I don't own Sherlock, if I did, I wouldn't be tapping away on my laptop and posting stories on here. And there would be far more innuendos in the cannon series.
Hmmm, lots of run on sentences in this one. Look out for that, sorry.
May or may not add another chapter, or another one shot of this from John's point of view.
It is not part of the plan, but when John is slammed against the car, next to him, he can't keep the amusement off his face. "Joining me?"
"Yeah. Apparently it's against the law to chin the Chief Superintendent." And Sherlock is still trying, after all this time, to digest that there is someone who cares what other people think of him. Not because of how it will affect them, but just out of wanting to keep Sherlock safe, because they care about him.
His thoughts are swiftly interrupted as officers un cuff Sherlock's right wrist to attach John's, cuffing them together. Sherlock twists his head, mentally cataloguing the placement of the guns on the armed officers. "Bit awkward, this," he remarks.
"Huh. No one to bail us out." Sometimes John needs to expand his ideas a little.
"I was thinking more about our imminent and daring escape."
His eyes scan everything in their immediate vicinity. What can he reach from his position? As the radio through the open window of the car squeals slightly, the pieces snap together. He presses the talk button with his free hand and twists to grab the gun from the officer behind him. Simple, really. Scotland Yard prove their idiocy again and again. "Ladies and Gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" No one complies until he fires two sharp shots into the air.
"Now would be good." Sherlock knows that Mycroft is watching, or will be. He will appreciate the drama.
Lestrade finally comes to his senses, he slumps slightly, with the attitude of an exasperated parent, "Do as he says!"
John tenses as Sherlock brandishes the gun in his left hand, "Just-just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just a… you know…" John searches for the words, eyes wide.
Swiftly, Sherlock transfers the gun into his right hand. He's pointing the gun at John's head, metal cool against his clammy palm. Pushing thoughts of how delicate, how breach-able John's skin and muscle and sinew and bone are. And instead, pulling up a mental route of alleyways and dark corners to duck into. Because they can't get caught. He just needed a little more information. The sirens are still flashing, blaring, adding to the curtain of white noise that tumbles beneath his brain. "My hostage!" He proclaims, because John cannot be blamed in this, can never be blamed. And they must think Sherlock so very unbalanced, or this will never work. John relaxes, now that there is a clear plan. Trusting Sherlock implicitly, but he doesn't understand that everything is tumbling, the beginnings of everything crashing down around them, and all he needs is for John to be safe. And even though John has a loaded gun pointed to his head by a self diagnosed sociopath, who is escaping from his arrest on suspicion of multiple murders, John, wonderful John is calm under stress, following Sherlock, trusting him and Sherlock aches because he has an inkling of what is coming, more than an inkling, and he hopes he can be proven wrong but his sense of control is slipping, tugging from the inside of his throat, constricting his airways.
And they're running. John keeping in step with him, if a little behind, but the cuff is dragging against his skin. "Take my hand." And he feels the time they have left tugging through their palms, from their fingertips, through their joints, expelled in the echoes of their feet against the sleeping buildings. His legs are pumping, and they take a swift turn, John's callused fingers gripping so tight that Sherlock hopes there will be bruises, he will take everything he can from John, while there is still time.