Sherlock is afraid of spiders, whereas John claims he isn't afraid of anything. When John found out Sherlock was afraid of spiders, it was like the greatest joke come to life.

They were in Lestrade's office discussing a case. John was watching Sherlock pace back and forth, his hand waving wildly in the air and mouth grinning with evil excitement.

"You really don't get it do you?" Sherlock snickered looked amused between John and Lestrade.

"No, no. Don't look at us like we're idiots. It's not like you're not going to explain anyway." Lestrade told him.

"The sister did it."

"What? Hang on, the sister? But she had nothing to do-"

"Oh my gosh, Lestrade! Don't you pay attention?"

Lestrade buried his face in his hands. Sherlock continued to talk while John looked blankly out the window. He was no longer concerned with Sherlock's words, Sherlock figured it out and it was Lestrade's job to arrest whoever killed the security guard.

"John?" Sherlock spoke. His voice was soft, he was done calling Lestrade an idiot.

"Mmm? Ready?" John looked back at Sherlock.

Before Sherlock could answer, John was on his feet and walking past Sherlock.

"John? What are you doing?" Sherlock followed John with his eyes, then noticed what John was going for.

There, on the wall, was a huge spider. Ok, not huge. But Sherlock thought it was huge. He stumbled backwards into a chair and almost knocking it over.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

John was at the wall picking the spider up with his bare hand.

"John, put it down."

"I will. Outside."

"Kill it, John."

"Why? It's just a spider."

"Kill it, John."

"Sherlock, you're looking more pale than usual." Lestrade said.

"Kill it, John." Sherlock's voice was shaky and deep.

Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock took another step toward the door. "Sherlock's afraid of spiders, John. Mr. Sherlock 'Not-Even-God-Is-Higher-Than-Me' Holmes is afraid of spiders."

"I am not."

John looked at Sherlock, who was now at the entrance of the door. He laughed and took a step toward Sherlock, spider in hand.

"No, no, John. Stop it."

Lestrade and John looked at each other and burst into laughter. John never thought he would ever find anything Sherlock is afraid of, but this was gold.

Two days later, Sherlock was being particularly annoying. He was bored and whiney and dirty and so hungry and John couldn't take it anymore. Sherlock was in the bath when John decided he was going to scared Sherlock.

He walked into the bathroom holding a menu for some take-out restaurant they usually eat. "Hey, Sherlock, do you want-" he looked up at the wall above Sherlock, "Oh my god, Sherlock, a spider!" John turned out of the bathroom and ran into the kitchen, knowing Sherlock was about to run out of the bathroom.

"Where!" Sherlock exclaimed, not waiting for the answer and jumping out of the water instead. He stumbled out of the bath, then fumbled to his feet and ran out of the bathroom. He made it barely into the kitchen when he slipped and fell onto his back on the kitchen floor.

John couldn't control his outburst of laughter. He didn't even turn around to look at Sherlock before he started laughing. He laughed for a good five minutes before he even looked at Sherlock, who was now slamming the bathroom door shut.

John went to the door, "Oh, come on, darling, I'm sorry! Open the door, I'm sorry!"

"I'm never coming out again, John!"

"I was just trying to have some fun!"

"It's not funny!"

"Come out, baby!"

"NO!"

"Sherlock," John's voice went low and became very 'scary'. "What if there's a spider in there?"

The door opened immediately. Sherlock was now wearing jeans, no shirt, and had a look of angry fear. John stood in front of the door.

"Let me go, John."

"Not until you give me a kiss."

"For what? Scaring me half to death, then letting me fall on the floor? Not-uh, John. No way. Move."

"I'm waiting."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and pulled him up, stepped far enough out of the doorway to slip past John, put John down, and walked away.

"Hey, not fair!"

"Not fair? THAT wasn't fair! That was just mean!"

John followed Sherlock into the living room. "I'm sorry, ok, Sherlock? I'm sorry and I mean that." He sat on the couch next to Sherlock's hips while Sherlock extended his body so John couldn't sit down.

"It was mean."

"I know, and I'm sorry." John touched Sherlock's stomach. "Why are you afraid of spiders anyway?"

"I…uh…I don't know! Why are you afraid of anything you're afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything." John said most confidently.

Sherlock stared at him straight faced, "You have to be afraid of something."

"I'm not, though."

"You have to be."

"I don't have to be."

"Everybody's afraid of something."

"Not me, I guess."

Sherlock continued staring at him.

"Sherlock, I invaded Afghanistan," John chuckled, "I think I'd know if I was afraid of something."

So, for the next two weeks, Sherlock made it his goal to find anything John is afraid of. He tested every hypothesis: birds, frogs, knives, the number 13, snakes, bugs, dogs, anything. But nothing proved to be what John was afraid of.

Finally, Sherlock gave up. He accepted the fact that he had the most courageous man in the world next to him every night.

After Sherlock gave up his search, he and John were on a case that was proving to be the second most dangerous case ever. They were two weeks in, and John let Sherlock go to a stakeout alone. Sherlock left at 6 PM, and when he didn't return John began to get concerned. Around 11 he phoned Lestrade.

"Have you heard from Sherlock?"

"No. Is he missing?"

"Kind of."

"He does that."

"I know he-" John breathed out, annoyed, "That's all right. I'll find him."

But John didn't find him. He wandered London for hours, going to places he thought Sherlock would be. When he didn't turn up, John sort of began to panic. He called Sherlock ten times.

John was on his way home when his cell phone rang. It was Sherlock's phone.

"Hello? Sherlock? Where are you? Are you all right?"

"John, I've been kidnapped."

"What? Where-how-what the hell?"

"I've got it under control, but I've been threatened with death if-"

"Sherlock, Sherlock!"

