A/N:
Title: Victory Dance
Disclaimer: All characters are copyright their respective owners.
Warnings: A large amount of somewhat-graphic violence.
Pairings: Could be construed as Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 1,156
John had no idea where Sherlock was.
He'd already tried texting Sherlock and had even gone as far as to call him, but to no avail. See what had happened was this; he had come from his shift at the hospital to an empty flat. No violin playing, no experiments bubbling and overflowing in the kitchen, no Sherlock pacing back and forth like a maniac. It was slightly unnerving. There weren't any cases going on as of late and John hadn't gotten any texts from Sherlock either, so that ruled out the possibility that Sherlock was off looking at some corpse. But that didn't mean whatever it was that he was doing wasn't dangerous.
John took out his phone, deciding that texting Lestrade would be the best course of action at this point. Lestrade had known Sherlock the longest.
Do you have any idea where Sherlock has gone off to? There's no cases at the moment and he's not in the flat.
No cases? He's probably out boxing.
John looked at his phone incredulously; Sherlock. Boxing? Sherlock couldn't possibly box, he was to skinny and... John stopped himself. It actually made a bit sense, something dangerous like boxing would certainly be something Sherlock would be interested in.
John texted Lestrade asking for the name and address of the ring that Sherlock frequented the most. Lestrade replied with the address and the name, along with a quick "be careful". John figured that meant that where ever it was that he was going to was a bit of a shady place.
Great.
John put on his jacket and with a final thought tucked his Army issued revolver into his waistband. It's good to be prepared, that was his reasoning for bringing it. With a final look at the empty flat John set out.
Opponent throws blitz, let it hit. Left hook to jaw. Dodge incoming blow to right side of body. Opponent drops defense. Blow to lower left rib, broken. Opponent retaliates with punch to temple, stagger back. Opponent is now very close. Uppercut to chin, follow through with an elbow to nose. Break it. Punch to sternum. Opponent's balance further thrown off. Punch to throat. Match over.
Sherlock opened his eyes, smirking at his opponent across the ring. They were in there third and final round. Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to do and this man didn't have a chance.
There was music playing from a radio in the corner. Some men in the corner yelled for it be turned up; it had a steady, tribal beat to it.
Should I close my eyes and prophesize
Hoping maybe someday come
Should I wet the ground with my own tears
Crying over what's been done
Sherlock closed his eyes and stood up flexing his shoulders, getting the kinks out of his neck. Across the ring his opponent also stood up, cracking his neck in a way that Sherlock assumed was supposed to look menacing. They walked towards each other, meeting in the center of the ring, where their bodies were only an arm's length away from each other. The bell rang.
Should I lift the dirt and plant the seed
If I knew I'll never grow
Should I wet the ground with the sweat from my brow
And believe in my good work
My good work
My good work
My good work
Just like he knew his opponent would, the man threw a wild blitz, hitting Sherlock square in the stomach. The man was much stronger this time, then he had been in the previous matches. Sherlock tacked that up to adrenaline, quickly calculating how much more force he would need to incorporate into his next move.
Hey there, I'm flying up above
Looking down on the tired earth
And I can see, I can see potential
Speaking through you, speaking to you
From all of heaven's possibilities
His opponent had retreated to about an arm's length away, still within striking range for Sherlock's long limbs. Sherlock threw out his left hook, hitting the man squarely in the jaw with a satisfying crack.
Power, hey do know how it works
Hey do you know that the meek, they shall inherit the earth
You should work, you should work
Leaving with something of
His opponent was furious now. Perfect, though Sherlock. Anger lead to mistakes. Like he expected the man tried to hit Sherlock with crazed punch, but only managed to open up his left side. Sherlock took advantage of this by planting a firm blow on the man's lower rib, breaking it.
I hit the water or stay on dry land
Even though I've never swam
Take machete into the brush
Though at first there is no man
Oh, he was practically fuming now, Sherlock could swear he could see smoke coming out of his ears. Sherlock giggled as he threw his next punch; a solid uppercut to the chin, followed by an elbow to the nose, breaking that as well.
Taste the war paint on my tongue
As it's dripping with my sweat
Place my gaze in the futures path
Seeing things that ain't come yet
Now comes the punch to the sternum. His opponent was dazed, blood from his nose covering his eyes and inhibiting his sight. Sherlock lashed out with a straight arm punch, hitting the man squarely in the center of his chest. There was a loud exhale of breath and the man stumbled backwards a few feet.
Hope to watch the victory dance
After the whole day's work is done
Hope to watch the victory dance
In the evening's setting sun
The man's head was thrown back, throat open and vulnerable. Sherlock took this as a chance to preform his final move in the match. Closing his right hand into a half fist he struck out and hit the man in the Adam's apple. With a final exhale of breath the man fell over and stayed down. The bell rang.
Hope to watch the victory dance
Over many lives to come
Hope to watch the victory dance
In the evening's setting sun
Sherlock smiled big and wide as the he stood in the ding basking in the glory of his win. The rush of endorphins to his brain left him feeling happy and high and just plain good.
Setting sun
Setting sun
Setting sun
Something in the back of the room caught his eye. Passing underneath the ropes, Sherlock moved towards it, interested.
Hope to dance the victory dance
After the whole day's work is done
Hope to dance the victory dance
In the evening's setting sun
Sherlock was now close enough to see who it was. Sandy blonde hair, a fading tan, black leather jacket; "John?" He called out, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.
Hope to dance the victory dance
Over many lives to come
Hope to dance the victory dance
In the evening's setting sun
John smiled, leaning forward to whisper into Sherlock's ear "That was absolutely... Brilliant."
A/N: This is my own, personal Christmas gift to myself, but since I'm not greedy I decided I would share I with all of you.
For those wondering, the song used is "Victory Dance" by My Morning Jacket.