Sherlock 1. Lesson Learned

Do Your Research

Sally Donovan woke up with a start. What was happening? Where was she? She blinked and froze, realizing that she was in pitch darkness. As the numbness in her limbs started to recede, she became aware of leather straps strategically placed along her body, keeping every part of her body immobilized and helpless. It seemed she was strapped to some sort of reclining chair.

Hostage training kicking in, Sally fought the urge to struggle in her bonds as she frantically listened for anything to indicate where she was. Chills ran down her spine as her ears began to register another person's breathing in the room with her.

Suddenly, blinding light hit her eyes, and she let out a faint grunt as her head throbbed, trying to adjust to the sudden influx of light and visual input. Immediately she recognized the figure in front of her.

It was Doctor Watson! She gasped and tried to ask what was going on, but it seemed whatever drug she had been given hadn't yet wore off enough for her to speak. More details were beginning to register as her vision became clearer and her eyes adjusted. Doctor John Watson wasn't strapped down. And there was a tray covered in shiny medical instruments next to him. In his left hand he was twirling a full syringe slowly between his steady fingers.

A sickening feeling dripped down Sally's spine as she realized that _they _hadn't been taken; only _she_ had.

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* * *

Doctor Watson calmly observed her, genial expression on his face, as he watched this sink into her mind.

Ever since John had met her and Sherlock, it seemed like all she ever did was insult Sherlock. Donovan called him Freak, a psycho, a psychopath. Well, John thought it quite amusing that she never did do as Sherlock suggested: Research.

The difference between a psychopath and a sociopath was nonexistent, if one only looked at the workings of the mind, the mental view of, and in response to, others. However, if one looked at the impression each made on normal people, the difference is quite drastic.

Take Sherlock, for example. Sherlock had no sense of whether or not he was offending someone. He cared not that they could break down after he spoke to them, or if he was revealing something private in public that they would rather have kept secret. He almost took his pleasure in bringing anything hidden or unknown to the fore. Cool and austere, he just went his way without a care or concern of what the general public thought of him.

Then one has the other type, the psychopath. A psychopath is completely aware that they are outside of the norm, and accepting of the fact. Instead of just being different, they become accomplished actors, playing the farce of a normal, boring person, until something either intrigues them or irritates them. Then the switch is flipped. They go from tolerating the real world and conforming to the standard, and become cold, calculating, ruthless taking pleasure in others' pain and anguish.

Nobody, not even Sherlock Holmes, had even faintly come close to deducing that Doctor John Hamish Watson was one such psychopath.

Now, as he watched Sally Donovan become more and more frantic, a deep hatred for her simmered in the back of his mind. John Watson was very attached to his Sherlock; much like one is attached to his or her dog. And like a dog, Sherlock didn't particularly mind that he was called degrading names at every turn. However, like any protective pet owner, it incredibly vexed John when Sherlock received any such verbal abuse, despite how it didn't bother the consulting detective. He had warned her, and now, it was time for Sergeant Sally Donovan to learn her lesson.

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* * *

"How are the straps?" Sally flinched as the daunting silence was broken by John's quiet, calm voice. "Not too tight, I hope?"

"What do you think?" she snapped, "That I'm comfortable strapped to this thing, stuck in a room with the _Freak 's _pet? What's going on here? He's somewhere near here, isn't he? He's just watching and waiting for one of us to snap, as you cater to his every whim!"

Sally was on the defensive, she knew that that Freak Sherlock had something to do with her being stuck in a room with the boring benign doctor. Maybe it was just scare tactics. Her mind was still slow, adjusting as the drugs were still slowly burning out of her system. She did worry about the syringe that he held, ever twirling between dexterous fingers.

"Well, now that that's cleared up, let's get started, shall we?" John stood up and walked outside of Sally's line of sight. He kept speaking to her as she listened to him rustle about on a surface. "One of the first things I learned in medical school was to always wash my hands and put on gloves before doing any procedure on my patients." The sink turned on. "We wouldn't want me to expose my patient to any sort of bacteria;" he continued calmly "they might get a deadly infection."

Sally tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the base of her stomach; Doctor Watson had always been normal, safe even. He might have had bad taste in friends, but he certainly wasn't a psychopath like the Freak.

