Sherlock had been more than reluctant to hop on a plane to Virginia at Lestrade's word, but the mention of a brutal and quite original serial killer had changed his mind. His good mood had lessened, however, when he found out that Anderson would be tagging along; a fact only barely made up for by the "brilliant" and "artistic" crime scenes.

At this particular scene, a young girl had been stripped of her clothes and left in a field, her body impaled on the enormous antlers of a severed stag head. The entire team, besides Sherlock, had been horrified by the sight, but were forced to go about their business as usual. After a while, they seemed to have grown more or less accustomed to the situation, and Donovan and Anderson even resumed poking fun at Sherlock.

The detective shot a glare in Anderson's direction. He was used to the man's irritating remarks, but Lestrade's sniffer-dog had been especially keen on insulting him today. It would have been tolerable—fun, even—if he was at least original in his statements, but much to Sherlock's displeasure, Anderson stuck with his all-too-common use of the word "freak", as well as jokes about the detective's lack of social skills. Sherlock rolled his eyes and went about his work, hoping that John wouldn't catch the glimpse of sensitivity that he couldn't keep out of his expression no matter how hard he tried.

John Watson was never one to interrupt Sherlock while he worked. But even someone with amateur deduction skills such as himself could tell that something was bothering his brilliant detective, and John thought he knew what it was.

"The killer you are looking for is a middle-aged, white man. He is an immigrant, most likely European, but not from the UK. He works as a doctor, more specifically a psychiatrist. He is intelligent, cunning, and ruthless. Oh, and he's taking the victims' organs not as trophies, but as meals. He's eating them. You Americans have the most obvious cases, really. I quite miss London."

John sighed, shaking his head. Sherlock was amazing, as usual, but he always got a bit harsh and even colder than was normal when he was upset. The detective fell into place next to his soldier with a swish of his long coat, followed by the awed stares from every one of the American officers, as well as some of the newer additions to Scotland Yard. However, Sherlock received nothing more than an exasperated look and a roll of the eyes from Anderson.

"You know, you were brilliant out there," John said, handing Sherlock a mug of coffee. The taller man accepted the cup and gave a half-smile in return. As John took a seat next to Sherlock, he turned to look him in the eyes, a gesture which he knew made the detective uneasy. After several seconds, Sherlock was forced to stop pretending he didn't notice John's gaze and gave in with a sigh.

"You want to talk about something," he said, not a question but a fact. "You want to know what's bothering me, which by the way, is nothing." He averted his stare and reached for his coffee, only to find his hand grasped firmly in John's.

"I'm not that stupid, Sherlock. I can tell that Anderson is getting to you, whether you admit it or not." John's voice was firm but genuinely concerned. Sherlock shook his head but knew that there was no point in resisting. When John was right, he was right, no matter how big of a blow to his ego it might be. He began speaking hesitantly, making sure no one else was close enough to hear him.

"Ever since we got to America," he sighed, "he's been so persistent, making sure everyone knows how much of a freak I am. And it's working, too. The way they stare at me like I'm some sort of newly discovered species. It's as if the officers here are even more daft than the ones in London. Can't they see what an idiot he is?" By this time, Sherlock's always-steady voice was showing hints of betraying him, and the detective looked more distressed than John had seen him in some time. The doctor couldn't help but think it was not a good look for him.

"Just listen, Sherlock. I know you have never liked Anderson, and I'm not a huge fan of him either. But you have to remember, he acts this way because he doesn't understand you, and that scares him. He's just a rude person who's afraid of the unknown. Don't let him get to you. If he tries, he'll have to go through me. Okay?"

Sherlock glanced down at the table in front of him before nodding slightly. He then looked back up at John, who was smiling warmly at him. He couldn't help but grin back.

"The Americans really are as dim-witted as the media suggests," Sherlock muttered, causing John to force back laughter.

"Well compared to you, so is most of Britain," the doctor smiled from where the two of them stood in the police station, away from the others.

Sherlock had easily deduced the name of the killer they were after, a Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and, as Lestrade had ordered, he and John stayed behind at the station while the FBI agents from the Academy at Quantico retrieved the suspect. Unfortunately for them, Anderson had also stayed.

"Wow, that was brilliant the way you solved this case so quickly, freak." John clenched his fists at the sound of Anderson's voice as the man approached them. Sherlock made a display of rolling his eyes. "You certainly showed those officers how weird you are." John gave a look that could have probably killed Anderson right there, had he been looking. "Most of them think you're crazy, you know. And for good reason, I'd say." The army doctor had heard enough at this point, he wasn't about to let someone like Anderson talk to Sherlock this way. He stepped between the two men, and though he was much shorter than either of them, the anger he emanated made him seen quite menacing.

"Listen, Anderson. I've put up with you insulting Sherlock from the very second I met you, and I'm sick of it. I know he can be a bit confrontational, but he doesn't deserve your constant barrage of disrespect and abuse. You think you're being funny, showing off for your new friends, but I can assure you that you just look stupid and jealous."

John would have continued his rant without a second thought, but suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Sherlock's low voice. "It's okay, John. That's quite enough." The shorter man sighed, visibly calming down. He wasn't feeling any better yet, but he thought he knew a solution for that. John lightly brushed Sherlock's hand off his shoulder before drawing back his right arm and punching a very much in shock Anderson square in the jaw.

"You didn't have to do that for me, John," Sherlock smiled as John followed him out of the police station holding cell. "Though seeing Anderson out cold was worth spending a night in jail, was it not?" At this John laughed and nodded.

"You are a massive idiot, Sherlock," he teased, "but I'm the only one who's allowed to say so."