A/N: Well, this one's been around in my head for a while, but I've never been so sure of how to write it down but this is the end result of all my worring, so, I hope you like it.

Warnings: Slash [Sherlock/John]

Disclaimer: I Do Not Own "Sherlock" or "Sherlock Holmes". All rights to the BBC and Sir Doyle. But, oh, how I wish I owned Benedict Cumberbatch...But I don't, so on with the story!

The light from the arising sun peaked through the partly-closed curtains in the flat of 221B Baker Street, shining onto various objects sprawled across the dark wooden table. John Watson stretched in his chair, groaning as he flexed his stiff arm muscles above his head. Sure, life with Sherlock Holmes was a thriller but sometimes, John wondered if it was all a little too much for him. Yes, he missed the action of the war and walking with Sherlock, you witnessed the battlefield on the streets of London. He loved the energy which Sherlock possessed, he thrived on the adrenaline rushing through his veins whenever he was around the detective, but now... sat alone in their flat, John wondered if Sherlock really needed him. At first, he was simply filling in for Sherlock's friend: the skull. Then, once the whole ordeal with the pink lady and the deranged taxi-driver, their relationship elevated: John knew Sherlock had become closer to him, became more comfortable around the veteran; but was that all going to last? Sherlock was one of those people who became bored extremely easily, would he ever get bored of John? Being an ex-army doctor certainly wasn't very interesting in his own eyes.

The most recent episode in their long list of calamities was the meeting with one Jim Moriarty; an acclaimed 'fan' of Sherlock's work. The meeting in the pool at midnight proved to be more nerve-wrecking than standing on the front line for John. Both him and Sherlock had ventured out of the wreckage (due to the exploding Semtex) with only cuts, bruises and a few fractures, Moriarty, however, escaping before anyone had the chance to lay a finger on him. John still felt a little traumatized by the whole thing. After all, it was only nine days ago. He wondered how Sherlock's brilliant mind was coping with it all. Very well, he presumed. He didn't like to pester the younger man, he didn't want to coo over Sherlock; because he knew Sherlock wouldn't react very well to all the attention.

"Morning."

John was ripped from his deep thoughts when Sherlock spoke. The detective stood in the doorway, removing his long coat, scarf and gloves. John rose hastily from his seated position.

"You know, it'd be nice if you actually told me you were going out. At least then I wouldn't be panicking when I come down and find your chair empty." John stared harshly at Sherlock, who blinked quickly.

"I n-needed to stretch m-my legs, that's a-all," the detective smiled weakly, very weakly. "Nothing f-for you to be w-worried about." He walked over to his chair and slumped down into it slowly, sighing deeply as he did so. John stared as his friend, using his own doctoring-powers of deduction to deduce what was wrong with Sherlock:

Grey circles around his eyes, showing lack of rest over a prolonged period of time; arms folded across chest suggests that he's defensive about something; this accompanied by a shallow, rapid breathing pattern, a slight stutter emerging on the beginnings of words and tense muscles suggests doubt, panic, apprehensiveness, ultimately meaning: anxiety, John concluded in his mind.

"Sherlock," Watson began as he tried to catch the detective's fixated vision by sitting on the chair next to him, "do you feel nauseous at all?"

Holmes shrugged, his facial expression remaining vacant.

"Sherlock, please. As a doctor, I really do think th-"

"John, I'm fine."

"As your friend, then. Just tell me what's bothering you so much that you're not sleeping or eating, no more than usual, anyway."

The awkward silence settled around them again, making the atmosphere thicker. John pouted slightly, his fingers tapping on the arm of the chair.

"I'm worried...about Moriarty. Just the mere thought of him and what he's capable of makes my heart race uncontrollably." Sherlock's hand ran through his dark curls, the words seemingly being torn from his throat. "The image of you strapped to the explosives is carved on the back of my eyelids, and...I can't stand it."

John blinked rapidly. He'd always presumed that Sherlock was a strong spirit, that if bent he would not break easily, not without a fight. Now, he realized, he may be entirely wrong.

The young detective sat forward, his slender fingers massaging his temples.

"...When Moriarty said he'd 'burn the heart' out of me, what do you think he meant?"

John could tell by the look in his friend's eyes that he knew exactly what Jim meant, he was now seeing if John interpreted the consulting criminal's threat in the same way.

"Well, I...erm." Watson paused, unsure of how to word what he Sherlock wanted to hear, or what he needed to hear. "There's very few people in this World whom you actually care about, isn't there, Sherlock?"

Holmes nodded.

"Well, I think that Moriarty means to get to you, to get inside your head by hurting the people you care about...whether that be Mycroft, Lestrade, Mummy, Mrs Hudson or...me." The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly, waiting for his friend's reaction. The detective sighed and sat back in his chair.

"That's exactly it, isn't it?" Watson edged closer to his friend, his eyes fixated on Sherlock's. "Because Moriarty's kidnapped me before, you're scared he'll do it again. It's not about you...you're worried about me."

"Quite right too."

"Why..?"

Sherlock leant forward hastily and grasped John's warm hand in his own. "Because, my dear doctor, you are the only person whom I can thoroughly rely on, the one who listens to me when everyone else turns away, the one who stays by my side when I'm labelled a 'psychopath'." A single tear fell from Sherlock's crystal eye, John moving to wipe it away.

"And that is why you are in danger...because of me and my stupid job and my stupid experiments. I'm sorry."

Sherlock stood slowly to leave, but was caught by surprise when John yanked him back down by the collar of his black suit jacket, their lips suddenly meeting in all the action. The kiss was quick, with all the passion that both of them had ever wanted. John pulled away after a few hot seconds, his warm hands still wrapped around the taller man's jacket.

"Sherlock," the doctor began, "I knew from the moment I met you that life wasn't going to be easy but that didn't stop me from moving in with you, or from running around London chasing serial killers. You said 'dangerous' and here I am."

The dark haired man smiled down at the smaller man, taking him into his long arms and resting his chin on John's head. He felt small arms entwine themselves around his slim waist, closing whatever gap was left between them.

With his head against the detective's chest, John now concluded that its possible the anxiety problem wasn't as bad as he had originally anticipated; Sherlock's breathing had levelled and his heartbeat was steadier. He smiled and closed his eyes, getting lost in the rhythm of Sherlock's heartbeat.

The detective glanced down; instantly knowing what John was smiling about. The overwhelming fear of losing John Watson had almost vanished, al thanks to the reassurance from the man he was so afraid to lose. Sherlock knew, just as well as John did, that, now, one could not function without the other...and they wouldn't have it any other way. Whatever Moriarty's got planned; we'll be ready and face it together.

"My dear John," Sherlock whispered softly into the sandy-brown hair, "thank you...so much."

Review, maybe? Please? :)