Nail Polish

~Chapter Three~

Fight to Conclusions

John rammed his shoulder into the door again. This must be the janitor's lounge where Sherlock was being held. Why else would the door be bolted so securely?

With a hoarse snarl, he threw himself at it once more, and was gratified to see a shower of splinters and dust puff into the air. The door was old, and its construction poor. It was already buckling at the hinges.

Another shove and one of the rusting hinges gave entirely. Like a wild animal, he kicked and battered at what was left of the door until it fell aside, defeated by the doctor's wrath. He rushed over the threshold, adrenaline coursing furiously through his veins, only to be stopped short not two steps later by the bone-chilling tableau laid out before him.

Sprawled on the bare concrete floor was Sherlock, face awash with blood, sweat, and eyeliner. His head lolled feebly side to side, and his eyelids flickered as though he were in the grip of a ghoulish nightmare. The hem of his bloodied shirt had ridden up to his waist, exposing his alabaster skin. It was angrily inflamed and mottled with an alarming variety of aggressive scrapes and bruises.

John felt a pang of fury and regret He should've been there to prevent this!

More urgently frightening however, was the way Woodward stood at Sherlock's side. He balanced on one foot, the other poised waveringly above the detective's unguarded throat with a cold glint in his eye.

"Make one more move, and I snap his neck," he hissed, gripping the sofa arm for support. John froze on the spot. Everything about him was still, save for his fists which clenched and relaxed spasmodically.

Languidly Stan's mouth curved into a smile.

"You must be John Watson. Jim's told me about you too, although I wasn't really expecting to meet you tonight. A little unpredictability is refreshing when you are working against someone like Sherlock Holmes. He'll walk right into any trap, so long as it's clever enough for him." Incensed, John clenched his permanently set jaw a little tighter. Practically trembling with hatred toward Stan and his cruel jibes, he glanced down at their inert target.

Sherlock had gone eerily still. If not for the billowing rise and fall of his chest, he could've been a stone-cold cadaver for some makeup experiment gone awry. His eyes were closed; he must have finally given in to unconsciousness.

John's brow furrowed perplexedly. That couldn't be right. Sherlock never gave in under any circumstances unless it was on his own terms. If necessary, he would fight to the last breath, armed with only sheer spite and strength of will to achieve his goal. Never would the great Sherlock Holmes allow such a human thing as a faint decide the outcome for him. Surely he was faking.

The doctor's suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock's blue-grey eyes slid open, sharp, calculating, and very much aware. They roved first to John's face, then to Stan's foot, which still hovered menacingly over his neck. Darting around the room, they accessed the situation, finally coming to rest on Stan's other leg, the one supporting him. Once more they turned to John, then to Stan's leg, then back to John again, silently conveying his message: I'll distract him. Be ready. John nodded almost imperceptibly in confirmation.

Without a moment's hesitation, Sherlock curled into a ball and rolled forcefully into Stan's supporting leg. Caught unawares, Woodward stumbled, tripping over Sherlock's shoulder as he went careening underfoot. The criminal pitched forward, only to be met half way by a savage blow from John's fist which sent him reeling back from whence he came. As he staggered, blinded with pain, Sherlock extended a leg into his path at about shin level. Predictably, Stan tripped over it and plunged backwards, landing heavily in an ungainly heap.

Like a slavering pack of wolves John fell upon him, pummeling him mercilessly with fists and feet alike. Stan retaliated by bunching his limbs to his chest beneath John's truck, then heaving him bodily aloft and roughly slamming him to the floor.

Over and over they scuffled, a sweaty aggressive mass of flailing arms and scrabbling legs, fighting for all or nothing. They grappled viciously, neither man staying on top for long, until Stan managed to seize a clump of John's hair and ruthlessly bash his head against the floor. Stunned, John went limp. His opponent heaved him upright by his shirtfront, then violently sank his fist into the doctor's stomach. The wind left John's lungs in a strangled whoosh! He crumpled weak-kneed against the wall behind him, wheezing desperately.

Stan was there in a heart-beat, clamping his hands around the doctor's throat before he could draw breath. Helpless, John plucked at them impotently as colored spots swam before his eyes.

"Nice try, doctor," Stan grunted, blood dribbling from his split lip. "You fight well. Too bad I've got to kill you." John's eyes rolled up into his head, and an unearthly rasp escaped his lips as his last vestiges of strength drained away. Their only hope was Lestrade… if he arrived on time.

As his extremities began tingling, he suddenly noticed a shadowy figure bearing down on them from behind with a chair raised high over its head. Sherlock, he realized vaguely. He had made the mistake of thinking the detective was down for the count.

