Disclaimer: I sadly do not own Sherlock, but if I did we would already have season 3 out!
Copyrighted by Sherlocked Kat. (Although can be used for inspirations)
John Watson sat down eagerly on a very familiar chair not wanting to know the truth. He had gone to his councilor in pursuit of help within coming over a death.
After seeing Sherlock plummet to his end, all hope was lost for John Watson. Not only was he without a close friend, but every time he walked into the room of 221B Baker Street, he would always picture that moment where he looked forward to seeing what Sherlock was up to next. But just as he advanced to the memory of Sherlock plucking his violin, John would burst into half sobs, half tears. Little did he know that Sherlock would always be watching him through the windows of the opposite building.
"So how do you feel after his death?" asked his councilor.
"Pardon? Oh, uh, I'm not coping very well actually. That's why I came to see you."
"I would have realized that John. But what is your life like now at home without him?"
"Well, it's been very hard… hang on a second; I thought I told you I was not gay with him."
"I acknowledge that John, but just what are you feeling? Are you feeling depressed? Angry, frustrated?" Just then the room was filled with the sound of shattering glass. Turning around, both of them saw the windows suddenly crashing inwards with vague shadows pouring into the room. The councilor was murdered having been shot through the head (It didn't bother John too much as he never had a thing for her), and John shortly put up a fight. John neared one of the dark figures and punched him straight in the nose. He then turned around and got into a wrestle with another figure. There was the sound of gun fire and smashing glass filling the room. It was a miracle that the next door neighbors didn't hear a thing. While being wrestled and pushed about, the third figure picked John up and tossed him. John landed uncomfortably on a wooden table, sending splinters flying through the air. As John was struggling to get himself up from the wreckage, a big bulky man dressed in black picked John up by his shirt and head-butted him. John finally fell unconscious and tumbled to the floor.
"… this isn't Sherlock… where the hell is he…" John woke up hearing murmurs of the assassin's conversations. He then rolls over feeling a numb ache in the back of his head.
"Oi!" shouts another assassin in the back of the black Landrover. 'Thump', John rolled onto his other side in pain. Realizing he was on the floor of the vehicle he tried to look around. As hard as he might all he saw was the inside of a black sack over his head.
"Hey! Where are you taking me? What the hell is goi…?" 'Thwack', the last thing he felt was a kick in the head then he blacked out.
John woke up in a room, tied down to a small rusty chair. Closing his eyes from the blinding lights he turned his gaze down upon the floor. Having gotten used to his surroundings, he noticed that the room smelled like rotten eggs. There was wallpaper peeling from the corners and there was even a toilet, although it was not a pretty sight to see, the area surrounding it was filled with dirt and rubbish. Upon hearing a door open and close, John slowly turned his head towards the source of the noise. Pain welling up inside him, he tried to speak but failed in doing so. Managing to take in another tight and agonizing breath, the mysterious man confronted him.
"Intel would like to know where Sherlock Holmes is, so we are only asking you once. Where is he located?" bellowed the five foot nine man in dark shades.
"What do you mean where is he? He's dead, deceased, gone to heaven. Had his head smashed in after he fell off St. Bartholomew's Hospital."
Still trying to regain consciousness, John saw that the man was wearing a particularly expensive suit. A pink tie, shiny black leather shoes and a vertically striped suit jacket and trousers; John apprehended that this was not the type of man to get into a fight with.
"We need answers now. Don't try and tell me that you don't know where your friend is. We can easily kill you, right here and right now. So tell me Dr. Watson, where is he situated?" barked the man.
"I already told you he's dead! Why can't you just leave me alone?" John wept upon the subject, "I don't know anything!"
"Well obviously you are a fool to think that Sherlock would have killed himself like that. So is Jim Moriarty's assassin. Everyone knows that if Sherlock was to kill himself it would be in glory not in vain."
"So what are you trying to tell me?"
"I'm trying to tell you that if you don't start giving answers I'll have no choice but to kill you."
"But I told you I don't know where he is."
The man pulled out a hand pistol. "Then I'll have to shoot you." The man took aim at John's forehead when suddenly he was tripped over by someone behind him. Just as the man made contact with the floor, he pulled the trigger and shot John in the calf. John howled in pain. The agony of the bullet going through his leg was excruciating. He'd already had the experience of a bullet through his left shoulder but this was much worse. The large amount of blood loss from the bullet wound made his thoughts merge together. John's vision blurred as he hit the ground and all he could see was the pool of blood on the floor and a leg of a pair of black trousers in front of him.
AN: Hello guys! This is my first fanfic! Please review!
Sherlocked Kat