John Watson and the Sociopath

Chapter 1

Sherlock's ears rang with exasperation. His heart raced. He couldn't find his nicotine patches anywhere, and he was sure to do something he'd regret very soon. He had looked under his skull, on his desk, and in his dresser, but didn't find them. John padded into the lounge, with tea cup in hand, and settled down on the couch to check his blog. John slung his quilt (gift from Harry) over his shoulders, and as he began to take his laptop out, he noticed Sherlock's frustration. He simply said, "On your desk, under your journal," and opened his computer with a flourish.

Sherlock scowled at John's smug expression and retrieved his patches.

"How many patches today?" John asked, his voice so low it was barely audible. John always seemed so concerned about Sherlock, with his past being like it was...

Sherlock began to slap patches on. "Three," Sherlock said, holding up his patched arm. "But the case is coming to a close." Sherlock began to bustle about his desk, mumbling to himself occasionally. After a few minutes of silence, John snapped his laptop shut and dropped it into the bag hanging on the side of the couch. He let out a soft sigh and let his head drop to touch the top of the couch. Sherlock glanced up long enough to study his friends face.

His face looked more worn this morning; lines were deeper. John had his right hand over his left shoulder. His bullet wound. Sherlock was suddenly ambushed by a nauseating wave of protectiveness. He furrowed his brow and jut out his bottom lip. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, unable to keep the concern out of his voice. John lingered with his head back for a moment, then sighed, raising his head. He rubbed his hands over his face, and said, "I'm fine Sherlock, just tired. Don't you worry about me one bit. I'll just stay here and watch telly." To prove his point, he slung his legs up onto the couch and spread out, turning on the television in the process. "Here," Sherlock said. He stood up and carefully made his way to the couch, avoiding the messy piles of last nights "experiment". Gently he lifted Johns head and sat down.

John immediately settled back in to Sherlock's lap. A surge of panic raced through Sherlock, and he had to swallow six gulps of air before his heart slowed down to its normal pace again. What was that? Sherlock felt nauseous all of a sudden, and it was all he could do to keep from throwing up on John. Stop it, Sherlock, He scolded himself. He is your best friend, your ONLY friend. Don't screw it up by getting mushy. Sentiment is weakness. Sherlock had learned that quite a bit from Irene Adler. Was this sentiment? Or was it something else, something much, much deeper...? "Shut up," Sherlock chided himself, then realized he had been muttering to himself, and John had told him to shut up.