Evidently so did Stan. Upon hearing footsteps behind him he, assuming Moriarty had arrived, called out,

"I've got Holmes, Jim! Watson as we-," he swiveled his neck to better see the new arrival, only to be stopped mid-word when Sherlock swung the chair with all his might, catching Stan with a direct hit to the chin. It wasn't the most decisive blow considering his condition, but it was enough to loosen Stan's grip on John's neck.

While the doctor slumped, gasping, to the floor, Stan whirled on Sherlock. A guttural roar like a battle-cry burst from him as he backhanded the detective fiercely across the face. Sherlock went down like a shack in a storm gale, smacking his head against the protruding wooden corner of the sofa as he fell. Unconsciousness took him by force; this new trauma was too much for his abused body to handle.

Stan bore down on him, a malicious leer twisting his face.

"So, he is human," he marveled wryly, nudging the detective's boneless form with his foot. "What a supri-"For the umpteenth time that night, Stan Woodward didn't get to conclude his sentence.

John had by now recovered sufficiently, and having gotten to his feet, could clearly see the damage done to his friend. From this distance, he couldn't tell if he was breathing still. A red haze shrouded the room, and a deep primeval desire to inflict misery crushed his rational judgment flat. So this was what bloodlust felt like.

With a level of speed and strength he never knew he had, John bolted across the room, and seized the abandoned chair. He raised it over his head, and finishing what Sherlock had started, brought it down as hard as he could on Woodward's head. The force of the blow was enough to knock him out on the spot. He keeled over without a sound, save for a muffled thud when he hit the floor.

Warily, John stood over him, chair in position, ready to strike again if necessary. But Woodward didn't even twitch. The doctor jabbed him with his foot. No movement. Out cold.

A grim half-smile spread across John's craggy face. The irony of the situation simply tickled him pink. Barely a minute ago, Stan had been poking Sherlock with his shoe. Oh, how the tables had turned!

Then it hit him: Sherlock!

In a panic, John rushed to the detective's prone form and knelt by his side. Miraculously, he was already stirring, trying to dredge himself from the murk of insentience. Gingerly, John reached out and clasped Sherlock's shoulder to speed the process along.

Before he could do much else, Sherlock wrenched himself abruptly away, as if by reflex. His eyes flew open, still clouded by a delirious fog. One fist swung feebly at John's head, but it missed by a long shot. The doctor caught it, and held it fast as its owner struggled pathetically in his grasp.

"Sherlock! What are you doing? It's John! Stop it!" It was like the words had flicked a switch. The fear and fight seeped from Sherlock's body, and confusion faded from his eyes. He sagged to one side, propping himself up against the sofa, a dejected ragdoll lacking support.

"John," he stated tiredly. Just that, nothing more.

"Yes?" The doctor prompted. A scenario with a wordless Sherlock was alarming, considering his usual vociferous tendencies.

"I was in error," he choked as though the words scalded his tongue. "I thought you were him. Couldn't be caught off guard…" 'Him' must mean Woodward. Shaking off a surge of intense dislike, John asked,

"How do you feel?" Sherlock blinked dazedly, pondering the question. Frowning, he pressed his palms to his temples and muttered plaintively,

"He upset my filing cabinets." Mind Palace, supposedly.

"Headache?" The detective nodded, then winced. "How many fingers am I holding up?" He raised three into the air before Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm not concussed, John!" he protested, batting them aside. "See, depth perception and hand-eye coordination are functioning well, no nausea or lingering dizziness of any kind. I'm fine, save for some bruising."

"Like hell you are," grumbled John, unconvinced. "Your nose is almost certainly broken-"

"So?" Sherlock griped, probing delicately at it with his long fingers. "A broken nose isn't life-threatening." Determined to have his friend say reason, John pressed both hands firmly on the detective's side. Emitting an indignant noise that could only be described as a yowl, Sherlock twisted away. Triumphant, John declared,

"Hurt, didn't it? That means injuries to the trunk and chest cavity. Those canbe life-threatening."

"Was that really necessary?" Sherlock inquired petulantly, folding his arms around his chest.

"Absolutely," John countered. "Where does it hurt the most?" Rolling his eyes, Sherlock snapped,

"Enough frivolous questions! My head aches, it feels like someone attacked my face with a battering ram, my ribs are severely bruised, possibly cracked, but that's it, aside from a bit of bruising elsewhere from when I fell. Happy now?" Taking the matter-of-fact recitation in stride, John queried,

"Are you in shock then?"

"No! Honestly, do I look like I'm in shock? I haven't even got a blanket!" This unexpected joke sent John reeling off his serious doctor course of action. With a chuckle, he replied,

"You're being humorous, that's a little worrisome. I'll have to get you checked out for that." Sirens caterwauled urgently from outside, interrupting John's diagnosis.

