Sherlock barely touched the food in front of him, and was extremely grateful for the fact that he usually didn't eat much anyway, so it wasn't something to catch John's attention. He kept up the small talk and discussed criminals and how exceedingly dull they were. Anything to stop John from mentioning the kiss, feelings, the word 'love', and them, whatever they were now. He was more than relieved when he received a text from Lestrade.

Scotland Yard. Come now. Help needed.

GL

"Come along, John" Sherlock said quickly, jumping up from his seat, a gleam in his eye.

Ignoring John's grumbled protesting, he headed for the door, knowing John was following as always. He hailed a taxi and slid across for John.

"Scotland Yard." He said to the cabbie before casting his eyes out the window.

He could feel John's eyes on him, but he ignored them. Though he wouldn't admit it out loud, he was scared. He had never, in his whole life, ever had someone who wasn't family tell him that they loved him. If he had, then he hadn't taken any notice. But it wasn't just that John had said it. It was also that he had been thinking it. John loved him, but the more remarkable thing was that he loved John.
He was snapped out of his thoughts when the cab came to a stop at Scotland Yard. Flashing a grin in John's direction, he got out, hoping the case would be good.

"Right, Sherlock. Good of you to come. You too, John." Lestrade greeted them, carefully avoiding making eye contact with John.

Something was wrong, and it wasn't the usual type of wrong. Lestrade carried an air of gloom about him when there was a particularly terrible case, and that air of gloom always sent a surge of excitement through Sherlock's veins. However, this was different, and the difference made Sherlock's blood run cold. He didn't speak as he and John followed Lestrade. If was obvious that whatever was wrong had something to do with John, and it was also obvious that Lestrade wasn't entirely comfortable with it. He also seemed to wish he hadn't called them there in the first place, which he hoped was only because John was there, and whatever had happened was obviously connected to John in some way, and therefore he should not be helping with the investigation. There was a nagging feeling in the back of Sherlock's mind, however, that wasn't completely certain that was all.

Worry. He identified, throwing a sideways glance at John as they silently followed Lestrade to the interrogation room. Stupid loveable John bloody Watson induced worry. Damn it, John. How did you do this to me?

As they reached the door to interrogation room 1, Lestrade stopped them, turning around with an almost guilty expression.

"John, I'm going to have to ask you to stay here." He said quietly, clearly wishing he didn't have to say the words.

Another possessive flare shot up inside Sherlock as he realised that Lestrade cared about John, too. John was his to care about, and no one else's. John was his responsibility and his friend and his heart. John was his. His.

"What? But…" Sherlock heard John protest, his mind slowly catching up.

"Where I go, John goes." He practically growled, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"Sherlock, I can't. It's his –"

"I know, Harry is in there. All the more reason for John to be, too."

John's mouth dropped at that, and he threw a desperate look in Lestrade's direction. A small knot formed in Sherlock's stomach, and his expression relaxed as he cast his eyes away from both men. He wasn't sure what it was exactly that he was feeling now, but he wished he hadn't have said anything. The anxious, worried look on John's face almost hurt him physically.

Damn you, John Watson. He thought to himself before pushing past Lestrade into the interrogation room.

His stomach dropped as he saw the mess of a person sitting down, waiting. Her not-quite-blonde hair sat messily on top of her head, and her tear-stained face looked old and tired, despite the fact that she was not at all old. There was a trail of dried blood from her eyebrow, and another from her nose. The terrible feeling in his stomach wasn't because his heart went out to her at all; no, she was a stranger, and he didn't care for her at all. The growing pain creeping from his stomach up to his chest was because she so clearly resembled John, and the thought of John sitting before him like this physically hurt him. He couldn't even explain why. It was like seeing John wrapped in semtex again.

"Right" came Lestrade's voice from behind him, jolting him from the frankly terrible images consuming his mind. "Miss Watson, you understand why you've been brought in?"

John stood next to him, and made to slide his hand into Sherlocks behind their backs. Sherlock folded his own hands behind his back, letting Johns hand fall awkwardly to his side. From there on, the conversation between a very upset Harry, and a very grave looking Lestrade turned into a haze. She was being accused of being part of a murder in the car park of a shopping center. The police had shown up to find her leaning against the wall, barely able to support herself, while two others ran off, and the dead body lay in front of her. It must be blatantly obvious that Harry was innocent if Sherlock could tell when he was barely paying attention. She had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If it wasn't clear from the way she spoke and held herself – or tried to hold herself, Sherlock thought absently – then it was definitely obvious from the fact that the victim was right handed, but Harry had taken a left handed punch to the mouth, meaning the victim hadn't attacked her. She also had to have had a bag of shopping with her, because her right hand still had marks that the thick plastic bags had left behind. Once the interview was over, he told Lestrade his conclusions quickly, and left, leaving John behind to take care of his sister.

God, what's wrong with you? He thought to himself as he left Scotland Yard and climbed into the back of a cab.

The whole ride home, Sherlock's mind was filled with all sorts of images of John, both good and bad. He needed to get rid of them. He didn't understand them, and he hated not understanding. They were irrelevant, and based on nothing but fears and past events that were over and done with. Nothing made sense, and his head felt like it was spinning. Quickly, he paid the driver before dashing inside and up the stairs for his nicotine patches. A small frustrated growl escaped his lips upon realising he had ran out, and he suddenly longed for something stronger. Something to truly take the edge off and help him concentrate on what was important.

John is important. His mind hissed at him as he tore the mirror off his wall, scraping at the wallpaper until he could reach the hidden syringe behind.

Authors note - I feel this is another weak chapter, which has again made me feel incapable of finishing this story. I knew what I wanted to achieve with this chapter, and I really don't think I got there. Also, I've been really snowed under with homework lately, so if next weeks chapter is a little late, I apologise. I've not yet finished it, and I'm not sure when I will. Hopefully I will find time.