"Wakey wakey," A voice pierced the veil of drugs that was only just beginning to lift around John. John tried to move his arms but found that he was strapped tightly to a gurney or stretcher of some kind which meant he couldn't move his arms or change forms without injuring himself. He groaned with nausea. "I know you work with that detective fellow, the one that was called in to help the police find me."

John forced himself to focus on the man standing in front of him. The fuzziness on the edges of his vision was receding and he could feel Sherlock's determination to find him getting closer. He needed to buy just a few minutes for Sherlock to find him

John, who is he?

I don't know. Not a sorcerer, just a psychopath.

"Who are you?" John asked his captor. At least, that's what he tried to say. It came out a bit slurred.

"I am an artist seeking what all artists seek." The man paused and smiled at John. "Perfection. Humans are the apex of human evolution and the pinnacle of beauty. But even so, flaws are inevitable. I correct these flaws."

Sherlock was outside.

"You killed three people in London and more in America," John pointed out, eyes widening as the "Artist" prepared a large syringe with a wicked-looking needle.

"I preserved them. Every artist wants his work to last," The Artist pulled on a pair of latex gloves and picked up the syringe. "I have been trying for many years to achieve perfection. And each project gets closer and closer. But my work is only as good as my medium."

"I hate to break it to you, but you can't make me perfect," John pointed out, relishing the annoyance on the Artist's face.

Sherlock was inside, running.

"Who said you were my next project?" He sneered.

John's eyes widened. Sherlock. That was his main goal. Of course, he had seen Sherlock at the crime scene when he went to observe the reaction his "art" got. Sherlock was all chiseled cheekbones and long limbs. Of course the Artist had decided that Sherlock was the perfect medium for his pursuits.

"You won't get him," John said harshly. "You have no idea what he's capable of."

"I'll soon find out. Pity you won't get to see the final result." He raised the needle high over John's heart. One sharp downward motion was all it would take.

John squeezed his eyes shut.

The door exploded inward and shattered into what could only be described as sawdust. Sherlock strode in and fixed his murderous gaze on the man that had taken his companion. Sherlock had heard the whole exchange through John's ears.

"That's hardly fair, now is it?" Sherlock said smoothly. "Using him to draw me out and then denying him the chance to observe your work?"

"Mr. Holmes, just the man I was hoping to see." He raised the syringe again. "Take another step and your friend will die."

"I don't think so." Sherlock said low and dangerous. The lights in the room glowed brightly and the syringe exploded, sending shards of glass into his hand. A glimmering shield protected John from the same fate and the Artist staggered back against the far wall, clutching his ruined hand and keening. Sherlock approached him imperiously. "The position of the largest pieces of glass tells me you probably have severed nerves. Awfully hard to make art without your dominant hand." Sherlock grabbed the man's face and slammed it back into the wall, knocking him out.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and fired off a text to someone, probably Lestrade. John relaxed in his bonds.

"Jesus, Sherlock. One minute later-"

He never got to finish his sentence as his lips were otherwise occupied by Sherlock's. John strained at the straps contained his arms, wanting to pull Sherlock closer. Nimble fingers undid the straps and John sat up, all without breaking contact with Sherlock. When the absolute need for oxygen was too much, they broke apart flushed and smiling. Smiling until John felt a wave of nausea roll over him as the adrenaline faded from his system. He sagged and Sherlock supported him until Lestrade showed up with some other annoying officers. He stayed with John while he gave his statement, rode to the hospital, was checked over by a doctor, and released.

John collapsed in his armchair as soon as he was inside the flat, sighing in relief.

"This is the third time you've saved my life," John laughed tiredly. "Maybe I should take a turn saving yours."

"John, this is the second time I've been the reason you needed saving," Sherlock said from the kitchen as he prepared some tea for John.

"Semantics."

"John, I hope this doesn't become a habit, getting yourself in trouble," Sherlock said teasingly, appearing by John's shoulder with a mug. "As much as I enjoy dramatic entrances..." He trailed off as John laughed. "What?"

"Dramatic entrances aren't that hard to do for you. All you have to do is turn up your coat collar and let the light bounce off your cheekbones." John laughed again as Sherlock blushed. "What? It makes you look cool."

John sat awhile with Sherlock as he regaled him with the details of how he had made the connections that led him to the disgraced plastic surgeon known as the Artist. His eyes began to droop and Sherlock noticed.

"John, you should sleep," Sherlock took his hand and helped him up. "But if you don't mind...I would prefer it if you did so in my bed."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, acting scandalized.

"Just so I can keep an eye on you, just for tonight," Sherlock pressed seriously. "I have this...irrational fear that if I leave you alone tonight..."

"Sure, I didn't want to climb those stairs anyway," John said easily. "And...well..." Now John was blushing. "It doesn't have to be just for tonight. It's not like I haven't slept with you before. Oh God, that sounded better in my head."

"No it didn't." Sherlock said lightly, leading John to his room.

Later, long after John had fallen asleep with Sherlock's arms around his waist, Sherlock lay on his side listening to John breathe. The only light came from the alarm clock on his bedside table that John had insisted he needed to get up on time for work. Sherlock had of course called John in sick with a rather good impression of his voice, and turned off the alarm after John fell asleep. John's words circled in his mind over and over, chasing each other round and round.

One minute later... John had said.

Yes, one minute later and John may have been fine, or he may have been dead, injected in the heart with enough sedative to kill a small rhinoceros. He would never know, and he didn't like not knowing. But John was safe, he was here and Sherlock was going to keep him that way. He could not go back to living the way he did before. Even Lestrade had commented on the way Sherlock's abrasiveness seemed to have softened somewhat. It was as if the mere presence of John's conscious in his mind was bleeding into his personality minutely, smoothing the rough edges.

Of course only Lestrade, who knew Sherlock well, had noticed. To everyone else he was just as condescending and offhand. But John, though sometimes the recipient of the errant comment about average intelligence, saw a different side of Sherlock. Saw past the mask that was his day to day life. Accepted the immature, brilliant, petulant man-child and powerful sorcerer for who he was and had chosen to stay with him forever.

How he needed John so poignantly after such a short time he would never be regretful of. Never.