"Oh goody, Lestrade's here," Sherlock deadpanned. "He's getting slower, don't you think?"

"Thinking doesn't become me," returned John with an ironic smirk. "Now, we'd best go meet him and tell him about this." He jerked a thumb in the comatose Woodward's direction. Sherlock nodded.

"Alright. Just a minute…" He scooted on his rear end to the other side of the sofa, fished around beneath it for a moment, then withdrew, one hand clutching his mobile phone. Holding it to his ear, he said with false cheer, "Hello, Mycroft." From the other side of the line, Mycroft's tinny voice exclaimed,

"Sherlock! Are you hurt? Have the police arrived yet? Is-"

"Goodbye, Mycroft." Already fed up with his brother's endless queries, the detective briskly hung up.

"You should really try to be nicer to him," John chastised reproachfully. "He's the one who arranged this rescue, you know."

"It wasn't a rescue!" exploded the detective. "It was an… assisted escape. I could've handled it myself."

"Mhm, of course you could've, drugged out of your mind with Moriarty on his way. Not to mention his muscle man over there." Bristling, Sherlock peevishly barked,

"Fine, I'll send him a thank you card or something. Are we done here?"

"Yes, yes, no need to be so testy!" John helped the detective to his feet, where he stood, swaying slightly, staring pensively at the door. Momentarily he ordered,

"Give me your hand." John quizzically obliged, and Sherlock clutched it with a cast-iron grip. Clumsily, he threaded his fingers through John's until their hands were intertwined, locking them together.

"What are you doing!" yelped John, trying to tug away.

"Making our exit slightly less suspicious," murmured Sherlock, dabbing at his blood-encrusted cheek with a clump of his ruined shirt. "If we hold hands like this, we will be marked as a couple, and this place is positively crawling with couples, so we'll blend right in. Also, this seems like a place that might see a fist fight or two, so our injuries won't seem out of the ordinary."

"Clever as always," John acquiesced sarcastically, grudgingly surrendering his hand.

"Indeed. I never lose my head."

"You walloped a man with a chair. I don't think that qualifies as cool and composed."

"He walloped me first! Besides, you must've finished the job; look at the state of that thing!"

"I never said anything about me staying calm. Now let's get this over with. Lestrade probably thinks you're dead." Hand in hand, they slipped through the bar as inconspicuously as possible, considering their appearances. Pale, blood-soaked, and disheveled, Sherlock looked like he could've walked right out of some low-budget zombie film, bad makeup and all. John had turned tomato red, and was sweating copiously under his jumper. Holding hands with his flat-mate in the middle of the night at a gay bar… people were definitely going to talk!

The flat-mate in question however, didn't bat an eye as they stepped through the exit into the caution-tape strewn scene around them. He hardly twitched when nearly a dozen police handguns were trained reflexively on his head (whereas John nearly wet himself) and just barely smiled when they were lowered with shouts of relief.

A group of armed gunmen headed by Lestrade charged up to meet them. The detective- inspector opened his mouth as if to speak, but Sherlock cut him off.

"The culprit is in the janitor's lounge, out cold, I'm afraid." Lestrade gestured, and the gunmen rushed inside.

"Who was-"

"Woodward," interrupted Sherlock again. "It's Woodward. He, and, by extension, Moriarty were behind this. Can you bring him in for questioning now?" he asked frustratedly. Smoothing his bristly grey hair, Lestrade sighed,

"The lengths you go just to say 'I told you so.' Oy, wait a minute!" he exclaimed, as the detective started sidling away with the doctor in tow, "What happened to you?" Wincing, Sherlock turned back, disappointed that his sneaky escape had been thwarted. "You ought to get that checked out. There's an ambulance and some paramedics out back, just as a precaution."

"Thanks," smiled John. "We were just heading that way, weren't we Sherlock?"

"We were?"

"Oh, yes. Later, Lestrade." With those parting words, John proceeded to drag Sherlock in the direction of the ambulance.

"No! No, wait! Stop!" protested the detective, digging his heels into the concrete like a reluctant child. "John, we never agreed to this! You can't go carting me off to hospitals willy-nilly!"

Actually, you'll find I can," John grunted, grimly determined.

"Lestrade!" yelled Sherlock over his shoulder, "Bring the bartender in for questioning as well. He was in on it too; he drugged my drink!" Helpless to do or say anything more, he was ushered firmly away. As they wound their way through a myriad of parked police vehicles, they came across none other than-

"Molly?" said John, 'What are you doing here?" He face, harshly illuminated by lights of flashing red and blue brightened when she saw them.

