A collection of Johnlock oneshots

Fuck You Prometheus

The thud of his heart against his rib cage was almost painful as he ran through the back alleys of London. The criminal was always ten or so paces ahead of him, no matter how fast he went.

Turning a corner he almost slipped on the wet cobbles and he heard a shout of "Careful!" From behind him.

"Keep up Greg!" Be shouted back at the slower man, catching a glimpse of him slipping up in the same spot.

The tail of his navy blue coat flapped behind him and his dark curls were slick and pushed back from the wind. His legs were tired and he was desperately out of breath but he had to keep going. He had to catch the man.

He flew around another corner watching as the criminal darted into a building ahead of them. He left the door open and it didn't even cross his mind that that was done on purpose.

The second he was inside, someone slammed the door, locking it, securing Sherlock inside.

He could hear Greg pounding on the hard metal and shouts of "Sherlock! Sherlock!" In that broad Londoners accent.

Shit.

It was pitch almost black but he could see the outlines of boxes or tables or something dotted around. Tiny slithers of crystal moonlight shone in from holes in the broken roofing, creating specks of light on the concrete floor.

Soddenly a light flicked on. Sherlock spun around and there before him was John, unconscious (hopefully) and tied to a plastic chair. There was duck tape on his wrists, ankles and over his mouth and trickles of dried blood running down his forehead and stained in his hair.

Definitely shit.

He started to run towards him, stopping dead as he heard the cocking of a gun from his left.

Glancing over he saw a pale, tied looking man in an expensive suit. There was product in his hair, dye most probably, his eyebrows had been threaded recently, there was dye in them too, and clear signs of blood stains that had tried to be removed, unsuccessfully.

"You should try using vinegar." Sherlock said cooly, eyeing the stain. "Does the job a treat."

The man smirked an evil disguised smirk. "Did Johnny boy teach you that?" His Irish lilt echoed off of the bare hard walls.

"What do you want?" Was Sherlock's reply and the mans smirk dropped, a darkness settling over his whole demeanour.

"This."

His hand turned in a split second pointing at John and firing. The bullet lodged itself within his brain and Sherlock dropped to his knees felling like someone had just shot him too.

(A/n I'm sorry.

Almost 19k wtf!!!! Thank you!)