Chapter 2
John is painfully conscious of Sherlock the entire time. John saw him stir out of the corner of his eye, saw him use his "massive intellect" as he figured out where he was and why. Saw him smile at the mention of Moriarty knocked out. John hoped that Sherlock knew that his next action was for him.
Worst flat-mate ever. Best flat-mate ever. Where did one end and the other begin? Probably around doing the shopping and saving the world.
John's practiced eye takes in his opponent, calculating strengths and weaknesses. His method is much more instinctual than Sherlock's. His instinct hasn't been wrong yet. Sebastian Moran is most definitely a most formidable man. About as tall as Sherlock, Moran still has the "Ex-Army" look about him. Fit and trim, as if he maintained the physical training regimen every day since his Dishonorable Discharge. Dangerous.
Sherlock and Moriarty may be experienced with mental warfare and manipulation, but this was Moran and John's territory. He'd never felt more up to a challenge then at this moment. All of his training that he had put away in a dusty little box in his mind (how else was he supposed to function as a civilian?) was at his command, as sharp as the days when its use was a matter of life and death. He felt exultant at the idea of combat. His body was eager to slip back to its battle stance, which was more natural to him than regular standing. God, how I've missed this. Mycroft, the bastard, could tell straight off. So much for being a well adjusted human being.
His last few words had elicited the response he was hoping for from Moran. Insulting someone when you want them to hit you is so satisfying, John realized, thinking that he should probably feel ashamed. Moran's face was stormy, his brow murderous.
"I'm glad I get to kill you. I've wanted to the moment I saw you through my scope."
John's heart is pumping, his stomach flexed with impatience. Get on with it so I can smash your face! God, once I get my hands on you I'm going to –
Shit. He'd forgotten about Sherlock. He almost hoped that he'd passed out from smoke inhalation or something so that he wouldn't have to witness John's slip-up. Nothing would confirm Sherlock's ideas about the hypocrisy and predictability of the human nature more than seeing John go all ape-shit-war-mode. He hadn't committed any violence since he was sent ho— OK! So he'd thrown a few knock-out punches here and there, and maybe cracked someone's ribs with his knee. Well, now is obviously not the time to be worrying what he bloody thinks, now is it? If he isn't damn chuffed that I broke my battle(proper battle)-sobriety streak he can go shove his head up his arse.
He sees Sherlock strain against whatever is tying him to the bed, just as John tenses to spring forward. His attention snaps to Moran. They understand each other. This is no petty brawl. There will be a winner, and a dead man. John gives Moran the slightest of nods, showing his respect and awareness for Moran's skill and prowess. Moran nods back.
John surges forwards, meeting Moran head on. He cranks back his fist for a right hook. Moran begins to incrementally adjust his lunge so as to avoid the fist, but missed the moment when John abandoned that punch for a left-handed uppercut. Moran is fast, fast enough to pull his face back in the short amount of time before impact, lessening the blow. John feels a powerful jab to his left side as Moran used the momentum of his upward punch to take advantage of John's unprotected ribs. John feels his entire torso flex, deflecting most of the damage off of his tensed muscles.
With too much adrenaline pumping for him to feel pain, John drops low, grabbing Moran about the waist, trying to bowl him over backwards. Moran throws himself forward, counteracting, and causing him to land rather heavily on John. The hard floor grinds against the back of John's head as Moran takes advantage of his elevated position to kneel against John's chest, his hands looking to fasten on John's throat. John reaches up his right hand, clenching the right side of Moran's neck while pushing his head sideways, interrupting Moran's scrabbling fingers. With a fluid motion, John forces Moran to the ground, using his legs to steady himself against the sniper's furious struggling. John brings back his arm, and with the force of a low-speed automobile collision, hits Moran square in the face.
