Chapter Four: Fight
The lights were hot and blinding, and John threw an instinctive arm up over his brow, squinting for his life to see. The noise had become a blur of sound, and the jostling crowd could only just be held in by the walls as they shouted and reached and punched the air. Sherlock gave a pretty grin and held a gloved fist into the air in reply. The air quivered with response, voices clamoring to shout in favor or against, scathing words that, even if John didn't understand, he could tell were coated in venom. He'd shouted abuse at the telly when some footballer missed a pass, but this vehemence was close and real and directed at Sherlock. He'd had anxiety in the changing room. Looking at the rabid faces of ephemeral supporters and sneering jeerers, John's hands went to fists at his side and he physically held back a scowl. This was anger.
Sherlock was reveling in it, waving and holding both hands in the air as if he'd already claimed the victory. All of his teeth showing when he smiled, winked at a handful of girls near the judges' table. He was having the time of his life, John thought, in the middle of all this. See how he was smiling with fists flying at his face.
In the opposite corner was the man Sherlock would be facing; St Martin, by the announcement earlier. He looked about as tall as John, broad- and bare-chested and strong, thick arms. Ridiculous mustache. Behind him, outside the ropes, were Brousseau and the idiot doctor John had met at dinner (Montand?). Both smiled when John met their eyes, smiles far more sinister than the ones he had seen flash over crystal wine glasses not two hours before. John stared them down right back.
He certainly didn't like the situation, but by God, he had Sherlock's back.
John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder and pulled him into speaking range. "Mouthguard, idiot," he said, shoving the bit of plastic into Sherlock's mouth on his own. Sherlock pressed it between his teeth and gave a manic smile to show it off. John shook his head, squeezed Sherlock's shoulder. "Good luck."
They were announcing something from the judges' table, screeching over the PA, and John tried to piece it together with half his attention on the gangly man climbing over the ropes.
"No rounds," Emile told him. "He gets a break when he can't see well enough to fight. Match is over when one man is knocked out."
"Knock-out only?" John asked, whipping to face the frenchman suddenly. "Special fight because Sher—because Addison's new and it'll be fun to knock him around 'til he hits the ground?" It was boiling at the back of his throat, and his eyes flicked from trainer to boxer. No referee. There was no referee. Why would there be a referee in an illegal match?
"It is the rules, Doctor Moran."
John realized at last that it wasn't a judges' table that stood near the ring, with its bell and its aging microphone. It was the priority seating.
And the bell rang.
Sherlock hung back, let St Martin come to him. The veteran circled, pounding his gloves together in anticipation. Sherlock matched his movements, pawing a circle like a pair of cats with hackles raised. Testing, hissing. St Martin spat something in French, and Sherlock gave a sharp smirk.
"And your mother!" Sherlock shouted, muffled by the mouthguard.
He came in first, swinging a jab sidelong into St Martin's right ear to test the waters. The crowd cheered, jeered. And then a second came through, boxing his other ear, and then the right again. Quick, snakelike things that John almost didn't follow. And he bounced backward, St Martin following.
With the success of the first hit, and the ridiculous verbal barb, John actually found himself laughing. He smacked his palm on the flat of the ring in front of him, shouting: "Hand him his arse, Addison!"
He couldn't know if Sherlock had heard him (he had), only that the punches were coming in thick and heavy from both sides. St Martin's reach was shorter than Sherlock's, he found as he tried for multiple assaults on the detective's flanks and neck. Too short especially to try for any long shots to Sherlock's face at safe distance. So he brought the game in close.
Stepped right in between Sherlock's elbows and planted a perfect uppercut into the detective's sharp jaw. Sherlock's head snapped back, surprise and pain etched there for the moment he hung unhindered in the air. His feet stumbled automatically back, and St Martin moved with him. Sticking in close cover. Hits landed hard and full-armed at Sherlock's neck and once right in the side of his face.
The crowd went crazy. Whooping and hollering at St Martin's advances, pounding their feet and spilling their drinks. Emile shoved a hassler away from the ring. John hadn't noticed at all.
Sherlock was right up against the ropes, suddenly and violently. He bounced once on the elastic spring, and suddenly he was back. Hit St Martin right in the nose, drew his fist back with a vengeance, planted it again in the center of his opponent's face. St Martin was hardy, recovered too quickly and planted solid hits on each side of Sherlock's ribcage.
Sweat shone in the lights with every hit, flying off of St Martin's face when Sherlock struck back. He was bleeding. Blood and sweat flying.
Sherlock was ready when St Martin moved into his defenses again. He kept him close, battering St Martin's middle rather than try to get his long arms arranged for a good jab at the face. Harder and harder, pounding the gloves into St Martin's barrel chest, his sides, trying to use his long legs to escape from his dogged pursuer.
