Well, they managed to convince me, here's another chapter to my was-a-one-shot Do Your Research

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Sherlock didn't generally deduce John; he had always considered the doctor to be a calm, ordinary person. While he was pleased with the loyalty that he displayed, Sherlock didn't really think John was all that extraordinary. All the man ever did was sit around and watch telly, or clean his gun, or some other dull thing.

When the negative reactions to Sally's jibes at Sherlock kept increasing in John, he just assumed the man was forming an emotional attachment. It was completely logical that, due to such an emotional attachment, he would dislike seeing the object of that attachment insulted or demeaned.

Sherlock's view of John Watson was eerily similar to John Watson's view of Sherlock. While the older man viewed the younger almost like a favored dog, and was fiercely defensive of him, the younger man viewed the older as one would view their cat; he still felt that John belonged to him despite knowing that he could care for himself and was quite independent.

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The night Sergeant Sally Donovan disappeared; Sherlock had been reorganizing his mind palace on the couch. He only realized John had left when he demanded his mobile and went unsatisfied after repeating himself four times. Sherlock groaned as he unfurled himself from his spot on the couch and grabbed it off the coffee table. He sent off a quick text to Lestrade without a passing thought as to where John may have gone.

When John returned, Sherlock proceeded to ignore him; a punishment which went largely unnoticed by the smug psychopath. This was his mistake: he didn't bother deducing where John had been, because he didn't care. If he had chosen to look up at the unassuming man, he immediately would have recognized the difference; instead of the calm friendly manner he usually saw, he would have seen the calculating, cold gaze that rested on him for a moment. When John walked through the room to take a shower, Sherlock took no note. By the next morning, when Sherlock ended the 'punishment', all the evidence he could have used to deduce anything was washed away.

Overnight, Sherlock had catalogued all of the changes in his experiments. It seemed the head in the fridge was beginning to mold: an interesting development, he noted, as he filed it away in a drawer in his mind palace. As he was about to check on the eyeball experiment he had restarted in the microwave, he was somewhat sidetracked by thoughts of Sergeant Sally Donovan. She had wrecked his last experiment on human eyeballs and he did not appreciate that. In fact, she attempted to prevent the Work at every turn: something which quite frustrated the often-bored sociopath. Someday, he knew, she was going to regret that.

Across the room, his phone gave a buzz from the kitchen counter. Good, it was obviously Lestrade with a case and Sherlock was bored. As he read the text, he smirked at the irony: Donovan had been attacked, fitting, but dull. However, it was a case and the only thing available to stave off the increasing boredom. Sherlock bounded out of the room calling for John.

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The cab ride was short and quiet. When they arrived at the Yard, it seemed that Lestrade actually cared a bit for Donovan, as he was showing signs of stress: from the bloodshot eyes to the tugging at his hair.

He provided a brief description of Donovan's situation. It seemed he wasn't as much of an idiot as normal when it came to his subordinates. Once provided pictures, Sherlock quickly stated the first obvious details, just letting the details drip from his mouth with no censorship of any kind.

As he continued speaking, his mind ran on a completely different level. John seemed unusually quiet today; it seemed Sherlock's blogger was preoccupied with something else. He never had tried to deduce where the doctor had been the previous night…

"Whoever did this was a medical professional. They obviously had access to various medical supplies."

As he spoke, Sherlock's mind continued to formulate and reject possible attackers. It could be Anderson's wife? No, she was blind to the affair, and wouldn't be able to get the access to medical supplies from her useless husband. An ex-boyfriend of Donovan's? No, she hasn't been with anyone but Anderson or she would be trying to hide the signs of their relationship harder. It couldn't be John; he was just too simple and ordinary to ever do something like that. He needed more data.

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Sally Donovan had wilted. She tried to show her normal contempt towards Sherlock, but sounded more half-heartedly irritated than hateful or disdainful. Suddenly, though, there was a change. Donovan had reacted to some new stimulus in the room. As her color went from the normal light brown to a ghastly pallor, he looked to Doctor Watson as she nearly tripped over her words in response to seeing him.

The evidence was right in front of Sherlock Holmes' eyes, he just didn't want to see it. Then, the final nail was drilled into the coffin when a veil dropped from John's eyes. In that moment, Sherlock saw the real John Hamish Watson: Psychopath.

The data began flying through his head while in the background John calmly tended to Sally's cuts, the wicked gleam in his eyes. John had been out all night. He had come home and taken a shower instead of made tea, as was his usual custom. John was a medical professional, an army doctor, clearly capable of emotional detachment from his own actions. He knew the human body inside and out. Donovan reacted negatively to him.

John did this, whatever this was, to her. John, calm John, kind John, 'Sherlock that's a bit-not-good' John.

Did Sherlock really know his flatmate? How could he have missed such a major part of someone's life? He didn't particularly mind that John had obviously stood up for him, albeit in a somehow traumatizing and obviously illegal way, but he was quite frustrated that such a huge detail had managed to evade his deduction skills.

First, though, he needed to give a plausible suspect, that wasn't John, to Lestrade.

"It seems someone has taken a disliking to Sergeant Donovan's character flaws," Sherlock began, "specifically those in relation to me. My 'fan', Moriarty, has previously expressed possessiveness of me. He thinks that he is the only one who can insult me, harm me, and make my life troublesome."

Lestrade cut in here, "Are you saying that someone kidnapped and somehow brainwashed a police officer because he felt possessive of another person? That seems pretty ridiculous, Sherlock."

"It's common knowledge that Sally here loves to insult me at every turn." Sherlock replied, "What stands out here is that she censored her usual nickname of 'Freak' and addressed me by my first name instead. I can count the number of times she's addressed me by name on the fingers of one hand. This points it to specifically having something to do with me. In fact, I don't even need to ask her any questions about this except for one: What things can you remember? The more I know, the closer I am to catching him."

Sally Donovan had to think, she knew that wherever she had been was cold and sterile. She also knew that whatever she had been strapped down with, it wasn't easy to break out of in any way. She remembered sudden light, and cringing as her head adjusted to the sights. She shared all of this with Sherlock in a quiet voice.

"Lestrade, obviously she needs some sort of recovery from such a traumatic event," John's calm voice broke into the conversation, "Maybe we should give her some time, let her unwind a little, sleep a little, and see if any memories come back. It won't be of any use having Sherlock analyze everything when there is no physical evidence to show for."

The Detective Inspector realized this was sound reasoning and acquiesced. "If she remembers anything Sherlock, I'll send you a text."

Feeling a smug sense of relief at his silver-tongued lying skill, Sherlock said "Come along, John." And they were on their way.

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During the ride back to the flat, John sighed. "We need to talk, don't we?"

Sherlock's deep voice came in reply: "Absolutely."

John's mask dropped. He made eye contact with the cabbie, who shuddered, wondering why the nice man in the wool jumper made him so nervous. He looked at Sherlock, who gave him a wicked grin, and was vindictively satisfied.