Anderson was always baffled by John Watson. He couldn't understand why the down-to-earth man put up with the flittering spaz that Sherlock always was. When the man wasn't following the detective like a lost puppy, he was trying to feed the moody feline of a man. He pitied the doctor, having to live with that psychopath addict.
It was time for another 'unscheduled' drugs bust. Everyone in Scotland Yard had, at one time or another, decided that the best way to keep their consulting nuisance under control was to have systematically 'random' searches of his current living arrangements. They had a standing agreement with the court, which was not bereft of individuals with a grudge against said nuisance, that whenever they needed a warrant, they would have one. Sometimes a search was because of withheld evidence, other times they just hoped to find some reason, any reason at all, to kick him off their crime scenes.
The trick was to have them random enough that any pattern wouldn't be apparent. It couldn't be the same day every month, or any other sort of sequential pattern. They had given to picking a week, and taking turns on who would pick the day and time. Often enough, there would be raffles and competitions to choose who would go on the bust. These were necessary to thin out the vast number of officers who held a grudge against Sherlock and volunteered or demanded to go. Sometimes new officers would be chosen to go as a form of hazing. How they reacted to the various horrors found in 221B Baker street often was a good indicator as to how they would be on a crime scene.
Sherlock, of course, could tell when these 'surprise' drugs busts were coming. Minute details, such as the vindictive looks he could see in the corner of his eye or the shredded raffle tickets in the trash, tipped him off. They would never find his drugs, especially since John had moved in. At the other man's disapproval, and unveiled threats, he moved them all to another location. The doctor knew about it, but didn't bother mentioning it so long as it stayed out of his sight and the flat.
Doctor Watson was never caught off-guard when the team invaded the flat. Even if the disruption did come as a surprise, he had absolutely nothing to hide. His mentality towards the world was just as it sounded, more mental than physical. He disliked getting his hands dirty, though it was ever so much fun when he got a chance to mess with a person's mind. Unless something or someone particularly instigated his interest, sparked his attention, he wasn't going to bother confronting, or even thinking about it. Nothing he had in his room could connect a red flag to him. He had drawn his veil of disguise over every physical part of his life.
It was an auspicious day. Finally an opportunity to really try and find some dirt on the freak. Anderson had been waiting for this for quite awhile. Ordinarily DI Lestrade came to supervise and make sure nobody went too far, or planted any false evidence of their own. Unfortunately for the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street, the DI was sick and couldn't make the bust. Since it was always short notice for them, there was no way they would reschedule it and risk discovery. Ironically, if they had rescheduled at the last minute, they likely would have managed to catch the pair more off-guard than usual.
The team quickly made their way to the address, and prepared to enter the flat. After giving the final warnings about finding various body parts -in various stages of decomposition- to the newcomers, they knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson was well-used to the 'visits' by then, and would let them in and up the stairs without any fuss. They had ceased informing her that they were performing drugs busts because it always seemed to give the poor woman unnecessary stress. She had enough of that dealing with Sherlock in and out of the house at all hours, and they didn't want to give her a heart attack.
Sherlock and John were in the main room, John sitting in his preferred chair while Sherlock lay sprawled across the sofa. The taller man had gotten over the initial shock, which he refused to acknowledge even happening, and proceeded right into the experimentation. The only reason he was awarded any tolerance was because it amused the doctor. These 'experiments' were less questions and more spontaneous exposure to random stimuli. This day was one of the rarer days when they just conversed. While it didn't assuage the prevalent boredom Sherlock was experiencing, it was enough to hold him over at the moment.
They had just been discussing the impending drugs bust when they heard the many footsteps tromping up the stairs. Sherlock rolled his eyes and John let out a short bark of laughter as the door burst open and Anderson barged into the room.
"Time for a drugs bust, Anderson?" Sherlock didn't even bother getting up from his position on the sofa as he glanced over. "You must be so pleased to have an unsupervised occasion. Lestrade is sick, obviously. You must have drawn the lucky raffle ticket this time!" His evident lack of enthusiasm practically screamed at the officer.
Attempting to appear professional so the newbies wouldn't report him, Anderson followed 'procedure'. "Sherlock Holmes, this is a warranted inspection of your residence to ensure that there are no drugs or assorted paraphernalia here." Ordinarily when Lestrade was there he would just blandly state that Sherlock 'knew the drill' and get on with it. He turned apologetically to John as the team began scouring the room, "I'm sure you know, Doctor Watson, that we have to check your room as well. I'll just quickly check it, if you wouldn't mind... uh, if it's alright." The words had started off confident, but turned into somewhat muffled mumbles as that feeling faded under the doctor's cool gaze. Something about it unnerved him today, but he couldn't tell what that might be.
"It's fine. I'm coming with you, though." The reply came in what was possibly the most bland voice that Anderson had ever heard Doctor Watson use.
