4. Ruffian

John hadn't realised he was in trouble until he was on his back, tunnel vision narrowed down to concentrate only on the dull blades of an overhead fan cutting lazily though the stale pub air. He tested his jaw; quite stiff already, but at least it was functional.

Over the din of the sudden mayhem the doctor heard, "John! Get off your arse and help me!"

The ex-soldier barely had time to roll to his front before one of the furious men from the opposing group was lifting him to his feet again. John ducked out of his hold, getting only a graze of knuckles against his cheekbone this time. He drew back his own fist and caught the bigger bloke right in the nose. There was a startling crunch before the man began to bleed like a butchered cow, howling into his hands as he covered his injury.

"Better get that looked at," John muttered as he passed the cursing, bleeding mess on his way to help Lestrade. He flexed his fist to try to get it to respond, but either the alcohol in his blood or the damage from the long-since repaired break in his wrist was causing it to be uncooperative. He quickly reached the DI, who was in the middle of everything, doing a poor job of holding his ground. What had happened to the rest of the guys who'd sided with them earlier?

"Last time I go drinking with you," Lestrade called out to John, wrestling with a clearly pissed pub-goer whose movements were just sloppy and liquid enough to keep Lestrade struggling.

"Me? You're the one who couldn't keep his mouth shut." John forcefully separated them, shoving the rival directly into the line of stools and other hostile drinkers. He ignored the subsequent crash and yelling, instead levelling Lestrade with a wobbly stare.

"I say one thing about the match, and everyone's out for blood?"

"Yeah, Greg, that's how it works."

"Your lip's split."

John licked at the blood dripping down his chin. "You're gonna have a black eye," he returned sharply, taking note of the swelling along the DI's face.

"Look, we should get out of here," Greg said seriously, eyes unfocused through drink and possibly a concussion. "Bartender's been yelling about calling for officers for bit now."

"You're an officer."

"Right, a drunk one."

"Fine," John turned to locate the exit and made a startled noise in the back of his throat at sight of the fist speeding his way. He ducked and heard a solid hit behind him and a grunt from Lestrade. "Shit, sorry," he called over his shoulder to the grumbling DI before rushing the threat, catching him in the throat with the blade of his arm.

"You don't know – gcchk – shit about football," the man croaked round John's arm.

"It wasn't me that started this, you idiot," John hissed.

In lieu of reply, the man decided to gather as much spit as he could before unexpectedly painting John's face with it.

For a second, John was genuinely shocked. It didn't last long before his reflexes kicked in and he floored the man with a solid punch to the head. "You bloody bastard," he snarled, wiping his face with the back of his hand. The brief thought that he'd probably be seeing a majority of these people in the clinic tomorrow only fuelled his anger. There was suddenly someone nearly lifting him by his shirt collar and he spun round violently to catch the offender in the face. His fist was caught swiftly in Sherlock's gentle grip, the man distractedly tracking the brawlers with keen eyes rather than looking to John. He had apparently anticipated the ex-soldier's attack. The detective smelled heavily of cigarette smoke – he never drank when they went to the pubs, instead often wandering outside to waste money on cigarettes from strangers.

"Sherlock, seriously, smoking is bad for you."

The lanky man looked to John and his eyebrow twitched – the only movement on an otherwise impassive face. He dropped John's hand to carefully touch his fingertips to John's jaw and cheek, eyes darting between his injuries and lightly moving the doctor's head to inspect them. He didn't say a word.

"I bet getting struck in the face isn't that much better," Lestrade mumbled weakly.

Sherlock's gaze drifted again to sweep the pub, fixing on several men he apparently deemed threats. He looked Lestrade over as the man approached them before evidently coming to a decision. He gathered John's shirt collar in his fist again, mirroring the action with the DI's collar, before safely manoeuvring them through the chaos of wankered fighters. He dragged and pushed them along like children who had behaved badly, silent and focused. He swung Lestrade away from a stray fist, tucked John against his side when someone threw a stool past them, shifted Lestrade again when some chap stumbled in their direction.

When they reached the street, Sherlock finally let them go, nudging them toward home.

"Hey, arsehole!"

The three of them turned round to face the man John had first hit; his nose was still bleeding like a tap, staining the front of his shirt. John's muddled mind was too distracted by the stark red on white to notice the knife clenched in his fist until it was nearly in his face. He only had enough reaction time to screw his eyes shut – which wasn't a proper defence at all, really – but rather than an agonising encounter with the blade, he was met with the firm, familiar grasp of Sherlock's arm embracing him. Sherlock spun him out of the way, simultaneously stepping in past the attacker's outstretched arm to strike him cleanly in the jaw with the heel of his palm. The man's head snapped back and Sherlock followed through with an elbow to the man's temple and a calculated repositioning of his stance to trip the shocked man into falling flat on his back. The knife clattered to the pavement, metal striking rock musically. Sherlock eyed the downed man for a moment, and when he figured the problem had been dealt with, turned back to John and Lestrade just as sirens echoed up the street.

Sherlock pressed his palm into the middle of John's back to urge him into moving again. He glanced sidelong at Lestrade. "Are you coming or staying?"

Greg blinked at the miserable man sprawled out on the street before him. "Er, staying, I suppose. I'll clean this mess up, yeah? You two were never here."

"Lestrade—"

Sherlock didn't allow John to finish, pushing him into the narrow gap between buildings and onward into a maze only the detective knew how to navigate.