The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
I only entertain this idea.
Looking for constructive reviews, please.
WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence, mild/harsh language, I am a cruel woman.
Author's Note: This came out almost exactly as it played in my head. I'm actually very pleased with it. John, Sherlock, and Lestrade are all badasses in my book.
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- The Game is On -
Sherlock stood outside Donovan's flat with his uneasy stomach. They'd never been on good terms with one another, but this was no way for anyone to die. The scene had been nauseating in person, most of the Yard was present outside, many consoling a blubbering Anderson. Sherlock looked up when Lestrade exited the room.
"I want him. Tell me you have something conclusive."
Sherlock shook his head. "I'm sorry Lestrade. But I do wholeheartedly believe it is John Watson." His voice was firm making Lestrade nod.
"Then how do we get him?"
"It's going to take a few days to put together, but we will have him. The real question is, how do you want to deal with him?"
Lestrade roughed a hand through his silver hair. "I can't sit by and let him rot in jail for this. I want him punished, badly."
"All right then," Sherlock smiled.
Stamford burst through the roof access door, making John look up from his book. His brow furrowed at the look on his friends face.
"What?"
"They've issued a warrant for your arrest."
A slow, easy smile crept across John's eager face. "About damn time. It's been what, four days since I killed her."
"You had to go after an officer of the Yard, didn't you?"
"No one insults what's mine, besides it was the best way to get his focus back. Now, off to Bart's with you before they get here. I can't have them arresting you too." John waved his book at his friend, but Mike refused to move.
"You be careful, they're pissed."
"I imagine that they are. Now go," John's voice turned hard as both men heard the sirens ringing through the air. He cocked his head in their general direction. "They're making good time. Bye, Stamford," John grinned, turning his attention back to his book.
"I hope to hell I get to see you again. Just so I can tell you what a big cock up this all was," Mike laughed bitterly.
"Go to your wife and kids," John replied not looking up. Stamford nodded slightly before leaving his friend to his desired fate. A few minutes later, John set the book on the lip of the roof and began stretching. The stench of anger was palpable despite the squad of policemen being a ways off. John began his breathing exercises when the cars came into view of his flat.
He leaned over the edge when they came to a stop, a chorus of, "He's on the roof!" met his ears. John grinned at them, he wasn't going to be here for long. Then he smelled him, the silver haired fox amongst the officers. Gunpowder, leather, and a hint of hazelnut, a fascinating scent, he'd love to have it one day.
John slipped on his favorite black coat and readied himself for the brutal run to Baker Street. He smirked at the sound of their thundering boots on his stairs, hearing several of them actually enter his flat, but the inspector was still en route to the roof. John hopped up and down a few times as a light rain began to speckle the rooftop.
Lestrade burst through the roof access door, gun drawn and trained on the man at the other end.
"John Watson?" His voice was forced calm, but anyone could hear the quiver of anger lying just beneath the surface.
John gave him a two fingered salute. "Tah," he said with a grin. "If you don't mind, I have somewhere else to be just now."
"John Watson, you are under arrest for the murder of Sergeant Sally Donovan as well as fourteen other London citizens."
"I don't have time for this," John growled, launching into a hard run for the adjacent building. Several bullets sailed passed him, two ripped through the fabric of his coat. He jumped from the roof and almost missed catching the opposite building when one of Lestrade's shots found its target. Another bullet shattered the brick next to his head as he pulled himself up. Lestrade's next shot also found its home, right beside its brother in his side.
John glared at the officers as they reloaded, locking eyes with the inspector. He huffed at the latter and began running along the rooftops, blood ebbing from the wound in his side. When John was out of sight, Lestrade rang Sherlock.
"He's on his way, let's hope you know what you're doing."
After running three or so miles, John dropped to one knee with a snarl. The two bullets in his side had moved and found each, the friction causing him considerable pain. The rain began pelting down in earnest as John removed his bomber jacket and dug two fingers into the wound. He grit his teeth as he began fishing for the bullets, they were just beyond his reach so he allowed his claws to grow and snagged both from his flesh.
His fingers popped from the wound with a ugly noise and it instantly began to heal. For a moment he cupped the two foreign objects in his clawed hand before tossing them aside. They rolled down the slanted roof and hit the asphalt with a metallic PING. John breathed deeply as his regeneration took place, it would never matter how long he lived, healing after being shot was a pain you never got used to.
When he no longer felt blood dripping from himself, John sat up. He was only a few streets from his target and he needed to get there before the police. He snagged his jacket and quickly jumped the alley while pulling it back on. He turned his head toward the sound of distant sirens and knew he had to move fast.
John pushed himself hard until he was at the alleyway behind Baker Street. He knew the layout pretty well, the top window was to an unused bedroom; his most likely way in, next down was the kitchen to two two one b and below that was to the landlady's kitchen. John was debating the best way to enter when the coming sirens made his decision for him, a dramatic entrance it would be. He jumped, digging claws into the roof tiles of the building. He slowly let himself down until he was hanging over the kitchen window. He could smell the landlady through her open windows, wisteria and baking flour; a pleasing scent for an older woman.
"Move it, Watson," he said shaking himself from his thoughts. He heaved his legs out and swung them into the glass as he launched himself from the wall. He landed on the kitchen table, startling the man sitting near the fireplace. "Hello, Sherlock," John smiled, shaking bits of glass from his person and allowing his claws to slide into recess.
"I expected you to come in from upstairs." There was no hiding the shock from his voice or his face. John smiled at this. He upturned every object on the kitchen table as he monkey crawled across it before finally setting both feet on the floor.
"I like to be unpredictable, it makes things so much more interesting." John turned his head back the way he'd come, his brow furrowed as the sirens wailed by Baker Street.
"I feel the same." Sherlock raised the air gun and fired. The sudden pain in John's left shoulder made his eyes shift momentarily, but they were hazel when he turned back.
"Fuck!" John cried, seeing a thick tube with an orange feather sticking from him. He took the tranquilizer shakily and pulled, a drop of blood sitting on its end. Sherlock's eyes grew wide when John stayed standing after thirty seconds.
"I am not like any man, you've ever faced," John slurred, taking an uneasy step forward, then a second. Sherlock tossed the gun aside, retrieving another from his desk. He fired again, hitting the same mark, making John wobble where he stood. A low growl rumbled through the air, making Sherlock uneasy.
"I am very unhappy right now." John lunged messily for his prey, but the tranquilizer was working through his system quickly which made his movements slow and sloppy. Sherlock dodged him easily and reached for the first heavy thing he could get his hands on. He swung as John pressed on him again, connecting with the right side of his head. John instantly blacked out.