One shots (johnlock fluff mostly)

"Mine"-JW "im yours"-SH

"You know what, you do what you like, I'm off out!" John shouted sarcastically as he left the flat, slamming the door, gun still in pocket from the case they had just finished.

"Fine" Sherlock muttered, staring longingly out the window. "I'm sorry John" he whispered quietly to himself.

He collapsed onto the sofa in an emotional heap when he heard the flat door open again, probably John grabbing his keys or something, no point looking up, can't show he's won even though he clearly has.

It was then he heard someone or something move behind him, too sad to care, most likely John, who else would it be, maybe a desperate client mrs Hudson had let in.

But soon he couldn't breathe as a chloroform rag was held tightly over his mouth and his mind was racing a thousand miles a minute and he tried to call for help but no one was there, then he was growing weak and it all happened so fast and he blacked out.

When he woke he couldn't move, he could feel but all he could feel was pain and panic. He opened his eyes but it was black. Blindfolded then.

Tried to move his hands. Bound behind his back, the rope cutting through his soft skin. Legs. Bound to chair legs. Speak. Duck tape across his mouth.

"Do you like that Mr Holmes?" A gruff voice asked as someone shoved him hard in the side.

"Your going to pay for the years I spent in prison because of you" the man sneered, he walked around Sherlock and by his step, and the cold shadow that towered over him, he took a guess the man was around 6 foot 3. Three inches taller than himself.

"Fight me then Holmes, don't disappoint me!" The man growled. But Sherlock didn't fight, he wasn't going to give the man what he wanted, that's not how hostage situations would work if he was on the receiving end. He stayed rod straight, still and firm in his chair, breathing slowly.

"Fight!" The man shouted, backslapping across Sherlocks face with something heavy and sharp, he could feel the blood trickle down his skin, warm and wet. He could feel it trickling behind the duck tape,  unsticking ever so slightly.

He didn't scream for help, two reasons, he couldn't anyway and who was there to help him.

"You put me in prison for 9 years because I killed a man, who deserved it may I add, 9 years away from my daughter!" The man screamed, another slap across the face, Sherlock fell in the chair, unable to save himself from falling, his head collided with the floor.

Part wood part carpet, still in the living room then, he could smell John's cologne in the fibers. More blood trickling now, this time from his head.

Pulled back up straight that he temporarily felt dizzy and disorientated. Two pairs of footsteps that Sherlock could hear, the other one had a shorter stride of around three quarters of a foot, 5 foot 5. Broad shouldered and quite muscular from what Sherlock could feel when they grabbed his chin and faced him upright.

"Look at me when I'm talking Holmes!" the man spat at him, Sherlock felt disgusted at the spit that clung to his skin, mingling with his own blood, he hoped it wouldn't become an infection. He hadn't even realized the man was talking.

The duck tape was ripped harshly from his lips, tearing his skin slightly, gasping very quietly, breathing in much needed oxygen but all he could smell was the mans breath and he wanted to urge. But what happens if you throw up on your enemies shoes.

And maybe the weirdest thing was that he wasn't afraid, what had he to lose, John was out of harms way probably gonna sleep over a friends for the night, maybe just buying groceries but hopefully the men would be finished by then, and either Sherlock would be dead or pretend it never happened.