John was in danger.

Again.

Sherlock wouldn't acknowledge it ever, but he felt a bit guilty. It had all started two weeks ago, on murder case with Lestrade. At first it had seemed a fairly usual murder, nothing new. Sherlock had solved it in a night, got a culprit, a motive, means and proof. But something had not felt right. Everything had fit too perfectly, it was too neat too perfect to be true.

There was something about the way in which the murder was performed, the careful way in which the body was handled…. This had to be a professional murderer, an experienced killer. There was no way that woman had been his first victim and no way he had left all that proof. No, there was something else behind it.

So he and John dug deeper in to the death of the woman (patterns, m.o.'s, signatures…) and found a string of unsolved cases, strange accidents and murders connected with the death of this last woman. Apparently, all the victim had one thing in common: they ordered a pizza to a certain place of Holborn. They were already leaving to find out the identity of pizza-delivery-killer when Sherlock felt the urge to boast and left a couple cryptic sentences that meant "We got you" on his website.

That really pissed off the killer, a man who called himself The Spear. He appeared in an alley, shot John, knocked him out and left with him on an unlicensed black van, all with almost no sound. He used a silencer and chloroform and even his car was silent. And then Sherlock received a picture on his phone of his friend, tied down, blindfolded and bleeding. "Let's see if you solve this case as quickly as the last one, clever one." The Spear had added, mocking him.

Now Sherlock had to find John and The Spear had hid him extremely well, to restore his wounded pride. Not only that, but he'd also filled the path of false clue and misleading traces, distractions and lies. And Sherlock knew he was working against the clock. John had been shot in the stomach and was only hours from bleeding out. As much as he claimed not to care excessively for other people's lives, the thought of John dying disturbed him greatly. He didn't deserve to go that way, bled out in some dark room because a stranger had felt hurt at Sherlock's unnecessary words. He was too important.

He sprawled the photos and documents he'd gathered on this person and looked at them, trying to see something new, whatever he'd missed and could lead him to this guy. The Spear, he called himself. He had killed for over three years, unnoticed and extremely careful, inexistent until Sherlock had noticed him. An average of a victim every two months, all of them young people from London. Smith, Teastin, Kingston, Jones, Hook. A collection of names whose only link was that pizza. What was he missing? What, what, what?

Another text. This one had a picture of the puddle of blood under John's feet. And the mocking sentence: "Didn't your mum taught you to clean up your own messes? Come over and clean up, then!" Sherlock suddenly felt furious. Clean up your own mess. He was saying this was his all his fault. That the puddle of blood was his doing. That John was bleeding out somewhere because of him. Damn him.

The worst part was, Sherlock was starting to believe that, and didn't like one bit. If he hadn't posted those words…. People often called him arrogant, told him he was too proud, but up until now he hadn't seen a problem with that. Now he saw it. If he hadn't written that Mr. Spear would be behind bars and John would be at his side for the next case. Now he could lose John forever, which was not part of the plan. If only….

But "if onlys" were not going to get him anywhere. He didn't like those thoughts; it was not like him to be unable to focus on a case. It was unsettling. Sherlock tried to think properly, but the shadows of those pictures, the shadow of guilt clouded his judgment. Maybe he should call someone for help….. No! If he couldn't do it, no one could. He went to the pictures again. Concentrate, concentrate, concentrate. What did all those very different murders have in common? Suddenly it hit him.

Clean up your own mess.

Clean up your mess! That was it! Everything was spectacularly clean. Some of the police reports mentioned a smell of bleach. Yes! This guy needed to be clean, couldn't stomach the dirt and had a pathological need for cleanliness. Even the way in which he'd taken John had been clean. He used a silencer and left no traces. This man was quiet and professional, so he wouldn't his dirty work (so to speak) where neighbors could hear him. No, this man would use an abandoned place in the London area. Probably had some professional cleaners go through it to have it perfect. He made some calls and found out that three warehouses had been cleaned in the last couple days. After some deductions he concluded that it had to be the one in Ceremony Avenue and called a cab.

