A/N: hey! I know I should be working on TTS, and I do, but this plot-bunny decided to take precedence. It's just a one-shot, and I think it's an outlet for my current need to write BAMF!John.

Warning:a bloody (literally) crime scene, BAMF!Sherlock and even more BAMF!John.

POVs will be switching, but it's not difficult to follow. It's taking place during the second season, before the infamous Christmas party at 221b but after the first meeting with Irene.

Disclaimer: You recognize it, I don't own it.

Not beta-ed, not Brit-picked.

R&R! Enjoy :)

They were at New Scotland Yard, about to finish giving their official statements on the latest case Sherlock efficiently solved, when Lestrade popped up in the room with his coat halfway on.

"Sherlock, John, are you finished here yet?" The Consulting Detective just huffed indignantly in reply, while John politely nodded. "Good, would you like to come with me? We just got a call, there was a murder, and it's on the way of Baker Street too."

Sherlock was obviously inclined to decline, judging by the petulant scowl he sported right now, but fortunately his flatmate knew better than to leave the man-child brood a post-case adrenaline crash and the ensuing boredom. "It wouldn't hurt to take a look, right, Sherlock?" the doctor said cheerfully and got up to snatch his coat from a metallic hanger by the door. "Would you give us a ride, Greg?" But before the DI could answer, a derisive snort and a blur of Belstaf bolting past them informed him that once again Holmes and Watson will take a cab.

#

The building they were currently in was old. And decrepit. John was quite sure that the staircase hadn't been cleaned in decades. The inhabitants of the house were peering curiously from behind their doors, while the recently arrived team of forensics installed their equipment.

The reason they were all here was located on the third floor, in a small dusty flat full of empty beer bottles and rotting pieces of pizza. Thanks to Lestrade's presence they avoided Donovan's snide remarks when they strode past her at the entrance, getting only a nasty glare which Sherlock royally ignored and John reciprocated with one of his own Army Captain's glares. Sally actually looked thrown by it.

Sherlock forced them to stop at the doorstep, so he could take in the whole crime scene in all its original glory. John heard Lestrade sigh behind their backs and smiled with sympathy. The Consulting Detective could be… excessively bossy when in full-deduction mode. When the man himself stepped in and immediately went to examine the kitchen, John took his cue to enter the flat as well. With Sherlock being clearly engrossed in dust patterns around the room, he carefully crossed the space to the body lying under the furthest window. The DI and he had already agreed that John would get to give his opinion on victims whenever needed without any complaints rising from the Yarders.

The victim this time was a woman. She was lying in a fetal position on the floor, a golden crown of hair around her head starting to soak into crimson liquid. She wasn't facing the entrance, and the shot was obviously made from behind and went through her left shoulder. John cringed at the sight. The injury was very similar to his own, except that he got help in time. The girl, who looked incredibly young and fragile, must have bled to death.

But before he could assess any further, Sherlock started to talk:

"The victim didn't live here; it's obvious from the state of the flat compared to her clothes. They're clean and ironed while this place is a real dump. The inhabitant of the flat is male, in his late thirties, jobless and alcoholic, living on his last savings apparently. He used to be an accountant, but lost his job less than a year ago due to his own misguided actions." Responding to the indignant huff from Lestrade, he chose to expand: "His gender is obvious from the size of shoes and the pile of dirty clothes at the entrance. The age can easily be deduced from his food hygiene and the scarce cosmetics in the bathroom. The dust and the unattended flat scream of depression and spare time to waste. Jobless, but for less than twelve months, since his telly is only ten months old. So he had an income that would allow him to buy a luxury item, but lost it shortly after the purchase. The books and scattered notes on the desk indicate his profession, but the inability to find another job suggests that his being fired is his own fault." Sherlock was spinning around the room, pointing the details to back up his deductions.

"Amazing" John exhaled with a small smile, and was rewarded with a proud smirk.

