AN: Part 1 of 2. I have become obsessed with "Sherlock" and the Sherlock and John romance, bromance, what you will.

The world's only consulting detective steepled his long, pale fingers together. Bored, bored, bored…

He hated—detested—boredom. Where was John? Where. Was. John?

At least he could receive approximately fifteen seconds of amusement when his flat mate periodically opened the refrigerator. He had five different hands nestled amongst the condiments that night.

It was all necessary.

Sherlock stretched his body out into a diagonal plank of sorts just as the clock chimed. He blinked slowly. Eleven?

He stared into the fire. The light flickered in his stone blue eyes, warming his almost transparently white skin.

John was probably picking up milk, or bread, or something else that he felt necessary, but which Sherlock did not need in the slightest.

He was momentarily disappointed that he'd missed John's repulsed expression, knowing he'd most probably seen the lone hands.

Another long-suffering sigh escaped his lips and he leapt up to stalk purposefully into the kitchen. Lestrade needed to call him before he went insane. Even for a simple theft or stabbing or petty crime. Even if Anderson was working that night. He was losing i—

Sherlock opened the fridge to look at his dismembered hands, but instead his quick eyes went directly to the top shelf. Where a full carton of milk sat, unopened.

He shut the door with a slam so hard that it made the refridgerator shake slightly, and spun around, looking rapidly amongst his lab equipment. If there was a—

His gaze rested on the new loaf of bread and he froze.

As if rewinding a movie, he saw John in his mind. His exasperated smile as he opened the door to leave.

"I'll be back around ten."

But…there was something he was missing…what was it? Something else had…

Sherlock took his cell phone off of his desk and dialed the doctor's number.

It rang and rang.

And rang.

"Answer," Sherlock hissed antsily.

"Hello," came a polite, genial voice.

"John!"

"—You've reached Dr. John Watson. I am unable to—"

Sherlock ripped his phone from his ear and shoved it into his pocket. He grabbed his coat and scarf, racing down the stairs two at a time before either was on properly.

Something was wrong.

He was an hour late.

He wasn't answering his phone.

John always answered his phone. Especially when Sherlock called.

Why did he feel like vomiting? He'd already eaten, he was not hungry.

Where did Sarah live again? He hadn't deleted that information, had he? C'mon…no, there it was!

He hailed a cab and rattled off the address. How come he was jumpy?

"Sir, are you having a panic attack?" The cab driver asked uncertainly, clearly having had to deal with that type of situation before.

Sherlock gave a short, half-incredulous laugh. "I do not have panic attacks. Do not be concerned."

The did not stop him from huffing impatiently at the elevator at Sarah's apartment complex and pounding up the stairs so fast that he almost tripped on his coat. He rapped on the door hurriedly, taking his phone out and checking his messages.

Sarah's familiar face peered at him curiously at the doorway. "Sherlock?" she intoned with curiosity.

He knew instantly John was not there. But where?

Why was this so difficult for him to figure out?

And why did his stomach feel so oddly uncomfortable?

"Do you have a cup of sugar?" Sherlock asked flatly, already having noted her immediate expression of worry and concern.

The next place was the hospital and after deducing that John had left late afternoon, the stomachache worsened.

A name kept echoing in the back of his mind, but Sherlock refused to succumb to it. It was unlikely. He'd had his fun for the time being, hadn't he?

He was second guessing himself.

He tried calling John's cell phone again. Ring…Ring…

Every individual ring was a different image.

The pool.

John in a bulky coat.

John speaking in monotone words that were not his own.

Sherlock flinging the bomb away and both of them breathing heavily, as if they'd run a marathon.

"Hello—" he hung up and looked up foggily to see he'd arrived back at Baker Street.

Why? John wasn't here. It was now midnight.

Sherlock walked up the stairs, willing himself to calm down and think. He attempted squelching this—what? What was he feeling?

What he had felt when he saw John strapped to a bomb.

Maybe Mrs. Hudson had heard from him. He might've had a nice chat with her about the violin playing at ungodly hours, or even the severed hands.