John hears Moran let out an involuntary sound halfway between a snarl and a groan. Moran is now bleeding from both his nose and a cut on his top lip where John's fist broke the skin. John takes the opportunity presented by Moran's momentary pause to hit him again, his fist connecting with the sniper's jaw. The larger man is stunned only for a few seconds. John feels Moran snap back to clarity as the sniper's longer arms snake up and grab John by his upper arms. Moran pulls John slightly forward, then, with an enormous burst of strength, throws John backwards. John lands on his back, his legs still entangled with Moran's, the wind knocked out of him.
John wastes no time in getting to his feet, despite feeling sluggishly disoriented. His balance returned with speed, and just in the nick of time. Moran had swung his arm outward in an arc that would have made direct contact with the side of John's head, either knocking him out or delivering serious brain damage, but John avoided it by leaning backwards, his pose reminiscent of playing limbo. The fist sailed in front of and slightly over his face, and would have grazed his nose if he had been slower to react.
John was just coming out of his backward bend, when Moran took the liberty of turning around and using his elbow to force John's lips into contact with his teeth, splitting the skin viciously while knocking John to the ground. The taste of blood fueled John next action. The taste of blood spurred him on. The taste of blood, the blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, trickling down his chin, down his throat, down the neck of his shirt filled him with reckless abandon.
A guttural rage-filled bellow exited his body as he jumped to his feet and ran head-on at Moran. John laughed inside at the look on Moran's face; he'd obviously expected skill from John, but ferocity? Never would have dreamed it, judging by his uncertain step backwards. Moran's every action opened up new potential ways to hurt him. The step back put him slightly off balance, so when John's smaller yet compact body connected with his, the man was thrown clean off his feet. John's battle-rage made him quicker, so that before Moran even hit the ground he was in a ready stance to kick the sniper's ribs. John heard them crack, but the sound came from far away, his mind surrounded by a red fog.
Moran was lying on the ground cradling his ribs, his fetal position offering little protection from John's onslaught of brutal ministrations. It was by pure fluke that Moran had been surprised by John's fierce response to his last attack, affording John the advantage. No doubt their fight would have lasted much longer, perhaps even going on to almost an hour, their strength flagging with the effort of combating each other and their weariness.
John stood over Moran, who appeared to be unconscious. He continued to loom over him, waiting for Moran's play of opossum to be over. John realized that the sniper wasn't feigning. This discovery caused another war-cry to erupt from his mouth, blood misting into the air with the force of his voice. He found himself standing with his feet on either side of Moran's chest, the toes of his shoes tucked underneath where the larger man's arms connected to his torso, as he reach down and pulled Moran's head upwards by his hair. He proceeded to kiss Moran's lips, biting down, drawing more blood; ownership and rage and victory. His battle lust left no room for intimacy as he prepared to break Moran's neck with a sharp twist.
He was crouched over the man's chest, already starting the preliminary twist in the opposite direction of the way he was going to break Moran's neck, to give it more force at the moment when he would finally allow his arms to play the part of the string that flung the spinning top into its dizzying circles. Something was making its presence dominant in his mind, was clearing away the red fog.
Ah, humanity, my old friend. He was glad that he could rely upon his to stop him from crossing the line between defender to murderer. His breathing began to steady as he gently laid Moran's head back on the ground.
He stood, and turned back towards flames surrounding the bed. The fuel or whatever had fed the fire had burnt itself out in some places, leaving a space wide enough for John to safely pass through after he stamped out a few more inches on either side of the opening.
And there was Sherlock. He was curled with his back against the headboard, looking at John with something akin to fear in his eyes. Now I've bloody well terrified my best friend. Fantastic. John raises his hands in a gesture of peace as he walks around to one side of the bed, going straight for the ties. Sherlock's hands are slightly purple with the lack of circulation. As soon as that wrist is free, Sherlock snatches it close to his body. John ignores this and quickly moves to the other hand. Same reaction with the other wrist.
John moves to sit at the end of the bed, his back to Sherlock. There's a good 4 feet in between where John sits and Sherlock cowers. He hears Sherlock shift.