"They wanted someone from the morgue along in case there were… bodies to deal with," she peeped softly. "I'm glad I didn't have to do my job today!" When her lackluster attempt at humor heralded no results, her cheeks reddened, and she attempted to remedy the situation by saying, "I-it's not that I don't like my job. It can be somewhat gruesome at times, but… but…" She trailed off despairingly, her eyes suddenly attracted by a new spectacle: John and Sherlock's tightly clasped hands.

Her already piping voice raised an octave as she shrilled,

"Er… I-I'd best go check the… the… oh dear…" Eyes bright with dismay and unshed tears, she scurried past them and into a throng of forensics workers.

John groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Genuinely perplexed, Sherlock wailed,

"What's not good? I didn't even say anything!"

Oh God Sherlock, are you really so thick?" snapped the doctor. "Hands. Nails. Makeup." For once, all the world's only consulting detective had to say was,

"Oh."

'She thinks you're gay! And that you and I are… Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!" Roughly, he shook his hand out of Sherlock's grasp. "We're leaving now. Where's that bloody ambulance?" As John scanned around for it, his colleague, thinking on his toes, casually asked,

"What's the name of that assistant of Mycroft's? Anthea, yes?"

"Your point is?" John responded irritably.

"Well, her car is parked right over there on the curb. I'm sure she wouldn't begrudge us a ride home." Slyly he watched the doctor mull over the idea. A swift, anonymous ride back to Baker Street was just the kind of miracle transport they needed. But…

"What about you? You could use some medical attention." Sherlock attempted to wrinkle his nose, thought better of it, then said pacifyingly,

"You're a doctor. The first aid kit is in the bathroom cabinet. Please, John?" The doctor sighed defeatedly, in no mood to put up a disapproving front.

"Fine. But if your nose is permanently disfigured, you have no one to blame but yourself."

"And Stan Woodward."

"Him too."

"And Lestrade."

Why?"

"If he had just arrested Woodward when I told him to, my face would still be intact." John couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's unjustly vengeful attitude.

All it took was a brief dressing-down from the younger Holmes brother to get Anthea to cave in and give them a ride. They clambered inside, then drove away, eager to take their leave of this sordid crime scene.

~SH~

As one sleek black vehicle departed, another arrived, slinking around the corner, a panther with glowing headlights for eyes. There it skulked in a moment of indecision as its driver adjusted his chauffer's cap and said in a grating voice,

"The police are here, sir. What should we do?" From the back seat, his passenger sighed melodramatically, and swept an imaginary speck of dust from his designer suit jacket.

"Oh pooh, why must they always spoil my fun?" he lamented in a voice as cloyingly, dangerously sweet as poisoned honey. "I suppose that means dear Sherlock got away. More fun for next time, then. Turn around; all the action's passed us by."

"But what about Mr. Woodward, sir?"

"Leave him. He bungled his task, and I don't tolerate such things. There is no use for him now."

"I thought you and he-"The chauffer was interrupted when his passenger laughed a sinister, tinkling laugh. Sharp white teeth glinted in the low light as he chortled,

"No, stupid, we aren't! At least I'm not. I hooked him like a fish on a line; it was that easy. I admit though, it was adorable the way he scurried frantically around trying to please me. Hell, he even kidnapped his own sister for me! He was a nice plaything, but he's ordinary. Worthless. I can just as easily find another. Now, speaking of worthless things…" Brown eyes still gleaming with unhinged mirth, he burrowed into his silk-lined suit pocket for his phone. Humming chipperly, he dialed a number, and waited.

Not long of course. No one dared to keep him waiting.

When the voice at the other end of the line answered, he warbled,

"Hi, you know that girl we picked up? Stan's sister? Yeah, he made a little oops-a-daisy, so I had to let him go. All bets are off on the girl. Do whatever you want. Bye!" He drew out the last word in a shivering falsetto, and then hung up.

Gesturing for the chauffer to drive, James Moriarty settled back into his seat, a satanic grin crinkling his face. He may have lost today, but that didn't matter. There would always be time for more games.

~SH~

A/N: Third chapter! The epilogue will be coming up soon, don't worry! This chapter made me feel bad for Stan while I was writing it. First the poor guy has issues with his parents about his sexuality, and then he gets caught up with Moriarty, walloped by a chair, and beaten up by an angry army doctor. Not to mention his sister's fate. Yikes.

Just a little disclaimer: Stan in no way represents my outlook on the gay community. Obviously not all gays are creepy psychotic hit men. It's all fine, folks.

Thanks for favoriting, watching, reviewing, reading, etc.!