I'm back!

So sorry for the long hiatus; life got in the way.

Anyway, this one-shot was inspired by gill. Hopefully you like it. :)

"Sherlock, don't stare," John chastised his friend as he peered over the rim of his menu.

Sherlock had been (not too subtly) intently scrutinising the couple at the table across the room, deducing as much as he could about them as a sort of mental exercise. With a sigh, his gaze shifted to John.

"They're boring me, anyway," he said. "The wife is obviously cheating on her balding, middle-class husband due to her dissatisfaction with the sex they have and his uncomfortably close relationship with his dying mother." He buzzed his lips almost comically. "Dull."

"Sherlock, for God's sake," John groaned, setting down his menu. "Just figure out what you'd like to order."

"I'm not planning on ordering anything."

John went to protest, but before he could, the waiter came over to their table.

"Are you two ready to order?" asked the man with a cordial smile.

"Yeah," John nodded. "I'll have the lasagna," he gestured to the detective across from him, "And he'll have the chicken spaghettini."

Sherlock looked at the doctor with an indignant frown.

"No problem," the waiter winked. "And I'll bring a bottle of wine by too for the both of you."

The offer registered with John a little bit too late, and he hardly had time to inform the man of his heterosexuality before he grabbed the menus from the table and set off for the kitchen.

"Dammit," he mumbled.

"I told you I wasn't intent on eating anything, John," Sherlock huffed.

"Yeah, well forgive me for being a damn doctor and insisting that you take care of your body." He crossed his legs and took out his phone. "Now stop complaining and drink your water."

Sherlock visibly pouted, annoyed by the fact that John was acting like his own mother; telling him to "take care of yourself" and "drink your water" and "don't smoke when spraying hairspray on your wigs".

"I suppose you'll be telling me to eat my vegetables," he scoffed.

John narrowed his eyes and stared daggers at his companion.

"Damn right, you petulant little child."

"I'm not a child."

"You might as well be."

Sherlock tightened his lips and stared dejectedly out the window.

"Hmm..."

The waiter's unbearably cheerful smile appeared over the heads of other patrons.

"Here you two are," he said, setting down a fancy looking bottle of wine. "This is one of our finest bottles."

John chuckled, a bit flabbergasted.

"Ah, thanks. But I-"

"Cabernet Sauvignon," Sherlock interrupted. "An adequate wine that will sufficiently sate my partner and me." He looked at the waiter with a plastic smile. "Thank you."

The waiter nodded.

"Certainly. You two enjoy yourselves." And again, he returned to the kitchen.

"Moron," Sherlock muttered.

"He's just trying to be nice, Sherlock," John sighed.

"He wants a good tip."

"And he's getting it," John said emphatically. "Even if he does think we're a couple."

"Aren't we?" Sherlock shrugged

John blushed.

"What-? No! No, we're not-" He cleared his throat. "That's not the word for it."

"Ah."

John looked at the wine bottle and bit his lip.

"Well... since this is here, do you want to...?"

Sherlock gave his friend a puzzled look, but rolled his eyes with a resigned sigh.

"I suppose." He crossed his arms, watching as John poured him a glass. "Only an approximate three tenths of a pint, though."

John halted the stream of wine to give the detective a withering look.

"Right..." He continued to fill Sherlock's glass until it was practically overflowing. "Have fun."

"How amusing," Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

John filled his own glass to the brim and smirked.

"Cheers."

"One night out, Sherlock; that's all I wanted. One nice night out," John growled as he marched beside the detective.

The two men turned a corner into an empty street.

Sherlock, a bit tipsy, tried to defend himself.

"John, he was absolutely-"

"Doing his job."

"He was obtrusive."

"He was a perfectly friendly waiter who wanted nothing but happy customers."

"He also happened to be a closeted homosexual."

"So you felt the need to announce it to the whole bloody restaurant?"

Sherlock went to respond, but saw that John had jogged a good distance ahead of him.

"John!" he called.

His friend slowed down to a dead-end shuffle as he continued to furiously trod down the empty path.

Across the street, Sherlock noticed a dark figure walking at about the same pace as John, and the hairs on his neck stood on end.

"John," he hissed.

The doctor kept walking.

With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock jogged up to his flatmate and grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Let me go, you prick," John seethed, ripping his bicep out of Sherlock's grip.

"John, you're upset and a bit drunk, so I believe that we ought to hurry back to the flat."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

Sherlock turned his head to the opposite sidewalk, noticing that the figure had disappeared.

"John, we really should-"

Suddenly, there was an arm around his neck, dragging him into the alleyway behind him, and another person was roughly handling John.

"Hey there, Holmes," a gravelly voice whispered in his ear. "Remember me?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and wrinkled his nose.

"Well, there is the distinct odour of Polo Red and whiskey." He coughed. "But then again, such an odour isn't foreign to me."

The man holding him laughed.

"I thought your mind was a steel trap. But since your memory needs jogged..." He grabbed Sherlock's right arm and twisted it behind the detective's back. "Arnold Schumacher. And this is for my sister." He grinned. "Watch this."

"What the hell-?! Let me go!" John shouted at his captor.

The doctor's command was answered by a hard punch in the face, and he was sent to the ground, landing on his stomach. His bad arm was pinned behind him, and he felt the man on top of him stuff a rolled pair of socks into his mouth.