"You're going to want to massage your hands and wrists; get the blood flowing. I'll tend to the bruises once we get home," John says, hoping that his quiet voice would calm Sherlock.
"Stay here for a bit. I'll be back." Sherlock still says nothing. John grabs the pillows off the bed as he leaves. John passes through the gap in the fire again. He feels relieved to be out of Sherlock's presence. Sherlock's shock and/or fear was really hurting and irking John.
John walks across the distance to Moran, noting the rather large amounts of blood on the floor. His and mine. John kneels on the floor near Moran's head, gently lifting his rather battered skull off the ground, slipping one of the posh pillows underneath it. He checks the man's vitals. The heartbeat was still strong. Some of the wounds had already stopped bleeding. Except for the fresh ones that John's kiss had left. Jesus H. Christ, I'm sorry mate. He wiped the blood from Moran's face, and then proceeded to lift first one eyelid, then the other. Concussion. John's fingers probed over Moran's ribs, noting that nearly all of the ribs down his left side were cracked, and a good portion on the right. His sternum appeared to be intact, and John leaned down to listen to the man's breathing. A bit wheezy, but nothing to indicate a punctured lung. John laid the man's arms neatly at his sides.
John stood. He took the other pillow with him as his went into the room adjoining this one. Moriarty was still on the ground where John had left him, the amount of blood on his person looking much more serious than it was. They'd had a slight scuffle (a few punches, one to the stomach and one to the face) before John managed to hook an arm around Moriarty's neck and cut off his airway. John moved in close, giving him the same treatment; pillow, vitals— but stops when he hears Moriarty groan, his eyes opening and looking at him with unfocused eyes. His consciousness was only momentary as his head relaxed back into the pillow. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "kill you" before his eyes roll back into his head. John suspects that he'll be out for a few more hours at least. It seems like he may have hit his head pretty nicely on the hard floor when John dropped his unconscious body. Other than that, both men will live. With his doctorly duties done, he returns to Sherlock.
As John rounded the corner he was surprised by Sherlock as he pulled John into a rather too tight hug. John gasps slightly; the punch Moran gave him to the ribs seemed to have done some damage too. Sherlock doesn't let go despite John's wordless protest. Sherlock finally pulls back, his face creased as he looked over John's wounds, which John was only now starting to feel. I feel like I've been hit by a car and thrown down a steep, rocky incline.
"John, come sit down. You look like hell," murmurs Sherlock. John settles on the floor in the middle of the room. Sherlock moves off, coming back with part of the bed sheet that he tore off. He leans in to start to clean John up.
"Sherlock, wait. Do you still have your mobile on you? Take a picture! I want to see how badass I look."
Sherlock's eyebrow quirks, but with a small smile he pulls out his phone, quickly snapping a photo and showing it to John. The photo-John looks more like the victim of a gang beating than the victor of a near-deadly battle, but hey, still badass what with all the blood and bruises. Is it weird that I think I look more fetching covered in blood? He asks Sherlock, who turns away, obviously a bit embarrassed.
"Definitely more rugged looking. And yes, pretty badass looking too. Now how about we get your badass home before the more serious bruising begins to show up?" Sherlock's reply makes John grin, but also makes him so much more aware of the cut on the underside of his lip.
"Send me that picture. I might just have to keep it. Memento of the great John Watson vs. Sebastian Moran fight." He gets to his feet, pulling himself up using Sherlock's proffered hand. "Let's see if we can find a bathroom in this bloody place. I can't imagine any cabbie would be willing to pick us up with me looking like a work at a slaughterhouse."
Together they look around the flat; John's limp returning as his body protests against the continued motion. Sherlock supports John with a hand around his back, clasping his body to John's side, careful to avoid his injured ribs. They take little notice of the extravagance of the rooms around them, laughing with no little relief to finally find a room with running water in the maze of a flat. They end up with John sitting on the counter of the kitchen, Sherlock attending to his face with gentle attention. Just to rub their victory in further, Sherlock was using Moriarty's expensive dish towels to mop up John's face, leaving the more saturated ones on the counters, and the floor.
