A/N: A missing scene from The Blind Banker, from Sherlock's point of view.

Centuries old

When the crack of the gunshot echoes through the museum, you freeze momentarily, a string of possibilities flashing in your mind with the speed of lightning.

You push them aside, because it's useless to theorise before you have all the data.

The silence is pressing heavily on you, daring to move, to call out, to DO something. Time ticks away inexorably, and you're just continuing to stand motionless, waiting for something – although you can't seem to realise what it is exactly are you waiting for.

Finally, slowly, you move. You take a few hesitant steps, as if testing the safety of the silence, and when nothing happens, your body spurs into action automatically. You find yourself running, and the single name seems to repeat itself in your mind in a perfect sync with your madly beating heart.

JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn…

Doctor John Watson, ex-military, field surgeon, invalided home from Afghanistan, used to have a psychosomatic limp, a crack shot and generally, a very good person.

He came into your life quite recently, but sort of managed to stake a claim for a place in it. Took you some time to accept the changes, but you did it finally, starting to regard John as part and parcel of your daily life.

And you don't particularly like losing things you chose to invest yourself into.

Keeping your pace, you storm into the restoration room and come into a halt, your eyes automatically adjusting to the semi-darkness.

At first, you don't seem to see or hear anything. But a moment later something draws your attention – a sound, which you can describe as the combination of a gasp and a chocked sob. You carefully move forward, navigating your way around the obstacles, until you finally see them – Soo Lin and John, dead and alive, frozen in time and space like sort of a sculpture.

In John's case – a moving sculpture, because the good doctor leans on the table heavily, his shoulders shaking with the suppressed sobs.

You stay where you stopped – observing, cataloguing, deducing. It's easier not to care this way, because logic is always opposed to feelings, and logic sort of became your safety blanket over the years.

There were times when you used to care. But every time it ended with the loss and the pain, so finally you chose not to do that anymore. Closed your heart, stomped down on your feelings, shut everyone out.

Stopped living in your heart, started existing in your mind.

Until John.

Ordinary, predictable, ridiculous John, who sneaked his way past your defenses and caused something to start stirring in your seemingly non-existing heart.

The same heart that now clenching painfully in your chest at the sight of John desperately trying to be strong.

It's only when his hand covers yours you realise that you had moved towards him and placed your hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.

He doesn't turn around, just holds onto your hand tightly.

Your mind seems to be arguing with your body, when you take a step forward and press yourself against John, tugging your hand free and then sliding an arm around his chest.

He doesn't pull away, so you decide to continue holding him. It feels strange and awkward, and you're not used to do this anymore, but if it makes John feel better, then you're willing to continue.

Finally he starts to speak, shifting in your grasp slightly. "Thank you," he says gratefully, attempting to move away. You let him go immediately and step back, afraid to cause any discomfort. He turns around and looks straight into your eyes, and there's a smile on his face – sad and soft, and filled with understanding.

No other words are being said – there's no need. Your brain kicks into gear, and you welcome its usual buzzing, allowing yourself to be pulled into your accustomed world of reason and logic.

"We need to pay a visit to Dimmock," you say firmly, and John nods.

"Yes, you're right," he agrees, his voice cold and flat. "It's time for him to start actually DOING something about all that."

You recognise this voice and smile inwardly, anticipating the treatment Dimmock is about to get.

John turns and strides towards the exit with determination, and you start to follow when something on the floor catches your eye.

A ceramic teapot, smashed to pieces.

'Centuries old. Don't break that' you said.

Now it's broken.

Irreplaceable.

Like Soo Lin's life.

You used not to care.

You do, now.

Because of John.

For him, you let your heart show for a moment.

And that's a start of becoming alive again.

A little note: actually, as for now I have no plans to continue this fanfic, unless, of course, there's something you want me to write about. So, prompts and ideas very much appreciated. Thank you in advance!