A/N: Hi, this is my first Sherlock fic, I'm just playing with the characters and trying out how they work. Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Sherlock, that's all ACD and BBC, if I owned, Watson would marry Sherlock.

It had been over something as small as Sherlock leaving hair in a cup of milk in the fridge, there was no reason to think that John would react adversly to it being that he'd seen a full head in their fridge only a week ago. Sherlock had tried to explain, he needed to see how the hair would be affected by the lactose in the milk, but John hadn't listened, or he had but it wasn't good enough this time.

Sherlock sat on the sofa staring at the crime scene photos that were spread across the coffee table, he'd been trying to find something to help the case for two days now, ignoring Lestrade's texts and calls. Running a hand through his already ruffled hair, he glanced over at John's arm chair, the Union Jack cushion was askew and one of John's jumpers was rumpled on the seat. Glancing at the photos again he heard the knock on the front door, muffled voices and footsteps on the stairs up to their - his - flat.

"Sherlock," Lestrade's head appeared around the door.

"Lestrade," Sherlock continued to stare at the photos.

"I need to know what you've got on the case, we've run into another dead end. I've been trying to call you," Lestrade went to sit in John's chair.

"Not there," Sherlock snapped, glancing up at Lestrade.

Lestrade held John's jumper in his hands before hastily replacing it on the chair, stepping around the coffe table Lestrade sat on the opposite sofa. "Where's John?"

"Out"

"I can see that, he's not answering either," Lestrade stated. "I really need your help."

Sherlock gave a derisive snort, "my help."

"Yes Sherlock, you're help! Someone is out there killing people and I need your help!" Lestrade snapped standing up. "If John were here he'd make you see-"

"He's not here! Now leave," Sherlock barked throwing the photos from the table. "Just get out!"

Lestrade watched the emotion ripple over Sherlock's face before he shut down again, glancing around the flat he noticed a distinct lack of John anywhere. His laptop was gone, there were tea cups shattered around the edges of the room. John was gone. Without saying a word he left Sherlock and made his way down to Mrs Hudson.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked once they were inside Mrs Hudson's.

"I'm not sure dear, but there was some shouting and things were thrown, after it went quiet for a short while before I heard a loud noise in the corridor, John was cursing something; probably his leg dear, it's been giving him trouble since the weather turned; but he stopped by, apologising about something to do with Sherlock and he was gone," Mrs Hudson sniffled wiping her nose with a hankerchief. "I thought it was just another one of their domestics, they have so many over Sherlock's little experiments you see, but John hasn't been back for two days now."

"Has Sherlock left the apartment since then?" Lestrade glanced up, he could still see Sherlock on the couch, rumpled and devastated.

"Not once! He threw some things around yesterday, been playing that violin terribly but he hasn't stepped outside the apartment once," Mrs Hudson sniffled again, "I do hate it when they fight."

"Me too," Lestrade strightened his jacket, "I must be off though Mrs Hudson, let me know if anything changes."

"I will dear," Mrs Hudson showed Lestrade to the door, "it's nice to know Sherlock has so many nice friends."

Lestrade smiled and left 221b Baker, pulling up the collar of his jacket against the wind, he crossed the street and looked up at the second floor window. Sherlock was staring into the street, but Lestrade knew better than to think he was watching him leave.

Back inside 221b Baker street, Sherlock watched the snow fly past the window, of course he saw Lestrade look up but he wasn't paying him any attention. His eyes were glued to the last place he saw John, his stomach clenched with an unfamiliar feeling. Turning back to the lounge, Sherlock stretched out on the couch and replayed the night over and over in his mind. Surely John wasn't that angry over a small experiment?