ex·er·cise (ksr-sz)
n. A task, problem, or other activity that requires physical or mental exertion, especially when performed to develop or maintain fitness or increase skill
t.v To put into play or operation; employ; bring to bear; exert:To absorb the attentions of, especially by worry or anxiety; stir to anger or alarm; upset.
He'd been winded from all the running- a fifteen minute full tilt sprint up and down fire escapes, rooftops and back alleys. That was his excuse anyway. He'd been grabbed by one of the suspects when he stopped to catch his breath, watching Sherlock disappear down the alley in a swirl of that Belstaff coat. Annoyed by being caught flat-footed, John rammed his elbow back hard into the abdomen of the stocky man who had tried to strangle him. There was a gasp of pain, and then the thug sank down on one knee, as he struggled to catch his breath. Paralysed his diaphragm. This brought the man's chin down to a level that John could easily reach. One quick punch and the thug was out for the count. John grabbed the plastic zip cuffs out of his back pocket, and secured the man's hands behind his back, in one swift movement before standing up to look around to see how Sherlock was getting on.
Down at the far end of the dead-end alley, Sherlock was squaring off with two of the others suspects. John grimaced. Why do they always assume he's going to be harder than me to take down? It had become a noticeable pattern, if the fight was the two of them against three criminals. The taller detective always drew the two, because the others would believe a man as short as John would be easy enough for one of them to subdue. Of course, they always underestimated the smaller man, and suffered the consequences. The doctor's military training made short work of most people who tried hand-to-hand combat with him. Somehow, the boxing lessons Sherlock had at public school seemed to be less than useful against criminals who didn't fight by Queensbury Rules.
Sherlock had learned to stall for time, so that John could re-join him and even up the odds. Except that wasn't happening now. The bigger of his two opponents standing at the farther end drew a pistol. John was a good fifty feet away and started to run.
He needn't have bothered. Sherlock exploded into action and executed a series of sharp stiff arm blows to the nearer of the two men, and as he staggered, the detective aimed a vicious 180 degree spin kick at his knee. John could hear the crack of bone and cartilage even at his distance. Sherlock spun away without a backward glance and attacked the man with the gun, who had only just begun to draw it up into position to fire. "No!" John shouted to try to distract the assailant who was moving with menace toward his friend.
Once again, John was amazed to watch Sherlock take the gun wielding criminal down with professional ease. His manoeuvre involved a close hold, coming inside the gun arm, which was slapped away to the left sharp, followed by a slap to the man's right ear, startling him for a second, which was long enough for Sherlock to aim a swift knee into the suspect's groin. It was followed by a stiff armed blow to the forearm of the hand carrying the gun which clattered onto the alley floor, his hand numbed and useless. Sherlock then moved in a blur, and by the time that John was within ten feet, he had the suspect helpless in a highly unusual head lock.
"I need to know when, where, what and most important who. I can break your neck with one move, so you'd better start talking". The detective wasn't even out of breath, but the big man he had pinioned was clearly terrified.
"The drop is tomorrow at three o'clock, down at the factory on Mile End Road."
"Who's going to be there?" Sherlock asked mildly. He shifted the choke hold, applying slightly more pressure on the carotid artery, as John picked up the Russian's weapon- it was a brand new Strizh pistol, one from the consignment that they'd been chasing for weeks.
There was a hesitation. John watched as Sherlock just shifted his arm around the neck of the suspect again and began to apply pressure, pushing the man's head to the right. This ground the neck muscles into the bones of the vertebra putting pressure on the top of the spine, provoking a strangled cry.
"Alright! Alright! Don't …" the suspect cried out. "There'll be three boys from the manor," he was wheezing now, "picking up the material from the van- and probably a lookout or two. They ain't suspecting any trouble, so it should be easy to get him. He'll be collecting his fee." The thug dragged in a deep breath, then grimaced as Sherlock renewed his grip. "Ahh, for Christ's sake, let me go." At this, the man's eyes caught sight of John and there was pleading in them.
John was surprised by Sherlock's sudden display of deadly martial art skill. Where the hell did that come from? His friend had never shown such deft handling of the physical side of his crime work.
Later, when the suspects had been collected by Lestrade and his team, John and Sherlock shared a taxi back to Baker Street. The suspect's tip-off about tomorrow's meeting had been gratefully received by the New Scotland Yard detective. "This string of murders has been driving us crazy. The Russian gun trafficking ring has been working their way through our police informers like a hot knife through butter; nice to get our hands on their hit man tomorrow. Thanks- now get out of here- and I don't want to see you two anywhere near Mile End Road tomorrow afternoon. This is a job for SO19, so stay out of it, please."
Now in the back of the cab, John found himself looking at Sherlock again, wondering where the tall brunette had acquired those martial art skills. His friend was in his usual post-case withdrawal- eyes vacantly watching London by night go by the window on his side of the taxi.
"Sherlock, those were pretty interesting moves you used against your two suspects. Is there something you aren't telling me?"
"Hmm?"
He was still looking out the window. "Sherlock, you normally wait for me before tackling two suspects. But tonight you didn't even need me. Where did you learn those manoeuvres?"
The brunette turned to his friend. "I can't assume you'll always be with me, John. And despite all the brainpower in the world, there are times when the body needs exercise, too. I need to be able to take care of myself. I've been building up my fitness and muscle weight, and working out with someone who is teaching me Bartitsu."
"Bartitsu? What's that? Never heard of it."
"No reason why you should. It's something developed by Edmund Barton Wright at the end of the 19th century. It combines a lot of things that you'll be familiar with- jujitsu, judo, kick and regular boxing, fencing and some you might not be, such as French Savate and Swiss Schwingen. Think the full range of mixed martial arts on steroids. "
"Who is teaching you?"
"A professor is researching the techniques and needs a sparring partner. I consulted him some while ago when a body turned up at the Barts Morgue with an unusual bone break pattern. He was most useful, and is proving to be so again."
John thought about it, and asked the next obvious question. "Why this attention to your 'transport', why now?"
"There are no rules in bartitsu. It's street fighting at its most pure form. The fact that it isn't well known is useful- no military training ground graduates will have been drilled in how to defend themselves against it, and it's unknown in the criminal fraternity. I need to be ready, John. And, given Moriarty, it is wise to prepare for the worst."
The thought sobered John. The sense of foreboding that had been hanging over them since the pool felt just that little bit sharper in focus tonight. He decided he should do the same, resume his nightly army exercise routine and take off a few of the excess pounds accumulated from too many take out meals. A regular run might help his stamina. A few sessions at the firing range wouldn't hurt either. As John's army instructors always drilled into him, nothing beats a sensible exercise of advance preparation and risk management. The mood in the taxi was sombre all the way back to Baker Street, with both men lost in their thoughts about what the future might bring.