"What are you doing?" she asked, becoming more frantic as he started searching for a prominent vein in her exposed wrist. "Untie me right now! If you do, maybe we can work something out and only your psychopath of a flatmate will have to be arrested."

"See, this is what you need to learn. Sherlock isn't a psychopath, haven't you ever listened to what he told you and done your research? It's really quite fascinating, the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath." Tapping the syringe to clear out the air he got ready to inject the slightly opaque liquid into her wrist.

"STOP, don't you dare! Doctor Watson, John, Stop!" She struggled violently as she tried to move her sluggish, restrained body away from the needle. His deft doctor's hands slid the small needle smoothly into her skin as she protested "No, no, no, No, NO!"

"Oh, calm down, Sally," John's voice still calm, but now with a cruel condescending edge to it as he sent the liquid spiraling into her veins "it's only a general anesthetic, with a few _beneficial_ side effects. You won't remember a thing of this tomorrow. Now, go ahead and struggle all you want, it will just quicken your pulse and further the spread of the drug."

Sally's mind began to swim, her mind almost sharpening with her adrenaline rush, even as it slowed further from the newly administered drug. Gradually she began to notice, that while her mind slowed, she could still feel her limbs, just not control them. Doctor Watson stood in front of her once again, setting down the syringe and picking up a scalpel.

"Since you refuse to do as Sherlock asks, and research the issue, I've taken it upon myself to inform you of the difference between what you call Sherlock: a psychopath; and what he really is: a sociopath." Once again he began twirling the shining instrument. Sally could see the lights in the room in the glinting reflection, smooth like a mirror of metal. John continued to speak, pacing on front of her.

"You see, there is really only an outward difference between a psychopath and a sociopath. It is that a psychopath can masquerade as normal person, and will, so as not to be noticed as cold and uncaring by others. A sociopath is aware they are different, but doesn't care and goes about their life offending others and the like, just because they don't bother to hide their differences.

"You, Sergeant Donovan, are acquainted with both a psychopath and a sociopath." John came to a stop directly in front of her. The scalpel continued to twirl. "I've told you who the sociopath is; can you guess who the psychopath is?"

* * *

Sally was mesmerized by the spinning blade in Doctor Watson's hand. Her thoughts vaguely drifted, as she momentarily contemplated the lack of a tremor in that now-dexterous left hand. Hadn't that been the hand with the tremor? How strange… Then there were snapping fingers in front of her face. Oh, yes, she had been just asked a question, hadn't she?

"I .. I have no idea," she stammered, "I don't think about that kind of thing." Mind blurred and slow, her observation skills had denied her what was standing right in front of her.

"Well, I suppose your mind has deteriorated so far as to make it impossible for you to deduce it."

He was becoming more and more unfeeling as she watched, his genial, pleasant, unassuming persona dissolving before her eyes. Then, like the final opaque curtain falling, his entire personality changed. Horror wrapped around her heart like a sickening fog, as she looked into the cold, cruel, hateful eyes of the man she once knew as Doctor John Watson.

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* * *

John had lost his patience. Obviously, the dull girl's observation skills were nonexistent. He was finally comfortable, no longer wearing the kind mask that he never dropped when in the presence of others. He stood with a stance showing military rigidity, except for the constant twirling of the scalpel in his hand.

"I am the psychopath."

This just didn't make sense to Sally, who couldn't place the placid, patient man she knew as a cold-blooded mindless psychopath. He wouldn't hurt a fly!

"Now you're going to learn what it really means to anger a psychopath."

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* * *

"John, John!" Sherlock rushed into the living room in their cramped, cluttered, shared flat. "Get up! We have a case! Lestrade wants us to go down to Scotland Yard immediately; it seems something happened to Sergeant Donovan last night! She's just turned up there this morning, with some of her memory missing!"

"All right then Sherlock, calm down already!" John carefully got up from where he comfortably had been seated. "I'll just put my shoes on and we'll go."

After a quick ride in a cab, they arrived to see an extremely anxious Gregory Lestrade waiting for them out in front. He gestured for them to follow him into his office.

"Sherlock, look at these pictures and please tell us everything you've got. Other than the common anesthetic we found in her system, we have nothing to go on."

The detective took one look at the pictures and began his commentary. "Ligature marks show she was restrained, but the bruises tell us that she was kept drugged enough to prevent any further damage. They obviously had access to various medical supplies. Is she here? I need to get more data."

