John Watson

This was why John did the shopping. Sherlock was like a child, distracted by shiny objects or the occasionally badly timed murder. It had been three hours since the man went out and if he did make it to Tesco in that time, the eggs and butter John requested he "try to remember to bring back" were likely going spoiled by the side of the road somewhere.

He was attempting not to nag. Mrs. Hudson told him the day before that he and Sherlock always seemed to be having a bit of a domestic, but she could tell that John really did care for him. That alone had put a stopper on John's otherwise good mood. Sherlock was married to his work. John had a girlfriend. I should bring her around more...well. No, no, likely a bad idea, she'll never understand why there's eyes in the microwave again... John let his thoughts sweep him up.

He pulled out his hand-me-down mobile and sent a text to Sherlock, telling him not to worry about the shopping, that John would pick it up himself. There. No nagging, just a bit of a control issue. Smug, he was about to slip the mobile away again when the message was bounced back, unable to be sent. He tried twice more and finally gave up and tried to ring the man instead. "We're sorry, this line is no longer active, please--"

John frowned. He wasn't worried.

Sherlock is just fine, he told himself.

As he rushed out of 221B Baker Street to hail a cab, John flinched, nose banging right into a black coat covered chest. "Watch where you're--"

John never knew what Sherlock was thinking, not even when the man gazed at him full on with eyes that anyone else would have called 'creepy.' Sometimes John thought so as well. He spotted the new mobile in Sherlock's hand and sighed. Really. Worried for nothing. Of course, the new mobile was the only thing in Sherlock's hand. John sighed and moved passed him.

"I'll be back," he muttered, brushing the worry into annoyance. "Someone needs to do the shopping."

"Opposite Operations"
Who:  John and Jim

John didn't see who took him.  It was too dark and he was too surprised to even struggle.

There were hands on him, taking off his coat and removing his mobile but not his wallet.  For a moment, John actually thought he was going to be raped.  And then one of the men said something into his own phone:  "Moriarty, have him."

Moriarty.

John's blood ran cold as the van took off into the night.

"Lay Down For It Then"
Who:  John and Sherlock (superiorlogic )

The journey up the stairs is quiet.  John keeps his hands to himself for the time being until his bed comes into view.  Turning suddenly, John turns back to Sherlock and takes his hand.  "We can stop...any time."  It's reassurance for himself, mostly.

It had been a few pretty spectacular days. 

His life was falling back into place so very neatly and so much better than before.  His flatmate is still amazing and brilliant and cold, but they have fun.  John sees him as a best mate, though he doubts he'll ever tell Sherlock that.  He doesn't want to be risked getting laughed at.   Having a girlfriend again suits him, too.  It's more than the kissing or the companionship.  Sarah's normal.  Sarah's good for him.  She survived being part of a Chinese acrobatic troupe's show and still wants to see him!  It was enough to leave John giddy.

It's like the best of both worlds and John's holding onto both parts tightly.

He's off from work early today and Sarah's gone to see her parents.  She asked John along, but he declined.  "Too early," they both decided together and laughed about it.  John went to the bakery instead and after a quick stop off to offer Mrs. Hudson a pastry, it's right upstairs to Sherlock.

John's been bringing home all sorts of things lately, knowing that Sherlock will turn his nose up at them likely, but it's a bit of a game for John.  He'll find the person thing soon!

"Sherl--"

The needle on the table makes him stop.  The limp arm hanging off of the sofa makes him balk.

"Bloody--  Sherlock!"

John spent half an hour in the bathroom scrubbing gunpowder residues off of his fingers.  He doubted DI Lestrade would come back for a second time tonight, not with a mound of paperwork on his desk thanks to the shooting of the man that had tempted Sherlock's fancy and ego a bit too drastically.

"You were really going to take that pill, weren't you?" John asked, for the seventh time at least.  He lost count.

Sherlock was in his meditative repose, flat on his back, hands folded under his chin as if he was praying.  John knew better than to think he was doing that, however.

"Do you just take anything that interests you?  Any drug at all?"