Hello everyone! From the magnificent turn-out of "Pretend With Me", getting nineteen reviews that matched "Notice Me, John"s six, I am in awe. I LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH. I'm glad you share my theory of Mycroft's hilarious abductions! In light of this, I WILL be writing a multi-chapter fic for it's sequel. I can't tell you how long it will be at the moment, but I know most of what the plot will be about. I hope you guys enjoy this and stick with me! :D Once again, I'm not crazy. I'm psychotic and obsessive. xD

You're Mine, John Watson

[part one]

It had been two days. Two days since Mycroft said his parting words - this isn't over - and promised further terror for poor Dr. John Watson, and further nights kept awake by said man's screaming for the high-functioning sociopath Sherlock Holmes. Two days, and John Watson hadn't come out of his room that he'd locked himself in as soon as they'd returned to the flat. The last two days had been filled with slips in of takeaway, some burnt toast - that Sherlock claimed to have "made" for John - tea, and, thankfully, jam.

Finally, on the third day, Sherlock was becoming bankrupt from the amount of takeaway he'd paid for, and he didn't dare make anything after the burnt toast he'd tried the first morning. It was mid-afternoon, around lunchtime, and John was wrapped up in sheets, expecting his afternoon meal. Sighing, Sherlock strode up to John's bedroom door and knocked hardily. "John? I'm coming in."

"Sherlock, no. I want to be alone."

"You've said the same thing for the past few days," Sherlock pressed, leaning up against the door and listening intently to John's labored breathing. The same breathing he'd heard everytime he'd come close to the door for said amount of time. "It's time to come out, John. We can talk about this, or I can get the police in here to remove you."

"You wouldn't dare."

"You know I would. Please let me come in."

After a moment of silence, a choked and pathetically weak sounding, "Fine," resonated from behind the door. This was all the permission that Sherlock needed to turn the knob with a flick of his wrist and press open the door.

The sight before him was something he didn't expect to see. John Watson sat in the middle of his bed, his sheets torn up from being tucked underneath the mattress and now wrapped around him. He was staring straight at Sherlock, his eyes dreary from no sleep and his hands laced together. Sherlock raised a single eyebrow and found himself sitting down on the mattress beside him. "You said you wanted to talk," John interrupted his thought process, the thought that John looked so uncharacteristically pitiful and in need. "Talk."

Clearing his throat, Sherlock immediately rambled off as he always did. "You've been stuck in your room for two days. You normally don't like to be stuck around the house, so you feel so strongly about this that you won't even come out of your bed. You haven't showered for two days, but you smell of sickness, not dirt. You've worried yourself into a fever," he paused only for a moment to press the back of his hand against his flatmate's head and confirm his theory, and then continued again. "and you need to get out of bed and do something about your predicament. We need to do something. You can't hide forever, John."

"I can bloody well try," John muttered, flinching away from the cool hand that Sherlock had pressed up against his forehead. The doctor was red hot, and not entirely oblivious to his sickness, but he frankly didn't care. "I don't want to come out of this room until some bit of God strikes Mycroft dead, or locks him up forever. Until that happens, I'm not coming out."

Sherlock stifled a groan. "Come now, John, and be reasonable. Neither of those things are going to happen any time soon, so we have to do something to make them happen."

Rolling his eyes, John locked his slightly dreary pupils with Sherlock's and prompted, "And what are these courses of action that you suggest we take?"

Getting up from the side of the bed, Sherlock managed to pry the blankets off of the man, who shivered as soon as they were gone and attempted to claw them back onto his body. "First things first, you need to get the hell out of this room. I've been unable to conduct any sort of experiments, or work with a case of any type because I'm stuck taking care of you."

"I thought this was all a great big experiment to you, Sherlock."

"Don't be ridiculious. We both know that it's gone beyond the boundaries of an experiment now."

His tongue leapt out of his mouth for a moment to wet his lips, and the good doctor, after being stared down by his abstract flatmate, finally groaned in submission, getting up from the bed. Sherlock grinned in triumph and helped his flatmate to the bathroom, where he shut the door behind him.

"Do you need any help, John?"

"I'm a grown man, Sherlock. I think I can take care of myself in the shower."

A few minutes passed. The shower started, and the water began to flow.

"Do you need any help, John?"

"Have you been standing outside the door all this time?"

Silence.

"I'll take that as a yes. No, Sherlock, I don't need help. Go... busy yourself with something else."

After nearly an hour of making sure he was thoroughly washed, since he hadn't showered in about two or three days, John finally got out and wrapped himself in a large, white, fluffy towel. He gnawed on his lip as he slipped on his jumper after drying off, and then dark blue jeans. Images flashed in his mind - the kiss he'd shared with Sherlock, the burning eyes of Mycroft Holmes as he demanded to get to John through Sherlock, the look in his pretend boyfriend's eyes as he defended his flatmate.

The flames that raced in them as he'd shouted.

Mycroft has been slightly set off. Hell, John has been terrified. Sure, Sherlock was a strange man. He often yelled to get what he wanted, or if someone wasn't doing what he wanted or getting him what he needed. However, this was a new sort of yelling. John had never seen Sherlock like that; with his voice coming from deep in his chest, making his very baritone voice even deeper. It was flat out terrifying, and John never wanted to hear him shout like that again.

