Needing You

The Game, Mrs. Hudson, Is On!

"How about some Clue, Sherlock? That should quench your thirst for murder for a bit."
"Booooooring!" Sherlock called. John could only take so much of Sherlock moping and shooting the wall and playing the violin at 3 AM. He walked out the door and planned to go to Mrs. Hudson's for some tea and cookies and vent about Sherlock. He tried the door and was surprised to find it open. Shrugging, he walked over to her kitchen to see if she was there, but just as he did, his soldier instincts picked up a presence that was definitely not Mrs. Hudson. But as soon as he did, he felt a cloth around his mouth, filling his nose and mouth with a sickly sweet smell. He tried to scream, but by the time he'd thought about that he was already gone. He just hoped Sherlock had deduced everything with his brilliant mind and was in his way to rescue him from these... these...
John opened his eyes in a concrete room. Testing his arms and legs, he realized they were both tied down with thick rope that cut into his skin every time he moved, or, it seems, thought about moving. He could feel a gag in his mouth too, the same cloth they had used to drug him, judging by the sweet taste that made thinking like swimming through a giant sea of syrup. John liked syrup. Especially maple syrup. On pancakes. With Sherlock. Just like the time last week when Sherlock had finally agreed to eat for once so they went out to a nice breakfast place and—John mentally slapped himself. Focus, John, he thought to himself. Focus... there was another body next to him. Small, and older. John sucked in a breath. Mrs. Hudson! Someone with a clearly American accent spoke.
"John... Watson." The American seemed to stretch out every word, like he wanted to draw this out for as long as possible.
"Martha... Hudson." At the sound of the voice, Mrs. Hudson awoke, but she remained bleary and only semi-aware of her surroundings. Most likely still feeling the effects of whatever was used to drug them. John already starts a medical examination of his not-housekeeper. No major injuries, although there was a bloody cut on her cheek. Just then, He saw a flash of something long and fluttering in the wind. Sherlock's coat! John looked at his love with pure relief in his eyes. He would never admit it, but John had been worried that Sherlock had been taken too. Sherlock's eyes roved over both Mrs. Hudson and John, and a look of pure, murderous rage crossed the consulting detective's face. John could tell that something bad was going to happen. To the American, not him.
"John." Sherlock whispers, eyes that John could never fully figure the color out of full of compassion. Sherlock pulls out a bottle of something John can't see and sprays it in the American's eyes. The American sways slightly before Sherlock brings their heads together in a crack and the American falls to the floor.
"Oh, Sherlock, how many times have I told you not to root around in my stuff," Mrs. Hudson says, still managing to sound like a mother scolding her chill despite being tied to a chair.
"What do you mean, your stuff?" John asks confused.
"That bottle." Mrs. Hudson said, looking at what Sherlock still had in his hands. "That was my hairspray." Her hairspray? Was that what was in that bottle? As Sherlock freed him, John smiled. Sherlock kissed him lightly before picking him up like a bride and starting to untie Mrs. Hudson. John burrowed into Sherlock's shoulder, the place he felt safest. God, he loved his boyfriend.