"Then there are dust patterns. They are very eloquent and are telling us everything we need to know about what happened. The man let the victim in. They probably talked, but never sat down. The girl was unsecure, but tried to not show it. She also tried to put some distance between her and her host, and that's why she ended up so far away from her only escape. At one point of their conversation, the man pointed a gun at her. I'm quite surprised at her reaction. She tried to duck and turn around at the same time; that's why the shot caught her from behind. However, she was already crouching and the fact that the bullet went through her shoulder means that the killer initially aimed at her stomach. It's an unusual choice for a murder in the broad daylight. The neighbours were bound to hear the shot, thus not giving him time to enjoy the pain she would go through while dying this way. And indeed the commotion was heard, since you were alerted quite quickly. The shooter panicked and made a hasty escape with his weapon still in hand…"

While Sherlock was explaining the shooting, John squatted near the body. He automatically put on his latex gloves and was about to do a formal checkup of the body when he noticed something that made his blood run cold. He instantly pressed two fingers on her carotid artery.

"Oh Christ."

Sherlock stopped mid-deduction-rant to look quizzically upon his friend who was already tearing his jacket off and turning the victim on her back.

"John! What the hell are you doing?!" Lestrade shouted, outraged.

"Call an ambulance!" Dr Watson barked out in reply. "She's still alive!"

#

The next few minutes were panicked frenzy. The only calm person around seemed to be John, no, Captain Watson, giving orders without even gazing away from his patient, which Sherlock personally found fascinating. He was currently applying pressure on the wound with his scarf while John was doing chest compressions to keep the girl's heart beating and periodically shouting for "bloody paramedics, she needs blood transfusion now for God's sake!"

At first Lestrade wasn't quite ready to believe that his murder case just morphed into an attempted murder. Neither was Anderson who showed up seconds after Sherlock darted to John's side in order to help. But their shrieks of "What the hell?!" and "Don't you mess with my crime scene!" stopped short when the girl clenched reflexively her right hand and moaned softly. At the moment, the odds weren't in her favour, though. She had lost too much blood and the wound itself was serious. She was far gone into hypovolemic shock, but seemed to cling to life with admirable tenacity.

Eventually, paramedics stumbled into the room with a stretcher and the blood transfusion equipment, and Sherlock was pushed away. John debriefed the medical team without stopping his compressions. They quickly set up the transfusion, and only then put the girl on the stretcher and rushed out to the hospital, leaving in their wake a pool of blood, ruined jacket and scarf, and a dismal John Watson.

"What the hell just happened?" mumbled a visibly shaken Anderson.

Before Holmes could reply with one of his scathing remarks, a stormy voice did so in his place: "It was a proof that incompetence can be deadly." He turned around just in time to see his very angry friend exit the room, followed by dumbstruck gazes from the whole forensics team.

He managed to catch up to the marching doctor when they were already past the second floor. John had a set look on his face that meant trouble for anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. Sherlock marveled for a second about the extraordinary change from a mild-mannered man to this obviously dangerous person.

"You'd want to get rid of those gloves" he pointed out matter-of-factly.

John stopped short in his tracks, looking like he took a deep breath after a solid five minutes under water. He stared dumbly at his blood-stained latex gloves before slipping them off with a wince. His soldier stance relaxed a bit when he glanced guiltily at Sherlock. "I probably shouldn't have snapped at Anderson." However, Sherlock couldn't detect any trace of guilt in his friend. John was slightly ashamed of his outburst, yes, but didn't honestly regret it.

"As I see it, it's a normal reaction to the man. And you had a point."

John just shook his head and resumed his descent downstairs. Sherlock wanted to press further for information, but changed his mind. It was better to wait until his friend calmed down if he ever wanted to gather an interesting insight on the emotional side of the incident.

They exited the building and were walking down the street, for once the lanky detective being the one to follow. "We were almost too late." John's voice sounded hollow as he kept on walking, staring straight ahead.

