So… a big thanks, again to those who have story alerted and commented… you make a fic writer's world turn.

I'm so sorry it's been so long, but I lost inspiration.

At least it's here now…

Anyways, I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: Sadly, they don't belong to me.

Desperation

Sherlock was close enough to John now, that he could feel his body heat. They were in their own private bubble, separate from all the lights, and the pointless noise from all the other ridiculous people.

They didn't matter.

All that mattered was John.

John's smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The way he hung on Sherlock's every word…

Sherlock filed all these moments away in his mind palace, which was slowly being overrun by images of John…

Sherlock smiled, and then excused himself to go to the toilet.

He grinned as he went into the men's room. Smiled, at his reflection. He brushed shoulders with a man. Deductions quickly filled his mind. This man was here… for…

Flooding with panic, he whirled round, and ran back to their seat.

His worst fear had been realised.

John was gone.

His pulse was pounding in his ears. He couldn't think, couldn't focus. So he did the only thing he could. He texted Lestrade.

Meet at flat. Urgent. Hurry. SH

Sherlock hailed a cab, and briskly instructed the driver to his home address, along with sharp instructions to hurry.

He waited impatiently while the cab was moving, shifting restlessly, his fingers tapping on his thigh, a jerky, staccato beat.

His mind was jumping everywhere. Or rather, it kept jumping back to the same thing. The same person.

John.

Ugh. Is this what caring did to someone? His mind felt coated with panic, and he couldn't focus on the really important thing, and put John out of his conscious mind, so he could focus on finding him.

When the cab finally drew to a stop, Sherlock flung some money at the driver, and practically leapt out of the cab.

He dashed upstairs, to find that Lestrade had not yet arrived. Sherlock couldn't focus to figure out when he'd be here, so he just settled for running up to the flat, and flopping on the sofa impatiently.

It took a full ten minutes before his jittery mind noticed something wrong.

The mantelpiece.

He walked over, and spotted a small envelope.

It was addressed to him.

He slit it open, and pulled out the paper from inside.

I'd been planning on a pseudo John, but, thanks to you I have the real thing.

Much love, M xx

He knew it wasn't him, he just knew it, but a nagging doubt edged on his mind. It was the missing sniper. He had John.

Just then, Lestrade burst into the flat.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, for once not caring tht his panic and desperation showed plain on his face.

"The murderer. He has John."

"What? The one who's killing gay people? But John's not-"

"The murderer isn't killing gay people as his main aim. He is trying to get a warning to me, but he is trying to do it with gay people where possible, as he is massively homophobic. Also, no, John isn't gay, but he was at a gay bar, with me. "

"What? Really?"

"Yes. We were trying to track down the murderer." Sherlock blushed slightly, and cleared his throat.

Lestrade frowned, unconvinced.

"Oh, God, Greg… this is entirely my fault!"

Greg looked surprised by his outpouring of emotion.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm sure that it really isn't-"

"Lestrade, I am hardly the kind of person to blame myself for something that isn't actually my fault. For one, John wouldn't have even been there had it not been for me… and secondly, had I not been… uh… distracted, I would have noticed the murderer."

Once again, a faint blush coloured his cheeks.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"Distracted?"

Sherlock glared at him.

"Yes."

"From a case?"

"Yes."

"Wow. Whoever it is must be something special."

Sherlock frowned slightly.

"He is. That's why we have to find him."

"Wait- John?"

"Yes."

"What happened to 'it's not like that'?

"Unfortunately, it's not. Now can we please focus?"

Understanding bloomed, pathetically obviously, on Lestrade's face.

"Oh. Oh. Okay. Focussing."

"Good. Now, I want details. Pictures from the last scene, interviews, anything you have on the case so far."

Sherlock tried to come across as normal, but he knew his eyes were a bit to wild, and his voice was a bit too urgent. But he was desperate.

He needed John.

It was his fault.

He would make it right.

Lestrade nodded, expecting this.

"They're in the car. I'll just go get them."

Sherlock smiled, and nodded, vaguely, but his thoughts were still in a whir. No matter how he tried, he couldn't not think about John.

He sprawled on the sofa, but being idle wasn't helping. He jittered, and twitched, and fidgeted.

Lestrade came back, what felt like, hours later, and Sherlock practically pounced on him, grabbing what he had in his hands. He frantically read through it all. And he read it again, and again.

Frowning, and frustrated, he slammed it down onto the coffee table.

"Alright there, Sherlock?"