"Ouch, that hurt, you imbecile! Anyway, John, are you still there? Anyway, they want plane tickets out of London. And a million pounds."

"Wh-what?" John began to run back to the flat. He remembered the GPS system Sherlock had installed on their phones. John was to get on the computer and log into Sherlock's account, then he could find his phone, therefore find Sherlock. "Stay on the line, Sherlock, I'm coming."

"No, John, no time, I need si-seven plane tickets and the money, alright?"

"No, NO! Stay on the line!" John made it into the flat and was now trying to get his computer to open up the internet.

"John, there's no time, but listen, if I don't make it-"

"Don't, Sherlock, I'm coming!" John had the website open and was typing in Sherlock's cell phone number.

"Just remember that I love-"

John was typing in Sherlock's password, "john".

*Click*. As the phone hung up, the webpage to Sherlock's phone GPS opened. The dot blinked for a second, just long enough for John to see where it was, and then it was gone. He jumped out of his chair and phoned Lestrade.

"Greg, listen, Sherlock's been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped? Are you sure?"

"I just got off the phone with him. He's in some ware house about forty miles from me. I'll text you the address. Just hurry." John got in a cab and was on his way.

He arrived near the warehouse about the same time as Lestrade and the rest of the unit. John went over almost everything Sherlock told him, leaving out the personal details.

"How are we going to get him out?" John asked.

"I'm sending a team to each entrance of the building, and one is going into the building, here." Lestrade pointed at the spot on the blueprints. "This team, here," He pointed to another entrance, "Is going to basically split up to search each room."

"What if we don't find him? What if they-"

"We will, John." Lestrade placed a caring hand on John's shoulder.

John sat patiently against one of the police cars for two hours. He was panicked, his mind was racing with the wondering if Sherlock was alive at that moment, wondering if this afternoon would be the last time he'd ever see Sherlock, remembering the last thing he said to him, remembering the last time he touched him…

His phone rang. John looked around for a second, to see if he was hearing things, then he noticed everyone around him was now staring at him. He looked down at his pocket, it was glowing. He fumbled to his jeans and pulled out his phone.

"Hello? Sherlock? Hello?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

John sighed. He hoped so much that Sherlock would come over the phone.

Then, he did. "John." Sherlock sounded distant, maybe tired, maybe hurt. His voice just wasn't the same.

"Oh God, Sherlock, are you ok? Are you ok, sweetie?" John was breathing heavily and rubbing his eyes. He'd never felt so happy.

"Listen, John, I only have a minute or two. They're planning another murder tonight, the victim is already here. We're in room two-sixty-five, it's on the third floor-"

Gunshots. Loud gunshots. Everywhere around them echoed with the gunshots.

John looked up at the building, stood, and screamed into the phone.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!"

The men around John were all moving toward the building now. The phone was cut off and John was now on his knees on the ground. One of the women on the squad came to John and knelt in front of him.

"It's all right, John, we'll find him, Lestrade-"

"What if he's dead? What if he's dead and the last thing I said to him was 'You lazy sod, buy some milk.'? What if I didn't kiss him goodbye this afternoon? I didn't tell him I love him today."

"It's ok, John, we will find him."

Half an hour later, someone radio'd to Lestrade that they found room 265 and there were ten of them waiting outside now, and five of them were scaling the wall to the window up there. John's heart was racing, hoping Sherlock was all right.

Then, more gunshots were heard. John ran to the nearest entrance of the building to where the unit was invading. He and Lestrade stood close enough to see what was happening, but couldn't really see due to the fact that they were on the ground and all of this was happening on the third floor.

Then, the gunshots stopped, and so did John's heart. He thought for sure Sherlock was dead. With that amount of gunshots, he thought everyone was dead. Lestrade placed a hand on John's shoulder. Then, his radio sounded.

"Lestrade, sir?" Heavy breathing. "Sir, there are nine dead and thirteen alive."

"How many of ours dead?"

"Two."

John's heart broke into a million pieces. He was positive one was Sherlock, that's just the way this scene always plays out, isn't it?

Lestrade called for the rest of the crew to head into the building. He took John to a nearby ambulance to get a handle of himself. John sat and waited for a ride home.

A few minutes later, someone was shouting off in the distance of where John was. John stayed sitting, at first not hearing anyone around him.

"Damnit, I can walk on my own! Stop it, I don't want this blanket!"

John looked up, but didn't see anyone familiar. His breathing got heavy and he looked around.

"Stop it, stop taking-why are you taking my temperature? To make your position affective? God, no, go away! Where's John? I don't want my pulse taken!"

John stood and walked toward the entrance. His eyes were searching around for Sherlock, his heart was full of hope that Sherlock wasn't dead or wounded.

Finally, their eyes caught each other and John began, more or less, running at Sherlock. When they met, John's arms flew around Sherlock's shoulders and he pulled him as close as possible.

"Sherlock, oh my god, Sherlock. I was sure you were dead-"

"You had little faith in me." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and buried his face in John's hair.

"Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine, John. Really."

John didn't care about public decency at this point. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's that it almost hurt. They were embraced for what felt like eternity, until Sherlock broke away, smirking.

"John Watson, were you scared?"

John pressed his forehead against Sherlock's, "I've never been more afraid in my life."

Sherlock's only wounds were a black eye and a gash in his forehead. Other than that he was fine, as smug as ever just to show that he found the murderers.

"I still don't see how you did all of this, you stop murderers and thieves on a weekly basis, you've come face to face with death loads of times, but you're afraid of spiders."

"They crawl. And make unwanted webs. And feel gross on your skin. And have eight legs. You? You're afraid of-"

"Of losing you, you git."

Sherlock smiled. He'd never felt so loved.