"Lucky that you were at the scene, then." Sherlock understood the implications of the doctor's words. Had they not agreed to come with Lestrade, had they been stuck in the traffic, the girl would have died. She still wasn't out of the woods, though. It was an unfortunate sequence of events that led to this situation: the person discovering the scene didn't check her vitals, the first policeman didn't bother to do so either, and forensics didn't have time to do it (and they would have taken much longer than John, too). Such a level of combined stupidity seemed appalling.

"A simple check would have saved her a great amount of pain." John stopped in the middle of the street, jaw clenched tightly. There was something more than just irritation at the ambient unprofessionalism, Sherlock observed. He quickly reassessed his recollection of the crime scene – dust patterns, the flat's pathetic state, the woman's posture, the wound… the gunshot wound in her left shoulder.

Oh.

The injury was very similar to the one that sent John home from Afghanistan, so it logically induced an emotional response from the man. Not for the first time this evening, Sherlock allowed himself to wonder about extraordinary abilities hidden beneath unsightly jumpers. Despite relating to the pain of his patient and risking a full-blown PTSD episode, the doctor performed a miracle by keeping the woman alive and raising her chances of survival.

"You did well." John perked up a bit at the unusual kindness in his flatmate's voice. He smiled gratefully and even blushed slightly.

"Not as impressive as you, though" he said with a hint of amusement. The detective opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off: "I'm still waiting for you to explain how exactly you knew she was nervous during the conversation at the flat."

Obviously, the sentimental part of the discussion was over and Sherlock delightedly launched into a detailed explanation of the appropriate reading of dust and of mud traces.

#

John trailed behind his friend in the St Mary's hospital hallway. He hadn't expected Sherlock to become so engrossed in this case, it was hardly a three on his bizarre scale, but apparently his genius flatmate was intrigued by the motives of the crime itself. The man had already determined (and announced it to Lestrade by phone with usual drama) that the victim and the killer couldn't possibly have crossed paths, keeping a precondition that neither of them led a hidden second life. John wasn't even sure he wanted to know by what elaborate statistical juxtaposition had the detective arrived to this conclusion.

They strolled to the reception desk and Sherlock skillfully flirted his way through with the young nurse. That's how they ended in the ICU, trying to avoid suspicious-looking doctors. As a doctor who performed the first-aid, John was concerned about the girl and eager to find out about her condition. At least, they were redirected to ICU and not the morgue. That had to be a good sign, right?

The private ward was silent, except for the incessant beeping of numerous monitors surrounding the standard hospital bed. Watson momentarily wondered if he had been looking so young and broken when he was shipped back to London from Kandahar. Sherlock made a bee line to the medical chart at the bed end, and skimmed through in search of useful information. John spared him a glance before going directly to the still nameless patient's side, checking monitors for himself. He assessed her pale complexion and dark circles under her closed eyes. Took her pulse, frowned at the coldness of her skin. The tight bandage on her left shoulder didn't let him see the wound, but it looked as good as it could be at this point.

He turned around at the sound of the chart being carelessly tossed back in place. "She's heavily sedated and can't be questioned. Let's go." Sherlock's command came a little too rude to his ears, which he didn't bother to hide. "What? She's obviously alive and recovering. You don't have to worry anymore."

Well, what did he expect from Sherlock sentiment-is-for-dorks Holmes? John sighed. "What's her name, then?" he asked stoically.

"Estelle Lagarde. Can we go now?"

"Where to?" he inquired when they successfully exited the hospital.

"Soho, the address was on the chart. I want to check the victim's background, it might be enlightening" Sherlock answered absent-mindedly while hailing a cab.

#

Estelle had a very nice flat in a new apartment block. Sherlock flashed a stolen police ID to the caretaker and raced upstairs with John in his wake. It was a pleasant building, but unfortunately lacking personality. There wasn't much he could deduce from it yet.

