My Doctor, Watson

Chapter I

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey! I'm Jordan. I'm a huge Johnlock shipper. This is my first legit fanfiction so I would really appreciate hearing feedback (whether it's through comments or favorites). There are a few quotes from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I want to make it clear that I am not copying his work, nor do I own any of the characters. Full rights go to BBC and Doyle. Let me know if you have any advice, feedback, corrections, etc. Thanks for reading!

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"John, get me my phone." Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock, I'm not your maid." John scowled.

"Oh, hardly. If you want to put on the maid gown, feel free." Sherlock said. Silence followed, John felt his face getting hot but chose not to speak. He gave in to the stubborn man's request a fetched the phone out of his pocket.

"It says, 'Every Angel has to earn it's wings. Come and fly. See you on Baker Street. -JM. JM? Who is JM? Why is he calling you an angel?" John asked with an annoyed tone. His voice faltered when he looked up and saw the consulting detective's face. His strong features that never showed emotion showed one feeling. The first feeling John had ever been able to read in Sherlock's face: fear.

John could see the gears working inside of Sherlock's head. Sherlock suddenly stood abruptly and kicked the chair over, and soon began to rub his hands through his hair, making the curly black locks messy and teased.

"Whats wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?" John asked. An awkward silence stayed in the room while Sherlock paced back and fourth inside of of the laboratory. His microscope sat there, reflecting the light from the white ceiling.

"Oh, don't be daft John. JM.. You've met him. You probably blogged about him, for all I know." Sherlock said, glaring.

John frowned. "You seem upset. Judging by the way you're pacing like a mad man, this JM isn't good. He's a threat?"

"Please don't become a detective, it's not your area of expertise." Sherlock said.

"Great. Okay."

"There's simply no way he can kill me if i'm in my element. Why would he- OH!" Sherlock suddenly yelled. "Of course. Brilliant. Stupid, stupid me. John, I can be so blind sometimes."

"So a mysterious man wants to meet at your house for lord knows what and you say 'brilliant' ?"

"Pish Posh." Sherlock yelled enthusiastically while running out the door of the lab, his black jacket billowing behind him. John followed. For a man that was seemingly getting threatened, he smiled. The first real smile John had seen in days.

When John got outside, Sherlock had already flagged down a cab and raced towards it. John approached and Sherlock opened the door for John. When John got in, he shut the door and then got in on the other side. He was momentarily perplexed, surprised by the sudden affection Sherlock had given him.

They curved down the winding street completely silent. The only sound was the tapping of Sherlock's long, slender fingers. Sherlock looked over at John, stared at him. He observed the wrinkles on his forehead. He made a note about how he would lick his lips when he was nervous. He watched. And watched.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay? Why are you looking at me?"

"It's truly nothing. Even if I did tell you, you wouldn't understand. There is nothing more deceptive than the obvious fact, Watson. It's a shame you haven't come to realize." The cab came to a stop,

"Excellent!" Sherlock yelled, slamming the door of the cab. John gave the trolley driver five pounds and struggled out the door. His limping seemed to be getting better. He had an accident when he was an army doctor, but was improving. He moved to England because he was discharged. He hoped to go back into the military someday, but for now he was content being Sherlock Holmes' partner in crime. Well, solving crime.

John walked up the steps of 221b, his flat on Baker street. Actually, his and Sherlock's, anyway. When John walked in, he saw Sherlock frozen on the top step. His gloved hands were in his pockets, but his sculpted features radiated in the dim light of the entrance. All was the same as normal, except for one thing.

Violin playing.

John was used to Sherlock playing the violin. He did it in times of boredom or grief. His melodies resembled the emotions he felt. This was the only way John could decipher the uncomprehending man's feelings. Sherlock turned subtely and looked at John. He stuck his finger up as if to warn john to be quiet.

John very gracefully climbed the stairs, until about the 5th step up, when he stood on a wrong part and the stairs creaked. The violin stopped playing. They sat there for a moment, holding their breath. When the violin continued, John made it up the stairs and stood by his flat-mate. Looking at him to find what to do next. Sherlock took a deep breath and stretched a shaky hand out to turn the handle. When he fully turned the knob, he opened the rusty door, revealing a well dressed man in the corner playing the violin. Sherlock spoke, his voice deep and raspy.

"We meet again, Moriarty."