Disclaimer: All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.

John sat alone at home in 221B Baker Street in his favourite armchair. He kept glancing behind him at the door and then out of the window onto the street. He decided it would be easier to watch people pass by than wait for Sherlock to return. He wondered if he would be angry at him. John inwardly laughed, darkly, at himself. Of course he would be angry. He'd told John multiple times that it was better to let him do his work without interfering with the police, and on this one time John had gone behind his back to Lestrade – and in result ended him in an overnight observation cell.

An involuntary shiver ran down John's spine and instead of accepting it for what it was, he stood up and closed the window, preferring his excuse to the truth.

If he'd done that a few days ago, Sherlock would have never had to go in that cell. Stupid, John. Stupid!

But then his army-side would kick in. His serious-thinking head would slot into place and he would begin to weigh the most reasonable arguments against the side that was loyal to Sherlock – his flatmate, his friend. If Sherlock had killed those women; didn't he deserve to be brought to justice? Of course he did, just like every other criminal Sherlock has caught in the past deserved to. Having the name 'Sherlock Holmes' didn't make him liable to just a slap on the wrist after three women were lying dead.

And then his loyal side would kick in, the side that told him it was wrong to give evidence against Sherlock to the police. But at the time, John hadn't known it was evidence. Sherlock had been behaving suspiciously for about a week now and John had just wanted to know what was going on – that was all. His teeth had ground at the thought of him slipping off to play Moriarty's games on his own; especially after the swimming pool incident.

Ah, the swimming pool incident. He could remember it as clearly as the war. It didn't 'haunt' him like the memories of Afghanistan did, but his heart would begin pumping again at the recollection of the fright – mixed with concentrated adrenalin – as he heard Moriarty's high-pitched voice whisper what to say into his ear, knowing there was a bomb strapped to his chest, and if he did anything that he was not told he would have been blown to kingdom come.

He had often wondered what had been running through Sherlock's eyes as he opened up his coat and revealed what was hidden there. He watched his eyes dancing as he swept over him, flickering between him and Moriarty; knowing that any move could be his last. John was sure he'd thought up a plan within minutes of seeing 'Jim'. John would dare say that Sherlock had only had a flame of fear for him before it was blown out by his own crazy brainwave, but something in the way that Sherlock had tore the bomb off him and thrown it across the room told him that it wasn't so. His breath had been so rapid, as if a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

John had never really thanked him. He didn't think he'd needed to. Sherlock didn't see the need in being grateful, and probably wouldn't have appreciated it if John had thanked him. He thought it better not to waste his breath.

But John Watson was an honest, sincere man, and although he hadn't been able to thank all his comrades in Afghanistan if they shot someone aiming for him – because he never would have known who it was – he knew that he had every opportunity in the world to thank Sherlock.

But he never truly had.

It was things like the swimming pool incident that caused that little voice at the back of his mind to spit, hurtfully, 'That's the only reason you put up with him – you can't keep away from the danger, can you, Doctor Watson? And now you've gone and ruined it; given him up to the police. You won't know what to do with yourself when he's gone, will you, Doctor?'

John shivered again and pushed it back. He didn't want to believe that that was the reason he stuck around Sherlock for one moment. Sherlock was his flatmate – his friend – maybe even his colleague as Sherlock had called him on numerous occasions.

It had been at least an hour after Lestrade had texted John, informing him briefly that Sherlock was on his way home – home to him. He would have his friend back.

But after about half an hour John's bleary happiness had faded to worry, and then the thoughts started up about Sherlock being angry and hating him. He became agitated then, settling in the armchair, gripping the armrests firmly to keep him rooted to reality as he battled with himself. He hadn't even realised when forty-five minutes passed and Sherlock still wasn't back.

Surely he would have gotten a taxi, rather than walking. Even if he hadn't had the money he would have slumped upstairs and asked John to lend him some – some he knew he would never pay back. But John wouldn't have cared at that moment, he had just wanted Sherlock back, to know what they had asked him, how they had treated him, if he was alright...

Mrs Hudson had been worried when Sherlock didn't return home with John last night. John had just said that he was working on a case and would be back in the morning. He didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. And besides, he knew Sherlock would prefer her not to know. And he also decided, himself, that the less she knew about Sherlock being accused of murder – the better. Poor Mrs Hudson.

John grew tired of sitting agitatedly on his chair, so he stood up and began pacing. Not his best idea, he knew, but whenever his hand starts trembling he knows he has to do something – anything – to preoccupy his mind.

But when Sherlock was gone the shaking would always start up again.

He snatched up his phone from the coffee table, sighing in annoyance as he did so, and went straight to Sherlock's number in his contact list. He didn't know what possessed him to do it, but he was worried about him. Sure, Sherlock could handle himself; he knew that.

But something was different this time...

He pressed the green button and waited.

One ring. Two rings. Three – four. Answering machine.

The Doctor growled under his breath and tried again, unable to handle his own irritation. But the same thing happened. And the same thing happened three times after that. Five missed calls – John was worried now. Really worried. Sherlock always answered his phone; no matter where he was or who he was with. All about the work, he is.

But even after five rings? Something was wrong.

So he decided to call Lestrade instead. John's aggravation only lifted when he heard the DI's voice on the other end of the phone.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Lestrade – did you send Sherlock home yet?" The words had burst from John's lips before he'd even had chance to think about them. The worried tone was obvious, and he was sure that even over the phone Lestrade would suspect something.

"Yeah," The DI said, carefully, "I text you about an hours ago, didn't you get my message?"

"Yeah, I got it," John replied, breathing heavily from his nose and shuffling unsurely from one foot to the other on the spot, "But Sherlock hasn't come back yet."

There was a pause, in which John knew Lestrade's eyebrows would have furrowed, "Oh. Well, um... He's a big boy, Dr Watson, he can look after himself. If he isn't back in another few hours let us know and we'll go out looking for him."

John shook his head at the DI's words, knowing that he couldn't see him, and just answered, through gritted teeth, "Okay, fine. Thanks." He pressed the red button on his phone and ended the call. "For nothing!"

John didn't even think twice before snatching up his coat and dashing out the door.

A/N: Yeah, a short one again. But I hand-wrote the next chapter earlier today (before I'd even finished this one, actually) so I hope it will make up for this one.

Where is Sherlock?

Reviews are love!

Kelly xxx