"She is," Lestrade replied, "but do be careful, she has no memories of the last 16 hours, which was before she disappeared."

They exited the office, and walked over to where Sally was sitting, shock blanket over her shoulders, staring blankly at the wall.

"Sergeant Donovan!" Sherlock exclaimed, heading over to her quickly, "I need to ask you a few questions, try to jog your memory."

"Well, hello to you too, Frea.." Donovan flinched suddenly, and froze. She had spotted John walk in just as she was once again about to demean Sherlock as usual. Her face paled, taking on a sickly-green pallor as she swallowed heavily. "Sherlock," she amended. "Doctor Watson," she whispered.

Sherlock looked at Donovan, and then he looked at John. He watched as the more she looked at him, the paler she became. He saw a brief flash, as John dropped his friendly façade for a millisecond, of a dangerous cruelty hidden in those steel-gray eyes.

His eyes widened as he made the clear deduction as to the cause of her faintness.

John smiled. "Hello Sally, how about we do a quick exam, make sure you're okay?"


	2. Aftermath and Excuses

**Well, they managed to convince me, here's another chapter to my was-a-one-shot Do Your Research**

**.**

* * *

Sherlock didn't generally deduce John; he had always considered the doctor to be a calm, ordinary person. While he was pleased with the loyalty that he displayed, Sherlock didn't really think John was all that extraordinary. All the man ever did was sit around and watch telly, or clean his gun, or some other dull thing.

When the negative reactions to Sally's jibes at Sherlock kept increasing in John, he just assumed the man was forming an emotional attachment. It was completely logical that, due to such an emotional attachment, he would dislike seeing the object of that attachment insulted or demeaned.

Sherlock's view of John Watson was eerily similar to John Watson's view of Sherlock. While the older man viewed the younger almost like a favored dog, and was fiercely defensive of him, the younger man viewed the older as one would view their cat; he still felt that John belonged to him despite knowing that he could care for himself and was quite independent.

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The night Sergeant Sally Donovan disappeared; Sherlock had been reorganizing his mind palace on the couch. He only realized John had left when he demanded his mobile and went unsatisfied after repeating himself four times. Sherlock groaned as he unfurled himself from his spot on the couch and grabbed it off the coffee table. He sent off a quick text to Lestrade without a passing thought as to where John may have gone.

When John returned, Sherlock proceeded to ignore him; a punishment which went largely unnoticed by the smug psychopath. This was his mistake: he didn't bother deducing where John had been, because he didn't care. If he had chosen to look up at the unassuming man, he immediately would have recognized the difference; instead of the calm friendly manner he usually saw, he would have seen the calculating, cold gaze that rested on him for a moment. When John walked through the room to take a shower, Sherlock took no note. By the next morning, when Sherlock ended the 'punishment', all the evidence he could have used to deduce anything was washed away.

* * *

Overnight, Sherlock had catalogued all of the changes in his experiments. It seemed the head in the fridge was beginning to mold: an interesting development, he noted, as he filed it away in a drawer in his mind palace. As he was about to check on the eyeball experiment he had restarted in the microwave, he was somewhat sidetracked by thoughts of Sergeant Sally Donovan. She had wrecked his last experiment on human eyeballs and he did _not_ appreciate that. In fact, she attempted to prevent the Work at every turn: something which quite frustrated the often-bored sociopath. Someday, he knew, she was going to regret that.

Across the room, his phone gave a buzz from the kitchen counter. Good, it was obviously Lestrade with a case and Sherlock was bored. As he read the text, he smirked at the irony: Donovan had been attacked, fitting, but dull. However, it was a case and the only thing available to stave off the increasing boredom. Sherlock bounded out of the room calling for John.

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The cab ride was short and quiet. When they arrived at the Yard, it seemed that Lestrade actually cared a bit for Donovan, as he was showing signs of stress: from the bloodshot eyes to the tugging at his hair.

He provided a brief description of Donovan's situation. It seemed he wasn't as much of an idiot as normal when it came to his subordinates. Once provided pictures, Sherlock quickly stated the first obvious details, just letting the details drip from his mouth with no censorship of any kind.

