Protected Witness

"I still haven't told you what happened at Barts." Sherlock said, suddenly. His voice cool and steady.

"I don't need to know." I didn't want to re-live that day.

"Molly Hooper."

"What about her?" I didn't understand him sometimes, but all the same, curiosity pushed me onwards and him saying her name did indeed send a sensation of jealousy through me, which I knew was silly.

"She knows John." Looking me straight in the eye, looking a little hesitant to say what he was about to say.

"Knows what?"

"She knows I faked my death. She helped me do it." I saw a watery film shrowd his eyes, but I then saw him recoil, pushing it back, trying to stop himself from being human. Why was he reacting this way? I mean, it hurt and slightly shocked me to know that he had trusted her with this and not me, but I know that my belief in his death was essential. But still, the green-eyed monster within me growled a little at the confession he had made. I knew Molly counted, she was a good person and I trusted her. She's also loved Sherlock for longer than I'd known her, and I had always thought this love had gone unrequited.. perhaps not. I couldn't sum up words, opening and closing my mouth trying to coaxe my brain into working.

"Oh.." Was all I could conjure up, my stomach gave an ache of hurt, it hurt more than my head because this was emotional pain, pain that had rare remedies that weren't always clear.

"I'm so, so sorry John." He had looked away from me at that point, and I could tell he was still holding back. I wanted to comfort him, hold him and tell him everything was okay, but the thought that I was just second best constantly replayed in my head and prevented me. Well, that and Lestrade re-entering the room at that moment.

"We've just been on the phone to the Hospital," he said, re-adjusting his tie, his face contorted with stress and the bags under his eyes showed how tired he was. "That compassionate side of the attacker clearly doesn't exist now.. Jacqueline McCloud died in her bed less than two hours ago." All three of us exchanged glances then, and then we were busy. Standing up quickly, Sherlock and I looked at him, imploring him for more data as we moved into the main part of large police space. "Listen up everyone!" Lestrade announced, his voice dominating the room, showing his power in this heirarchy. "Jacqueline McCloud, the second victim of our man was killed two hours ago. She suffered another blow to the head in the same spot, killing her painfully and instantly. Now I want you to search for any members of the Army who've recently been kicked out, I want motives, I want people, I want a suspect. Meanwhile, You, Compton! (He gestured to a dark haired Detective Sargeant) You and a few uniform boys will create a perimeter around 221B, I want that place watched. It's clear that the killer wanted to finish their job and these aren't just assaults, so John here, is our protected witness. Now you've got your orders, get moving!"

Officers began to rush around, phones were being rapidly dialed and people were typing aggressively. The whole room seemed to burst with action and life. While I just stood there like a lemon.

Donovan, Anderson, with me. We're going to McCloud's flat."

Sherlock and I went to walk with them but Lestrade stopped us. "Let us go in first, you're a key witness John, you're not allowed to get involved with the investigation on a proffessional level. Neither are you Sherlock. If we need you, I'll text. Now go home, lock your doors. Make some tea, watch the telly... I don't know- just stay put." The three hurried off and we proceeded outside in the cold morning air.

Sherlock smiled archily, he found this exciting clearly, and I knew exactly what he was thinking as he looked at me suggestively.

"No Sherlock. We're not allowed to get involved."

"When has Lestrade ever stuck to protocol?" The face he was pulling was making me go gooey, and I hated myself for it. Damn him.

"That's not the point Sherlock, I could get killed tonight! We can't interfere, please can we just go home?" I pleaded with him, my head was throbbing and I could kill for a piping hot cup of tea.

He then replied so instantaneously and so genuinely that it both suprised and soothed me.

"Of course, of course," That made me smile. "And John, you're not getting killed. You don't need some out-of-depth uniforms to protect you, you've got me." I knew this was a mass extention of feeling towards me from him and I'm sure saying something with such sentimental feeling was probably making him feel sick, but I appreciated it. Staying home for once, with Sherlock.

After what seemed like a long cab ride, we arrived at the flat. I took my jacket off and walked into the kitchen, putting on the kettle and returning to my armchair. Sherlock was laid across the sofa, poised like a child, curled up in a ball and facing away from me. I then heard movement and as I looked again, he was facing me. His curly locks sprawled across the surface, and his eyes shimmering with something- but my "placid mind" as he so kindly put it, couldn't trace what he was feeling. I shook off any thoughts about my flat-mate and returned to the kitchen, making myself a perfect cup of tea. Not too strong, not too weak and definitely no sugar. I turned on the telly and went to move my chair to be able to see it from a good point of view but Sherlock interrupted me.

"John, leave the chair. Just sit back here." He had re-positioned himself so that he was sat cross-legged at the right side of the sofa, he had roled the sleeves of his blue shirt up and I could see three cigerette patches on his arm. He was having a three-patch problem. I coughed a little, feeling a little uncomfortable to be sat in such close proximity with him. I held the tea close to my chest, breathing in its sweet aroma and letting its warmth spread through me. I searched for the remote carefully, trying not to spill the hot beverage that rested in my left-hand. It was under Sherlock's thigh, it must'ves slipped down there. It would be embarassing to retrieve it, and very strange, so I just hoped that he'd notice. He did. He retrieved it from underneath him and took control of the remote. Great, some programme he'll get annoyed with, just like he does with board games. But as I watched him flick gracefully through the channels (though I didn't believe anyone could do it gracefully) he put on my favourite show: Doctor Who. He caught my eye very briefly and I coughed slightly again, licking my lips.

This was going to be a long night.