The Kissing Analysis

15

Lol, okay i think im updating this story too quickly, but tbh-not that i dont love writing this story (believe me, i do)- im just trying to 'get it out of the way'. But dont worry! I wont rush the ending! Im just trying to get there faster is all.

I really wanna finish a couple fanfictions, but this one is small and easy, and you guys seem to enjoy it, so ya :).

John clattered home at around 2 am. It had been a long night, and Mary had been more than disappointing.

This was all a waste of my time.

John rubbed his face as he trudged towards the street near Baker St., worn out and tired from the night's mess of a date.

Mary, John guessed, just wasn't for him.

He and Mary had gotten in a fight, things about things, stuff about... Sherlock.

John felt heat creep toward him, remembering the utter embarrassment that had happened earlier that night, and quickly shoved it away.

I don't need her.

John grumbled and began rubbing his stomach. They hadn't even ordered anything to eat.

He sighed, and thought about nice warm plate of hot soup waiting for him at home.

The blogger yawned and stretched as he turned the corner, before he gasped loudly.

Click.

-

Sherlock eyes flickered open with deprived sleep at 6 am.

He sat up, stretched, before turning on the kettle and going to the bathroom to have a shower. As Sherlock undressed, he began to have that dreadful awareness of the utter silence, the same feeling as last night, crawl up his spine.

John hadn't come home.

He swallowed thickly, and ignored the piercing feeling once more, hopping into the shower.

-

John stared down the barrel of a gun, pointed directly at his face.

He blinked, looked up at the man who was holding it.

"Give me your money."

He stared at him, and rolled his eyes.

"Sorry, yes let me just get my wallet."

The man-probably 21, or 22-watched him as John reached into his back pocket, and pulled out his wallet, also secretly pulling his gun along and pushing it up his sleeve.

"Here," John spoke smoothly, as he handed over the money.

The stranger reached towards his wallet, dropping his gun slightly. John, as quick as a flash, dropped his gun from below his sleeve and quickly shot the mans foot and leg.

The man screamed, dropping his gun as he fell to the ground, in which John quickly kicked away from him.

"Agh!!"

John smirked down at him, a sense of pride flowing through his body as he watched the man clutch his foot.

"Now, now. Are we gonna continue stealing money?"

The man groaned, ignoring John's question. John sighed, rolling his eyes.

He pulled out his phone, and called Lestrade.

"Hey, Lestrade-yeah a man tried to threaten-no, Sherlock isn't-Greg listen, I-"

Before John could breathe another word, hands grabbed him from behind, putting a cloth on his mouth and nose. 

Suffocating him.

Watson squirmed, but the man was strong and had him held in a lock, secure from movement.

He groaned as he blinked his slowly unfocusing eyes at the ground towards his phone, which was still on dial.

He only hope that Lestrade would come looking for him.

-

Sherlock walked out of the shower and went to go sit on his chair, glancing at the clock.

8

He looked down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He covered his face with his hands.

How could I have been so stupid? I should have said something before John left. I should have stopped him...

God I'm so selfish...

He sat there for what felt like hours, before getting slowly up, and picking up his phone, dialing John's number.

He didn't care if he sounded needy, he wanted to know when John would come home.

-

Sherlock

He felt his head pound, blood flushing through his body, as the sudden darkness wasn't so dark.

As he came back to consciousness, he heard mumbling of voices.

He felt his limbs begin to fall back, and he moved a bit of his fingers.

John's breath began to become ragged as he tried to pry his eyes open, fighting the urge to squint against the lit room.

He groaned, his eyes beginning to strain and focus on his surroundings. He turned his head a little to where the voices had been coming from.

"...Jacob didn't know-he's bleeding out.... I can;t do this..... jesus Kal...."

He tried to focus on the words that fell to his ear, trying to connect them to make a proper sentence.

"No, I.... the bucket is in.... my knife? Mate, I don't know, I...."

John swallowed, and he sat up slowly.

He was in wooden room, broken windows, rutty flooring.

He was in some worn out place, and there were people talking outside the room and he was tired.

John raised a hand to his head, felt sticky liquid cloud through his soft hair, and sighed. He looked up to see the group of people, through the crack in the door, move farther from it.

The doctor painfully sat himself up, beginning to stretch and pinch himself to wake up-to get his body moving already so he could get out.

John leaned against the wall, and held his shoulder-the one that had gotten shot long ago, the one that was now currently soaring in pain.

He panted as he let his eyes dart about the room, before catching the window.

He wobbled over to it, and sighed in relief. This building was at least the size of a regular house, and he glanced at the group, which were becoming louder by the second. John assumed they were arguing.

He swallowed, and turned back to the window again.

How long would it take for him to jump out, land without hurting anything, and sprint back home? The fact is, John isn't even sure he'd be able to get out after breaking the glass unless someone didn't notice the loud shattering in the next room.

In these times, John really wished he had Sherlock with him.

He felt a sudden ache rise within him.

Sherlock.

He has to get back to Sherlock.