Where was John?

He had left about two hours ago, where, Sherlock wasn't sure. He hadn't been listening, and why would he need to? He had been deeply absorbed in an experiment involving a chemical that he had just recently been able to acquire from the lab- and the effects it could have on human flesh, much more fascinating than listening to John go on about his day plans. Unfortunately, Sherlock's experiment did not yield the results he had hoped for, and now he was bored and wondering where John had gone off to.

Well, Sherlock Holmes had better things to do than worry about John Watson's whereabouts.

He can take care of himself, Sherlock thought, and for a moment he wasn't certain if he was referring to himself or John.

After two more hours passed, Sherlock decided he must be at the surgery today (though he couldn't imagine why, John had not gone for a few weeks now, perhaps he went now to help pay for rent?), because the grocery store or a date would not take this long.

Where are you? -SH

No reply.

Surely you cannot be doing anything so important that you cannot come home. -SH

We need milk. -SH

This last text Sherlock sent out of desperation, or out of whatever feeling that was close enough to desperation for Sherlock Holmes. Texting John about the milk always seemed to inspire a reply. For some reason it annoyed John to always buy the milk, so Sherlock had used this many times to his advantage.

No reply.

It was 4:00 pm. John usually left surgery by 5:00, so he would not think about it until then.

This was getting ridiculous. Not knowing where John was was disturbing his experiments, he found he could hardly concentrate. Growling in frustration, Sherlock risked a glance at the clock.

4:03.

He was going to lose his mind.

###

No cases!

Sherlock was seriously fighting the urge to hurl his phone at the wall. Lestrade had nothing for him, not a single blasted thing! He would take a missing pet case at this point, but London was quiet today.

The only thing keeping him from smashing his phone was the fact that John could text any minute. He settled for hurling it savagely into the couch, which was only a tiny bit satisfying.

He marched over to the mantelpiece and swiped an ugly vase which had been a gift from-oh, he didn't know, he had deleted it-and without further ado, threw it into the wall, the vase exploding in a shower of green and brown.

5:02.

He flopped onto the couch, sulking. What he'd ever done to deserve this, he didn't know.

COME HOME. -SH

###

6:30.

This. Was. Ridiculous.

Sherlock was about ready to consider calling his brother about John, but no, he would not allow himself to stoop so low.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps on the stairs, and he sprung up from the couch. "I swear, if you are NOT John, I will set this flat on fire," He muttered to himself.

Fortunately for the flat, John stepped into the room.

"Where were you all day?" Sherlock demanded to know.

John was eerily silent, standing in the darkness and watching him with an odd expression, one that Sherlock could not quite place in the darkness.

"What?"

For a moment, he briefly wondered whether he said anything that had offended John that morning. Impossible, John had been out the door before there had been any time for that to happen.

John still said nothing.

"What is this about?" Sherlock repeated. "Going to stand there all night, are you?"

"No," John said at last. The strange expression disappeared, and John shook his head as if trying to get water out of his ears. "I don't-"He cut off, and looked almost scared.

"Don't what?"

"Nothing, Sherlock," John said quickly, arranging his face into an easy smile.

"John, I-"

"It's nothing, Sherlock, really," John insisted. "I'm going to make coffee."

Coffee?

"This late in the evening?"

"Yes," said John curtly, heading towards the kitchen. "Problem?"

"No..."

"Want some then?"

"Yes."

"Good."

Sherlock followed John into the kitchen, watching him make the coffee with interest. John usually drank tea before bed, not coffee, and John had still not said a word about where he had been all day (not that he exactly needed to, Sherlock could see the doctor's bag by the door, and the faintest smell of perfume, he must have talked to Sarah for a bit after work), and John usually made it a point to tell Sherlock what he had done that day, whether he was particularly interested or not.

John slid a cup of coffee into Sherlock's hands. "There you go."

Sherlock took a sip (black, two sugars) and then remembered to say thank you.

"No problem," John said, sipping his own. "What have you been up to?"

Sherlock launched into a detailed account of what results he had made in his experiments. John was having coffee, anyways, so he wasn't likely to go to bed anytime soon.

John sighed and settled into his armchair with his coffee, and the incident was quickly forgotten.

Until-

"Sherlock! What in the bloody h-you better have an amazing explanation for this!"

Oh.

He had quite forgotten about the vase.

###

"I'm sure you can find your own way out." John said coldly.

Sherlock had come home to find John staring down some man in their living room. The man was middle aged, hair greying at the temples,(had three cats, a wife, and a cheap job in an office) and was a few inches taller than John. He was perfectly harmless, but John looked annoyed, almost angry.

"Of course," said the man. "Good day." The man pulled his coat from the rack (John must have invited him inside) and left quickly.

"Who was that?" Sherlock asked.

"Just an old acquaintance," John replied coolly.

