Anderson had made it very clear that he did not like Sherlock Holmes, just as Sherlock had made it very evident that he didn't like Anderson either. They had never resorted to an actual physical altercation, sticking to insulting each other (with Sherlock usually winning). It wasn't until Anderson insulted John that Sherlock actually connected his fist with Anderson's face.
They had been at a crime scene. Well, Sherlock had been at a crime scene. John hadn't been able to take off at the hospital, causing Sherlock to be in an incredibly bad mood. Add to that the fact that they had run out of milk again, and you've got the most irritable consulting detective in the world. Everyone else was giving him a wide berth, only speaking to him when spoken too. Everyone, that is, except for Anderson.
"Well, if it isn't our favorite psychopath," Anderson said snidely. Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second, not even responding. Anderson narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms.
"I don't even know why they call you here. It's not like we need you and that doctor." Sherlock opened his eyes again. Anderson was crossing into dangerous territory. He looked around and smirked. "Where is he, by the way? That little pet of yours? Finally realize what a freak you—"
Sherlock whipped around, his balled up fist connecting solidly with Anderson's nose. The blood gushed out. Sherlock grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him up and banging him against a nearby wall. Everyone on the scene froze, holding their breaths. They had never seen the great Sherlock lose his composure like that.
"I would say you're on the same level as a toddler, but that would be an insult to toddlers everywhere, now wouldn't it? Because at least they can realize when someone has completely reached their limit with utter stupidity, and they know when to shut their mouths. Now, I was kind and ignored your hideously ignorant 'psychopath' comment, but I will not stand here and let you insult my colleague who, quite frankly, is ten—no a hundred times the man you could ever hope to be. Not to mention the fact that his knowledge of the medical field is so vastly superior to yours that under normal circumstances, someone as stupid as yourself would want to learn from someone like John. Oh, but no—not you. You're too busy being a pretentious ass." Sherlock finished with his speech and took a deep breath.
"Now," he said slower, with a lower and more dangerous tone, "the next time Dr. Watson is on a crime scene with me, you will come up to him and apologize. Do you understand, or do I need to simplify it even more?" Anderson said nothing, just glaring at Sherlock defiantly. Sherlock sighed impatiently and tightened his hold on Anderson's shirt, causing it to squeeze his throat. Anderson choked, trying to get air, and failing. "The apology, Anderson?"
"O-okay!" Anderson gasped. Sherlock released him, and he crumpled to the ground, his fingers stumbling over the buttons of his shirt to get them undone as he took big gulps of air.
Sherlock took off his gloves, making a tsk noise. "I was rather fond of these gloves. Now they have blood on them." He threw them in Anderson's lap and started to walk away. "I'll be charging you for new ones, Anderson. And they weren't cheap."
As he walked by Lestrade and Sally Donovan, he said simply, "Arrest the cousin. The axe should be buried in the backyard." Then he left, calling a cab. Everyone just looked between the retreating figure and Anderson. Finally someone broke the silence.
"Told you they were shagging."
The next week, Sherlock and John got called out to a park. Two bodies, Lestrade had said, side by side. No visible cause of death, and no one had seen or heard anything.
John was standing off to the side as usual, while Sherlock walked around the bodies, eyes furrowed in concentration. A voice cleared his throat behind John.
"Dr. Watson?" John turned around, and Sherlock stopped, gazing with a small smirk as Anderson sighed and rolled his eyes. "I'd like to formally apologize." John tilted his head in confusion. Anderson glanced at Sherlock who raised a questioning eyebrow. "And also…you are a fantastic doctor…" Sherlock waved his hand to continue. Anderson huffed, clearly annoyed. "And we're glad to have you help us." Sherlock nodded, grinning.
Anderson stalked away, muttering obscenities under his breath and John turned back to Sherlock. "What was all that about?"
Sherlock shrugged, chuckling. "Haven't the faintest. Care to look at the body?" John felt that Sherlock wasn't being completely honest with him.
But when it came to Sherlock, sometimes it was better not knowing.