A/N WE TOPPED A HUNDRED REVIEWS. Oh. My. God. I actually can't believe this. Thank you all so, so much, I'm more grateful than I can possibly express.

Thanks to MapleleafCameo, johnsarmylady, 265, LittleMisChevious, Hummingbird1759, 3star

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXXVI. Precious Treasure

Sherlock's coached himself over the course of his years never to grow attached to anything, at least not in a sentimental fashion, and Mycroft's been all too easy to help him along the way. There are other people in his life, of course—Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper—who have tried to convince him that emotion can be good, but he's always ignored them, convinced that they must be wrong, that being too protective, too caring of another person or thing can only cause pain.

When John Watson comes along, his mind starts to work differently.

And he knows that it's happening, can feel it in the thrum of his heart, in the hazy cloud that begins to pass over his mind when John's put in danger. The former army doctor, the short blonde man with the psychosomatic limp and the constant accompaniment of his precautionary gun, has somehow stolen everything that Sherlock has built around him, knocked down his barriers and taken his very heart, wound any protective instincts that Sherlock ever possessed around him, so that the detective is left with one weakness, one massive, horrid weakness that he knows he'll never manage to rid himself of.

He'll do anything for John—not in a mundane sense; he'll put up with whatever nonsense the doctor complains about on a day-to-day basis. It's none of his concern. But when it gets to John's actual safety, his well-being and his innermost reserves of happiness—God, it's like iron chains are woven around Sherlock's heart, pulling him to fight, to defend, to do anything at all for his John, his blogger, his soldier.

At first, it only shows up in the times when it affects his physical actions. When John's kidnapped by the Black Lotus… Sherlock can feel the steely bitter taste in his mouth as the toxic yellow spray paint assaults his eyes, his stomach dropping and his mind going utterly blank for a moment because John is gone, he's gone and Sherlock needs to get him back and that's all that matters in the world. Or at the pool—seeing that heavy, explosive-laden parka draped over his shoulders is like a knife stab to the gut, and all he can do is scramble for control of his mind, try to maintain his usual cool air while everything inside him screams to run to John, to just rip the awful damned thing off of him and pull him close and never, never let him go.

But over time, the attachment, the caring, the sentiment starts to show in other places, day-to-day matters, not only revealing itself in incidents of desperation. It's always there, throbbing a bit sweeter whenever they're endangered, but constantly present all the same. Every time he looks at John, the ache comes, the little moment of blissful mindlessness, the all-consuming emotion that a wiser man might be able to identify, but which keeps Sherlock Holmes mystified.