St Martin hit hard, one powerful blow to Sherlock's temple. A knot of people in the crowd gasped, some gave a triumphant holler as Sherlock fell back into the ropes again. John found he was gripping the lowest rope nearest him, hard enough to blanch his knuckles. Sherlock's head was cut badly, and blood was already dripping from his brow and into his eye, down his angled cheekbones.
But he shoved himself back up, elbows close to his body and gloves to his chin.
"He can't see," John tried to shout, but he was drowned out by the wave of sound that moved through the crowd as Sherlock picked himself back up. Emile grabbed him and dragged him back down (when had he stood up on his toes, trying to climb up and interfere?).
"Don't interrupt," Emile warned, his voice a sharp growl. "He will forfeit if you do. Don't shame him, Peter."
He wanted to do it. Wanted to leap into the fray and get the injured the help he could give them. But Sherlock wouldn't condone it. He'd more than likely hate him for it. So John thumped his fist hard against the corner post, gritting his teeth through the punches Sherlock was taking.
St Martin stuck to Sherlock, kept driving in to get as close as he could, jabs flying in to the taller man's face when he dropped his defense for even the shortest lull. The glove to the mouth had nearly dislodged the mouthguard, brought the coppery taste of blood to his tongue. His ribs were battered, but his mind was keen. Sharpened to a dangerous point by the rhythmic throbbing of his body.
Shifted the feet. Danced sideways rather than back, and St Martin opened up just long enough to turn ninety degrees. So Sherlock's long arms reached in, full-strength punches to both sides of St Martin's head, ears, mouth. The back of his head when he took the full strength of a hit and turned with it. The spot between his shoulder blades when he fell to one knee.
The french boxer turned his head to look up at Sherlock, who didn't give him an inch. One long-armed, powerful blow downward, straight across the man's face, was enough to knock him to the ground.
There was whistling, and someone had taken up the accented chant of Addison! Addison!
St Martin struggled to regain his wobbling feet, and Sherlock followed through on a downward punch once more. St Martin stayed down.
Sherlock's head tilted back, and John saw the pain squeezed there between his furrowed brows, the turndown in his mouth (slack-jawed and heaving for steady breath), and finally the tension spilled out of him. Tensed arms relaxed, shoulders dropped, gloves like pendulums at his side, and a pained smile eked out over his lips. Emile hopped up into the ring and proudly held one of Sherlock's limp arms overhead in victory.
When Emile had helped Sherlock down out of the ring, John grabbed both sides of the boxer's face and inspected him harshly. They couldn't stay long, the next fight was already moving into commencement, but John needed a look. It took Sherlock's eyes too long to focus for John's liking, and under his breath he muttered a "Bloody hell," and was already pouring antiseptic onto a piece of cloth from his bag. "Addison, how many fingers?" He held a steady hand out for his friend to observe.
Sherlock pursed his lips, winced when John pressed the alcohol to the cut at his brow, and said calmly, "I don't have a concussion, don't patronize me." He squeezed his eyes shut again and admitted: "Slight nausea and disorientation, but hardly indicative of brain damage."
"He made a fine piece of meat out of you," John growled, wiping Sherlock's face clean of blood as well as he could in the jostling crowd. "Emile, get his arm, he needs to sit down."
Emile threaded Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and, with help from John scaring the crowd out of their way, got him to the changing room with no interruption. The doctor forced his patient to sit on the bench while Emile worked the gloves off of his unresponsive hands. And John cleaned up the cuts St Martin had left all over Sherlock's face, bandaged the worst one at his brow, tentatively checked Sherlock's bruised ribs for any cracks.
John didn't want to stay for the next two matches. He wanted to get Sherlock back to the flat, where he could make him lie down and sleep it off. Sherlock wanted to stay and observe the other fights, but Emile gave them leave, offering to keep details on the fights for him. Obviously exhausted and pained, Sherlock limply agreed, but he very much didn't like it.
Emile collected his share of the money won in Addison's name, and Addison's share was even larger (fair enough, that all the work had been in the ring). John pocketed it for him, thanked Emile brusquely, and helped Sherlock worm his way into his jumper.
It'd gone cold when the sun went down, but still not enough to warrant a heavy coat. The streets were dark and nearly emptied. John shifted Sherlock's weight on his shoulder to check his watch: 2:32 A.M. A group of drunken revelers passed by as they moved for the nearest bus stop, and John suspected they were applauding Sherlock's apparent state of inebriation. Once there, John set Sherlock gingerly down on the bench and took an impatient look around. No sign yet, and Nantes wasn't known for its abundance of taxis. It could be a while.