"John," Sherlock began hesitantly.
"Yeah, Sherlock?"
"Erm, that moment when you kissed Seb. What was that about?" His face was sheepish, and there was a slight blush to his pale cheeks.
"I— it was nothing. It was just the heat of battle. Nothing meant by it. You can forget about it," said John, his own face going scarlet.
"Right. Good. Okay. I mean, it would just be a pity if—" Sherlock abruptly stops speaking and wipes a little distractedly at the drying blood on John's throat.
"How did you get here? How did you find me, anyhow? Last I remember you were at the clinic, and I was chasing a lead somewhere near Brixton." Sherlock's change of subject is a welcome one.
"First off, I took a cab. Smirk all you want; and the other bit… I don't know if I should tell you."
"Bollocks. Spill or I will just deduce it out of you. You know I can."
"Fine! Jesus, you prying prat. I had Mycroft implant a micro tracking chip into the soles of all of your shoes. And into the collars of all your coats. He quite enjoyed the task, I must admit." John blushed a bit more. He was waiting for Sherlock to explode into a rant about how John should, on no account, help his brother keep tabs on him. He looked up at the stretch of silence.
Sherlock's face was strange. Smiling yet sad yet angry. His face finally settled for smiling.
"I have to say, brilliant on both your parts. I'll admit I didn't notice. Normally I should be furious with you, John Hamish Watson—," His face stern, but relaxing again into a grin. "—but I'm just too damned glad that we're both fine because of your little indiscretion."
John laughs a little in his relief. He hops down off the counter, regretting it immediately
"Oh bollocks, my leg is acting up again. How about we get out of here before our friends back there wake up? Oh God, I can't wait to get home and have a cup of tea and a lie-down."
"Of course. Now that you are mildly less intimidating looking without all the blood we should be able to acquire a cab; though I must mention to you that your face is blooming with bruises rather colorfully. It's quite interesting actually. Hold on a minute, I'm going to get a picture of your face." Sherlock is suppressing quite a bit of laughter as he quickly replaces his mobile into the pocket of his slacks. "Alright let's head out. May I escort you to your cab, dear sir?"
John rolls his eyes, but links his arms through Sherlock's, leaning heavily on the arm. His leg will give him hell for the next few weeks, he can tell from the quality of the pins, needles, and stabbing pains that torture his leg even at the slow pace they clip towards the lift leading down to the ground floor of the expensive building.
The cabbie's eyes look them over with a startled expression but he doesn't stop them from getting in. Sherlock gives him the address, and they head off. The trip is longer than John remembers and he is soon asleep with his forehead resting against the glass.
John awakes to Sherlock gently patting his face. John finds himself lying with his head on Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock's arms holding him. John sits up groggily, realizing that the taxi is stopped outside of 221 B Baker Street. He groans with relief. Sherlock grasps his arms and helps him out of the cab. John is sitting on the steps while Sherlock pays the cabbie, when Mrs. Hudson flings the door open and patters down the steps, wringing her hands at the state of them both.
"Oh dears, what have gone and done now? I don't think my heart could deal with one of you getting seriously hurt, so why don't you boys just give it a rest? Can't you take pity on an old woman with a hip? I'll be up shortly with some tea and biscuits. Lord knows you both could use it."
Sherlock smiles lazily at her, telling her that tea would be lovely, thanks. John manages to stand and begins to hobble his way up the stairs, Sherlock's hand on his elbow. He passes over the threshold and sighs. It's damn good to be back. There is no way I can make it in to the clinic tomorrow. I'll have to call Sarah later. Wait...got fired, remember?
They make it to the top of the stairs up to their flat without any real problems.
"Do you feel like showering? I can help you undress if you want. You seem to be having trouble just standing."
