From V Tsuion: And then there were none

Silence instantly fell in the crowded bar. Our target spun to stare at us, a sneer following the tobacco juice that splatted the ground.

"Care to repeat that?"

No. Holmes should not repeat that. This man thought the comparison worse than the lewdest insult one could find in the city's underground, but Holmes ignored my signal.

"I said," Holmes answered with the air of talking to a rather unintelligent child, "I know several women who can throw better than that. Perhaps you should let one of your mates play for a while."

"Why you—" The growled words served as Holmes' only warning. Why this man thought any comparison to a woman was so horrible I had no idea—Mrs. Hudson often did more in a day than I knew needed doing—but simmering anger lunged for Holmes. Only my friend's quick reaction prevented them from hitting the ground. Perhaps Holmes had just wanted to pick the man's pocket.

"My childhood nanny would have laughed at such a tackle."

Or not. A second low growl became the heavy punch that evidently served as the cue for every one of Booth's men to jump him. I barely managed to block a swinging right hook aimed at Holmes' head.

Which made me a target as well. The lackey abandoned my friend to focus on me, and the many others that followed quickly separated me from Holmes—and put me fully on the defensive. My cane let me pivot just clear of one man's fist. Transitioning into a swing blocked a jagged chair leg club. One step towards Holmes became two steps away to avoid a man's flying tackle. A lucky hit to the temple removed one man from the fight, then another overbalanced after his fist met only air. The resulting trip took one of Holmes' opponents into the wall.

And removed an additional attacker, but the number of men down hardly mattered when the number of men up had already cornered us both yards away from the door. Holmes could have chosen a better place to sit before provoking half of one of London's more loyal gangs.

"Behind!"

Instinct eluded a knife. A brass knuckled fist found my ribs, but the hit left his chest unprotected. My first punch winded him. The second sent him to the floor just in time for me to duck the man aiming for my head. Another attempt to reach Holmes failed when the leader threw a mug at me, then a clatter let me evade the man lunging from beneath a nearby table. Five men rushed me at once.

My awareness narrowed to dodging fists and throwing my own.

Duck. Box. Kick. Check his friend.

The Yard should have arrived by now.

Elbow. Punch. Dodge. Trip. Check his friend.

They should have arrived well before now.

A broken chair leg became a weapon. Another man hit the ground, dazed. Booth pulled and quickly lost a knife. Check on Watson.

Lestrade would not enjoy their coming conversation.

The fight dragged into minutes, and still the pub door remained frustratingly closed. Lestrade should have arrived by now. Whether due to Holmes' plan or simply in response to the brawl, Lestrade and several officers should have flooded through that door within thirty seconds of Booth's attack, truncheons swinging at every drunken fighter that did not immediately flee. Lestrade was late.

And Watson was flagging.

Holmes was, too, of course. He usually fought to escape altercations, not continue them, but Lestrade relied on him to keep Booth from leaving this bar. Lestrade needed to lock the gang leader up on something before he could "happen" to find the rest of the information Holmes already knew.

But Holmes relied on Lestrade to show up when he said he would. This was why Holmes despised working with the Yard.

Yet another gang member prevented Watson from closing the scant feet between them. Holmes' warning let Watson sidestep the blade but not the brass that followed. His pained grunt announced a possible problem.

And the change in his fighting style confirmed it. Holmes shoved his own attacker aside just long enough to see the calculated movements meant to reach Holmes flip to a single-minded focus on the men in front of him. His left shoulder loosened. His limp disappeared. His cane became more weapon than support. Rather than simply defending himself on his way to guard Holmes' back, he went on the offensive. One man hit the ground with a groan. Another staggered backwards to knock Booth off his feet. A third backed away, a strange sort of fear lighting his eyes even as Watson refocused on a different threat.

A fear Holmes might have felt, too, in that man's place, and he barely silenced the oath that came to mind. This was not supposed to send Watson into Combat. This should have been nothing more than a thirty second brawl, followed by several arrests and an explanation. Where was Lestrade?

A high-pitched whistle carried from the street, then the bar door finally slammed open to admit close to a dozen officers, the inspector in the lead. Yarders dispersed through the thinning crowd as less than ten seconds pinned the still-raging Booth. Holmes left Lestrade to his prisoner to scan the room.

There, near the far wall. Watson fought the last two gang members still standing, his back to Holmes and only his fists for weapons. An officer's running tackle eliminated one man as Holmes broke into a run, and by the time he reached his friend, the second lay groaning on the floor. Loud movements slowly brought Holmes into his friend's line of sight.

"Watson?"

Watson's gaze flicked toward the question, impassively categorizing him—non-threat—and scanning him for injury before returning to their surroundings. Only when several seconds brought no further attackers did Watson's defensive stance finally drain away. He swayed, once, but evaded Holmes' outstretched hand to truly look at Holmes.

"Are you injured?"

"No." Nothing worth mentioning. Holmes took a single step closer when Watson's gaze started a search pattern on the floor. "Are you?"

The brief unsteadiness could have been the fading Combat or a larger problem, but Watson waved the question aside.

"Bruises," he answered shortly. A moment's search retrieved his cane from a shadowed corner. "Do you plan to tell me why you started a bar fight twenty feet from the closest exit?"

He made no answer, studying his friend as gentle movements took Watson's arm in his. The assurance that Watson would not trip could also reveal a hidden problem.

Watson never flinched. Perhaps he truly had not sustained injury.

"Lestrade could not arrest Booth on my evidence," Holmes admitted when silence confirmed Watson still awaited a reply, "but he could apply the information to a separate arrest. Public drunkenness and fighting made the simplest capture."

Though one that risked too much when Lestrade ran late. He would remember that next time.

Especially if Watson tried to hide a problem. Acceptance joined Watson's irritation, but Holmes tightened his grip when his friend stumbled.

"Watson?"

A silent negative denied injury—or refused the question, but Lestrade's arrival prevented Holmes from trying again.

He would keep a close eye on his friend tonight.

Do you think Watson is injured? What were Booth's other crimes?

I've a sequel planned for this one, if the plot bunny cooperates, lol.

Hope you enjoyed :) Thank you to those that reviewed!