John felt panic rise in his chest as he looked at the small screen of his phone.

Come home. Urgent –SH

Knowing Sherlock, as he did. This was something unimportant like I need to use your phone. But that didn't stop the oncoming panic. Sherlock was a hated man, a man wanted dead and a man who always put himself in the most dangerous of situations, so panic rose.

Why, what's going on? What's happened? –JW

As he typed, John became more and more nervous, the panic bubbling up to a sick feeling in his throat. Calm down, soldier, he's fine. But was he? This was the man who was going to take a pill that had previously killed four others, just to prove that he was right. He could be in serious trouble, trouble that even he couldn't handle.

I need you to pass me my book. –SH

John's worry quickly subsided into anger. Of course there was relief too, but he always did this. Using John, as if he was some sort of slave. Bringing and fetching despite the fact he was at work. But work didn't matter to Sherlock Holmes. No, all that mattered was that he was permanently there to perform his every want.

Please, please, tell me that you are joking. –JW Despite his anger there was a small amount of hope. Hope that Sherlock was joking, and wanted him there for a slightly different reason… That hope was soon washed away.

I need my book. –SH

Get up. Get it yourself, Sherlock. –JW

The answer was sent back shortly, Johns thumb tingled as he pressed to hard as he jabbed the buttons with irritation. How could someone as intelligent as Sherlock Holmes, not realise that their loved ones were not around them to be used a slaves. The man was insufferable. As bad as it sounded, John could sometimes see why Mycroft dismissed Sherlock so easily.

You're going to have to get your book yourself, Sherlock, I'm not going to be home until late tonight. –JW John didn't know what possessed him to say it. As far as he knew nothing was happening this evening, at least not to him. Perhaps he was more disappointed and angry with Sherlock than he first thought. So angry that he wouldn't go home tonight. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. Not going home, leave Sherlock to think. Let Sherlock be the one to worry and boil with anger for once.

John, realised that he was probably getting a little petty now, but he could not find it within himself to care. Sometimes, you had to be petty and puerile to get your point across.

Why? Where are you going? 221B needs you.- SH

John let out a slightly strangled laugh. 221B needs you. 221B! Never Sherlock, no. The brilliant, intelligent, 'I work alone' ,Sherlock Holmes would never need his boring, ex-soldier, flatmate DR John Watson. At times, he didn't know why he stuck with Sherlock, but he realised it was for the above reasons. He was exciting. He'd never felt more alive than when he was with him. Perhaps, this was a sign which said that he was stressed from Afghanistan. But again, John couldn't bring himself to care.

A second text came through from Sherlock.

If I get up, will you come home. –SH

Home. He should, probably, go home. Go to sleep and wake up in a happier mood. But he was to stubborn, perhaps his flatmate was rubbing off on him.

No, Sherlock. I can't do that. I'll be back tomorrow. I promise.-JW I didn't want to hurt Sherlock, too much. One night away wouldn't hurt him. It would give them both time to think about how the dynamic of their relationship worked. Did Sherlock want John as a slave, or a boyfriend/ lover/ partner? They still hadn't got a word which quite suited the two of them.

I love you, John. –SH John gave a low growl in his chest. He didn't doubt that, but this way of treating him was a strange way showing it. Before he could stop himself, John typed out exactly that and sent it. Within just a few seconds he got back a message.

You know I'm odd. It doesn't mean I love you any less.- SH That would have been sweet if said by anyone but Sherlock, by anyone that wasn't such a bloody lunatic.

No, Sherlock. It means I want things to change. Bye, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow morning.-JW

He intended to stick by that. He'd cancel work tomorrow and could spend the rest of tomorrow talking it out with his partner. Tonight, he would catch up on paperwork and crash on the examination bed.

JWSH

Two days later, after John still hadn't come home, Sherlock started to get worried. This was a strange thing in itself, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, did not get worried. But then again, he had offered an apology, which was also weird. But John, his doctor, his soldier, his friend, his boyfriend, was missing, and had told him he'd come back yesterday. Sherlock's hand slipped into his pocket, and brought out his phone, before quickly, and with expert hands, found the number he wanted. "Lestrade, I need your help..."

Lestrade was a little sceptical at Sherlock needing his help in something, but when he heard what it was about he did eventually agree, sending out a couple of his least irritating officers to help track down where Watson was. One did turn up at Baker Street, John's cracked and broken phone handed over in a zipped bag like it was evidence. "The snow is too heavy to keep looking..." He insisted to Sherlock, looking out at the heavy white blanket that meant everything was delayed.

Sherlock didn't care about inane excuses of snow being too heavy. John was missing. What did some flimsy white flakes of crystalline water have to hinder John's return to him? He was going to find him. He had to. He adores John, and that was really the only thing that mattered right now. "Where did you find this phone? Tell me!" Sherlock demanded in a strong, determined voice. If the police would do nothing, then Sherlock would.

The officer took a step back, holding out his hands.
"One of the others found it on the cemetery path, he decided to duck in there on the way back but on further inspection there was nothing immediately wrong with the situation, no one was in there, they'd be crazy to be outside right now."

Sherlock huffed, racing out of 221B, leaving the officer standing in the sitting room with a look of slight surprise. New. Sherlock deduced. Holds himself stiffly, sent her to share the bad news, unsure of himself, but wants to be respected. Definitely new.

The cemetery was first used about ten years ago, shiny gates, and a large plaque, shining and dancing in the reflective light from the snow, proclaiming that this was one of London's cemeteries. Far too happy for such a place. Sherlock rushed inside, leaving the green gates swinging open and letting his black coat billow behind him as his collar was turned up against the cold.