Suddenly, goosebumps formed as John thought of the other side of Sherlock. The side where his hands were wrapped around his waist, and his lips surrounded to doctor's. The feel of his tongue, smooth and gentle, slowly alienating the inside of his mouth. Snogging Sherlock Holmes wasn't something you experienced every day, and John Watson was sure he would probably never experience it again.

Probably.

A sharp knock on the door alarmed him. He was just getting out his tooth brush and putting on toothpaste when the knock had come. The toothbrush went flying out of his hand, and onto the tile floor of the bathroom. Cursing, John leant down to pick out the toothbrush, simotaneously shouting out, "What?"

"John," Sherlock sounded impatient. "Are you done yet?"

"Almost, Christ," John scowled, running his toothbrush under water in the broken attempt to wash it off. "Made me drop my bloody toothbrush. Didn't I tell you to busy yourself, Sherlock?"

"I did," the consulting detective replied nonchalantly. "I made an experiment to see how many words I could make in the dust on the floor outside your bathroom door before you came out. I ran out of dust a moment ago, and I'm bored now. Are you done yet?"

Trying not to let his jaw drop off his face, John rubbed his forehead and, with a sigh, answered, "So you've been sitting outside my door this entire time, waiting for me to come out?"

"Yes. Problem?"

God, Sherlock, what is wrong with you? "No, no. I'm coming out, hold on."

After brushing his teeth faster than the lightening he hoped would come out of the sky and strike Mycroft Holmes dead, John Watson put his now cleaned toothbrush back in the cabinet and walked out of the bathroom. Indeed, just as he had said, Sherlock Holmes sat outside his door, cross legged on the floor with his fingers in a steeple, holding up his chin. His eyes darted up to meet John's, and for a fleeting moment, John remembered the flame that had once been burning in them, not two days ago.

"All right," John said, letting out his breath in a deep sigh as he spoke. "What do you suppose we do now that I'm showered and dressed?"

"We could go out-"

"No!" John exclaimed, and Sherlock quirked his eyebrow in confusion. More quietly, John continued with a soft, defenceless, "No. I don't want to risk going outside and having... Mycroft come out of bloody nowhere again and..."

"It's all right John," even though John refused to look at Sherlock because of the fear that the consulting detective might read the absolute trepidation in his eyes, there was something in the man's tone of voice that made a shiver climb down the doctor's back. "I won't let him touch you."

"I believe you," was the only thing that John could think of saying.

A day of crap telly, a little bit of fresh air that involved John and Sherlock walking across the street to the locale library and some more crap telly (and jam and tea) followed the day. It wasn't much of an afternoon, John thought to himself, but it was better than the days that had been. It was a hell of a lot better than sitting in his bed, alone, waiting for the news to come that Mycroft had been locked up.

Could you lock up the British Government?

It was nearly midnight when Sherlock, who was sitting next to his sleepy flatmate on the couch, felt said doctor slump against him. The consulting detective fought a flicker of a grin as the man, unaware of his surroundings, promptly snuggled up against him, sighing with a contented hum, and then closing his eyes and lulling into a sleep.

It took less than a minute for John Watson to feel the silk beneath his fingertips and realize it wasn't sheets he was snuggling against.

The doctor promptly leapt to his feet, the telly shut off, standing face to face with a vaguely amused consulting detective. "I'm- Sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean to- I guess I just fell asleep-"

Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock practically shook his head. "Nonsense, John. You simply fell asleep," he glanced at the clock. "It's midnight. Are you ready to ship off to bed?"

"Y-yes," John so much as hiccuped, still feeling the red in his cheeks from his previous activity. "You wouldn't- Um, you're going to bed too, right?"

"Yes."

Nodding, John lost any sort of train of thought he'd tried to think of and turned around, back towards his bedroom. "Well, g'night then."

"Good night, John."

As soon as John was in his room, he shut the door behind him and slid down it, pushing his head against his knees. It would be ridiculous, absolutely proposterous, to ask Sherlock Holmes to share a bed with him. To cuddle with him, to make sure that Mycroft Holmes didn't come through the window at night and stroke his cheek like he did in his dreams.

Absolutely ridiculous.

The night was young. Sherlock Holmes wasn't sleeping in bed, as he'd told John, so he was too far away to hear the window creak open. He was hovering over an experiment on the table, something to do while his insomnia plagued him, so he was too involved to hear someone come up behind him.

John opened his eyes, waking gently from his dream. Above him, in the darkness, crazed eyes stared back at him.

Before he even had a chance to scream, a hand smothered him, and John's world went dizzy and black.

It was only when Sherlock noticed the creak against the wood that he began to turn around. He got a blunt object smashed into the back of his head for his troubles.

The last thing he thought before he saw darkness was John.

And John's last thought was of Sherlock.

OM NOM NOM YOU GUYS. YOU'RE TERRIFIC. I'm sorry it took me so long to get this up; my computer had a virus, and it only got fixed today. So I decided that the first thing I would do would be to finish the first chapter of You're Mind, John Watson and get it up for viewing. NINETEEN REVIEWS FOR A ONESHOT! You guys are the awesomest awesome viewers on the face of the earth.

Much love. Chapter two should be along very soon.

-Doc xx