As he continued speaking, his mind ran on a completely different level. John seemed unusually quiet today; it seemed Sherlock's blogger was preoccupied with something else. He never had tried to deduce where the doctor had been the previous night…

"Whoever did this was a medical professional. They obviously had access to various medical supplies."

As he spoke, Sherlock's mind continued to formulate and reject possible attackers. It could be Anderson's wife? No, she was blind to the affair, and wouldn't be able to get the access to medical supplies from her useless husband. An ex-boyfriend of Donovan's? No, she hasn't been with anyone but Anderson or she would be trying to hide the signs of their relationship harder. It couldn't be John; he was just too simple and ordinary to ever do something like that. He needed more data.

.

Sally Donovan had wilted. She tried to show her normal contempt towards Sherlock, but sounded more half-heartedly irritated than hateful or disdainful. Suddenly, though, there was a change. Donovan had reacted to some new stimulus in the room. As her color went from the normal light brown to a ghastly pallor, he looked to Doctor Watson as she nearly tripped over her words in response to seeing him.

The evidence was right in front of Sherlock Holmes' eyes, he just didn't want to see it. Then, the final nail was drilled into the coffin when a veil dropped from John's eyes. In that moment, Sherlock saw the real John Hamish Watson: Psychopath.

The data began flying through his head while in the background John calmly tended to Sally's cuts, the wicked gleam in his eyes. John had been out all night. He had come home and taken a shower instead of made tea, as was his usual custom. John was a medical professional, an army doctor, clearly capable of emotional detachment from his own actions. He knew the human body inside and out. Donovan reacted negatively to him.

John did this, whatever this was, to her._ John_, calm John, kind John, 'Sherlock that's a bit-not-good' John.

Did Sherlock really know his flatmate? How could he have missed such a major part of someone's life? He didn't particularly mind that John had obviously stood up for him, albeit in a somehow traumatizing and obviously illegal way, but he was quite frustrated that such a huge detail had managed to evade his deduction skills.

First, though, he needed to give a plausible suspect, that wasn't John, to Lestrade.

"It seems someone has taken a disliking to Sergeant Donovan's character flaws," Sherlock began, "specifically those in relation to me. My 'fan', Moriarty, has previously expressed possessiveness of me. He thinks that he is the only one who can insult me, harm me, and make my life troublesome."

Lestrade cut in here, "Are you saying that someone kidnapped and somehow brainwashed a police officer because he felt **_possessive_** of another person? That seems pretty ridiculous, Sherlock."

"It's common knowledge that Sally here loves to insult me at every turn." Sherlock replied, "What stands out here is that she _censored_ her usual nickname of 'Freak' and addressed me by my first name instead. I can count the number of times she's addressed me by name on the fingers of one hand. This points it to specifically having something to do with me. In fact, I don't even need to ask her any questions about this except for one: What things _can_ you remember? The more I know, the closer I am to catching him."

Sally Donovan had to think, she knew that wherever she had been was cold and sterile. She also knew that whatever she had been strapped down with, it wasn't easy to break out of in any way. She remembered sudden light, and cringing as her head adjusted to the sights. She shared all of this with Sherlock in a quiet voice.

"Lestrade, obviously she needs some sort of recovery from such a traumatic event," John's calm voice broke into the conversation, "Maybe we should give her some time, let her unwind a little, sleep a little, and see if any memories come back. It won't be of any use having Sherlock analyze everything when there is no physical evidence to show for."

The Detective Inspector realized this was sound reasoning and acquiesced. "If she remembers anything Sherlock, I'll send you a text."

Feeling a smug sense of relief at his silver-tongued lying skill, Sherlock said "Come along, John." And they were on their way.

.

During the ride back to the flat, John sighed. "We need to talk, don't we?"

Sherlock's deep voice came in reply: "Absolutely."

John's mask dropped. He made eye contact with the cabbie, who shuddered, wondering why the nice man in the wool jumper made him so nervous. He looked at Sherlock, who gave him a wicked grin, and was vindictively satisfied.


	3. The Making of a Chameleon

The terrified cabbie sped away from the front of 221B Baker Street. He had been used to picking up Sherlock Holmes, and usually didn't mind the austere eccentric man and almost liked his more down-to-earth colleague. Today however, it seemed that the normally kind, average man had a creepy sinister aura and he just had to get away from him.

.