Sherlock looked around at places where the snow had been disturbed, there were few and far between. A few footsteps here and there, just where people had visited their loved ones, placed a bunch of their favourite flowers, now as dead as they were. Looking up again he tried to find something that would signify the where a bouts of John.

If an onlooker was observing Sherlock, they would think that he had gone quite mad. He had started to run toward the end of the cemetery, the part that was sadly awaiting more of the deceased. Nothing was here but a small statue of an angel. And that is when this onlooker would have realised that the angel is what had interested Sherlock. Or, to be more precise, the snow around the statue.

The snow had been disturbed as if someone had ben sat here, sheltering in the shadow from the snow. There were several more footprints around where the figure had sat. All of them men's. The figure had been male too. Too large for a female and hunched over, women rarely sat in such a position. The footsteps, one pair smaller than that of the seated man, two pairs slightly larger, showed enough evidence to see that they had dragged the seated man up from his position. The man had struggled. John had struggled. It had to be John, the footprints were the right size. The patterns on the soles of his shoes were right too. He would also have struggled, it had to be him.

His kidnappers had also had been trained too. They'd lifted him by his arms, making the snow disturbance as little as possible. To the untrained eye, it would not have looked as if there had been a struggle at all. But Sherlock had trained himself in observance. The training could only be done by officials. Government officials. This had to be the work of Mycroft's lackeys.

Just as Sherlock came to these conclusions, the butt of a gun slamming in to the soft part of his head, between his neck and his skull, knocked him out.

JWSH

John, awoke to the sound of voices. His head spun and he could see white spots flashing in front of his eyes. Drugs. He had the symptoms. Drowsiness, confusion, weakness, and he knew he would slur his words if he tried to speak. Rohypnol . And a steady dose of it, if John, had been here more than a few hours, which by the smell of him, he had.

"Sherlock, I only need to talk to you. And as you won't have a sensible conversation with me any where else. I thought my actions might persuade you to speak in a civilised manner." That sounded like Mycroft, Sherlock was sure to be unhappy. But why did that mean that he had to kidnap him and drug him?

"And you thought kidnapping John would make me want to talk to you? I thought you were meant to be intelligent! Ah, but you always were jealous of your little brother, running the country not good enough for you?"

That was Sherlock, as always antagonising Mycroft. Through his haziness, John, gave a weak smile.

"As I have told you a thousand times, I hold a minor position in the British government. And as to kidnapping dear Dr Watson over there, you are, I believe, seeing him in a relationship which is, a little more than, platonic. I believed, and it seems rightly so, that you would find him if he went missing. You are really not so different from the rest of the world as you think you are. "

Ah, that's why he was here. (Although where 'here' was he could only guess. John suspected an abandoned underground car park.) He knew. Of course he did. Mycroft has his people everywhere. Why, oh why did John have to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes? And why did Sherlock have to have a brother who ran the government?

"Sherlock." John whispered, trying not to slur, and trying not to move his spinning head to much.

He saw Sherlock's head whip around when he heard his voice. Sherlock made to get up from the chair he was sat in, but Mycroft pushed against his shoulder, placing him back in his seat. Mycroft seemed to do this gently, as if Sherlock had been hurt, presumably at the back of his head, by the position in which he held himself.

"Not until we talk, Sherlock.' Mycroft circled Sherlock in a predatory manner, playing with the handle of his umbrella.

"What are you going to get mummy for her birthday? She was terribly upset at Christmas when her youngest son didn't even phone to say 'Merry Christmas'."

John's eyes bugged out of his head. Mycroft Holmes had kidnapped him, sedated him with large quantities of a class C drug, hurt his own brother, and brought them both down to an abandoned car park to ask what Sherlock was getting their mother?

He was going to voice his concern of Mycroft's mental health, and the absurdity of the situation. However, in his drug addled confusion he managed to say, "Sherlock, you didn't get your own mother a present?"

Sherlock raised a single eyebrow, and sighed at Mycroft. "A bunch of flowers and I'll phone her and tell her 'many happy returns'. Happy?"

Mycroft sighed in return. A long night of bargaining suitable presents for their mother was in store.

JWSH

John pressed the pack of ice, wrapped in a thin towel, to the back of Sherlock's head as he hissed in pain.

"Sorry." John whispered as played with one of Sherlock's dark curls.

Sherlock swivelled in the stool he was sat in to face John, making the ex-soldier drop the pack of ice and trapping him in between the consulting detective's legs.

"No. John. I am. I am so sorry for being such an arse, and for using you as a slave. And I'm sorry for not giving my mother a birthday present." Both men paused to smile at this. "I love you. I really do. I realise that my method of getting you here the other day wasn't the best and I'm sorry."

John gave a small smile and pulled Sherlock up so he could rest his forehead against his partners. He leant down and gently kissed the lips of the man he loved. Sherlock returned the pressure, before entwining John's hair in between his fingers.

"What do you mean your 'method' of getting me here wasn't the best. You really did want me here? Not just to get your book?" John murmured as he broke away from Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock nodded as John laughed, saying that they were both idiots.

"I.. That night," Sherlock restarted. John had never seen the man so nervous, or apologetic "I wanted to ask you something. I want to know if.. if you'll marry me."

A/N: So, guys... Did John accept? It's up to you to decide. So how bad was my first Sherlock fic? Review! Please. If you liked this follow me on tumblr: expressingdelight Lots of gifs and links to my fanfiction.