Warnings-still rated M for language and adult references.

Also rated FN for fluff and nonsense

Chapter 23

Sherlock examined his phone in confusion. He read and then reread John's short but strangely garbled text.

Hey Sherlock. Jut wanted ot say HI., From John.

The consulting detective raised a finger to his lips, wondering, what could this text mean? Was the message in code? Or was John just that incompetent with texting? Or was John compromised? Perhaps John had become so ill that he was incapable of texting properly. Or… he could be drugged. John had been drugged by Moriarty at least once.

Since John was an idiot, like everyone else, he would not be capable of using a complicated cipher. Sherlock tried using some simple decoding methods. However, they all resulted in gibberish. The idea of a code had been a shot in the dark, but not a very good one.

That still left incompetent, sick or drugged. But surely an army field surgeon, who was qualified to work with Special Forces, would be more than capable of sending a simple text. So...either sick or drugged.

In between repeated attempts to text or call John (and in the latter event, getting sent straight to voice mail), Sherlock called all the A & E's located between 221 b Baker St and John's old bedsit. No man fitting John's description had been admitted to any of the A &E's.

Indeed, it increasingly looked like John had been drugged when he sent his error filled message, which also meant that John had probably been kidnapped. The text should therefore be seen as a last-ditch cry for help.

Sherlock had wasted too much time. He tugged once at his hair in frustration with himself and the foolish soldier, who should never have left the flat. He felt desperate. The detective felt so desperate that he lowered himself to text Mycroft for assistance.

John Watson missing. Presume drugged and kidnapped. CCTV data required immediately. Imanon2

The consulting detective had already slipped one arm into his wool Belstaff when Mycroft's response came through.

Watson is neither drugged nor kidnapped. How did you come up with such a ridiculous supposition? The doctor and I met briefly this afternoon. After our cordial exchange, my PA escorted the doctor back to his flat. I believe that he intended to return to 221b Baker Street. He will no doubt arrive there shortly. I will seek to ensure it. Anon1

YOU kidnapped John, and when you say cordial, that means you threatened him. It means that John was angry but did not actually resort to physical violence. You now see that you have made a mistake, and are attempting to be helpful in recompense. It won't work this time. And I shall never forgive you if you have lost him. Imanon2

Calm yourself. He will be located. Anon1

As soon as John was safe, Sherlock was going to punch his supercilious brother in his long, interfering nose. Sherlock paced for twenty minutes before sending out his next furious the detective called the A and E's again and succeeded in making a receptionist cry. However, he did not locate John Watson. Sherlock stabbed out a message to his pompous twat of a brother.

Enough! Sherlock had waited too long. He should never have bothered with Mycroft. He needed to go out and search for his army doctor. He would begin by contacting the homeless network. Then he would investigate that parking garage, which he had determined was the most likely location of Moriarty's lair. He reached for his scarf when a text alert sounded

Cool your jets, mate. As a personal favor to me, Sally tracked down Watson an hour ago. They're on their way to Baker Street now. Guess you owe me favor. Lestrade

HE doesn't know this. SH

No. Lestrade

You are not speaking to HIM. Again. SH

Spot on as always. And that's none of your business. And it is customary to say thank you, Sherlock. Lestrade

Thank you for not speaking to the fat, interfering idiot. SH

U R a git. Lestrade

Idiot. Lestrade was an idiot. He had obviously known about the kidnapping and was therefore an accomplice. Which means he had owed Sherlock the favor of finding John in the first placer, and therefore Sherlock had no intention of thanking Lestrade or Donovan for that matter.

So, John was alone with Sally Donovan. They had been alone together for over an hour. How could it possibly take so long to drive a couple of miles? She probably delayed dropping his doctor off because she wanted John for herself. She had certainly not been able to hide her lust for the blond soldier last night.

What could John, a bisexual with a strong preference for women, be doing with Donovan, a not unattractive female?The possibilities boggled even Sherlock's superior intellect.

Sherlock thought of 57 different activities that John and Sally could be engaged in. The genius visualized each and every activity in graphic detail, and almost all of these activities turned Sherlock's stomach. He found that he hated Sergeant Donovan even more than usual. He would make her pay dearly…

A car stopped in front of 221. Sherlock surged over to the window, walking on top of the coffee table, toppling a stack of newspapers and knocking a chair over in the process. Despite the fog, drizzle and dark, he could see John Watson yanking a heavy duffel out of the boot and then stubbornly hanging it on his bad shoulder. The blond barely hid his grimace of pain, the idiot. Sally Donovan followed after John, carrying a garment bag and a pink tote. The front door opened; Sherlock could hear John and Sally converse downstairs, and then Mrs. Hudson joined in, tut'ing loudly.