The simple door wasn't locked, but it could easily be explained by the passage of Scotland Yard earlier this day. They carefully entered, mindful of not disturbing anything (yet).

"Well, she clearly wasn't broke" John commented at the sight of the large and shiny living-room. The flat seemed larger than 221b, but after superposing the blueprints in his mind palace, Holmes decided that it was nothing more than optical illusion due to the space's cleanliness compared to their own cluttered residence. The decoration was tasteful and feminine, perhaps missing some clearly defined style, which revealed a shy character of its owner.

"Or rather skillful at managing her resources." Sherlock went straight to the bedroom, where one with a minimal observing ability could discover a lot of secrets, while his friend hovered near bookshelves.

The room's dominant colour was a lightened shade of midnight blue. A neatly made double bed took almost all the space. He ignored the details, and started digging in the wardrobe. He heard John's voice calling from the living-room but ignored it for now. Surprisingly, Miss Lagarde didn't use her wardrobe as a hiding place for valuables, unlike most of her fellow women. He switched his attention to the bedside table, topped by an ascetic metal lamp. But there was nothing on it either, or under the pillow, or anywhere. It was a little frustrating. Surely the woman had important documents, things she wanted to hide from unwanted guests, valuables to preserve from eventual thieves.

"Sherlock! Did you hear me?" John asked from the doorstep. Sherlock just paced in circles in the free space, not even looking at the blogger. "I found a small strongbox behind books."

The detective stopped in the middle of a turn, a perfect image of a lightning struck man. Then he pushed John out of his way to get to the strongbox as fast as he could, followed by an irritated grumbling. Sherlock took in the small metallic container which had been concealed behind a row of books. He huffed at their titles – detective stories, dull.

"You're not going to picklock it, are you?" John drawled apprehensively when he spotted the manic gleam in the detective's eyes. And sighed when the man started enthusiastically doing just that.

The contents of the strongbox weren't as exciting as he expected. A small box with two golden earrings (old, family heirloom, previously owned by a female relative, possibly the grandmother), a stack of boring administrative documents and three postcards. He tossed the documents at John, and started analyzing the first card. Then the second. And the third.

"Found anything interesting?" he inquired after some time.

The doctor shook his head weakly. "No, except that her brother and she are legitimate heirs to a blooming family business." The sound of papers shuffling filled the expectant silence. "Their mother died years ago, and their father is in the final stage of cancer. Apparently, the first of two siblings to have a child will access a supplementary trust fund. Isn't that a weird clause for a will?"

"I've seen stranger things in rich families" Sherlock mumbled under his breath while laying the three postcards on the coffee table. John shifted closer to look over his shoulder. He started his rapid string of deductions the moment he was sure that he had his blogger's full attention: "Estelle is a shy, kind-hearted person. Look at all those pamphlets from charities, and I venture to say that she often works for them. She knows how to manage her money, and doesn't need luxury to feel at ease. Statistically speaking, the attempt on her life is due to her inheritance. Now, how would a jobless accountant benefit from the death of a young heiress? They didn't know each other, so most likely it was a hit. Who would hire such an incompetent fool? Someone who wouldn't know how to contact and/or afford a professional hit man. Again, statistics show that a person hiring a one-time killer would try to settle the situation by other means. Hence those cards, each one sent a week after another from Richmond, starting last month. It is coded, but is obviously a threat. She kept them hidden, which suggests that she knows the sender. The situation escalated in just a month. The one who hired a hit man won't give up now."

He inhaled sharply, feeling a little numb from his tirade. "Amazing" John breathed out with his mouth curved in a proud little smile at his friend's antics. Nevertheless, he sobered quickly enough. "Are we going after the lousy hit man or his client?"

Sherlock smiled knowingly. "One shouldn't be far from the other. Let's start with the hit man."

