One shots (johnlock fluff mostly)

Prequel to "hurts doesnt it?"

A/N: This is for up_in_the_sky04 who requested a prequel of "hurts doesn't it" which is one of my short stories. Hope everyone enjoys it: also comment ideas for oneshots and also I want a print to create a nice long slow burn with angst and eventual fluff and regular updates!

This is very angsty

The case began as a simple burglary, followed by a chase that then lead to the discovery of the two bodies of the man and wife of the old English estate home that was robbed.

Sherlock was disappointed in himself. If he'd been an hour ahead he would have them alive and well, maybe in hospital just for the shock and lack of care but they would be breathing.

They would be breathing on there own if Sherlock hadn't been convinced by John to just sleep for an hour. One hour Sherlock at least. For me? He couldn't really say no. When could he say no to John.

Said burglars now also murderers had ran off, leaving the bodies, still warm gasping their last breaths and then choking on their own blood. Their deaths were vile.

Truth was that the burglars had never killed before, they hadn't learnt the ins and outs of the blade they had held. They just assumed stabbing once. Twice. Three times would do the job but the old man and woman had instead bled to death. Slowly. Painfully. Choked on their own blood.

It was horrible to see them in their last pitiful moments. The picture of agony inscribed in to their faces during death and post mortem.

John had convinced him it would all be fine. How wrong that would be a week later when the breadcrumb trail had been found and they were back in the scent.

On the other side of London. The tougher parts. To avoid the usual dramatic grand reveal of themselves they went on the tube. They were squished against each other, Sherlock had been standing anyway but John had loyally given his chair up for a young woman who was clearly pregnant and was soon hand over Sherlock's on the handrail.

Their bodies had swung into each other with each motor starting up on the track and pulling off. Approximately going at around 60mph and then the sudden stop that jolted everyone forwards then the handbreak which pulled the backward.

Sherlock had stumbled, too involved in his mind palaces to notice the July until it was too late, hand to loose on the rail and stumbled, almost falling into the lap of a little girl of about five sat down in a chair next to him but John had caught him around the waist and saved him from the embarrassment. Well. Most of it anyway.

They had soon swiped their Oyster cards and were running out of ten underground, squeezing by all the busy people and suitcases on the escalators and the long tunnels of walking until they were out in the cold open breeze.

They'd broken through the small flat the murderers had been bunking in, they caught them off guard and soon they were climbing out the window to follow and leaping across rooftops until eventually there was the stand off.

They'd caught Sherlock and John off guard. Only seconds ahead and soon Sherlock had a gun pressed to the back of his neck and John to the side of his head. They were given a choice. A choice where neither option was entirely preferable but only two options and there was no way out.

Sherlock would have found a way out. God knows he tried to, but there wasn't one or maybe he just didn't see. Maybe that was the issue. Sentiment had made him miss it. Love had made him blind.

Love.

Is that what that feeling was. The feeling that when his love was in danger. At deaths grasp. That his throat had constricted and nothing but a desperate whimper when the option was offered had escaped him. Why his brain had ground to a halt like the handbrake on the underground. The jolt of the unexpected. The stumble. The fall. The catch.

"Sherlock just let me, I need you to live for me okay, I need you to stay alive, you came back for me, I'll come back I swear. I swear Sherlock. I. I lo-" and then the trigger was pulled and John had doubled over. Crippled in on himself and Sherlock had screamed. His voice finally breaking through. He screamed Johns named. He screamed for help and then there was the sound of gunfire but it was silent.

White noise on death ears. Mycroft. He knew to come. In a way if he'd come sooner he would have killed the murderers and John and Sherlock would have walked out alive but now they had two dead men, one now a living corpse, his soul and heart dying as the blood pooled from his blogger.

Star 1: you're eyes when you were saying you loved me. You're smile before you left me. The crinkle to you're brow when you laughed only minutes before as we chased them.

He'd been dragged away from the body unknown hands against screaming skin. Through a wooden coat and a scarf given by john only less than a year ago.

You have given me a currency on my life that I don't know how to spend. So now I live each day. Not because I want to. But because I don't want to let you down. To disappoint you.

I miss you John. Xx