Sherlock paced in agitation. He wanted to go down of course, but he did not wish to appear concerned, because he had to appear nonchalant for the damned cameras. Perhaps he also did not choose to show any weakness in front of that Sergeant Donovan. Sherlock grabbed his violin and began plucking disharmoniously at it.

The front door banged shut. Donovan departed, and John's heavy tread came up the stairs followed by Mrs. Hudson's voice, fluting after him. She was on about not staining the rugs and then dying of pneumonia.

John kicked the door open with his foot. With his hair plastered to his head, the little blond looked as if he had just swum the Thames. He sneezed into a wretchedly stained, red, silk handkerchief (and just where had that silk come from?)

The blond soldier entered the kitchen and dropped down his duffel. He tossed his dripping garment bag across a kitchen chair. He set down a bedraggled, shocking pink tote bag and then struggled to loosen his boot laces before kicking off his boots. For no apparent reason, John Watson glared a challenge at the innocent consulting detective and his innocuous violin, both of whom still stood near the window.

"Torturing your violin again, are we?" asked John by way of greeting. John's faintly blue lips were parted in a grimacing half-smile. His blue eyes blazed with anger and…and something else that Sherlock could not quite name.

The doctor watched as Sherlock slowly walked to the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen. Although the genius' face seemed calm and cool, John saw that his new lover's dark hair stood on end. It looked oddly frantic on the otherwise impassive man.

The whole pale skin, riotous hair effect reminded John of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. The ex-soldier pursed his lips at the wild apparition. If it were not for the cameras and the stupid need to hide their relationship from Moriarty (a real live demon), John would already have his frozen fingers combing through those unruly curls. John narrowed his eyes at the nearly overwhelming urge to attack his supposedly platonic friend and flatmate.

Since John could think of nothing to say that was not a blatant come-on, the soldier silently trudged to the bathroom. Even in his socks, he left a trail of rainwater and mud behind him. Luckily, no rugs were soiled in the process.

Within minutes, John returned to the kitchen wearing the detective's blue silk robe again. A trail of rainwater dripped from his hair, which stood in short blond and grey spikes all over his head.

With his boyfriend out of sight, John had been able to tamp down his unruly libido. That gave the blond time to recall his very wretched and frustrating day which began with an attempted kidnapping, led to an actual kidnapping and ended with John getting soaked in the rain again, not to mention the looting… Anyway John was angry. He wasn't angry with the detective per se…but he found himself glowering at the consulting detective all the same, which just re-ignited his libido.

"John, are you alright?" asked Sherlock, who was concerned by John's behavior. "Where have you been? I received your text and it was in gibberish. I thought perhaps it was in code or that you'd been drugged."

John blushed crimson. Should he admit that he was texting disabled, or should he lie and claim that he had in fact been drugged? Or could he use germ warfare as a defense? That might work.

"Yeah, well I was feverish. Almost delirious," lied John. "Could be pneumonia."

"You do not seem feverish now," said Sherlock, instantly seeing through John's feeble lie. Clearly, John was that incompetent when texting, which should be both dull and disappointing. However, John's inability to text was completly outweighed by how adorable he looked as he tried to trick a superior genius like Sherlock.

"Well, the fever's gone now," muttered John, who flushed red with the twin embarrassments of failing at texting and getting caught in the cover-up. John decided that it was time to change the subject.

"It's raining," said John, aggressively yet artlessly attempting to change the subject, which the detective noted.

"I deduced that it was raining, of course," said Sherlock, attempting to deduce the shivering doctor.

"D'you see these bags?" interrupted John with another pointless fact, Sherlock thought disdainfully.

However, John apparently assumed that Sherlock did see the bags and did not wait for an answer. "These are all my worldly possessions. They are wet. Everything I own in the world is SOAKING WET! And 'm phone is broken," John's voice was high-pitched boarding on hysterical. Indeed, each sentence ended on a higher note.

"I was…he tried..they all tried…" John stuttered. He knew he couldn't talk about Mycroft in front of the cameras, because the evil Emperor Mycroft was supposed to be dead. Maybe he shouldn't talk about Jim or The Colonel either. This double agent stuff was getting real old, real fast.

