Written in response to a "Word Challenge Throw Down" started by sarajm (the challenge words are bolded, and the story had to take place in/be connected to Prague in some manner). The action takes place during Sherlock's hiatus.
Prague
He sat at a small table in the darkest corner of the tiny café located at the foot of the Charles Bridge. He'd been in Prague for less than sixteen hours but had already located the hideout of his next target. Staring into his fourth cup of cappuccino, Sherlock could not find the wherewithal to choke it down. He was sick to death of coffee; what he wanted was a cup of tea. John's tea, to be specific; but that was nothing more than a melancholic wish.
Instead, here he sat, dishevelled, exhausted and with nerves stretched more taught than the strings on his violin, buzzing with the caffeine coursing through his veins. And he waited. He waited for the Serbian hitman to show himself; he waited for the opportunity to put to the test the skills he'd learned at the hands of a gentle – yet deadly – Buddhist monk.
That same monk had also taught Sherlock how to transcend pain; a useful talent considering the physical abuse that he had been subject to from the day he began his one-man crusade to dismantle Moriarty's criminal web.
His body was nothing more than transport and he had no time to bow under the weight of his wounds. Instead, he needed to become the machine that John had once accused him of being.