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe at the top of the stairs, taking a very deep, shuddery breath.

Maybe he'd call Lestrade. John had perhaps met him on his way home and the two had stopped for a drink.

Sherlock passed a hand over his face, his insides in knots.

Or maybe Moriarty had him and he was already dead. It was a lesson to Sherlock to not get close to anyone.

He opened the door and took a whole step backward, his breath drawing in sharply.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're home. Good, now I can ask you…"

Sherlock stared at John from the entryway.

The doctor was sitting in his chair as per usual, looking perfectly content and peaceful and in one piece as he spoke. Sherlock was ignoring him and staring blindly, thoughtlessly.

John finally noticed the odd expression and the man's frigid silence. He blinked up. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock rounded on him suddenly, the ends of his coat whirling, making John jump. "What the hell are you doing here?"

John drew back into his chair, as far as he could, furrowing his eyebrows. "Ah, I live here?"

"I called you," Sherlock replied in a clipped, blunt tone. "Twice." He took another step forward. John continued blinking in confusion from his sitting position. "You did not answer."

The other man shifted and withdrew his cellular phone. His eyebrows flew up briefly before settling back down. "Well, it died."

Sherlock felt his temper flare up like an ignited flame. You could've died. "How your continuous stupidity keeps you alive is beyond even my comprehension."

John's face instantly fell before becoming flat and then shutting down completely. He stood abruptly, posture stiff and detached. "Right, then. Goodnight, Sherlock." He brushed by the man roughly and started to pound angrily up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock's expression wavered in shock and he closed his eyes, leaning on the arm of John's chair. "Why?" he whispered. He turned around and after the doctor.

John's eyes widened in surprise and his expression became offensive when Sherlock corned him in the hallway. He opened his mouth, but Sherlock pushed his jacket aside, reaching into a side pocket and pulling out the warm, heavy, metal object. "Why do you have this?"

John Watson closed his mouth stubbornly and averted his eyes.

"John," Sherlock said severely, leaning forward with the gun hanging loosely from his grip. "Why have you been walking around, carrying your gun?"

"I haven't been—"

"Do not attempt to lie to me. It's warm and there is an indentation in your coat because it has been sitting in there for hours."

He'd missed it. How had he missed John walking out of the flat with a gun?

"I will not ask again—"

John jerked his body, almost nose to nose with the detective. "To kill him," he growled. "It's been over a week, but do you realize that I fall asleep to his maniacal laughter ringing in my ears?"

Sherlock lowered his sharp gaze and shook his head. "Killing Moriarty will solve nothing."

John's jaw tightened visibly and Sherlock tilted his head. He had never seen the army doctor so truly livid before. "It would solve everything," John replied thickly. "I know what happened may not have had that large of an impact on you, Sherlock, but I'd rather not have to turn around to see you strapped into a bomb anytime in the near future."

He wasn't…worried for himself.

"Do you honestly believe I want a repeat of the situation myself?" Sherlock asked solemnly, but John's mouth became a grim line and it occurred to him that John didn't really know.

"What do you want? Contrary to what you believe, I am not your personal psychic."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. He, noticeably gentler than before, replaced the gun in John's coat before gripping the man's forearm, hard.

"Ow—Sherlo—"

"Don't." John stopped struggling and looked up to see the detective was having trouble meeting his gaze. "Don't leave like that again." John didn't answer and his grip tightened considerably.

The army doctor's gaze had swept over Sherlock's face. His usually pale, translucent skin was flushed, as was the tip of nose. His clear blue eyes were watery and the vice grip he had on John's arm was cold, which John could feel through his coat even.

"How long were you out looking for me?"

Sherlock looked up at him, startled and he loosened his fingers. His eyes were slightly wider than usual and John knew he'd shocked him, maybe even impressed him—if only a little.

"I won't leave again," John said quietly, calmly, posture relaxing as Sherlock's did. I won't leave you alone with yourself.