After confirming that it was alright for him to be there, they made their way up the second set of stairs towards the doctor's room. Anderson walked ahead, hairs on the back of his neck tingling as he attempted to ignore the subconscious instinctive discomfort that came with leaving his back vulnerable to a predator. His body knew what his mind refused to acknowledge: Doctor Watson was dangerous.
It was awkward. Anderson carefully poked through different drawers under the watchful gaze of Doctor Watson. Sounds floated up the stairs from the main part of the flat: Sherlock berating different officers as they ruined his experiments, clangs of closed cupboards and the rough slide of opened drawers, and occasionally a frightened sound of shock as a newbie encountered something particularly horrifying where none was expected. The contrast in the small room was glaringly obvious. Only the faintest whispers of sound could be heard. The imposing presence in the room made the forensic scientist feel like he needed to be as silent as possible. A drawer squealed loudly as he closed it and the sound made him cringe. A desperate need to fill the silence encompassed him.
"So, what's it like, living with Holmes?" He had always wondered how anyone could tolerate living with the mess of insanity that was Sherlock Holmes. Even the thought of imagining it made him shudder.
"Fine." The answer that came was short, but assuredly not sweet.
"Don't you get tired of all the disgusting things he keeps in here?"
Anderson had begun to sweat, his attempts at making conversation were not successful at all. He didn't know what he would do if the one word answers would continue. It was always difficult for him to sustain conversation with an unwilling participant who refused to respond beyond short, concise, direct answers. He once again tried to make conversation.
"I, for one," he began, with one last stab at bravado, "would not be able to handle living with the Freak. He's such a creepy, disrespectful, know-it-all... you know what? I don't think I would ever run out of negative adjectives to describe him!"
John had had it. He had hoped that the fact that Donovan had stopped with her constant insults of Sherlock would have set the precedent. He had thought that if it was only Anderson making vocal insults and protests, then he would eventually grow tired of it and give up. It seems he was mistaken. That was a feeling that John didn't enjoy whatsoever. Well, he supposed that it wasn't the right time to really set him straight in the fashion he had done to Donovan. But Anderson was weak in will and mind. It would be no difficult task to just intimidate him into shutting up about Sherlock, permanently, and if that didn't last, it would be just as easy to reiterate the issue.
"Anderson!" It was a sharp bark of a word, the voice of a military commander, that inherently demanded obedience. "I'll remind you that Sherlock is my friend. I chose to live with him, and while I don't like all of his habits, I tolerate them because I enjoy his company as a flatmate." The half-mask, that he'd bothered with erecting at the presence of people in his home, dropped. Left in it's place was the cold, calculating psychopath of a man that was John Watson. "I don't take kindly to my friends being barraged with insults and utter disrespect! You would do well to remember that, especially with what happened to your fellow adulterer Donovan."
"What about Sally?" The dots hadn't yet been connected in his mind. He was more distracted by the stranger in Doctor Watson's body that was now standing in front of him. "Her attack?"
"No attack happened. It was just a little warning chat. You see, she took it too far. Anyone would have gotten tired of such disrespect after so long." This was accompanied by an angelic smile, which looked absolutely wrong in the presence of the subject matter at hand. "It was so effective, too!" At this he turned his gaze, chilling with undisguised hatred and disdain, staring the taller man right in the eyes. "I'm sure it would work even better with you if they tried it."
A horrifying thought was attempting to surface in Anderson's mind. He didn't want to think about it, but it still pushed it's way through his mouth as, unbidden, the words forced their way through his lips in a terrified whisper. "It was you."
"No, really? I never would have guessed!" The tone was drippingly sarcastic. "And nobody could ever guess. Not a shred of evidence, even Sherlock didn't realize until I let him. But of course, please go tell Lestrade, and we can laugh about it when we meet for drinks next Thursday." Abruptly, the mask was back on. Anderson sagged in relief as John's whole persona shifted. "All finished with your inspection, officer? I need to go make sure Sherlock doesn't kill any of your 'volunteers' for ruining his experiments."
Riding home after a long day of work, Anderson finally allowed himself to think about what had happened at 221B Baker Street. He shuddered as he reflected on what had been hiding behind that benign man who lived with the - no, wait, he'd better start changing his habits now before he provoked the man more - who lived with Holmes. There was something instinctively frightening about the ice he could sense behind those eyes, the danger.
He contemplated reporting everything to Lestrade, but remembered what Watson had said. It's not as if the DI would believe him. There wasn't a single thing, no evidence at all that would point to the man's friend.
He just hoped he would never again see the man behind those eyes. It was frightening and the hairs on his neck lifted just thinking about it. Reaching his home, for a moment paranoia struck him and he glanced around frantically, searching for the eyes he could feel. Nothing stood out. Pulling out his keys, his knuckles turned white from his grasp on the dinosaur keychain as he shoved the key into his front door. He would just bury this day in his mind, because he never wanted to think about that fear ever again.