So my friends. I'm doing a Sherlock fanfic (as you can see) also I'm co-writing this! My co-author is sadlittleclown and she is an amazing editor and author! She did the part from when john says "Hello" and edited it all so give her a hand folks!
Check out her tumblr she's sadlittleclown!
Wind snapped Sherlock's scarf behind him as he walked, hair blowing back and the back of his neck bristling. Despite the shouts and gunshots behind him, Sherlock smiled to himself, knowing that his pursuers weren't close enough to actually kill him, but were sure to keep things interesting. He slowed down just a tad allowing himself a quick backwards glance. He nodded curtly; his prediction had (obviously) been accurate. The lights on the street flashed across his face in a series of blinking highlights. As he thundered down the brick sidewalk, he could see the people in the windows of their houses, smiling and laughing and having affairs with each others' wives and being secretly crossdressers. He smirked, a sort of sardonic grimace, sighed, and kept running.
Somewhere in the distance, too far away for Sherlock to deem important, a bell tolled twelve midnight. Signs, traffic lights and angry cops waving jaywalking tickets blurred in the corner of his eye as he continued to make his way towards his place of residence, reviewing the path home in his mind.
However, his calculations as to exactly how many takes it would take him to get to the end of the block, and if he could feasibly run across the street without getting hit by a car, were interrupted when a gloved hand wrapped itself around Sherlock's mouth, wool leaving itchy threads on his tongue as it was replaced with a chloroform rag. He could see the sides of an alley closing in on him as he was dragged out of sight.
"Hello?" John jammed the phone to his ear, head rolling back as he spoke in a voice so scratchy that the sound emitted could barely be described as communication. He had just finished his fifth portion of vodka, the sixth having had been confiscated by a worried Mrs. Hudson before it could slide down his throat and black out another section of his grieving brain. At that point, he was barely surviving from one glass to the next, Mrs. Hudson trying in vain to control his intake. It was she who wrapped a blanket around him when he passed out in the armchair, force fed him breakfast when his hangover was so bad that he couldn't even open his eyes. And it was she that had stolen the phone from his limp hand and was now having a harried conversation with whoever was on the other end.
"We'll be right there," she promised grimly, and John groaned. He hadn't left the flat to go anywhere besides the liquor store two doors down in the eight months since the Fall, and he wasn't planning on breaking his habit, especially not after only five vodkas. Also, he hadn't shaved since Sherlock, hadn't really even properly bathed come to think of it, and there was no way he was leaving the flat without a drink.
Unfortunately for John, Mrs. Hudson had summoned Anthea. And unfortunately for John, Mycroft's assistant had no problems with tossing every single bottle in the apartment out of the window and dragging him out of the flat by his ankles. It was a startlingly Sherlock thing to do, as much so as assuming that he'd bought milk and drinking from the empty carton or shooting at the wall and expecting the holes to go away.
Somewhere around the third step, John's head hit the banister. Somewhere around the fourth step, John blacked out.
When he woke up about fifteen minutes later, there was a man approximately two inches from his head. John jerked back in surprise, and a warm slash of pain burrowed its way past the layers of alcohol smog. His hand found its way to his cheek, and it came away covered in blood and shaving cream.
"What?" John's voice sounded alien to even his own ears, a sort of raspy bedraggled groan. "What the hell?"
"Excuse me sir," the man began moving closer to John again, waving what appeared to be a razor and attempting to placate him in French. "Mycroft wished you to be shaved."
John closed his eyes, partially for dramatic effect and partially because even the tasteful seashell lamp on the table next to him was too bright for his vodka-saturated eyeballs. "Mycroft. Should've known." He paused to wipe his hand on the towel ever so conveniently located next to him. "If I cooperate, can I have a drink?"
Asking, John felt like a crazed toddler asking for a fifth bowl of ice cream. He knew, somewhere in the back of his fuzzy, self-censored brain, that he was a grown man having to be shaved by his former flat mate's brother. He was a grown man who had drank himself into a half-life of telly and alcohol. All semblances of his job had been shed months previously, and the beginnings of a solid beer gut were evident in his slouched form.
"No." A rich voice said from behind him, Mycroft stalking around the chair carrying both a cane and an umbrella. "We have a job for you."
"Ask Lestrade." John had given up on trying to fend off the man with the razor, and was trying not to move his face as he talked for fear of being cut again.
"It's about Sherlock."