It had never been this confusing in the army. Hell, those top-secret special operations were straight forward compared to this complicated mess with Sherlock and Jim and that bloody-minded Mycroft. John took a long deep therapeutic breath; after all breathing was something that John was really good at.

Meanwhile, Sherlock looked at John with that special 'you are a common bacteria on my slide and so beneath my notice' look. Right.

"So I tried to move house," said John, vainly attempting to sound reasonable and coughing for his trouble. "I ended up stuck in the rain, and no taxi would stop for me. And then my shopping bags disintegrated. Everything fell to the sidewalk, and it became a bloody free-for-all. People fought each other for the right to steal my stuff. It was practically a bloody riot. They took anything they could grab. I tried to fight 'em off, but I couldn't put down my other bags, 'cause then, they'd have stolen them too. They took some of m' clothes. This perv took one of my photos. Why the hell would a man steal another man's picture of his sister? I mean, what the bloody hell? Must be a perv, right? I fought, and bloody lost, a battle with somebody's granny for my electric kettle. This thing," he held up the wet, dirty, pink tote for evidence, "holds what is left from those two bags, in other words, two bloody pictures, m'mugs, broken in the soddin' skirmish, and some tinned beans. And a bloody rotten apple. P'raps you can use the bloody apple for your bloody experiments/"

Sherlock shook his head while he tried to follow John's erratic train of thought.

"What kinda sick fuck steals a picture of someone's sister?" he asked loudly.

Sherlock elected to ignore the possibly rhetorical question, but was unsure what one did with a hysterical flatmate who was secretly one's boyfriend. He narrowed his eyes in thought; a hot drink seemed to be a safe bet. "Perhaps," suggested the helpful detective, "you should make tea?"

Wrong.

"Tea?" asked John incredulously. "No. No I do not want to make tea. I want something a hell of a lot stronger than tea!" John pulled his robe shut just before he was fully exposed. "And I have nothing stronger than tea. Do you?"

Sherlock shook his head 'no' again, which caused his curls to flop over his forehead.

Those curls teased the blond soldier. John glared fiercely at the errant ebony locks, which he was not allowed to touch because of the damn cameras and the damn peeping Jims and peeping Mycrofts, and how the bloody hell had his life become so complicated in just a weeks time. Bloody hell.

John sneezed, which irritated John even more. Even a shot of Scotch wouldn't help at this point. Not even two shots would help.

No, there was only one thing that could help John now, and that couldn't happen in front of the bloody cameras. Bloody, buggering, fuckin' cameras. John glared at the detective who was so close and who might as well have been in China for all the good it did John Watson.

Maybe, if he went to bed, Sherlock would get the hint. John looked up almost slyly at the elegant figure, who intermittently plucked random notes on his bloody violin.

"I am going to bed," announced John, with a painful stretch and a very fake yawn.

Sherlock was very distracted when the silk robe revealed the physical evidence of John's libido. To prevent himself from lunging at the blond, the detective grounded himself by observing his ongoing experiments, which had in fact been disturbed by the blond during his obsessive cleaning bout.

"John, about my experiments…" interjected the genius.

"Your what?" asked John dangerously. John was not interested in experiments right now. It was supposed to be bed time.

"Perhaps you forgot my requirements," said Sherlock ignoring the lowered brows of his flatmate, but he did try to make allowances for his new flatmate. "Perhaps due to your illness, you forgot, but I must insist that you not touch my experiments. The Work…"

"Fuck my illness. Fuck your experiments, and fuck the work," said John. Sherlock noted John's use of anaphora coupled with expletives; it was an interesting rhetorical flourish. "And I did not touch your fucking experiments. I only touched the fucking table." Now John was being pedantic. How childish, thought the genius.

"You cannot deny that you touched the experiments in the refrigerator…" began Sherlock.

"Oh yeah, both the refrigerator and the cupboard," admitted John with no remorse what so ever. "And I covered them to comply with my requirement to prevent exposing ourselves to disease and hazardous waste," John's left hand was fisting and un-fisting. "Now was there anything else?" John said softly and threateningly.

"You are upset," said Sherlock.

"Yeah. Good. Good deduction, that," said the irate former soldier.

Sherlock decided to try one of Lestrade's favorite social gambits. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"No," growled the blond, rainwater dripped down his cheek again. It was oddly appealing. Both the growling and the dripping hair were appealing. Perhaps that had appealed to Donovan as well, which was just not on.

"You were with Sally Donovan," said the younger man.