"What did he want?"

"A favor."

John did not elaborate, and for once Sherlock did not push the matter.

"I'll be in the kitchen," he said to John, who had turned on the telly and did not respond.

###

John didn't bring up the man again, and eventually Sherlock filed the incident under 'Irrelevant'.

John did seem a bit more testy than usual, but Sherlock decided it must be because of all the time he was spending at the surgery lately, and they just had started an exciting case. Three different people had been found, beaten senseless and left for dead in random locations. There was no connection with the victims or the locations at all. Not murder, but definitely a very close second in Sherlock's book. The most Sherlock could tell was that it was a one man job, the victims were all caught by surprise and had had no time to defend themselves-their attacker had been quick and efficient. Each victim was tortured more than the last, the most recent victim was barely clinging to life when they found him, the first only dazed. This was a man who knew just how much a person could take, how far you could push them before it was too late. None of the victims remembered their attacker when they awoke.

A note was left with each victim.

'This one got off easy.'

'Close, but no cigar.'

'I won't play so nice next time.'

Each note was a clue to where he would strike next. Sherlock was thrilled with this game, much to John's dismay. He hadn't had this much fun with a case in months, and was intrigued with all the questions. Why didn't the attacker kill his victims? Serial beatings, that was one Scotland Yard had not heard before. Serial suicides, serial killings, but serial beatings was something entirely new. And why did they increase with intensity each time, what was his motive?

One thing Sherlock did know was that the attacker was watching and knew his every move. He knew this because of the clues-each one was a reference to something said, done, or visited in Sherlock's life. The first clue was a quote from a movie John had forced Sherlock to see at the cinema, and sure enough, the second victim was found there, but with no sign of the attacker. Finding the victim at the right time was the trick, the attacker apparently was enjoying watching Sherlock try to guess at what time he would strike, and Sherlock hated having to guess.

The third victim was found behind the smoke shop that supplied Sherlock's secret stash. John was irritated, to say the least, that Sherlock was still buying stashes of cigarettes to save for later, and that he had gone so far out of his way to do so, and he let him know, loudly, as they got into the taxi to the smoke shop.

"You refuse a ten minute trip to the grocery, but you'll take an hour trip both ways to the smoke shop?" John looked absolutely livid.

"It's hardly a frequent trip, John-"

"We agreed, Sherlock!"

"No, you agreed. I never did anything of the sort."

"Yes we did, Sherlock, you looked at me and you said-"

"You and I know perfectly well that I didn't truly mean that."

"No, no I didn't. I actually thought-" John cut himself off.

"What?"

"No. Nothing."

"John-"

"You won't believe this. I actually thought that you would actually be able to do the normal thing and be reasonable! But, no, of course not, Sherlock Holmes is too much of a freak to do anything normal!"

Sherlock flinched and quickly looked away in order to hide whatever feelings his expression may have betrayed. Sherlock was no stranger to being called a freak, he had endured it countless times over the years, had trained himself to ignore it. It had become easy because those people who thought he was a freak, their opinions did not matter to him in the slightest, they meant absolutely nothing.

But hearing it from someone whose opinion did matter-that was something he had not prepared for.

They spent the rest of the taxi ride in a stony, cold silence.

###

Unfortunately, the tension between them did not go unnoticed at the crime scene.

"Trouble in paradise?" Anderson sneered. "Has John finally come to his senses and broken up with you?"

Sherlock barely had time to react before John lunged. Anderson jumped backwards with an odd little squeak, eliciting laughter from the officers around them. Sherlock would have loved to laugh at him as well, but he was still straining to keep John back.

"You might want to consider getting your girlfriend on a leash," Anderson snarled.

With that, John doubled his efforts, and if Sherlock wasn't already struggling before, he certainly was now.

"Enough!" Lestrade had arrived at the scene (and not a moment too soon).

Thankfully, John stopped at the sound of Lestrade's voice. "Let go," he hissed, shrugging off Sherlock's hands.

"...bloody ridiculous," Lestrade was saying. "Now if you three are ready to behave like adults, we have a crime scene to look at." He turned and stalked off.

"Dr. Watson," Anderson snapped, and with a quick nod followed after Lestrade.

"John-"

"Save it, Sherlock, okay? I'm not in the mood," John said.

"I don't much care if you are or not, John, we need to have a talk." Sherlock cringed slightly at the word 'talk'. No wonder everyone believed they were a couple. 'It's just collecting data', he told himself, but it didn't make him feel any better or any less awkward.

"We have a crime scene to look at. You actually want to have a talk instead of going to the crime scene?"

John had him there. Though Sherlock was quite curious about John's odd behavior lately, his desire to examine the scene of a third serial beating (and to avoid discussing feelings) was winning out.

"You're right. It can wait." Sherlock immediately set off towards the crime scene, with John following behind.