"Ugh."

Lestrade walked by Donovan and Anderson without acknowledging her. Donovan's ugh was enough to make it known that she was disgusted with the situation, most likely because Lestrade had just gone to Baker Street to fetch Sherlock, and now here they all were at the crime scene.

John swung the cab door shut, stepping quickly after Sherlock. They hadn't shared past ten words on the cab ride here. Sherlock was in a bad mood for some reason, John was in a bad mood because of his job and because of Sherlock, and because of Lestrade and the Yard's incompetence and inability to solve just one stinkin' case, they were now wandering about in the terrible weather, in the drizzle that had been going on periodically throughout the day.

It was not a good day.

"Had to call the Freak in, didn't you?"

John's head snapped up before he was even really aware of it. He also noticed Sherlock's half glance, at him, not at Donovan, the slightest flicker of something unreadable- but not hurt, for sure- in his eyes. That did not, however, stop John's mind taking over his mouth.

"Can we not do this today?"

Donovan glanced at him, only doing a double take after the half second look. "Excuse me?"

"I said, can we not do this? The name calling," he said distastefully. He shouldn't have jumped on it. He shouldn't have let it bother him. It had never bothered him before. It obviously didn't bother Sherlock. So, he shouldn't have even opened his mouth.

But.

He had.

"I'm not lying. You know I'm not lying," Donovan replied. "You should know."

"Oh, should I? I know that you're wrong, is what I know."

"Am I?"

It was once upon a time where John would see red when he was angry. Those were mostly in the days of war, when a friend got shot down, when he couldn't do anything to soothe a patient... Funnily enough, Sally Donovan managed to make him see red, too.

"John..." Sherlock started lowly. John only half-glanced at him, realizing that the detective had stopped walking, was watching him. Vaguely realizing that Lestrade had stopped walking, too. Barely realizing that everyone on the case was watching them.

"What is your problem with him?" John asked, thumbing at Sherlock. "What has he ever done to you?"

Anderson cut in. "Besides breathing?"

The words hit John at an odd angle. He wasn't even exactly sure that he had heard him right, but from the slow build of pain washing through his body, quickly replaced with anger, he realized that he must have. His fingers curled into fists. He took the bite of his fingernails against his palm as a pleasant distraction.

"John," Sherlock repeated. John ignored him again, instead taking a half-step towards Anderson.

He was really quite impressed when the forensics specialist didn't flinch. Really quite impressed. What would it take to make him flinch? Make him cower? To make him feel the pain of what Sherlock should feel every damn time that he made a snide remark? It could be an experiment. It would be a rather pleasing experiment, to be quite frank.

Anderson met his eyes, not without hesitance, but he met them all the same. John inspected him for a moment. Just a moment. How could anyone be so damn heartless-

The pressure of someone's hand on his arm drew him out of his thoughts. It wasn't Sherlock's hand, he knew that, and a quick look over his shoulder determined that it was Lestrade. The detective was looking at him warily, although not without agreement.

John huffed quietly, forcing some of the tension out of his body. He turned back to Anderson, glancing at him, and then at Donovan.

"You know what I think?" he asked after a moment. When they didn't reply, he smiled slightly, sarcastically. "Jealous," he finished plainly, calmly, taking a step away. He turned and continued past Lestrade and Sherlock, zipping his jacket up slightly as he headed into the building ahead.

Sherlock didn't say anything until after they were in the cab on the way home.

"You didn't have to do that."

John didn't look up. "Yes, I did."

"It doesn't bother me."

"I know it doesn't."

"Then, why-"

"Because, Sherlock, I can't handle standing by while you're-" He stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath. He couldn't explain it to him. He wouldn't understand, and John couldn't make him.

"It's fine."

"It's really not."

"I don't understand why it bothers you. They're wasting their breath on me, not you-"

"You're my friend, Sherlock," John replied dryly.

"But friends do that?"

John rested his forehead against the cab window, resisting the urge to sigh. Sherlock sounded interested. Probably only interested in the process of it. Definitely not interested in the meaning behind it.

John closed his eyes.

He just wanted to go home. Wanted to have a shower, a cup of tea, wanted to lock himself in his room and ignore the rest of the world.

Alternatively named: John H. Watson, His Bad Day, and His Unwillingness to Put Up with Any More of Scotland Yard's Crap.

John's having a bad day. But he wouldn't punch anyone. With the Chief Superintendent, I think it was more spur of the moment and that made it believable. So, that's how I take it. And Sherlock's fascinated by the fact that John is concerned, upset, by those idiots comments to him.

Sherlock's Frightened for the next chapter. Reviews abound? Keep posting your thoughts! Thanks!