Hello all! It's been awhile. Again...sorry about that. I've been busy! I'm trying to get back into writing my stories-be patient with me! :)

Technically, this is not a deleted scene-I wrote this long after the story was over, but I thought it would be interesting to see more of John's perspective while he was drugged. This is set around Chapter One. Enjoy!

Deleted Scene-#1A38Y2

"Are you alright, John?" John flinched a little at the sound of Sarah's voice, unnervingly and unnaturally loud in his ears.

He blinked and looked up at her. "Fine," he assured her, though the way his voice cracked betrayed him.

"You should go home," Sarah said, and that little line, the one that happened only when she was worried, creased in between her eyebrows. Her voice was still too loud, and he was sure if it got any louder he'd be sick.

"Don't worry about me," he said, too brightly. "I'm great."

Sarah studied him, skeptical.

"Look," John said, before she could say whatever was on her mind, "just one more hour, okay? Then I'll go home."

"You should just go home now," Sarah insisted, but halfheartedly.

"Just an hour," John reassured her. "Promise." Sarah considered him a few more moments, eyes searching his face.

Then, finally, she consented. "Fine, one hour. Just one, understand?" Once he made it perfectly clear he did, she leaned over and kissed his forehead gently, just above his brow. "We'll cancel tonight, yeah?" She said as she pulled away. He smiled apologetically, and she mirrored him in response. She said goodbye and left him to his work again.

His forehead throbbed just underneath the spot where she had kissed him, vibrating dully under his eyebrow. An hour passed , and keeping his promise to Sarah, John packed up and began to head for home. He couldn't say he wasn't relieved, he had been feeling...odd all day long.

John wasn't the only one on the rainy street waiting for a cab, a young man, probably in university, was waiting as well. The young man caught John's eye, and nodded. The gesture was nothing more than polite, but for some reason, it did not...sit well with John. In fact, his irritation was rapidly developing into fury. Who did that boy think he was, anyway? John wasn't stupid, he knew condescending and "holier than thou" when he saw it. He should know better than anyone, he saw it everyday in his moronic and crazy freak of a flatmate. Thinking about Sherlock made him even more furious, that he didn't even notice the cab pull up until the young man was heading toward it.

"Oh, no, you don't," John hissed, and he marched over to the cab and shoved the young boy aside. The young man cursed at him indignantly, and immediately attempted to reclaim his cab, which was a colossal mistake on his part. John thought he just might explode from fury. How dare he?

John yelled, some words that he had always tried not to use, and suddenly was unleashing his anger on the boy. He shoved the young man back, punching him across the face. The boy screamed in pain, crumpling to the ground, and a sick, satisfying pleasure actually filled him. Blood began to spurt from the boy's nose as he scrambled to his feet, and John was breathing heavily, that sick sort of satisfaction feeling as if it was being pumped through his veins.

He stepped into the cab and slammed the door, then he noticed the blood..the blood on his hands. It was as if he had been slapped awake, the inexplicable fury melting into nothingness. John looked out the window back at the man, who was still staring after him in shock. What had he done? What had he done? John considered stopping the cab and going after him to apologize, but the man was already long gone.

###

John's eyes flew open. He was standing in front of 221B, which was supposedly normal...but he didn't remember how he got there. It was dark, so hours had passed since his encounter with the young man. He tried to think of where he had gone after, where he had been, but he couldn't. It was as if the past few hours had been completely erased from his memory. Had it really happened? That wasn't like him. He wouldn't hurt anybody like that, not for no reason. He hadn't done that. Or had he?

His heart began to pound, trying to swallow back the fear that was quickly rising. What was happening to him? Was he going completely mental?

He closed his eyes again, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Panicking would do him no good. It was probably nothing. He was just stressed, tired, maybe sick. He just had to sleep it off, that's all.

Suddenly he shivered, feeling as if a cold breeze had just passed over him. Swallowing hard, he went inside, climbing the stairs. The cold sensation didn't stop, rapidly building with each step. He tried to ignore it, but it was impossible, it was overwhelming him, as if he was drowning in it.

He made it to the door and opened it. Sherlock was standing there, and John blinked a few times, staring at the detective. There was nothing visibly wrong with Sherlock's appearance, he looked as he usually did, but something was off.

Or, rather, something was off with John-he wanted to take Sherlock, grab him around the throat and squeeze the life out of him, kill him, murder him-

And just like that, it was over. Sherlock was staring at him, oddly, and John shook his head, blinking hard. Had Sherlock been saying something to him? He blinked, straining to remember something, anything from the last few minutes.

"John?" Sherlock's voice, normal, but cautious.

"Sherlock," John said, and he opened his mouth to ask, ask what was happening to him, but he stopped himself. Sherlock wouldn't have the answer, would he? Fear rose like bile in his throat, and he swallowed, trying to will it away.

"Nothing, Sherlock," John said, forcing a smile. He felt uncomfortable under his friend's searching gaze, but if John could keep this up long enough... Everything would be fine, right?

"John, I-" Sherlock began, but John cut him off. He couldn't bear to hear it, he could not even stand the thought of Sherlock voicing the ever building fear that was consuming John-that something was wrong. That something was terribly, horribly, completely wrong. John had to tell him, had to ask somebody- But John kept his mouth shut. "It's nothing, Sherlock, really," John insisted again, more earnestly this time. "I'm going to make coffee."