"Yeah." John didn't want to talk about Donovan either. It was bed time.

There was only one thing on John's mind now, and it wasn't Donovan or experiments. Maybe, some of his anger was due to frustration, sexual frustration. But, if John answered Sherlock's bloody questions, well maybe, the talking part of the evening would end. Maybe then, everyone could go to bed. And everyone in bed sounded like a good idea to John.

He pursed his lips and sighed before answering, "Sergeant Donovan miraculously found me, and she broke up the mob that was robbing me. She gave me this stupid tote, from out of her boot, to hold the stuff that we could salvage," said John holding up the dilapidated tote.

"It's pink," said Sherlock.

John's lips parted in disbelief, silently saying, 'what'?

"And just why do you think Sergeant Donovan was so nice to you, John? said the consulting detective, "Stay away from her, John. She's taking advantage of you."

What the hell, thought John? Really? John's eyes narrowed ominously. This was too stupid, time to change the subject.

"Speaking of experiments…" began John.

"I believe that we were discussing Donovan and the pink tote," countered the tall, looming brunet.

"I'm not discussing Donovan or the bloody pink tote," spat John, who wanted to pluck that violin out of those talented hands. Those hands should be touching John and not caressing a bloody musical instrument. John frowned, was he jealous of a violin?

"I want to know what Donovan was up to," demanding Sherlock abandoning the subtle approach. John was avoiding answering, a clear sign of guilt. He stood over the shorter man who looked anything but intimidated.

"She wasn't up to anything. She rescued me and drove me home. We would've been here sooner but there was a lot of traffic and then detours for some protest against…I don't know what they were protesting and I sure as hell don't care. Anyway, there were a bunch of the streets blocked off."

"She carried your luggage in for you. She smiled at you. And she kissed your cheek. The pink lipstick matches that wretched tote," snarled Sherlock. "Once she sinks her claws in you…"

John huffed and stepped forward standing inches from the consulting detective a short finger jammed into Sherlock's chest, "Donovan rescued me from that horrid tea kettle-stealing woman, that fat, greasy perv and an entire gang of thieving hoodlums. Then Sally drove me home unlike…unlike…certain prats with fancy cars. You know, Sally was nice. In fact, I like Sally!" growled John.

Just before Sherlock could whirl away dramatically from John's stinging rejection, the soldier grabbed his wrist.

"And the lipstick is Mrs. Hudson's who bussed me on my way in. In fact, the lipstick matches her purple and pink outfit," John blushed, suddenly afraid that he was showing too much interest in make-up and women's clothing.

"It's always something," muttered the detective grimly, as John released his wrist.

John's robe was coming undone again exposing his chest and one shoulder. He stood with both hands fisted and legs slightly spread apart ready to fight.

"But Donovan's tote…" Sherlock said.

"Fuck the tote," said John.

The two men eyed each other with growing anger and ill-disguised lust.

Sherlock baited the captain. "I left you a note on the microwave," said the detective smugly.

John drew in a sharp breath at the obvious challenge. He sneezed once and then eyed the note. John turned on his smirking boyfriend. John stamped his right foot, and that hurt his leg. Damn his leg. He stamped it again, even harder, out of spite. John was actually grateful for the note and the pain, because he finally had an excuse to yell, "Remove those necrotic eyes from that microwave by morning, Sherlock! Or by God I will…I will, well I'll make you bloody sorry, that's what I'll do."

Sherlock was a bit taken aback by the ire radiating off of the incandescent blond. Still, the very angry and very aroused soldier was a sight to behold. There was just that small problem of whether the soldier was going to hit Sherlock with that fist…

John sucked in his breath. No. No, he did not want to hit that arrogant git. No, John really didn't want to fight at all; what John really wanted, was to shag.

"You know what, Sherlock?" he said, giving his head a sharp little tilt. "I'm very wet, very cold and very tired. I am going to bed." announced John. "And furthermore, I do not wish to be up all night listening to your violin." John was definitely jealous of the bloody violin. "Just go to bed Sherlock. Go to bed now," ordered the captain firmly. John marched purposefully out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as the proud little captain stomped out of the room, trying to hide his limp. Why the idiot was stomping his right foot was beyond Sherlock.

Well. The consulting detective reviewed his options. Obviously, he would have to turn off all the lights and 'go to bed' soon, very soon. That was a given.

But what to do in the meantime?

