For a fact, not Mutual -Johnlock

Chapter 11~When it rains, it pours

"Mycroft?!" Sherlock exclaimed. The confusion was almost umbarable for a few moments. When he came back to reality, He pulled the balled up cloth out of Mycroft's mouth. He took a sharp breath in, and Sherlock started to untie his hands and feet. 

"I thought you'd never come. The shame. I want Moriarty eliminated." Mycroft huffed. He stood up and brushed himself off. He walked to the sink and proceeded to clean the blood off his face from a small flesh wound. 

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked.

"I thought you'd ask that first." Mycroft glanced at him throught the mirror. "I'm afraid I can't tell you the whereabouts of John Watson."

"Why not? Are you hiding it for Moriarty?"

"No, of course not. I'm not stupid Sherlock. I just can't tell, you and you don't need to know that information. It's as simple as that."

"Oh, please Mycroft. I managed to get this far, you can at least have the decency to tell me where my boyfriend is. That's Moriarty's game afterall. I don't want you as an obstacle." By this time Sherlock was pacing back and forth trying to piece together the clues.

"Fine, I see you won't give up the chase, so I'm just going to have to break you heart." He said this with impatience at first, then realized the heavieness of the situation. He paused for a very long time before saying: "John is dead."

The silence that filled the room seemed to close in  on every inch of Sherlock's body. His brain almost ceased to function, and his heart seemed to came to a complete stop. "H-how. do you know?" Was all that he could stutter out. 

"I watched Moriarty finish him off myself. I'm so sorry dear brother." He turned to face the broken man. 

"How?" He asked.

"Gun shot wound. Well, like I said, sentiment. I guess it was just never meant to work out. We all must move on I suppose." He paused. "Thank you for getting me out of that mess, Sherlock." 

And with that, He walked out of the bathroom, and out of sight. 

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he stood there, saying nothing, thinking nothing. His brain just seemed to slowly turn off. All he could think about was how he would never see John again, never kiss him, never hug him. No more 'I love you's' No more late night cuddles, No more cases, no more sleepless nights. No more private concerts at 3 am. No more making the tea toghether. No more John. 

He never cried. He just sat there. A thought here and there crossed his mind that he might be still alive, but it was very unlikely. He tried all the possibilites, but none of them made sense, or had enough logic behind it to be accurate. 

Somehow, he found himself back in Baker street, sitting silently in his chair, plucking a sad tune on his violin. His thoughts always wandering to the absence of John.