#

After a quick Google search on the deceitful accountant, Sherlock somehow succeeded in pinpointing the exact location of his hideout. John just had enough time to send a text to Lestrade before trailing behind his mad flatmate to the construction site. They glided silently in the shadows of unfinished brick walls. A turn around a corner brought them face to face with a disgruntled, sobbing man with a gun.

Instinctively, John tugged Sherlock behind, lifting his hands up in a soothing gesture. "Calm down, mate. We won't hurt you."

"Are… are you the police?" the unlucky hit man stuttered.

Feeling a cutting remark on its way, Watson hurried to answer: "No, no, we're really not. Why don't you lower your weapon and we talk, alright?"

The man's hands shook violently while he collapsed to his knees, the gun forgotten on the cold floor. "I'm not… I didn't mean to… I needed that money!"

The army training took over when John pushed the weapon in the far end of the room, but relented when he saw the clear signs of shock on the incompetent killer. He sighed imperceptibly. "What have you done?"

"I… I killed a girl. He told me to shoot her… in the stomach, and… I did so and I run, and oh God, she's dead now! And he told me so, and he'd give me money, but…"

The incoherent mumbling was starting to get irritating, even more that John was certainly not inclined to feel sympathy towards a man who would cowardly shoot an innocent woman. He was about to snap at the shivering mess of a hit man, but was saved the trouble (again) by his hyper-observant friend.

"You were fired for misappropriation of money from the company your victim's family is running. You spent your savings on gambling and drinking, driving yourself in the current situation. Then you were approached by someone whose credibility you didn't doubt. You believed in his promises, and you'd been drunk enough to agree to the deal. I suppose you lured Miss Lagarde into our flat with some make-up story. Considering your previous occupation, it'd be something along the lines of compromising materials or bank statements. She'd been gullible enough to believe you, and too devoted to her family for her own good. You took your shot, you missed your target, and you abandoned her to a slow painful death. Am I wrong?"

The man's face literally crumbled under shock and fear. "Who… who are you? How…?" John mercilessly stared at him, ready to intervene if things got out of hand, but generally letting Sherlock have fun with his prey. It wasn't a common occurrence, but in this case, the soldier in him insisted to make an exception to social norms. Meanwhile, the Consulting Detective nodded to the implied confirmation of his words, and continued:

"Taking into account the data you just confirmed and the rather unique clause in Lagarde Senior's last will, I assume your client is Estelle's older brother, who wants to claim the family fortune. Sorry to disappoint you, but it's less than likely that you'd ever be paid."

Police sirens wailed in the street close by, and the wretched man jumped slightly, eyes widening. "I killed for nothing?" he asked with a quivering voice, while the echo of running steps approached their location.

"Lucky for you, Dr John Watson arrived in time to save Miss Lagarde. You didn't kill."

John just stood at parade rest near the criminal, pinning him to the ground with a steely glare. He hadn't said a word since Sherlock started his lecture, and honestly didn't want to change that. His tall friend stood a few steps away in a perfect imitation of a vengeful god, radiating superiority and disgust at the hit man. The coat surely helped the dramatic effect, too.

When a couple of Yarders burst into the room with their weapons out, none of them flinched (except the sobbing mess on the floor). Fortunately, they knew the newcomers and were spared the tedious explanation process. Policemen just cuffed the criminal, inquired about which DI was in charge of the case and were about to leave when the prisoner jerked in their direction. "He called me!" he barked between two hysterical sobs. "He said he'd finish the job!"

Yarders wrestled the man to the waiting panda-car. John and Sherlock exchanged flabbergasted looks before taking off for a sprint towards St Mary's hospital.

#

They burst into ICU under protesting shouts from nurses and doctors. John wasn't sure what drove Sherlock to have such a distraught look on his face – the genuine worry about the victim or the frustration of letting the killer win. Needless to say he would always bet on the former.

