A/N So this has a touch of Supernatural in it. Demonic possession and Sam and Dean and whatnot. In this story, Mary doesn't exist and John and Sherlock have been dating for about a week. Sherlock slipped into a coma after ODing when he got on the plane after killing Magnussen. TRIGGER WARNING!!!! References to attempted suicide and severe panic attacks. Let me know what you all think. I may continue this one, just not sure yet.
Suggested by MandyFullertonLee
Enjoy<3
"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?" I ducked as my friend fired another shot at me. Why was he doing this? Fear clutched my heart as more shots rang out. We had been investigating a murder and found ourselves in a near-empty garage. We got separated somewhere along the way, and then Sherlock appeared out of nowhere, gun in hand and rage on his face. I was trying desperately to not panic, memories of battle flashing before my eyes.
"John?" His voice echoed along the walls, sounding taunting and cruel. "O where are you little Doctor? Don't be shy, step into the light." I bit my fist to keep squeaks of terror from falling from my lips. "He is crying you know? The brilliant detective is trying to break free, trying to save his little pet. It's so, human." His words were confusing, but I was too scared to think on them. I found a small room and hid, praying that whatever was going on with my friend had slowed his senses enough that he wouldn't see the room. He continued talking, his words sending chills along my spine. He talked of how he hated me, how he was going to relish the thought of killing me.
The sounds stopped, silence filling the garage. I started to hope that he had given up when the door slammed open and Sherlock grabbed me by the hair, violently pulling me out of the closet. I cried out from pain and fear as he threw me to the ground. Pain flowered in my side as I connected with the hard concrete. I tried to crawl away, but was stopped when I felt his foot press down on my ankle. I cried out once more as I felt the joint cracking under his weight. He laughed; a deep, unholy sound at my pain. He drew his foot back and walked around to stand beside me. I tried once again to crawl away, dragging my now injured ankle along behind me. I felt the toe of his shoe violently dig into my side as he kicked me. I stopped my squirming and rolled onto my back, staring up at the man grinning down at me.
"Sherlock, please, don't do this." I fought through the pain as I spoke, trying to find Sherlock within the stranger claiming to be him. He laughed again and dropped to his knees, gripping my throat in his hands and leaning down so he was inches from my face.
"He can't hear you. But believe me he can see you." His grip tightened and I struggled against him, clawing at his hands. "His poor little doctor, having the life squeezed out of him by the only person he ever really trusted." My vision started to fade around the edges and I could feel my throat being crushed by the sheer force he was applying. My strength started fading. Just as unconsciousness was about to take me, I heard shouting. The man above me froze, his eyes suddenly turning solid black as he looked up. He let out an inhuman growl and sprung away from me. The pressure left my throat and I started coughing as the air hit my deprived lungs. My ribs stung from the blow they had received earlier and my head was spinning. I rolled onto my side and propped myself up on my elbow, trying to get my heart working again. I saw Sherlock fighting two men; they were dressed in ratty plaid shirts and ripped jeans. One of the men had a blade in his hands and was trying to kill Sherlock. I fought to stand, still coughing. Before I managed to get to my feet, the taller man had pinned Sherlock's arms behind his back and shouted at the one with the blade. He swung the blade, aiming for Sherlock's heart.
The scream that was ripped from my broken throat was painful and terrifying. Everyone froze, including Sherlock.
"Please, don't kill him! That isn't Sherlock, I know it's not. He wouldn't do this. Not to me." Every word felt like a thousand knives grating along my vocal chords. He had probably fractured my windpipe.
