sherlock might illicit a violent response. But while Sherlock came undone on the floor, Lestrade did not get up and leave, did not even shift his weight. He just sat there, being supportive without verbal or physical condolences.

It took Sherlock a long time to calm down again. He felt his mind coming back to him, and immediately he felt embarrassed at all Lestrade had seen.

Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but then Sherlock cut him off, standing up and saying, "You are never to speak of John Watson again. I will never do so again either. You will call me tomorrow with a case."

"You haven't done a case in—"

"Did you hear me or not?"

"Sherlock—"

"Get out!" Sherlock bellowed, and Lestrade sighed and went to the door. He was about to say something else, but then Sherlock glared at him until he reluctantly shut the door.

He could not allow the memory of John to keep him from functioning, as it had been for so long now. No more.

So Sherlock sat down on the settee, closing his eyes and retreating into his mind palace. Going into the back, where there were rooms and rooms dedicated to John Hamish Watson.

And mentally, Sherlock set fire to them all.

John would never distract him again, because he wouldn't even know a John Watson ever existed.

Finally, he was free.

John woke up blearily, having absolutely no idea where he was. He remembered… god, he hardly remembered anything. A dark room. One he sat in for a long, long time. Getting handed meals like some kind of prisoner. But nothing else.

John looked around and realised he was sitting in an alley with several homeless people.

What in the hell had happened to him?

John got up and immediately headed for 221B. Sherlock probably did some bloody experiment on him, that's what happened. Well, Sherlock had better be ready for a nice sock to the jaw for that one.

John got to the apartment and luckily, Sherlock was just leaving.

"Sherlock!" John bellowed.

Sherlock looked at him with an eyebrow up. "I'd say you want an autograph, but usually fans don't look so angry."

Then he continued to walk.

"Excuse me?" John yelled after him. Sherlock didn't even turn, so John ran after him. "Sherlock, what the hell happened?"

"What, do you need some case solved? Leave me be, will you?"

John felt like he was in a bad dream. Why was Sherlock acting like this? An experiment, probably. But it wasn't funny.

"Sherlock, god, what're you doing?"

Sherlock hailed a cab and got in, and John shoved himself in the door and the cabbie went before Sherlock could push him out.

Sherlock looked at John incredulously. "What do you want? I'm on my way to Scotland Yard, so if you keep harassing me, I might actually get annoyed enough to take it up with them."

"Sherlock, what are you on about? You aren't making any sense."

"You're the one who's making no sense," Sherlock responded, looking out the window. "I don't even know you."

John decided maybe the goal was for him to play along. "It's me, John. John Watson."

Sherlock didn't look over as he said, "And is that supposed to mean something to me?"

John blinked at Sherlock, who was still looking uninterestedly out the window. What in hell was going on here? Sherlock really didn't seem to be joking. He had to be asleep. He had to be.

But the cab got to the Yard and John paid, because he always did. Even so, Sherlock looked at him oddly for a moment before he got out. John followed and Sherlock didn't stop him.

They got out of the lift and John was determined to figure out from Lestrade what was going on.

But as soon as everyone saw him, he knew something was wrong. They were all gaping at him, speechless, like he was a ghost or something.

"Today is about the weirdest damn day of my whole life," John decided out loud. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"

"You're alive!" Lestrade said loudly.

"Of course I'm bloody alive, what'd you expect?!" John snapped, getting extremely angry.

"Lestrade, you know this man?" Sherlock enquired.

And now everyone gaped at Sherlock.

"Okay, someone's going to explain this to me," said John, and he barreled forward, taking Lestrade by the arm and pulling him into his office, shutting the door so nobody else could come in. "Why're you so surprised to see me, first off?"

"John…" Lestrade muttered, seeming to be looking for the correct words to explain what he was thinking. "You've been missing for two and a half years."

John literally did not comprehend what Lestrade was saying. "Sorry?"

"You were kidnapped in mid-2013 and were never found."

"It is 2013," John said exasperatedly. "July… July third, isn't it?"

Another long silence. And then Lestrade looked down, grabbed a newspaper off his desk, and handed it to John. John picked it up, skimming it. Then his eyes landed on the date.

November, 2015.

John looked up to Lestrade, feeling distinctly like he was the subject of a bad practical joke.

But in the next ten minutes, it was proven to be very much real. Lestrade explained that John disappeared and nobody knew where to find him. He said Sherlock wasn't taking it well at first.

"At first?" John asked.

"Yeah… somewhere around a year back, he started acting like you don't exist. If anyone brought you up, he'd look confused, say he didn't recall who we were talking about. Some silly coping mechanism, we supposed, but now you're here and he's still doing it… it doesn't make sense."

But now John understood.

My god.

Sherlock had DELETED HIM.

"Yes it does," John said.

John quickly explained Sherlock's ability to delete things from his memory and Lestrade began to understand the situation.

Suddenly, he looked guilty. "God, I told him to forget you. I told him. I didn't know he could literally forget someone."

"Yeah, he can do that…" John sighed. Then he looked up to Lestrade. "Wait, you told him to forget me? Why?"

Lestrade twiddled his thumbs nervously.

"Please tell me," John insisted.

"I don't know if you want to know."

"I do, trust me."

Lestrade was quiet again, and then sighed in defeat. "He was a damn wreck, John. He was grieving you so much he couldn't function."

"Grieving? Sherlock?"

"I know," Lestrade said. "I couldn't believe it either. But he was literally withering away because he had no desire to look after himself. It was… well, it was kind of like how you were when he was gone, except worse. A lot worse."

John didn't like to think about the time he had thought Sherlock was dead.

Actually, he'd thought that for just about two and a half years. Two years and four months. An odd coincidence.

But John had been horrible while Sherlock was gone. To imagine Sherlock had been worse… John was overwhelmed with so many different emotions that he couldn't differentiate them all in his head. But the pervasive one at the moment was sorrow. For Sherlock, for himself.

He voiced his next thought aloud.

"Then what the hell do I do? Sherlock's forgotten me."

John half-expected Lestrade to tell him that he just needed to forget Sherlock too. But instead he said, "He must be able to un-delete things."

Maybe he knew that there was no way John could ever forget Sherlock, so there was no point in suggesting it.

"Maybe…" John said. He always had faith Sherlock could do anything. But undoing something Sherlock had done to his own mind… it seemed unlikely to be possible.

"But until then…" Lestrade murmured, grabbing John by the coat and dragging him back out into the other room. "Sherlock, you prat, how'd you manage to delete this?" John was about to hit him over the head for being so damn open about it, but then he continued, "Your friend Stamford referred this man to you to be your flat mate. You said you'd meet him at 221B tonight."

Nobody else in the room knew what was going on, obviously, but they didn't seem to feel comfortable asking either. They just stared, dumbfounded.

Sherlock looked honestly confused, but only for a moment. "Probably it didn't seem important at the time." He looked to John. "So where've you been kept confined lately?" he asked casually.

"I don't actually know," John replied steadily.

Sherlock looked confused again. "You aren't wondering how I knew that?"

John kept himself from smiling. Right, Sherlock thought they only just met. Expected the surprise at his brilliance. "Not really," John said. "So let's go look at this flat, shall we?"

Sherlock continued to look puzzled and part of John rather enjoyed it.

But at the same time, all the time he'd spent getting to know Sherlock, earning his trust, had vanished. Everything between them… it was all gone. Was he capable of living with a Sherlock that honestly didn't know him?

Well, it didn't matter if John knew the answer, it seemed, because whether he liked it or not, he was about to find out.

Hey guys. So like I said at the top, let me know what you think so I know whether to bother continuing this story. Thanks a lot for your comments in advance!