After shucking their coats and shoes, John and Sherlock made their way up into their flat. Sherlock quickly was up the stairs, ignoring the called greeting of Mrs. Hudson. John, adopting his friendly persona momentarily, briefly greeted her as he steadily walked up to the second floor.

Once in the living room with Sherlock, the façade remained. John smiled genially at the younger man and offered to make them some tea, as was his custom after any case. Without waiting for a reply, he headed to their small kitchen, dodging vials and beakers along the way, and started heating up the kettle.

"John," Sherlock's voice was deep and serious, "you've been hiding something from me. How you managed to display a farce for such an extended period of time is astounding. You must have held it all through college for Stamford to have befriended you. There's no record at all of any suspicion, is there? Well of course not, or else Mycroft would have intervened for my so-called 'safety'. But how did I not see through it? I see practically everything!" What had begun as a calm, serious statement had nearly dissolved into panicked, or as close to panicked Sherlock ever got, rambling.

John poured the tea and fixed cups to both of their individual preferences. His demeanor didn't change at all as he went through the familiar routine. However, once he took his place in his comfortable armchair and took a sip of his tea, the mask disappeared.

"Don't act like it's anything special, Sherlock," the cold response came, "I kept this from everyone. I didn't deliberately choose to withhold this seemingly ever-so-vital information from you. You just happened to be another person to fall for my acting."

.

In all actuality, John had not been surprised by the fact that Sherlock was oblivious to his true personality. The detective very well could figure out the tiniest details of someone's lifestyle; on the other hand, he couldn't decipher the minutest aspects of their personality. When one's personality traits have no physical evidence, the man who figures everything out using the slightest details cannot see them.

In his first look at John, Sherlock had observed many things. He had known the limping man's limp was psychosomatic. It was clear that he'd been in a hot country for some military excursion. He'd known about the stop made with Mike Stamford at the café and the scone the doctor had which was blueberry—no, blackberry— and not been quite satisfied as he'd hoped for the price. He knew about the estranged, obviously alcoholic older sibling.

What he hadn't been able to see was what he inevitably missed. He couldn't see into the kind eyes of the man who had stood in front of him and read condescending cold thoughts and opinions that crossed behind irises that were a deceiving hazel. He couldn't see the neurons firing away as details, deductions, and conclusions were stored away for further reference. A mind just as fast as his own; disguised as a boring and ordinary one.

Pair that with an ability to lie ever-so-convincingly with his words and body, and the older man had the perfect hiding place: plain sight. Any actor would be seething with jealousy at the performance John put on every day, even as a child. Pity for them, they would never know the genius of a show he gave. Or rather, good for them, never to see the fearful icy mind beneath the calming gaze that might pass them by.

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"I should have been able to see through mere acting."

"Yes, of course you should. You would have, had I been just an ordinary, _boring_, invalided soldier." John stood and walked to stand in front of where Sherlock had taken a seat at the couch. As he gazed down at Sherlock he continued to speak. "I've held a façade my entire life and it's nearly become my personality, more of a default than what you see here and now. You had seen through some of it at first, as did your brother, who pointed out that I missed the war when we first met. I'd succeeded in fooling that bland therapist I was seeing; she believed I was haunted by the horrors I had seen on the battlefield."

"What does it matter, this character you play for everyone? Why not just allow your true personality to show?"

John laughed, for just a moment sounding as happy and harmless as he ever did, and returned to his chair. Of course Sherlock wouldn't understand why he wanted to conceal the workings of his mind. Then again, the younger man didn't really care what other people thought of him, it didn't interfere with anything he wanted to do. His voice remained cold as he spoke again:

"What does it matter, you ask? It's just as well that all you want to do is pore over corpses and crime scenes. The people who can stomach those kinds of things almost _have_ to be somewhat strange; no normal person could just look at something like that and be apathetic. How would you have been accepted had you tried to enter the medical field? I would never have become a doctor if I had scared off all the patients as an intern. It's much easier just to let everyone assume you're the slightest bit slow, and almost extraordinarily ordinary. They forget you, they don't accuse you of anything, and you can just allow yourself to fade into the background."

"And you began reasoning on this early enough that nobody noticed?" Sherlock disliked having to ask so many questions. "A child has no knowledge of what society will expect from them, they start as a clean slate. How did you know to disguise your attitude towards others before it was noticed?"

