Paintball was brilliant! Mike Stamford hadn't had this much fun in years, seriously. And yeah, he was a fairly sociable guy and he and his wife had a good social life, but it was ages since he'd done anything like this.

It had been the idea of Cathy from the hospitals' research department, a serious and fiercely intellectual woman and, to Mike's mind, one of the people he'd have least expected to enjoy something like paintballing. But it had been a corker of an idea, and she'd done a good job of organising it. The bi-annual interdepartmental outing was usually a fairly boring affair consisting of a day at some sporting event or a picnic at a National Trust place, but this year was the best by far. The popularity of it had showed straight away, when the sign-up sheet had filled up within hours of it being pinned to the bulletin board, and there were now over thirty doctors, nurses and administrators sneaking around these woods, dressed in camo and wielding canisters of pressurised paint.

Well, thirty doctors etc, one ex-military G.P. and one consulting detective.

When two members of staff had cried off last thing the previous day, Cathy had come to Mike's office to ask if he could think of anyone else who might like to take their non-refundable places, and had encountered Sherlock and John in the lab. John had decided straight away that he'd like to go (Mike suspected that he and Cathy had had a 'thing' in their student days and John remained one of a very short list of people that she smiled at) and had talked Sherlock around to it in short order. There'd been a little confusion about who they were when they'd turned up for the coach that morning, as they hadn't actually met that many of the staff, but John had spent the journey to the woodland sports centre cheerfully introducing himself to everyone within reach and cautiously confirming or denying the stories of Sherlock's escapades while his partner sat scrunched in a seat, texting away. By the time they arrived, a considerable number of people were vying to be on the same team as them.

Mike shook himself; he had to get all that sentimental crap out of his head. Blue team and Yellow team, that's what it came down to out here in the woods. Mike was Blue, John was Yellow, thus the enemy. Unsurprisingly Sherlock had managed to get himself onto the same team as John, but had been so disdainful of the whole idea that he was probably off deducing squirrels somewhere, covered in blue paint. It had been fully an hour since the big noisy battle after everyone had first been turned loose into the fenced off play area, and glimpses of other players were now few and far between. Mike wasn't sure if that meant that the others had all been caught out and shot, or if the area of woodland they were playing in was simply much bigger than he'd first realised. Either way, he was pretty damn pleased with himself to be out here still. There was a good chance he could make it to the end of the session unpainted and make it a win for his team.

As he crept through the undergrowth, Mike became aware of a movement up a little slope to his right, about a hundred yards away. He stopped for a moment, keeping absolutely still, waiting for his prey to give its position away. He didn't have to wait long. After a few seconds he heard shifting footsteps near the top of the slope and caught a glimpse of a tall figure, their head just sticking up above the ridge at the top. He slung his gun around so it rested against his back and crept stealthily up the slope, silent as a shadow until he could see over the ridge.

On the other side was a wide hollow in the ground, the earth within it almost bare but surrounded on all sides by scrubby waist-high undergrowth and a few ragged bushes. Mike's climb had brought him up between a clump of bramble and a small, shaggy tree, so he could see his victim without yet being seen.

It was Sherlock, pacing languidly around the hollow, giving vent to an occasional irritated sigh. He was still pristine, or as close as he could get in sports centre camos, not a drop of paint on him. His paintball gun lay on the ground, several feet away from him, apparently forgotten. The brainy prat had probably managed to keep hold of his phone when they'd come out here, Mike decided, and was waiting for a return call or something. He could have hidden up here without being spotted for the whole ninety minutes, probably, or at least that's what he must have thought.

He'd reckoned without Mike Stamford though.

He wouldn't be able to get a clear shot unless he climbed a bit higher on the ridge, so he shifted forward, watching Sherlock carefully to be sure he wasn't spotted. The wind was quite strong though, and the rattling branches above them must have drowned out the sound of his own footsteps. Between the plants and his camo, he must have been practically invisible.

This would be easy.

He checked that his paint canister was screwed firmly into place on the gun, then raised it, holding it steady in both hands, staring through the sights, and-

A sharp blow hit him right in the celiac plexus, and he had to let go of his gun and flail out one hand to steady himself against the tree. He looked down to see a spreading yellow stain on his camo jacket, looked up again to see Sherlock turn to him with a triumphant expression on his face. He was laughing.

"John," the detective called, "is there anyone else about?"

"No, he was on his own," came John's voice from bloody nowhere. Mike stepped carefully down into the hollow, staring around to try and spot his friend. He approached Sherlock, who still looked like the cat who'd caught the canary, despite having likely not fired his gun all day. Mike frowned.

"Where the bloody hell is Watson? I...oh!"

As he spoke, a figure emerged from the bushes on the opposite side of the hollow to where Mike had been hiding. What he'd thought was a large clump of ferns resolved itself into a crouching John Watson with dozens of fern fronds attached to his clothes, paintball gun cradled comfortably in his hands. He must have been as still as a statue. Mike could barely believe his eyes.

The bastard was grinning.

"Fuck's sake, John," Mike cried as John made his way down the slope to join them. "Did you have to shoot me in the middle of the bloody chest? That hurt!"

John pushed a frond back from his face and smiled pleasantly. "Actually Mike, since we're technically using rifles, had this been a real combat situation you'd have been dead instantly, too quickly to feel any pain."

Sherlock let out a bark of laughter at that and John grinned at him, raising his arm high in the air, open palm towards Sherlock.

Sherlock, still chuckling, just looked up at his hand.

Wait for it...

John stood patiently still.

Wait for it...

Mike wondered how long he would have to let this go on for before it got properly awkward.

Wait for it...

And then the light dawned in Sherlock's eyes as he finally got with the programme and reached up to return John's high five.

Mike considered shooting them both.

::

I had a friend who took paintballing far too seriously, covered himself in bits of fern and branches, and then ran around like an asshole, screaming. No bloody point to the camoflage if you suddenly decide to charge at people across a fifty yard stretch of open ground. This is what could have happened if he'd thought it through a bit better (though he still wouldn't have been half so cool).