Johnlock *One Shots & Short Stories*

And He Does.

John stalks around the corner, pulling his gun from the waistband of his trousers, he cocks it, holding it before him as he makes another quick turn. This alley way is empty as well, and dead ends at a green dumpster. Light rain starts to fall, splattering itself on John's face and wetting his hair until it sits like damp straw on his head. He squints, and behind low lashes he see's a movement to the left of the garbage can. John raises his gun and shouts out, heavy, his knees quaking and hitting eachother but his military hans steady on the trigger.

"Come out right now! Put your hands on your head!" There's a slight twitch of fabric, and suddenly a large, surly man comes into view. The man raises his palms flat towards John, and drops to his knees. John's tense muscles relax, but don't go loose. He slowly creeps towards the man, guns pointed at his head. Then suddenly, the man smiles.

Something cold and round presses into the back of John's head. "Drop the gun." A burly voice says in John's ear, breath flitting over the cold, wet skin. John slowly bends down, setting his gun on the wet ground.

"Now, kick it towards my friend over there." John curses himself for getting into this situation. Where was Sherlock when he was needed? The gun presses harder into his skull and he shuffles his foot forward, kicking the gun and letting it spin wildly towards the man on the ground. The guy scrambles forward and picks up the gun, and leaps to his feet.

Suddenly, John feels hands on the hem of his shirt. He flinches, ducking away, but the man holds tight. With one heaft his woolen jumper is ripped in half, and it falls away from his body and lands limply on the ground. It immediantly soaks up the water and the mud, ruining the fabric. John whimpers when the man clocks the gun into the back of his head, sending him into a fit of dizziness.

John wraps an arm around his shivering form and there's lips on his shoulder and neck. Tears well in his eyes as greedy, tweedy fingers take avantage of him. He cries in earnest now, trembling in his loafers. They don't even undress him all the way.

When they're done John collapses heavily to the ground, his trousers and pants around his knees. The men laugh as they walk away. John closes his eyes and lets hot, humiliated tears stream down his face. The rain falls steady on his face, rocks embedding in his side, his thighs coated in mud and pebbles. He cradles his own body in his arms as the footsteps fade away. In then there's a gunshot.

John waits for the pain to rip through his body, waits for the tear of skin and the crack of bone and the splinter of shards embedding themselves in him. But it never comes. Instead, the footsteps return to him, lighter than the ones of the heavy, stocky men. John keeps his eyes squeezed shut. He hears a soft intake of breath from somewhere to his right, and a shiver wracks it way through his body.

"Please.." He whispers, his throat scratchy from the tears and the cold rain, "Please...no more..."

He hears the sound of cloth against skin, and hears the sound of someone elses steady breathing. His heart roars in his chest, and he makes a pathetic sound. Light fingers brush through his straw-like greasy hair. He flinches away, swatting at the hands with tightly shut eyes.

"It's me... Watson.. It's me.." Sherlock says softly, gently. "Open your eyes." But John doesn't, not even when he feels Sherlock pulling up his trousers and picking him up like a child, one arm under the crook of his neck and one under the bend of his knees.He feels something scratchy-soft cover him. He feels the sway to and fro as Sherlock takes long, graceful strides. John lets his tired, heavy head drop against Sherlock's chest. Rain continues to patter against his sallow skin.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital, okay?" Sherlock's voice is calm, but there's something underneath. Something deep and frightening.

John shakes his head. "I want to go home."

"But Jo-"

"Just take me home, Sherlock."

And he does.

It takes a long time, and John is dipping into sleep as Sherlock ascends the stairs. Sherlock sits on the couch, and John presses his cold body against Sherlock's warm one. They'd never done anything like this before, no physical intamicy.

John cries silently.

"What can i do? What can i do?"

"You can kiss me."

And he does.

A/N/ : PLEASE COMMENTS YOUR JOHNLOCK REQUESTS! WILL DO ALL.