I huff. That man will run off someday and get himself killed. Idiot. Mine.

I close the Skype application and open up a browser, entering the MePhone website. If Sherlock won't tell me where he's going, but he knows, then I'll just have to find him myself. "And the password is Rachel. Sher, you can't hide from me if you're in danger."

The Find My Phone section is on the right side of my laptop screen, so I click on it. A map of London loads for a few seconds, but then comes up with a blinking dot on the location of the phone. "It's moving," I whisper. "Maybe a cab?"

And then everything falls into place.

The killer abducted the victims in the middle of a crowd without anyone noticing. He then took them to places they weren't likely to go, explains the cab, and made them take the pills that killed them. A cab driver. That man from before, the gray-haired man with blue eyes that felt off, he's the one that's been killing those people.

He has Sherlock.

My mind blanks; I grab my gun, put on my jacket, and run out of my flat, carrying my mobile with me. I quickly pull up the same site and as it begins to track, I see where it's going. Although, that cabbie must really be an imbecile if he thinks Sherlock needs more schooling. I laugh, even though the situation really isn't funny.

I raise my hand up and shout, "Cab!" into the street. After about five minutes, one actually stops for me. I swear, and climb into it, telling the cabbie to make it fast.

I fidget horribly while the cab goes, tapping my fingers restlessly on the seat covers, my leg thumping up and down on the dirty carpeted floor. All I can think about is what Sherlock's going through. He wouldn't be scared, but what would he do when faced with death like that? Sher would probably laugh, I think. He might be happy to get out of here. The world hasn't treated him very well, after all.

Sher has seen just as many bad things as I have, and I can't let him go the way I was let go.

I check if my gun is loaded, making sure there's enough bullets to take people out. But there's only one bullet. One bullet is all I have. Could I do that? My aim really hasn't gotten rusty since I've been in Afghanistan. One bullet, though. No chance to make a mistake.

If it's for Sherlock, I could make it. I have to.

When the cab drops me off at the Further Education College, the cabbie asks me if I'm sure this is where I want to go. I tell him yes, and pay him double. He protests, but I'm already far away.

I break down the door to the left side of the building and run through the dark hallways, opening doors, looking through rooms. There are virtually no lights on, so I go down the middle of the corridors in order to not run into anything. I flash back to the darkest Afghan nights when our flashlights were the only illumination, and too often, they failed. We ran and shot and ran and shot and fell.

Once I search the entire first floor, I fly up the stairs, taking them four at a time. Seconds pass so slowly that every set of stairs feels like three. I break open more doors, search more empty rooms. "Sherlock!" I call. "Sherlock, where are you?"

He doesn't answer, so I start going through the rooms on the side of the building closest to the other half of the school. The first few are duds, but as I look through the next one, I see lights on. When I look through the window, I see two men on the other side of the school, facing each other. One of them has gray hair, and the other has pitch black curls, and is the closest to facing me. He doesn't see me, I know, but I still have a pretty good idea who it is.

Sherlock, because I'm pretty damn sure it's him, raises a pink and white pill to his mouth, the pill that all the other victims had ingested. The cabbie is going to kill him, I think numbly. Sherlock is going to be dead soon if I don't do something.

My thoughts stop right there. I only realize later that I pull my gun from my back pocket and fire the single bullet I have at the back of the man ready to kill Sherlock. The shot flies straight through two windowpanes, breaks the spinal cord and pushes through the aorta valve of the heart. I know exactly where it hit, I am a doctor. I've made that shot before. But as with the other shot, I run before the man hits the ground because I can't afford to stay.

Sherlock can't know that I killed someone for him. He's knows too much already without me adding to it. But more importantly, he can't know why I killed that cabbie. The whys are often more telling than the action itself.

I love him. I love Sherlock after maybe eighteen hours of knowing him without seeing his face, and I can't tell him. He doesn't need that on top of everything else.

I know I'm a coward, and I also know that the truth always comes out, but for now, only the walls need to know. Only the building I screamed his name through needs to know what I did for him.

I leave the left side of the school building so that no one is the wiser. The Yard hasn't even been called yet. The streets are quiet, for now. I go four blocks away from the place before trying to hail another cab. John Watson, scared of what he's done. I laugh and the new cabbie looks at me like I'm crazy, but I am.

Months later, I find myself in the middle of a different case. Sherlock and I work together all the time now, chasing criminals, running from criminals, whichever. It doesn't matter to us. I still pine after him like a bloody teenager, and I wish he'd show me his real face, but he's just as stubborn as I am, perhaps more.

I feel that he doesn't like himself, and that's why he won't look at me. Which is absolute crap, of course, but I have no room to criticize him. I don't like myself that much either. But I like myself better when I'm with him.

"So, have you figured out the missile plans yet?" I ask Sherlock.

"I found them, if that's what you mean. The fiancée's brother did it." Sher waves at me through the camera. "How's your little date search coming?"

I sigh. "Is there anything just completely repulsive about me? The only person willing to date me is a lesbian barista who even admits I'm not her type at all. So what is it? Do I have a disgusting habit that no one's decided to mention to me? Am I way worse in bed than I thought? Do I give off the prat vibe or something? Why do people treat me like a one-night stand?"

"John, there is nothing remotely wrong with you," he replies simply.

