John Watson had a secret, one that he didn't want discovered by anyone; a secret that he wanted hidden so badly, he barely took it out to look at himself. It remained tucked away at the back of his bedside table's drawer behind the laptop, gun, broken pencils, business cards, and a watch his sister had given him for Christmas. It was not to come out.
Walking into the flat one evening, John Watson froze quite suddenly. The main room was flooded with police. Lestrade was standing near the kitchen table looking quite pleased with himself indeed; a wallowing Sherlock hunched over a microscope and yelling profane utterances at whatever lay beneath the rectangular cover.
Frozen in a state of disbelief, shock, and all together horror, at the current situation John gaped. His thoughts went very quickly to his room, the table, into the drawer behind all of his life's rubbish, and to his secret. They were giving the place a good toss so one could assume Sherlock was refusing to help them or was currently hindering them in some way or another and so they were ransacking John and Sherlock's life to coerce the man into agreement.
"This was all just fine when I was not living here, Lestrade, but can't you show me some respect?" John asked stepping stiffly from his position and feeling panic rising with bile in his throat.
Lestrade looked over and his smile faded to a contemplative frown. "We have cause to search your flat, Doctor. I'm sorry. Sherlock here has stolen evidence. Not to mention my ID card…again."
"Sherlock, really?" John was heading for the stairs where a couple of policemen he didn't recognize from the Yard were starting for. "Uh, that's my room, thank you. I know he has nothing in there."
The two glanced at Lestrade but proceeded further up.
"Lestrade, please, tell them." John's eyes lurched over his shoulder to find the DI who merely shrugged, holding up a piece of paper.
"I'm sorry, John, really but this isn't my call. If it's not done proper I'll lose my job." Lestrade looked truly at a loss but John couldn't help but feel bitter towards him.
Climbing the stairs two at a time, John followed the men up to his room. They were glancing around without being intrusive just yet. One opened his closet door and peered in, brushing jumpers and button-downs aside as if whatever Sherlock had stolen would be stashed between John's clothes. The other opened his dresser drawer with a gloved hand and rifled through his shorts and undershirts, the older jumpers a drawer down, and his pants below them.
John's mouth twisted in concern and he moved to stand in front of the side table. It was obvious, he knew, but instinctual. He couldn't help but be protective towards it. His secret wasn't for them. It wasn't for anybody. Mostly, it wasn't for Sherlock…
They moved from the room and John breathed easily again. Following them out, he shut the door, on the room, the drawer, the rubbish, and the secret.