A/N: I'm so very sorry I've been away for such a long time, I'm having problems with a new school I'm trying to transfer to and I've actually been able to sleep. Again, I apologize. Please enjoy this chapter, I promise the next one will be up soon.

Sherlock should have been out of breath, but he wasn't even breaking a sweat. He was powered by pure rage when he had pursued the shadowed man. Now the only two things he could comprehend were fury and fear.

Sherlock Holmes was afraid. But he wasn't afraid of anything- no, never. He was afraid for. Afraid for John, and what would happen to him if he was left alone long enough with the fake therapist. Nothing good, to be sure.

He was running faster than he had ever run before, to the flat, so that the world and his usually crisp-clear thoughts were all a blur. It didn't matter if John was driving him crazy with boredom and anger over such a stupid phobia- the doctor was his friend, his best and only friend. If he were ever killed, the detective would never stop blaming himself.

And Sherlock would miss the way John's sandy hair would burn into a golden halo in the morning when the sun moved behind his smiling face, and the way his chocolate brown eyes would melt and sparkle into an image Sherlock could never delete no matter how hard he tried, not that he did try-

Sherlock shook away these thoughts and ran faster, though they stayed in his head along with a perfect image of John.

"Being watched by whom?"

John ended his staring match with the small camera to turn back to his therapist. "What?"

"Who do you think you're being watched by?" Dr. Pennypacker repeated, gazing at his patient expectantly. John pursed his lips, eyes on his left foot. He willed it to move, to twitch, anything. It wouldn't move. Because of that man who had people everywhere!

"By everyone. No matter what I do, it seems that everyone is out to get me. Just random people I don't know, walking down the street. Working for that man who shot me...waiting for the right time..."

"Yes, after such a traumatic experience, I would be at least be a bit afraid of Olsewski as well." Dr. Pennypacker acknowledged, again staring at John over the rims of his glasses as if the paralyzed man were a toddler who was lying to their parents.

"Who?" John's mind was far away. "Olsewski," the therapist prompted,"the man who shot you."

John's stream of thought was coming back strong and on-target. "Sorry, I- I don't think I mentioned his name, Dr. Pennypacker." That made a shiver run down the handicap's spine. He swiveled his neck around as far as it could go to look at the video camera again.

It definitely wasn't Mycroft's.

"I'm sure you did, Dr. Watson, or else I wouldn't know it. Would you like a cup of tea?"

John was so confused, his weary mind still trying to piece it all together. "Er...yes, thanks..." He held his head, eyes narrowing. He hadn't said his name...had he? What if he didn't? How did Dr. Pennypacker know it? John could only think if two possibly answers.

1: Mycroft had told the therapist everything, which was the most likely answer. John and Sherlock were all over the news, anyway. The story had to be on everyone's mind.

2: Dr. Pennypacker could be a spy trying to weasel his way into John's life so he could kill him. He was working for Olsewski and was waiting for the right opportunity.

The doctor knew that this was a horribly unrealistic idea, but the more he thought about it, the more it stuck in his mind and he couldn't get it out. He wished he could simply delete it like Sherlock! The kettle shrieked and John jumped. He hoped no one had seen.

"D-Dr. Pennypacker," John managed out when his therapist returned with a cup of tea. "I- I- I'm sorry, but- I have to ask you to leave."

Dr. Pennypacker's eyebrows narrowed. "But John, whatever trouble you're having, that's what I'm here for-"

"Please, leave." John's voice became hard and clenched, and he sounded absolutely dangerous. "I would like you to leave my flat now, Dr. Pennypacker." His hands turned to tight fists.

"It's alright to be angry, John, but I'll depart if you wish. Would you like to resume our session next week?" John sighed, realizing how silly his ideas were. "I- yes. I'm sorry, but I'd very much like to be alone at this moment, Dr."

The therapist nodded. He placed the tea on the coffee table and stood. "Of course, John. See you next week?"

The doctor nodded, pursing his lips and giving a short wave goodbye. Once the door shut, he swiveled his wheelchair around to address the camera on the fridge. Of course, he couldn't reach it, but when Sherlock returned-

John's thoughts were interrupted by a loud gasp and a thump from downstairs. He turned his wheelchair back around, hating how slow he was in it, knowing that he should be outside, practicing in it, but he was too much of a coward to do it. But that wasn't important at the time. What was important was the thumps, screams and loud accusations coming from downstairs.

John wheeled to the door, wheeled backwards to open it, then hurried to the top of the stairs. His eyes widened. "Sherlock!"

The detective had his fists full of Dr. Pennypacker's shirt collar. The therapist himself was being forcibly pressed against the left wall, his glasses askew and his expression one of absolute fright. Sherlock had a murderous expression on his face. His gray eyes were daggers and his teeth seemed razor sharp. Mycroft stood next to him, looking shocked at his younger brother's reaction, but not daring to step in.

Sherlock ignored John. "What were you trying to do?" he demanded in a low voice. "Poison him? Choke him?"

"I- I don't know," Dr. Pennypacker gasped,"what you're t-talking about!"

"Would you kill a defenseless man when he has no use of his legs?" The tall man hissed. "Do you have no morals?"

"Sherlock!" John yelled at him. The Holmes brothers at last looked up the stairs to the man in the wheelchair. "What on Earth are you doing?" the doctor demanded. He gestured with his eyes to his therapist, who wasn't daring to let his alarmed eyes leave the man who had an iron grip on his shirt.

"John!" Sherlock spoke first. "This therapist of yours is a spy! For Olsewski!"

"Sherlock," his brother interrupted softly,"let's not jump to conclusions-"

"No!" This was the most emotional John had ever seen his friend. Sherlock's cheeks were slightly flushed as he snapped his head back to Dr. Pennypacker, his hands were clenched so tightly around the accused's shirt that they were shaking slightly and his knuckles were whiter than the rest of his pale skin. He truly looked like he would murder the man if given the chance.

"Sherlock, stop it!" John insisted, leaning forward in his wheelchair, wanting his legs to just work so he could run down the stairs and pull his friend away from the poor therapist, so he wouldn't need the therapist and he could just walk around and not be such a horrible burden to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I think that's enough," Mycroft intervened, putting a hand on his brother's tense shoulder.

"No!" Sherlock repeated, shouting through clenched teeth. "He tried to kill John! But I won't let him! No one will ever dare try to kill my John again!" He shook Dr. Pennypacker as he said this, absolutely furious.

"Sherlock," Mycroft cried. "Let go of him!"

John leaned forward even further, wanting so badly to simply stand and walk downstairs to calm the detective down, though his mind was still thawing out from hearing Sherlock call John 'his'. "Sherlock, that's e-"

Then John got his wish as he leaned forward too far and toppled down the stairs head-first.

A/N: I hope it wasn't too short and you all enjoyed it. I promise that the next chapter will be up soon. Please read and review!

Fun Fact: Arthur Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock Holmes books, was friends with American escape artist and magician Harry Houdini.