A Hostage. What a surprise.

His heart raced. Pumping and pumping within his chest, he swore it was like it was thudding against the very bones of his rib cage. It was the anxiety, the fear and the adrenaline. John had no idea what he had gotten himself into now, but he had Sherlock. John was not the type to put all his belief and faith and heart onto people, maybe some family, but hardly mates. But the man beside him was Sherlock Holmes. He would always trust Sherlock.

"Now this will make people talk," John half muttered, half thought to himself. Their feet tapped against the wet, cemented ground

He could feel his body react instantly to his human emotions, the adrenaline writhing within his veins, giving him enough speed, enough energy to keep up with Sherlock. He wondered if this man beside him was even feeling the human mechanics as he did, but John could have sworn he felt the faintest flutter of a fast pulse under each little brush of their wrists as they continued to run.

"Take my hand," Sherlock said gruffly, deep and authoritative. John could only comply. It was easier this way, with holding hands they could almost 'lock' on to one another, their 'framework' was stronger, more secure; this way they would know where each one was going. Well, where Sherlock was going. He was the one leading.

After being pulled around many times and skidding to a halt, John had to raise his arm. The cold night air didn't help the temperature of the metal handcuffs as its cold, smooth surface scraped and tugged across his skin while Sherlock, still connected to John via handcuffs, gave a lithely jump over the metal gate as if he had done it a thousand times before. John was panting when Sherlock slid himself back down to earth and was beginning to run again as if he had forgotten John.

"Sherlock! Wait!" John called, pulling Sherlock towards him firmly using Sherlock's scarf. A soft brown met with piercing blue through the metal bars.

Oh, fuck it, John thought.

Getting his other, free hand through, john grabbed the back of Sherlock's head, feeling the soft angelic, black-as-night curls entwining around his fingers. Pulling him to John's lips, Sherlock quickly reciprocated, pressing his own against Johns with the same hungry, passionate and animalistic edge to it he always had. The cold metal bars pressed against john's cheeks.

Sherlock, as always, was the first one to pull back, his bottom lip hung slightly open as he breathed in deeply, his piercing icy-blue eyes slowly and ever so gently reduced from previous dilation. He cleared his throat.

"We are going to need to coordinate," John rasped a little breathlessly. Sherlock gave a quick nod of acknowledgement.

"Go to your right. Your right," Sherlock demanded, and with a calm, determined expression; he helped John over the fence.

Hand in hand they ran.