Three times around the wrist, knuckles, twice around the thumb then reverse, twice through the fingers, then make an X. Sherlock wound his hand wraps around his hands tightly, taking only about 10 seconds for each hand. The yellow wraps were scuffed with dirt and leather marks from his boxing gloves.
Said gloves tucked underneath his arm, Sherlock crossed the gym where several people were in various levels of fighting ability (or lack thereof). He spotted Rogue, who was currently holding the second place for lightweight champion of the world. (Technically he was in first place, according to official records, but Sherlock put him at second since he had beaten Rogue in a spar at least twice).
There were several younger guys, probably wouldn't last very long once they realized that being hit in the face hurts. Mia, the gym's female champion, was battering the heavy bag around. The little fireball had once given Sherlock a bloody nose after she'd pestered him to spar with her.
Sherlock sidled up to a speed bag, keeping eye contact with the red and white bag at face level while he pressed a button off to the side to start timing the rounds. The bell rang and he began to throw punches in rapid succession, two left, two right, one left, one right, one left one right, two left, two right.
He was in the middle of the third round, pummeling the thing into oblivion when he heard the sound of the gym's coach behind him.
"Watch this," he was saying behind Sherlock. "Not many people can do this, not this quickly and accurately."
Sherlock smirked. Luca was showing off the gym to prospective members. The coach never failed to include Sherlock's abilities as a major selling point. Sherlock didn't mind the attention.
After two more rounds at the speed bag, Sherlock moved on to the swivel. His profession seriously called for his ability to dodge and maneuver, and other than in vivo, there was really no better way to hone that skill than practicing with the gyrating punching bag.
He gave his left jab, the bag came back at him at an angle. He dodged and cuffed it again.
"Sherlock!" said a familiar voice.
"Ah, John," Sherlock replied, continuing to dodge and strike. "Come to challenge me to a spar?"
"Why haven't you been taking your calls?" John asked, nearly getting struck by the swivel as he drew too close.
"I never look at my phone when I'm training," Sherlock responded. "It's in my canvas bag, anyway." He hooked the bag with his right fist, making a satisfying smack when he connected. It bobbed around and he ducked to the left, then to the right. He stopped when he noticed the long silence that was going on.
Sherlock picked up a towel and wiped the back of his neck. "Do you need something?" he asked, turning to face John.
John, looking impatient, replied, "There is a delivery man at the flat who says he needs a signature and a waiver to leave a package there. He wouldn't take my signature, and he won't leave."
Sherlock's eyes brightened. "Ah, that'll be my severed foot. Excellent."
John stared at him blankly. "And why is a severed foot being delivered to you?"
"I'm solving a case for an American," Sherlock answered haughtily. "Hell if I'm going all the way there just to look at a foot."
Sherlock sauntered off to collect his things. "Wait for me, I'm just going to grab my canvas bag. BRB."
John rolled his eyes. "I'll…BRH."