What the hell was happening?!

"John!" Sherlock screamed, fighting the tight hold keeping him from rushing to his friend's aid.

Of course, the whole situation was alarming, but it was really the attacker's abrupt grip on John's waistband that was particularly so.

And the eventual effort to pull his trousers off.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

John began squirming more than he already had been, not wanting what was about to happen to happen.

The man holding him down grabbed his hair and smashed his head into the black top, hard enough to daze him, but not with enough force to knock him out.

Sherlock was overcome with panic and adrenaline.

And with a loud, barbaric yell, he threw his head back, knocking his skull against Schumacher's nose, eliciting a yelp of pain from him and one of alarm from John's attacker.

He angrily grabbed Schumacher by the collar and threw him against the wall of the alley, and easily defended himself against the aggressive counterattack enacted by the man's accomplice.

The two criminals lay on the ground side-by-side, groaning in pain. Of course, being unsympathetic, Sherlock had no qualms about dealing them both a swift kick in the cranium.

With both men incapacitated, the detective rushed over to John who was slowly pushing himself up from the ground, struggling to keep his balance.

"John..." Sherlock wrapped an arm around his companion's back and lifted him into a sitting position.

He gently pulled out the makeshift gag that had been forced down John's throat, and the doctor coughed upon removal.

"Sh'lock..."

John was breathing rapidly, understandably shaken up.

"Was that... was I almost...?"

"You weren't. You're okay," Sherlock reassured him. "It's alright now. Are you alright?"

Every terse sentence fired past the detective's lips, and the man was trembling horribly.

"For God's sake, John, please tell me you're alright," Sherlock begged.

John swallowed and nodded.

"I... yeah, I just... that was really, erm..."

"Shut up," Sherlock said, taking John's face in between his hands and tilting the doctor's face from side to side. "Possible concussion and further head trauma, bruised jaw-"

"Sherlock, it's fine. "

Sherlock kept his arm around John while he grabbed his phone from his pocket.

"I'm phoning Lestrade."

"Yeah, good idea," John agreed. "I'm just going to..." He breathed out a shaky sigh and leaned against Sherlock's chest, trying to control his emotions.

"Lestrade, I require your assistance," the detective ordered into his cell. "I don't know. Track my mobile and find me." He growled. "I'll explain later. Just hurry."

After hanging up on the inspector, Sherlock began to dial 999.

"And now an ambulance," he said.

"Sherlock, no," John insisted. "No ambulance. I'm okay."

"You were nearly raped, John, and you've sustained some injuries that are rather concerning. I think it's quite necessary."

"Sherlock," John sat up to look the detective in the eye. "I just want to go home."

Sherlock looked down at his phone and back at John before submitting to his friend's desires.

"Very well," he said. "After Lestrade arrives and puts these Neanderthals in handcuffs."

"M'kay," John nodded.

And so they waited for the cavalry to arrive.

Sherlock paced about the room, his stern brow furrowed and his hands clasped behind him.

"Sherlock?" John said.

The detective barely registered the fact that his flatmate had spoken.

"Hey, can you stop?" John asked. "You're stressing me out."

Sherlock sighed and stopped in his tracks.

"My apologies, John. I didn't intend to offend you," he bit.

"I would like to know what the hell that was, now that the danger's done." John said. "Who was that guy and how does he know you?"

Sherlock tightened his lips and looked down at the floor.

"A client?" John surmised. "An enemy?"

"The latter," Sherlock admitted. "He was the brother of Aileen Schumacher, a woman guilty of three counts of rape and two of assault."

"Christ," John groaned.

"I finally managed to send her to prison, where she committed suicide after only a month of confinement." He shook his head. "Of course, I'd only met her brother once, and I knew of his close relationship with Aileen, but I never anticipated-" He kicked his chair.

"Sherlock, relax," John told the man. "We had a scare, but we're both okay."

"I don't care about my own well-being, you dullard!" He turned on his heel to face the older doctor. "You were the one molested tonight; not me."

"I really shouldn't have poured you so much wine..."

"It's not the wine!" Sherlock bellowed.

John stood and placed a tentative hand on his friend's trembling shoulder.

"Sherlock," he soothed. "I'm okay. Granted, still a bit on edge, but okay. I've taken care of my bruises and put on a belt, so I feel chipper now." He chuckled softly, hoping to get a laugh in return.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't so keen on shedding his tensity.

"You know," John said, "I think we could both use some tea."

"You always say that," Sherlock snapped.

"I say it because it's true." John gave his flatmate a stern look. "Now, why don't you change into some pyjamas and calm down? I'll make you a cup just the way you like it, and we can sit down and watch some crap tele; we'll do what we usually do, alright?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Okay."

As he started to walk to his bedroom, he stopped and licked his lips.

"At the restaurant..."

"Yeah?"

"I was... inconsiderate."

John rolled his eyes at the poor excuse for an apology, but Sherlock looked so worn and apologetic that he didn't feel the need to comment on it.

"It's forgotten," John said. "By me, anyway."

Sherlock nodded.

"Right."

And that was the last they spoke of the evening.

For the rest of the night, the two of them sat in front of the television watching Masterchef, both sipping quietly at their tea.

But neither of them could really calm their nerves.

Especially Sherlock.

Sorry that this one is a bit short, but I'll be writing more one-shots soon. :)