They rushed to Estelle's ward, only to find the door locked from the inside. A muffled voice could be heard behind the door, a male voice. Later John would vaguely remember shouting to a babbling nurse to call the police before slamming against the door with his right shoulder. It didn't open.

He felt Sherlock's hands pushing him aside and watched bemusedly as his skinny flatmate kicked the door under the handle, making it fly wide open and revealing a scene worthy of a bad thriller. The faint light shimmered through closed curtains on the suit-clad red-haired man in his late twenties whose face had been twisted in a horror mask of hatred. He was aiming a gun on the immobile white form drowning in hospital sheets. The most shocking, though, was the pale trembling hand that the semi-conscious girl raised in a hopeless defensive gesture.

Sherlock, who was a step ahead of him, jumped into the mess, disarming the murderous brother in a blur of gray and blue and pushing the man away. John just had the time to note Estelle's arm falling down, her fingers curling protectively on her belly, before the killer lashed fiercely at his friend, making him fall heavily on his back and consequently knocking all the air out of his lungs.

Icy wrath coiled in his guts. In less than twelve seconds, the man was crying in pain, restrained by a simple but efficient free-fight move. He kept hissing and kicking however, and Sherlock groaned painfully from his sprawled position on the ground, so John didn't feel any worse by slamming the criminal's head against the wall, satisfied with the sickening crack it produced. He briefly checked the vitals of the unconscious man (a concussion, nothing that'd hinder him during the court case) and switched his attention to the panting Consulting Detective who struggled to stand up.

"You alright there?" John asked in concern. Sherlock waved his hand to dismiss him, knocking down the medical chart on his way. He huffed in reply, amused despite the gnawing worry, and rose up to check on the real patient.

John was surprised to be met by blurry blue eyes, eyeing him warily. His reassuring doctor smile seemed to work though, as something indefinable passed in the girl's clouded gaze and she managed a weak smile herself before slipping into sleep again. Monitors revealed that she was mostly alright, if not a little exhausted. Sherlock finally managed to stand up, picking up the chart and staring at it. It had been whispered, but John still heard the "Oh" of the final revelation.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked curiously.

The detective stared at the chart, then turned his eyes to examine the sleeping woman on the bed. He had a look of extreme bewilderment and respect on his face, as if she had accomplished something he didn't foresee. "I'm afraid I missed a vital fact. Estelle Lagarde isn't just shy and mild. She is very strong."

John frowned at the new mystery laid by his flatmate. Of course he noticed the extraordinary will to live this girl displayed by surviving for hours before his field medicine skills entered the equation, and the sheer force of character to stay awake through the fight despite sedatives in her system. But it wasn't enough to elicit Sherlock's respect, as far as he knew.

Sherlock met his eyes, looking to the world as a kid on Christmas day. "She is pregnant." Startled, John gawked at the unconscious woman, while the man-child beside him continued with a hint of genuine amusement in his voice: "Mothers certainly are scary."

They giggled uncontrollably until the police rushed in and took the matter on an official level.

#

It was eight months later and a month after The Fall that John found in his mail a light-blue envelope labeled with a round writing. He was about to throw it in the paper bin unopened, when something made him stop and rip the envelope instead. He was greeted by a vaguely familiar blonde woman smiling tiredly at the camera with a plump baby in her arms.

He huffed disbelievingly. Who would send him a birth announcement card nowadays? He turned it in his hands, and froze at the sight of the text on the other side of the photo. For the first time in a month, John Watson smiled a genuine happy (a little bit tainted with nostalgia) smile.

"We welcome with love John Sherlock Lagarde, born on 19 July 2012 1.15 pm"

Under the printed black lines, a woman wrote in shiny blue ink: "Both of you had been very real, and I'll go to hell to prove it to anyone who'd ever doubt it. I believe in Sherlock Holmes and I believe John Watson. Thank you for saving us."

Thank you for reading! :) Feel free to point out any inaccuracies.

I'm going back to TTS now ^^