"There has to be," I protest. "There are very few other explanations for my pathetic dating life."

"JOHN. Listen, and listen carefully, and repeat after me: you are perfect just the way you are."

"Sher, you are perfect just the way you are."

I can feel him rolling his eyes. "You missed the point entirely. If you aren't getting dates, it's because something is wrong with them, not you. Anyone in their right mind would jump on you and never let you go if they found you."

My mouth falls open. "You mean that? You really mean that?"

"I rarely speak without meaning it. Especially when it comes to you." His voice trails off into a quiet mumble towards the end of that sentence.

"Sher-" I start, but the doorbell rings. "Sorry, I'll be right back. Stay right there, please."

I rush to my door and unlock it, saying, "If you're selling something, I don't want it."

"Oh, Johnny boy, you want what I'm selling," a Irish-tinted, very creepy voice replies, putting a bag over my head.

When I wake up, I'm wearing my jacket, but underneath it is a great deal of Semtex. Shite. Just shite. I have a fucking bomb under my clothes. In my ear is a little transmitter. "Now, Johnny, you're going to say what I tell you to say or else you get blown up and your precious Sherlock gets a bullet to the head. Just like all the others. Got that?"

"Yeah," I say, cutting off all the other not-so-nice things I had in mind.

"Good. Time to put pretty little Sherly on the phone. You should be used to this by now." I nod, knowing he can't see me.

My mind goes into soldier mode for a few seconds. If Sherlock's going to get out alive, I need to play by the rules at least enough to fool who I now know as Moriarty. He and I and Sherlock are all going to be in this pool room, but I'm out of sight. Sher knows where my gun is, and he'll take it with him to meet Moriarty, so that man might end up dead. Good. Fucking bastard.

All I need to do is make sure Moriarty can't kill Sher. Stall, bide time. Make sure Sherlock has the chance to go in for a kill shot.

When Sherlock walks in, I can hear his footsteps echo on the ground. "Bet you didn't see this coming," I say, just loud enough so that he can hear me.

"John? John, where are you?"

"Everywhere, darling. Everywhere." He doesn't speak back. "I fooled you good and proper, didn't I?" I continue.

"You're not really John." Sher laughs, long and loud. "Oh, you may have tricked everyone else, but you'll never have me, James Moriarty!"

"Oh, I have you alright. Do you know how?" I ask, not knowing the answer. Jim doesn't give me all the lines at once.

"Please do enlighten me, dear Moriarty."

"John's just like all the others. And I hold the trigger," Jim sings, stepping from his hiding place. I stop receiving instructions.

"Oh, I know you do. But John isn't like all the others. You can't have him," Sherlock hisses.

"And whyever not? Did you foolishly think your pet would stay with you forever? Alive or dead?"

"Always. And I'll never leave him either."

Jim laughs. "I doubt that very much. Did you ever think you had the upper hand, Sherly? I'm wondering now with the way you talk about dear little Johnny."

"I've always had the upper hand, James Moriarty. And I always will." Sherlock then, in a series of movements that I could hear took barely a second, shot Jim.

A mere millisecond later, tens of shots fire toward the same central point. I hear police sirens from several cars come close to the building, and I have to get out of the spot Moriarty hid me in. I have to see if Sherlock's okay. He has to be. If he isn't, a lot more murders will be committed tonight.

I shove open the door, and go out to the catwalk above the pool. I see black curls and the body that goes with them under Moriarty's body, using it for a shield. The snipers are good shots, but they're too focused on what they're doing, I decide. I smile. So I can be useful.

I run at the first sniper quietly and punch him in the throat, immediately incapacitating him. I take his gun and begin shooting his evil sniper buddies. They fall like rocks, most of them. Only a couple are left when I'm finished; the Yard can take them. I sweep the catwalk more than once, making sure there are no more hostiles in the area. Finding none, I drop the gun and run down the metal steps to the main level. Everything's quiet now, and it kind of freaks me out.

I pull Moriarty off of Sherlock, paying attention to his vitals to reassure myself he's actually dead. He's certainly lost enough blood to be dead, though. Once I'm more calm, I turn to the other man and lose it again.

Sherlock is too beautiful for words. I can't even describe what it means to see him for the first time, only that I can't ever let him go.

I check him for gunshot wounds, but all I find is a large bump on the back of his head where he hit the side of the pool. "You'll be okay, Sher," I whisper. I hesitate for a moment, but press a kiss to his forehead anyway. "Goodbye."

I take the back exit out of the pool, weaving through the trees so that no one will find me. Maybe a kilometer from the pool, I reach a main street and stick my hand out for a cab. I curse my horrible luck in catching the damn things. If I could catch them as fast as Sherlock did, maybe I'd be at home, waiting for him to call. (Pathetic.) Not pathetic at all.

Debating my patheticness takes up enough of my brain space that I don't hear someone come up behind me and hug me. I try to get them off, but they just say, "John," and I stop.

"Sherlock."

"You shouldn't have left me back there. It was quite rude."

"I like being your guardian angel," I reply, smiling slightly.

"That's all well and good, but can you be my guardian angel and live at my flat with me and date me? I'd like that very much." Sher sounds so shy and unsure of himself. How can I resist him like that?

"Yeah. I like you better when I can see you anyway." I turn in his arms and kiss him properly, on the lips. "Come on. Let's go home."

End