"A shower would be nice, yeah." John leads the way to the bathroom that's on this floor. It's technically Sherlock's, so every surface is covered with miscellaneous objects. He leans against the wall as Sherlock turns on the shower. There was no time for John to collect his jumper once he realized Sherlock was missing so it was just a button-up over a plain white t-shirt. Sherlock uses his musician's hands to deftly push the buttons out of their button-holes, pushing the shirt back over John's shoulders. He moves his hands to the hem of the t-shirt, tugging it up. John lifts his arms, helping Sherlock maneuver it over his head. John is bone tired, and feels the cool bathroom tile pressed against his aching back, while Sherlock unbuttons his pants and zips down the fly pushing them down over John's hips. Once the pants hit the floor and Sherlock helps John step out of them, he turns to John telling him that he'll be back in a bit with some fresh clothes, leaving John in the bathroom. John shuts and locks the door, slipping out of his boxers, limping to the steaming shower.
The water thunders in John's ears as he stands under the stream, feeling the heat begin to relax his sore muscles. He sees the last of the blood on him tint the water as it runs down the drain. He uses Sherlock's soap, cleaning the battle off of his body and his soul. He sees huge bruises all over, the largest over his left side. He feels guilty about his treatment of Moran after his unconsciousness was confirmed. Where the hell did that possessive bite/kiss come from? He was a little scared of himself at the moment. Now that he's safe, he stops to think over everything. God, why can't I just leave it alone? Am I trying to over-analyze this so that I can convince myself that I'm some sort of violent, hedonistic monster?
John hears Sherlock enter. He locked the door, right? Locked doors mean nothing to Sherlock, remember? He hears Sherlock moving things about.
"John, I've brought your favorite pajama bottoms, some boxers, and that gray t-shirt that I bought you for your birthday, and a fresh towel. Just let me know when you want to get up the stairs to your room. I'll bring up your tea."
"Thanks mate."
John shuts off the water, peeking around the shower curtain. Sherlock had cleared a space on the counter to set the clean clothes on top of the towel. That's actually very thoughtful of him, considering he could have just tossed them round the door onto the floor mat. Weirdest, best, most interesting flat-mate ever. He steps out of the shower into the air that turned frigid when Sherlock opened the door, glad that his leg didn't give out, and lifts the clothes to get the towel. He dries off quickly, putting on the clean clothes, drying his hair once the warmth seeps back into his body. He sees his face in the fogged mirror and winces a little. He turns up his lip checking how serious the laceration is. Pretty bad, actually. He'll probably need some stitches. His face has begun to swell. Oh, how attractive.
"Sherlock." John is standing in the doorway of the bathroom. Sherlock walks over quickly, stops, and starts laughing. John raises his eyebrow in indignation.
"Sorry John, but you look like shit. That combined with your hair sticking up in spikes…" He bursts out laughing again, his face underscored by the folds of his chin as his head is pulled back in laughter. He looks so ridiculous that soon John is laughing too, gingerly, his ribs sending out a twinge with each breath.
"You're a right prat, laughing at me like that. Get your sodding arse over here and help me up the stairs."
"Yes, John." And with that they start the journey to the second bedroom that Mrs. Hudson thought they wouldn't need.
John falls back on his bed after Sherlock had pulled back the blanket, the bruising on his back causing him to whimper a bit. Sherlock helps him to sit in a more upright position with his pillows stacked behind him. As Sherlock leaves to go get John's tea and some painkillers, John is reminded of his act of mercy back at Moriarty's flat.
His pondering is interrupted by the sound of Sherlock skipping steps as he races up with the tea and painkillers.
"Thanks." John downs the pills and the entire mug of tea in one go. He hands it back to Sherlock and settles back into the pillows feeling his eyelids begin to drop over his eyes in his exhaustion.
"I'm glad you're going to be fine," Sherlock whispers as John fades from consciousness. John feels something small and warm pressed to his forehead. Sherlock's getting sentimental now? Forehead kissing? The world must be ending.