Johnlock One-shots

228.Major Headache

“Show me around, John.” Sherlock said, tapping gently on the laptop screen.

“Do you have to wear a blanket?” John asked from the other side of the screen, staring at up at Sherlock.

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock nodded and smiled a little. “Besides, it's less to put on and less to take off, fits me and the lazy part of my personality.” He chuckled softly.

John rolled his eyes. “It's very distracting, you're so handsome.”

“Whatever, show me around the house, Dear.” Sherlock said, smiling a little.

“Okay,” John smiled back and started to show Sherlock everything through their electronics. John walked around, and Sherlock didn't have to do anything. He thought it was fair.

“There's no cutlery.” John said, he was now in the kitchen and he opened the drawers, to find there was no cutlery-- no spoons, forks, knives, or anything else.

There was, however, a kettle of cold water on the oven. It wasn't boiling or anything, but it was there.

John left the room after Sherlock saw everything, then started to walk up the stairs.

“Sherlock--” John was stopped from speaking when a really loud music started playing. He fell back, tumbling down the stairs and falling down on the end, his head slammed down so hard that it cracked open.

“John?” Sherlock asked, trying to see what was happening. John's camera must've been covered, because he couldn't see anything. “John? Babe? Are you alright?”

“C-come here…” John whispered quietly.

Sherlock nodded and put on some clothes, then his jacket and scarf, before going out. He got in a cab. “I'm on my way, John.” He said, looking at his phone. John, or someone with him, hung up, he must've done it while Sherlock was getting dressed. He sighed softly and told the cabbie where to go.

When he got there, John was gone. There was a puddle of blood and Sherlock could see John was there before. He breathed in deeply, then slowly let it out, kneeling down on the floor. He could smell the blood, there was so much, just a puddle of it. He looked up and, in his mind, played a sort of video like thing, watching as he assumed John lost his balance and fell down the stairs.

“John!” Sherlock called out, standing up. He put his hands on his hips and looked around. “John, come out!”

There was a hissing sound, and Sherlock looked behind himself. A cat was sitting on the floor.

“Oh hello, kitty. Have you seen my boyfriend?” He asked playfully, looking around. He blew a curl out of his face and huffed sadly.

“Meow.” The cat answered, laying down. It was a beautiful cat, with gray-- almost silver-- fur and cute green eyes. But, it was so skinny Sherlock could see its bones. It was obvious that the cat doesn't eat much and is a stray.

“John!” Sherlock called again, walking away from the cat, who stood up and followed him, walking on little trembling paws, its claws clicking on the floor as it went by.

Just as the cat sat down in front of Sherlock, a sack went over his head. He rose his hands up instinctively and started to tug at it, but someone pushed him over and tied his hands and feet together. He growled, trying to move around, but the ropes were so expertly tied that he couldn't even budge.

He was dragged upstairs the building, and every time he made a noise or growled, someone would strike at his exposed neck or his back.

He came to a stop when they threw him into the corner of a room. He was now very aware that this was all a trap. Sherlock could smell chewing tobacco in the bag, and that only made the situation worse, he felt sick. He fiddled with the ropes around his wrists, but someone hit him in the arm with a long, thin, stick.

He could feel pins and needles in his hands as the blood struggled to get past the rope that were so tightly tied.

Finally, after what seemed like half an hour, the bag was lifted and Sherlock could see. He looked around the room and saw John laying on the floor next to him, curled up. He could see a little crack on the side of John's head, it was messily bandaged.

Sherlock decided to comfort his boyfriend, and laid down. His movements earned him another painful whack with that thin stick.

He yelled in pain, but only continued to move. He laid down next to John and put his face against the other man's neck and kissed it softly.

John looked unconscious, his limbs tied together just like Sherlock's. He looked up, and through his hazy perspective, he could see three people. Sherlock took a deep breath and looked back down to John, whose blood that seeped from his head and onto the floor, as well as Sherlock's curly hair. He wasn't looking forward to when it dried and made his hair crusty and uncomfortable.

One of the men stepped forwards, and started speaking, but Sherlock ignored him. He struggled with his ropes, where his skin was starting to rub off. “Why--” he was cut off and hit again. Sherlock yelped, he curled up and started to struggle. He was hit every time he spoke, or moved, or did anything.

It was another few hours before he was finally able to get out. When all three men stepped outside to talk privately, Sherlock stole a knife to cut off his restraints, then John's, before getting a big rope out from the closet. He threw one end out the window and tied the other on a sturdy hook.

He picked up John and jumped outside the window with him, climbing down the rope and ignoring his aching pain. When Sherlock got out, he got the first person to come past to call the police and an ambulance, then sat down to wait.