Sherlock was twiddling his thumbs when John looked back over, and once held a hand to his ribs as a shock of residual pain went through them.
"You're too skinny by half," John broke in, almost smiling. When Sherlock looked up, he was smiling wide enough for the both of them. John paused, and his face turned down into lines of sadness that brought even Sherlock's smirk away. "They're going to kill you in there."
Sherlock shrugged. "Henri wasn't murdered in the ring."
John wasn't sure how long he had been turned away, how far away from the bus stop he'd walked in his need to keep moving, pacing, shed off the anxious feeling. All he knew was that he wasn't under the bus shelter when Sherlock gave a muffled shout, and he was dragged off.
Three of them, big muscled men, all in dark clothes to blend in. One had his arm around Sherlock's neck, the rest were trundling him off like a suitcase. They were fast. Fast enough to duck toward the nearest alley before John's instincts could spring him into a hard bolt after them. Maybe they hadn't seen him, maybe they'd thought he'd left Addison to wait for the bus, but no one waited to intercept him.
The next sound was of a bin tipped over, feet slogging through rubbish, and then Sherlock's yelp as he was tossed to the ground. John rounded the corner into the alley abnormally fast, and his heart was in his stomach when he saw the three men throwing unarmed punches at the man at their feet—trying to fight back, lashing out with his long limbs and getting a good hit in once or twice, but overwhelmed and exhausted from the fight.
John didn't even question throwing himself into the fray, simply leapt.
He didn't have his gun, it would've been too much of a hassle to get it on board with them. God, he wished he had his gun. As it was, John had little time to think as he charged forward into the mass of brutes swinging. His knuckles hit a hard mass of flesh, the nearest man's face, and his next hit was in the eye. The brute reeled back, and John bent double instantly to sweep up the broken, heavy curtain rod from the nearby pile of rubbish.
He swung it with little thought, caught one of the thugs in the side of the face. Hit the half-blinded man over his shoulders, kicked him to the ground when he fell to his knee. Bludgeoned the last man right in the breadbasket with all the force he could muster behind the rod. He fell back with a yelp. John was lucky they were so uncoordinated, and his wide-arced horizontal swings backed them all away from Sherlock's prostrate body.
The blunt point of the rod sunk into one man's middle, and as he tumbled backward, he upended another bin and took off into the alley. John threatened the second by baring his teeth and pulling the rod back for another wide swing, and he took the message, running after his compatriot.
The last man picked himself off his knee and skittered off, leaving John to drop the weapon and immediately check on the groaning man in the pile of rubbish. "Sherl—"
Sherlock clapped a hand hard over John's mouth, and even through the pain he managed a spectacularly vile glare.
John frowned, peeled Sherlock's hand away. "Addison," he growled unnecessarily, "I was going to ask if you're all right." They clearly hadn't gotten many hits in before John had begun swinging, though there would be a pretty bruise to share under his right eye, and his lip had split painfully.
"Christ, you need a doctor," John grunted as he hefted Sherlock's weight off the ground.
"John, you're a doctor." He drunkenly swiped at the blood on his lips, focused seriously. "No police, no hospitals. Please."
The bus arrived on time, and John handed over the tickets with an offhanded excuse of a bar fight. They sat in the back, didn't speak or look at anyone else who wandered on or off.
Sherlock was smiling wickedly to himself as John administered a new bandage to Sherlock's brow in the bathroom of Emile's flat. "We're getting close," he murmured, fingertips drumming together thoughtfully.
John's eyes flicked up, and when Sherlock didn't explain, he rolled his eyes and asked: "Close to what, Sherlock?"
"John, you were just face-to-face with Henri's killers, don't ask me close to what like you're a child." His eyes were cold and gray, analyzing. "Did you get a good look at any of them?"
He thought as best he could, but everything had been a blur in his rush to get them and their fists away from Sherlock. Before he could even shake his head, Sherlock sighed and leaned back.
"I hope the walls are thick enough to mask the violin," he said languidly, though one sad look at the state of his hands showed that it would be more noise than notes drifting from the strings.
"No," John insisted. "If you don't rest up, you won't be able to walk out of this flat in the morning. Sherlock," he insisted.
And, for once, he listened.
AN: ACTION CHAPTER! I watched some boxing in order to get ready for this, it's really brutal, even when it's legal. I wasn't sure how long or short to make the fight, so I hope it turned out all right! Thanks so so much to everyone who reads, and those who review, you are ALL my favorite people. Thanks again to Lady Dan for beta-ing. Thanks to all for reading, leave some love, and STAY AWESOME!