Blood was flowing freely from his opponent's face and over the devilish grin that was plastered there. Not wasting his time on heckling the slightly shorter man in front of him, the dark haired man spat out blood before turning back to the stockier man with a small smirk of his own.
This fight was actually going to be a tough one, especially seeing as his ankle was still swollen.
Nodding slightly the fight continued and there was nothing more than a flurry of feet and fists as they danced around each other, always calculating, never stopping. Blood liberally covered the floor and one of his opponent's teeth was skittered off to the side.
They ignored it in favor of getting their desperate aggression out of the way.
No one really knew why Fighters were so aggressive, if it was due to something in their genetic make-up or the fact that they began training at such a young age.
Sherlock's nose was displaced with a sickening crunch as he was distracted by kicking the other man squarely in the ribs. The shorter man collapsed with a sharp outtake of breath, and the taller man stepped back for a moment, letting the other gather himself and decide if it was time to call this match off.
There weren't very many Wanderers about, seeing as Fighters didn't leave the service they were enlisted in without being forcefully removed due to health or serious injury.
The man that had wound up his opponent this time had been discharged from the police force because of a mangled foot, and if one would think that it would have made him an easier match, they would have wound up soundly beaten.
He had actually been the best match Sherlock had gone up against in months, and told him as much as he knelt down next to him, straightening his nose out with another crack, setting it in place.
While the detective wasn't an overly vain creature, he didn't really want to have a crooked nose.
The shorter man grinned up at him, ignoring the tang of his own blood in his mouth as he grasped Sherlock's hand and let himself be hauled to his feet. "Thanks, mate, you aren't bad yourself, how'd you manage to wind up a Wanderer?"
His brown eyes were curious as he sized the pale man up and down, it was obvious by his complexion that he'd never made it out to the war, yet there was nothing disfiguring him badly enough to warrant him to be discharged from the police.
"That is a long story," Sherlock said nasally through his cracked nose, watching as the other Wanderer shifted on his bad foot, getting his balance back.
It was a shame he'd been discharged, Sherlock decided, in the heat of the battle he forgot all about the pain and naturally compensated for the difference of length in his legs.
Still, one didn't argue with the government.
Something he'd learned well.
Leaving the squat building that had been taken over for the very purpose the two Wanderers had been using it for, Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose, wincing slightly at the sting.
It had been a pretty violent bout and Sherlock was glad for it, the aggression that usually flew through him was now curled almost contentedly in his chest, like a relaxing and purring tiger. With a sigh, he knew that he now had to return to the flat, bloodied and having to explain himself to his flatmate.
Only a month and John was stirring things inside of him that he'd never thought he'd feel again. Once again those feelings got locked into a box and buried as he slowly climbed the steps to his home and opened the door, casting a pale eye around the surrounding area.
Strange, there was no sign that the ex-army doctor had come back to the flat and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. That meant... he pulled his phone out to send a text to the blond man, telling himself he wasn't worried in the slightest.
Don't drink too much – SH
Setting his phone on the arm of his chair, he pulled off his coat, laying it almost reverently against the back of the chair before making his way to the bathroom; might as well clean up before the good doctor came back and began questioning him.
He was halfway through his task, the sink a sluggish pink color from the mixed blood and water when he heard the chime of his phone.
It was twenty minutes until Sherlock left the bathroom shirtless, his midsection wrapped to help soothe bruised ribs and a strip covering his nose to keep it in place as it healed.
Both bandages would be removed tomorrow, no longer necessary.
He was reaching for his phone when he heard the door open and there stood the man that had been irritatingly occupying his thoughts far more than he should be. His glare died as he stared at the detective's bare chest and the alcohol could be smelt on him.
It was all the dark haired man could do not to heave an annoyed sigh. Hadn't he killed that train of thought with the whole 'married to work' bit?
"John," he acknowledged the other man shortly, turning from him and moving back towards his bedroom to fetch a clean and bloodless shirt.