He'd managed to forget John's impending doom while figuring out the mystery, but now those very unwelcome thoughts came back to his head. What if he was dead? What would he say to Sarah, to Harry, to Mrs. Hudson? No, no, he wasn't going to think like that. He reminded himself how intelligent he was and went inside the warehouse, knowing that whoever was holding John captive had no chance.

Carefully Sherlock entered a room that smelled of bleach and air freshener. It was totally empty and had no furniture, and the lights were off. As silently as possible he went into the next room, and the next, and the next. Nothing, they were all empty. But suddenly eh felt it. A faint smell of blood that filled the room. He pulled out his gun, just in case.

"John?"

"I'm afraid Dr. Watson is in no condition to answer you right now." A voice in the middle of the darkness said. He pointed his gun at the voice, steadily. The figure clapped his hands and the lights came, letting Sherlock see him in the other corner of the room. The Spear was a small guy with bright blonde hair, grey eyes and the most impossibly white skin one could ever imagine. "I like this mechanism. This way, you don't soil the switch if your hands are dirty."

Behind him was John, his friend and partner, lying lifelessly on the floor, blood still pooling under him.

"A terrifying sight, isn't it?" The pale little man said. "Such a pity, he seemed nice. But you insulted me, you insulted my honor, and you had to pay before I killed you. Collateral damage, I think it's called."

Sherlock could not believe his ears. Such a presumptuous little twat talking down to him! Was that the way he sounded all the time? He shook such dreadful thoughts and went back to thinking on a plan to get to John and get rid of this guy. He only needed him to lower his guard…

"I understand almost everything" Sherlock started, still pointing his gun to the killer "You are a clean person, who thinks people who live in filth should be erased. You're also a very clever individual, but were degraded to being a pizza delivery boy. You killed the dirty people and cleaned after them."

"Exactly."

"But why The Spear?" In that moment, Sherlock threw out the pieces of the paper he'd been cutting in his pocket, and it softly fell to the ground.

"Oh, the name… Really? You're going to litter my grand finale?" Irritated, the small guy had lowered his gun for a second and Sherlock used that second to shoot him, and finally get him out of the way.

Sherlock was on John's side instantly, one hand trying to stop the hemorrhage, the other one on the phone, calling an ambulance. He also texted Lestrade to take care of the Spear, and concentrated on his friend. The doctor was pale as a sheet and unconscious but still alive. The guilt came back now, stronger than ever. Sherlock couldn't help himself when he said.

"I'm… I'm sorry."

The ambulance came and took John away, while the paramedics shouted. Some time later Lestrade and the others arrived, and the Detective asked Sherlock if he was ok, unnerved by the consulting detective's silence.

"I think I need a blanket."

"You can see him now, but he hasn't woken up yet." The nurse had told him a while after they brought John back from surgery.

Sherlock walked into his friend's hospital room, and awkwardly stood near the door, not knowing what to do. John was still very pale and unconscious, but at least there was no more blood oozing.

"So…. John. I hear that you'll recover, which is good." For the first time in a long time he didn't know where to look, or what to do with his hands. But he needed to get it all out to be able to think properly again. "I regret not getting to you sooner, I was having some… troubles. And I am sorry that I'm always putting you in danger, I'll try to be more careful about that. The thing is, John, you're more important than I would like to admit and I don't like to see you hurt, is distracting. So take better care of yourself, ok?"

Feeling extremely awkward now, Sherlock stormed out on his leggy pace but came back again:

"You get well soon, I might need you. And good night."

A soft smile appeared on the doctor's lips.

And good night to you too, Sherlock.

A/N: Not so sure about this story, hope you liked it. As always, excuse my English mistakes (I am but a humble Spanish person) and hope you enjoyed it. Any comments, remarks, views, opinions, questions… Go in the review section! Please leave a comment after the beep! Beep!

You know you want to review!