"No! oh, God… this information, gives me a decent picture of who he was, and I'm sure if I saw him, I'd know him instantly, but it doesn't help!"

Something had caught his eye, though. The toxin report. A drug called Haemlin Baesulphate had been used, which knocked the subject unconscious for roughly four hours, then reduces them to a feverish state for the next two.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. The murderer had been there, at the gay bar. So, Sherlock must have seen him at some point. Now, he had a part of his mind palace which temporarily stored the day's information, until he deemed it unnecessary to delete. So, all he had to do was go through it, and find him.

And then, he would track him down, and make him pay.

"Get out."

"Sorry?"

And that was it. That one word tore at Sherlock, until he finally ripped. That was… John's response. He had said it a lot, on the first day they met.

He broke down into tears.

Lestrade was stood there awkwardly, seeing the stony man breaking down was something which really made him hate the person who had done this.

After a few minutes, Sherlock pulled himself together.

"Uh… I'm going to go to my mind palace. If you… uh… must stay, be quiet. Don't think."

It was a plea to stay, and Sherlock knew that Lestrade knew that. So he did.

Sherlock closed his eyes, forced himself to focus, and went through everything.

And he couldn't spot the murderer anywhere.

He played it all through, every single tiny bit, and there was nobody that he could see.

He was interrupted by a text from Mycroft.

No. I don't know where he went. Open your mind, Sherlock. Don't go into this with any ideas. M

Sherlock snorted. Another dental appointment? He really should eat less cake…

Sherlock frowned, considering this, and played it back through.

And then it hit him. He had assumed that the murderer was male. What if that wasn't the case.

Then he saw her.

That woman.

The one John had been dating.

He knew where John was.

"Lestrade! We're leaving!"

"You know where he is?"

"I know exactly where he is."

He dashed downstairs, and rapped on the door to Mrs Hudson's flat.

"Mrs Hudson!"

She opened the door.

"Yes, dear?"

"I need the key to 221C."

"Oh, well, I don't have it. A nice young lady came by, about an hour ago, and said she was interested, and could she spend some time in there? So I gave it to her."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, that is exactly what I had expected to hear."

"Oh, well, okay dear."

"Lestrade, I will go first, stay up here. I expect her to run. John is my top priority."

Sherlock whirled round, dug into his coat pocket and pulled out his lock pick.

He approached the door to 221C, and let himself in.

He sneaked downstairs, silently fuming.

He walked into the room, to find her standing over John's unconscious form, sneering, a knife in her hand.

He stalked over, grabbed her by the throat, and pushed her back against the wall, and growled into her ear.

"Don't you touch him! Understand this. John is mine!"

He pushed her away, and ignored her as she scrambled off. He needed to go to John.

He approached him, checked all his vitals.

He seemed fine, just unconscious.

Gently, Sherlock knelt down at John's side.

"John?"

He murmured the name, so softly, like he was afraid even his voice would break John. He rested a hand on his cheek, and then, slowly, slipped it under his head, so it was cupping it.

He gently slid his other arm around John's unconscious form, and brought John to him.

A few stray tears managed to leak out of his eyes, and as he couldn't brush them off, they splashed onto John.

He brought John close to himself, and turned and carried him up the stairs.

Lestrade had only just come in, she was gone, but clearly into his car. He looked worried.

"He's just unconscious. She didn't have enough time to do anything."

Sherlock was aware of the venom in his voice, when he spat it out, and of the dangerous flashing in his eyes.

He didn't care,

John was his and whoever dared lay a finger on him, could go to hell.

"Okay… well, uh, I'm going to take her in for questioning on the other murders, but, uh… you look after John, okay?

Sherlock nodded at Lestrade.

He needed a hand with this…

"Mrs Hudson!"

She came out of her flat, then saw John, and went pale.

"Oh dear! Sherlock, what has happened to him?"

"The woman that you gave the key to the basement flat tried to murder him. Please, from now on, will you be more careful with whom you let in here?"

Mrs Hudson looked panicked.

"Anyway, I just wanted you to be aware of the situation, and to let you know that I don't plan on leaving his side until he is better."

He held John tighter in his arms, then turned and took John upstairs to 221B

He took John into his room, deciding it would be easier without the stairs in between sleeping arrangements, and the kitchen and bathroom. He pulled a chair up next to the bed, and settled down to wait.

So, what did you think? I made up the drug… pretty cool, don't you think?

So, review, if you think it's worth it…

Please?

Anyway, next chapter should be up soon…

Love you guys xx