5 times that John was worried about Sherlock, and one time the roles were reversed

AN: I'm sure this type of story has been done multiple times before, but as my first fanfic, I didn't want anything too long or complicated. I'm not entirely satisfied with this, but I figure I have to work up the nerve to post eventually! Enjoy and feel free to drop a review!

1

Even after Afghanistan, John still recoiled at the sound of a gun shot. That reaction didn't even encompass the wealth of bad memories that the sound triggered. The sharp crack was always louder than he expected, even if he was anticipating the shot. And on this occasion, he most certainly wasn't anticipating it. Despite not even being in the same room as the gunman, the sound still reverberated through his ears, elevating his sense of dread. 'Sherlock!' he thought instantly.

It was safe to say that John had been enjoying his week up to this point. Work at the clinic hadn't been too strenuous. Sherlock had found an intriguing case worthy of his attention. Sherlock was content in his own way, so much so that he practically smirked at John every time he saw him. With all traces of dark humour gone, Sherlock was back to working at full capacity, tracking down the latest killer.

John wasn't at all surprised that Lestrade had asked for Sherlock's help on this case. And despite feeling rather dimwitted around Sherlock, he wasn't too suprised that Sherlock had taken the case either. Middle class men disappearing in broad daylight, later being found dead in various dark alleys, with next to no forensic evidence? That sounded like something that could keep even Sherlock occupied for a while.

However, after two days, Sherlock's interest began to diminish as he realised that this killer was in fact more idiotic and puerile than he had initially been led to believe. But John's week was still proceeding well. Sherlock hadn't resorted to taking his gun and shooting the wall just yet. That wouldn't happen until the day that the culprit was finally caught.

That day occured sooner than John had conjectured. The two men had waited at one of the former crime scenes, Sherlock correctly realising that the killer would revisit them in turn. They had leaned against the wall of the dark alley in silence for about an hour until the killer finally arrived and saw them. Sherlock and John began one of their numerous chases through London, straining their muscles to keep up with their prey.

And still John's week was progressing agreeably as he felt the adrenaline pumping. The familiar thrill of the chase overtook any sense of fear he may have otherwise felt. Through side streets and narrow roads they ran, all attempts made by the killer to shake them off proving futile. As soon as they started gaining on him, the killer turned and broke into one of the derelict buildings that lined the poorer streets of London. The duo had followed him into the building and wordlessly separated, with Sherlock taking the upper floor. There was no way the man could get away from them now.

And then John's week suddenly seemed to be the worst in his life. The sound of the gun had made John's blood turn cold and he froze momentarily. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up with sheer terror. He blindly ran out into the hall and tore up the stairs, shouting out Sherlock's name. Between his shouts he could hear noise coming from one of the rooms but he couldn't identify what exactly it was. He located it quickly and burst through the door, fearing the worst.

In front of him lay the killer with Sherlock standing over him threateningly. Handcuffs enclosed the killer's hands and a gun lay on the other side of the room. John looked at Sherlock,confusion in his eyes. Sherlock seemed to be perfectly fine, other than being slightly out of breath. John didn't understand. He was sure that he had heard a shot. And he knew that Sherlock didn't have a gun on his person. What had happened? He watched bewilderedly as Sherlock wrenched the man up from the floor and began to march him out the door. He smirked at John's expression.

'Honestly John, the sophistication of modern criminals has deteriorated drastically. He couldn't even shoot a stationary target standing a few feet away. Curious how he managed to kill three people before being stopped.'

John then saw the bullet buried deep in the opposite wall. He shuddered, wondering how he would have felt if the killer had made it to four.

2

In contrast to the last incident, the next time that John found himself worrying over Sherlock's wellbeing was in the middle of a particularly horrendous week. He had broken up with Sarah, realising that the relationship would never really progress. She had not taken it well. He had then rushed to A&E at the crack of dawn the next day to visit an extremely intoxicated Harry who, not only repaid him by vomiting all over his shoes, but also had the audacity to shout at him for not taking 'better care' of her. Exhausted and angry, John had neither the time nor patience to help Sherlock with his current case. At the clinic one of his colleagues was on sick leave during an unusually busy month. Without any replacement, John's working hours increased drastically along with his stress levels.

After a particularly long shift, John found himself standing like a sonambulist at the door of 221B Baker Street. After fumbling for his keys with numb fingers, he soon entered the building, closing the door softly behind him with a click. He wearily began to walk up the stairs, crossing his fingers and hoping that he could just go straight to bed. 'Sherlock, please don't be doing any experiments,' he prayed silently.

A loud thud sounded from the sitting room as John approached it. He felt his temper rising. Of course, Sherlock had to be doing an experiment. It was just that kind of week where everything went up the creek. But right now John had had enough. He needed to sleep. He needed Sherlock to, for once, be considerate. Surely it couldn't be that hard for him to reciprocate. After all, John had been incredibly understanding with Sherlock, even after he had found that head in the fridge. Not today though, just not today.

Another thump came from the room, followed by the sounds of a scuffle. John frowned. Even this sounded unusual for a Sherlock-esque experiment. Worry began to seep through him ever so slightly. He approached the door cautiously and opened it without a sound. Inside he found Sherlock rolling around on the floor. With someone on top of him. Who was rather large. And had a knife. Which was pointed directly at Sherlock's throat...

With a roar, John threw himself on top of the attacker, knocking him off of Sherlock, all trace of tiredness forgotten. The man was taken by surprise by John's presence and loosened his grip on the knife, allowing John to disarm him. But he soon recovered and being twice John's size, he soon pushed the smaller man off. John feared that he would go after Sherlock again, but instead he saw him run through the door and down the hallway. John assumed that the man didn't fancy his odds against the two of them. He lay dazed on the floor for a few seconds, and heard the front door slam. The sound roused him, and he remembered Sherlock once more.

He turned his head and saw Sherlock lying in a similar state in the middle of the floor. John crawled over and collapsed beside him.

'That- what you did - was good,' Sherlock panted.

'No -problem,' John replied breathlessly. 'So - what the hell - happened this time?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Long story.'

John closed his eyes, tiredness overtaking him. 'Please try to take care of yourself Sherlock, I worry enough as it is. And this is not a good week for it. Not a good week at...'

He never finished his sentence, and drifted off to sleep right there on the floor. When he awoke in the morning on the sofa, covered in a warm blanket and the snug Union Jack pillow behind his head, he wondered if he had dreamt the whole thing. Had Sherlock done this? Without John noticing? Surely not. He blushed slightly and felt a warm sensation flow through him, though he couldn't quite figure out why.