The experiments could wait until morning and yet he could not go to bed just yet, it would be too obvious to any watchers. He set the violin down in its case, considering. Clearly, the most interesting thing in the flat, aside from John, was John's baggage. Unfortunately, the army doctor would almost certainly protest if Sherlock searched through 'all his worldly goods', as John so dramatically put it.

But…but if Sherlock salvaged all of John's worldly goods, why then John would be pleased, grateful even. Certainly, Sherlock, as a good friend, should prevent his flatmate's worldly goods from suffering irrevocable water damage, stains and even mildew.

With a clear conscience, Sherlock set to work beginning with the waterlogged duffel.

It was immediately clear that John Watson owned very little of value. It was impossible to comprehend why the doctor even felt the need to retrieve most of these items from his bedsit. The clothes were uniformly dull, bordering on hideous. Nevertheless Sherlock, in his role as the good flatmate, thoughtfully collected all of John's abominable yet damp clothing to be sent to the cleaners. The high-end garment bag had proved to be water resistant. The tailored suit and fine shirts were hung in Sherlock's closet temporarily,

John's few CD's looked frightfully mundane but Sherlock placed on the bookshelf near his collection of Dickens which was also mundane. This would make the CD's would be easy to locate if anyone actually wanted them which of course was doubtful. The detective took one look at the broken mugs and a soggy paperback; they soon joined the rotten apple in the bin. The toiletries were sorted, a few were placed in the bathroom, in a convenient shoebox that had once stored bones, which had been used in that acid experiment. The remaining personal care items were of insufficient quality, and followed the mugs into the bin.

The genius examined John's laptop to be certain that it did not suffer any water damage. Clearly he would have to run through the apps to rule out any malfunction.

Unlocking the pass-code to John's computer was child's play, of course. In general, there was little of interest in John's laptop. John's blog was dull and a blatant lie. Whatever possessed the soldier to claim that nothing ever happened to him?

The Internet history was a bit more informative, showing visits to news sites (nothing very interesting), visits to Sherlock's own web page (very gratifying) and some lurid porn sites (heterosexual porn and so, dull). There was very little e-mail, and none was of interest save an inappropriate invitation from some Bill Murray fellow, who obviously fancied John. Rather than letting this Bill upset the already confused soldier (John already had a boyfriend and a psychopathic stalker and one or more overly solicitous Metropolitan detectives; no additional suitors were required). Sherlock erased Bill's e-mail; John would thank him later.

Sherlock updated John's software and gave John new and safer passwords. He put John's remaining belongings in appropriate locations and then, even though only two hours had passed, the consulting detective prepared for bed.

He was very eager to continue questioning John about Donovan. He also wanted to ask about Moriarty and of course Mycroft. Sherlock's Cupid's bow flattened in a scowl. It would take quite some time to run through all the queries he had. It would necessarily delay the other investigations he had planned for John Watson. No matter, Sherlock could be patient; he was a very patient man…sometimes.

As he shut off the lights, he noticed the notes on the microwave. Perhaps, just this once, he could remove the experiment for John. He tipped the smelly remains into the bin and shut off the remaining lights.

A/N Sorry that we are trapped in the land of fluff. I am, unfortunately, a big fan of fluff. Nevertheless, I am editing the next two chapters to reduce the fluff content and speed up a return to the action and cases (Sherlock in particular is dying for a case-as usual)

BTW-there is just over two months to the US airing of SHERLOCK SEASON 3 on PBS. But who's counting.

BTW, BTW I assume (and I am using my stern face, and I am borrowing John's Captain's voice here) I assume that those of you who get to see Season 3 before the rest of us, will refrain from spoiling it for the rest of us no matter how much I beg and no matter how much I offer in bribes. I am not above begging, so I rely on you to ignore me when the occasion arises.

BYE, BTW, BTW Yes, I freely admit that I am jealous of those of you will see it all before me. Still…Season 3 is almost here! Yeah! Huzzah! Hurrah! Huzzah! and even a OOOOHRAH!

My sincere gratitude to everyone who has followed and/or favorited this work. (I know, I know, favorited is not really a word but you all know what I mean.)

My special thanks go out to everyone who reviewed Chapter 22 including: dana-san, EJ 12212012, k8ec, Quiet Time, foxeeflame, anyrei1, SamuelE8688, G0dC0mplex, consulting smartass, AiLoveS, Wicked Winter, 107602, Sveltewise.

Disclaimer-I guess I still don't own the rights to SHERLOCK, so this fic is just for fun and giggles.