"I only had part of that reasoning as a child. I realized that I was almost under more scrutiny from adults because I didn't react as expected. I was a quiet child; I spent much time before primary school observing my older sister and her friends. They all quite enjoyed bullying other children, including myself. When I would just stare, unaffected by their taunts, adults were quite unnerved. I often noticed them watching me and couldn't think of what was missing. One day I realized that they expected the _normal_ reaction to bullying, which was crying and upset. They didn't know how to react to my uncaring attitude, and it made them wary of me. I didn't desire to be closely observed, and I had found the way to stop it."

.

In his mind, John could remember that day. It was fuzzy, as are all memories from that age, but he still pulled up those memories every once in a while in fleeting moments of sentiment.

His mother had been very busy that day. She was catching up on paperwork of some sort and didn't have time to keep an eye on John. Deciding the best way to keep him occupied was some cartoons; she turned on the telly to some kids' cartoon and set John on a blanket to watch. While later he couldn't recall what exactly happened in the show, he remembered at some point noticing the little boy wailing with his face all scrunched up and turning red, and immediately receiving comforting attention from adults as a result. The character had been bullied by an older sibling in the show and was quite upset by it. Said older sibling was receiving attention of the negative sort, dragged off by an upset parent and returning with a tear-streaked face, and sullen composure.

At first, John thought the reaction to be quite extreme. As he compared it to his normal reaction, it crossed his mind that the adults also reacted differently to the child in the show than the way they reacted to him. Thinking about it, he realized that this was the missing ingredient: he needed to be noticeably affected by things that happened around him. Then, anyone around wouldn't view him as unusual, and would not scrutinize him unduly. As his incredibly non-childlike logic put two and two together, he realized he just needed to wait until a time to test the theory.

Later that day the perfect opportunity came up when Harry and her friends decided to go to the park. Despite vehement protests, the girls were forced to take John along with them, as his mother felt he'd been sitting in front of the telly long enough and could use some fresh air. While at the park, the girls played together while John toddled after them. Attempting to draw a small amount of attention to himself, he called after the girls, who were leaving him behind, to wait for him. Fed up with his cries, Harry turned to the boy and began to yell at him.

"Stop bothering us!" She shouted, "Just because Mummy made us take you along doesn't mean we want you here!"

Seeing his opportunity, John willed big, fat tears to well up in his eyes and began to sob.

"You're so mean!" He cried, and broke off scrunching little hands into balled fists. Then he really burst out in the anguished wailing, internally rolling his eyes at his own theatrics. Plopping down on the grass he continued to cry.

A group of teenagers had been sitting in the nearby grass, gossiping and laughing as teens do. The wails of little John caught their attention. Looking over, one of the girls motioned to the child. Then the rest of them also turned to look. Seeing as no adult was stepping in, she decided to get involved.

"Oi! What are you lot doing then? Don't be bullying the child, he's so much smaller than you, can't fight back!" Kneeling to get closer to John's level she softened her voice, "Are those girls being mean to you, sweetheart?" John had at one point been bewildered by people's desires to speak so strangely to him, especially when it was only some people, and infrequently. "They'll leave you alone now. There, there, stop your crying. It's okay now. You're alright."

John felt it was an appropriate time to recover from his distress. He wiped his fisted hands over his eyes once more and then looked up at the girl and gave her a tentative smile. Hidden behind those guileless eyes was the triumph of a successful experiment.

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Sherlock didn't want to admit it to anyone, but he was impressed. As a child he hadn't bothered acknowledging anyone, he preferred to observe them in their natural setting. Sherlock had wanted to know what made them tic. While he too acknowledged that his differences unnerved people, he didn't care. He just continued to act the same way, and just observed the reactions of others.

"You observed others, and came to a logical conclusion. I suppose you aren't an idiot then."

Amusement filled John's voice as he replied, "No, I'm not."

"Well then," Sherlock jumped to his feet, "now that that's over with I'm going to work on my experiments. Don't bother me while I'm doing them."

"Of course, Sherlock." John thought the sudden subject change quite quaint.

It really hadn't changed anything. They still would do cases together. They would still giggle at inappropriate times and places, like crime scenes, and investigate together. They just would be evenly matched in intellect, and temperament.

And just like that, life went back to normal.


	4. Invasion of Anderson

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?"

"No."

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.


End file.
