Johnlock One-shots

254.Anger

The younger man was thrown across the room, his face hitting hard against the wall before sliding down, a crippled body falling down to the floor, where he could lay down and didn't need to use energy to stand. His weak, thin arms moved and he buried his face in them.

There was nothing the other could do but stand there, watching, mouth open in shock. He watched the savage monster come closer. Big, scared, blue eyes following every action, every hit. He didn't understand. Why? Why them?

“You…" a soft mumble came from the floor, where Sherlock Holmes laid spread out, wheezing, suffering, even sobbing. The man's arms were too weak to push the weight of his bruised body upwards.

“Please, stop hurting him!” John begged, trying to walk to the broken detective. “He's done nothing, he's innocent!”

The man that was named Cleistsm looked over his big, broad shoulders and stared directly at John. “He killed my daughter!” The man kicked Sherlock's gut which caused some blood to cough up. He looked so beaten, so helplessly beaten.

“He didn't kill your daughter, Mr Cleistsm, I assure you. He was just framed--”

“Shut up!” Cleistsm yelled loudly, taking a gun from his pocket, looking at John, and pointing the weapon to him. He shot the gun and looked back to Sherlock, kicking his gut a few more times. He pulled Sherlock up by his hair and that earned him a loud, painful yell, and gasps. He looked over to John, even though his vision was limited and blurry, he could see John’s limp body.

Sherlock held a hand out towards him and tried to speak, but ended up coughing more blood. “John… please… n-not him… n-not John…” He wanted to walk to John, make sure he was okay, but he didn't know how. He felt too weak to even blink. It felt like lifting weights with his eyelids just to keep them open.

Sherlock cried in pain when he felt something long whip his back. He was aware that Cleistsm was whipping him with a belt. “John…” he whispered, then cried out his name when he was whipped again. “John!”

Cleistsm picked up Sherlock's frail body and threw him over to John, who was bleeding out, a hole going through his chest.

Sherlock laid down, his breathing heavy and his wounds bleeding. He rested his head against John's shoulder, taking his hand. “John… I-I love you.. it'll be a-alright…”

John squeezed Sherlock's hand and whispered, “No… i-it won't…” he whispered quietly and shook his head.

Sherlock tried to move closer to John, but he felt himself being dragged away by his foot. He whimpered, kissing John's cheek before letting himself be pulled away.

“You know, Sherlock Holmes,” Cleistsm mumbled. “I can do annnnything I want with you right now.” He knelt over. “I know this man named Tucker, he'd pay lots for two fine men like you.” He looked at John, who was holding onto the last string of his life, then to Sherlock, who was like a puppet.

Cleistsm smirked and picked Sherlock up by his hair again. “Or one…”

Sherlock gathered up all his strength and determination, staring at the man with an upset look. He pulled his arm back, then punched and-- nothing.

It felt like a puppy trying to put its paw on its owner's arm, or a cotton ball gently falling against his sleeve. It didn't even hurt. Not a bit.

Cleistsm laughed. “You're cute… and rare. I'm going to be rich.”

Sherlock groaned in pain when he suffered another punch to his face. “This is what you get for murdering the only person I care about.” He growled, hitting Sherlock like he was a punching bag.

Then, suddenly, Cleistsm was thrown back, punched in the face and then dragged. The gun slid out of his pocket and before he could get it, he felt something kick his face and someone picking it up.

Sherlock looked over to where John was and crawled over to him, breathing heavily. “John…” he whispered.

He felt a hand on his shoulders and screamed, begging for no more punishment.

“It's okay,” said a familiar female voice.

Sherlock looked up and saw Mrs Hudson. He smiled. She was the last person Sherlock expected to see.

She told him the ambulance would be there soon and to hang on. She held the gun to Cleistsm’s head, yelling at him about how 'that’s not how you treat her boys’.

Sherlock set his hand over John's wound. John was beaten bad, not as bad, but the blood loss from the bullet wound was getting to him. Somehow, Sherlock managed to kiss John's cheek. “John…” he whispered. “It's g-gonna be f-fine… hang in there…” he tried to put pressure on his friend's wound, his eyes closing.

He could hear Mrs Hudson in the background, keeping Cleistsm quiet and curled up against the wall. Soon, he heard an ambulance and some police came walking inside. Sherlock was unconscious by then, but he woke up later in a pretty big hospital room.  He saw a window on the left side of him, and a blanket on the other side. He knew there was another person laying on a bed there. That's why the room was big.

He stood up, but fell down. Sherlock realised how fragile he was, even falling over made him ache more and almost cry out. But he sucked it up and crawled over to the other side of the blanket.

John.

He was laying down, his eyes closed, a frown on his lips. He was unconscious now, but still breathing. Sherlock had no energy, he felt so weak and useless, but, he quietly stood up, with the help of John's bed, then laid down next to him. He set one of his hurting arms around John and moved closer, holding him. “It's going to be alright…”