There was a huffy sigh behind him and he heard the shorter man stomp to the direction of the bathroom. Mentally he counted down from ten and a small smirk grew at the outcry that he heard when he reached one, "What the hell have you been doing?"
Well, leaving blood in the sink and a bloody shirt on the bathroom floor was one way to sober up the doctor. He'd have to remember that one.
There was a thump sound outside of his bedroom door, and he schooled his face into a blank expression before turning to face his flatmate. "Problem?" he asked evenly, raising one eyebrow.
"Prob- Sher- You-" the other man was sputtering and it was with great effort that the dark haired man stopped himself from grinning at him. He must have caught the subtle twitching of his lips because the next thing Sherlock knew, his bloody shirt was being pitched at his face.
John had excellent aim.
"What the hell did you do?" he demanded, and Sherlock mentally sighed at the fact John had obviously gotten his voice back. "The bathroom is a bloody mess!" there was a long pause. "Literally!"
At this Sherlock couldn't help but smirk, "That is an excellent observation, John," he said calmly.
The shorter man's look became even darker and didn't falter in the face of Sherlock's grin still in place.
"What happened."
The detective heaved a sigh, knowing that being elusive wouldn't help him on this one. Honestly, for all of John's good points, he had a terrible habit of being concerned.
"I got into a fight," he shrugged as if it was the only explanation needed.
In that moment, he knew if John had anything else in his hands it would have been chucked at his head as well, and he didn't miss the little eye movements that meant he was actually searching out something to pick up just for that purpose. "That part is obvious."
"Then why ask?"
Definitely looking for something to throw.
"Why did you get into a fight, Sherlock?"
"It doesn't matter," he snapped, finally facing the blond man as he jammed his arms into a new shirt, carelessly buttoning it up as he stalked past him and towards the living room where he fully intended to throw himself onto the couch.
"Of course it matters, you bloody idiot, you're a damn Fighter, you could just about kill anyone you got into a fight with!"
"Well that doesn't matter either!" he snapped back, "It was another Wanderer!" he rolled over and faced away from his flatmate, trying to ignore him.
"Right, so you went stalking the streets looking for another Wanderer to fight just because you bloody well felt like it," John mocked and Sherlock decided that he'd finally had enough.
Snapping, he stood from the couch and hovered over the shorter man, his eyes sparking in anger, "It's because I get aggressive, alright?" he intoned, his words snappish before storming away and towards his room and slamming the door behind him.
John could have hit himself, he'd heard about that, that Fighters, and by default Wanderers, were aggressive and needed to occasionally let it out. Usually the Fighters serving overseas had it easier, being that they were actively fighting. Fighters on the police force had it less easy, though they still had their fair share of violence. Wanderers had it the hardest of all, and suddenly John understood.
There had to be something set up to let them meet up and come to blows to get it out of their system. Suddenly John felt like an intrusive ass and sat on the couch, sighing in guilt and wondering how to make it better. He still didn't know why Sherlock wasn't doing what was his duty, but that question was on the back burner as he picked up his phone.
The chime went off and for a moment Sherlock wanted to ignore his phone where he'd carelessly threw it on his bed, but with a sigh decided not to.
Two missed messages were waiting for him; the first one of Sod off made him smile lightly until he reached the next one.
It doesn't matter. Dinner?
For a long moment he just stared at the words, wondering if he should actively give the ex-army doctor a reason to spiral further down into what was obviously an attraction for him. Still, they worked well together until his little secret had been discovered, and until now the blond hadn't really expected anything from him.
His long fingers were dancing out his answer as he shoved away the part of himself telling him that he really didn't mind if John was attracted. That he liked it better that way.
Starved. - SH
AN: Oh, what these boys do to me. I just love having them have a row though, it was very nice to write an angry John and having Sherlock snap. He does get so snappish. I love it. I'm amazing myself with how fast these chapters are kicking out... I'm not usually such a fast writer, but something about these two just... I don't know, works in my brain. To be honest, I have no clue where this is really going... . have I mentioned that?
Oh, and a note to the naughty one, it's alright love, I do it all the time myself. ^_~