Sherlock Oneshots

The Good Doctor

Johnlock Bromance

A battle between life and death was played like chess, of which Sherlock Holmes and John Hamish Watson took a risk. The almight peril forewarned them, but the urge to escape from the graps of Moriarty was too much. Their bounds were freely cut, with the help from Sherlock's cunning plan, and they ran out of the inky room.

But their plan to abscond was holted, as Moriartys' men leaped out onto the detective and his blogger; leading to a bloody* fight. Sherlock barely escaped with mere bruises and cuts, the deepest slashed across his sharp cheekbones. John however, was less unfortunate.

The scene of the men thrashing and thwacking each other with fists and guns was brutle, and turned outrageous when one of Moriartys' men, Sebastian Moran, whisked out a short knife and plunged it into Johns' abdomen. Sherlock was completly oblivious to this fact, and carried on thumping the opposition. Moran sneered into John's ear, twisting the knife in Johns' gut, until John pulled out his torch and shone the light into his emerald eyes. Moran staggered backwards blinded and un-lodged the knife from John; the ex-doctor winced in pain but took the knife and drove it into his upper left chest. Moran died instantly, falling backwards and splitting his head on the concrete. John covered his lesion with his jacket, as Sherlock finished of the last man.

"Come along, John!" Sherlock smirked, ignorant to the fact that John was injured. Nevertheless, John could see to himself as soon as he got home to 221B, he was a doctor. Ex.

They strolled out of the warehouse, before Moriarty could send more men after them. Sherlock was skipping down the alleyway with joy with new information for Lestrade and Mycroft, whilst John trudged behind, clenching his wounded stomach. He abruptly stopped, wincing in pain and lent his back onto the cold wall.

"Sherlock.." John murmured. Sherlock spun round on his heels, his face drooping at the sight of an-about-to-faint John. Before John could collapse, Sherlock sweeped over and let John lean his weight onto him.

"You're going to be fine, John. Just stay awake." Sherlock whispered, turning the corner onto the road. He scanned for a taxi, but realised that they were only a street or two away. Sherlock almost fell over when all of Johns' weight forced him to lopside.

"John! John, wake up! Please!" He ushered, cradling his sleeping body in his lanky arms. Sherlock recalled John once saying 'crying won't help anyone' on a case. He did as his mind told him, and linked his arms under Johns' legs and back; lifting his bestfiend up and carrying him home.

Sherlock slumped his weight onto the door, and yelled for Mrs Hudson's help, truding John upstairs. He lay down John, who was now half-concious, onto the scruffy sofa and yelled at Mrs Hudson again.

"What is it? You seem very distressed, Sherlock. Dear me, it's 2 AM!" Mrs Hudson droned, rushing in the flat, "Oh, my. What happend to John?"

"I don't know, I didn't check." He muttered sadly, clenching Johns' blood drenched shirt. He slightly tore it open, inspecting the deep stab.

"Mrs Hudson, I need some bandages," He demanded, applying preassure to the wound, "He's been stabbed, and it's fathomless." Mrs Hudson whimpered and hurried off to the bathroom.

"You're going to be ok." He whispered to his blogger. Mrs Hudson came back in, and the rest of the early morning, they stayed by John's side.