Sherlock Dari drabble Chapter 5

A/N: This is something I think it would be brilliant to see in the series. John always seems unflappable and kind, so it's really easy to forget that he's almost certainly a bit of a bad-ass. After all, why else would a doctor in a unit where sidearms can only be used for self-defence be such a good sharp-shooter? There will be more surprised!Sherlock in later chapters, but it looks like it could be enlightening to see John through other people's eyes as well.

It had started off as routine as any case with Sherlock Holmes at its centre could be; look at the body, deduce the details, hop in the car and chase the perpetrator down through some dark alleyway or other. However, by the time Greg, Sally and Sherlock had realised that the secretary who seemed to have murdered her boss with poisoned massage oil was more than a pretty face, she had hired thugs to protect her. This had resulted in all three of them being abducted and put in the back of a Transit van. Sally was staring fixedly ahead, trying not to let her boss see her shake; Greg was silently seething at the indignity of being forced into his own handcuffs; and Sherlock was out cold, blood oozing from a nasty wound to his temple after an unfortunate remark about the Russian one's parentage. There were four of them, Greg counted. He'd already given them names in his head-a strategy of his in dealing with people who made his blood run cold; the Rusky would be Red Square (nasty, violent and brutish).

His stomach lurched in spite of him as their quarry opened the doors to reveal (you guessed it) a cold, empty warehouse with corrugated iron walls and a concrete floor. The chill February wind whistled in through the gaps, sending Sally into a huddled bundle, as Sherlock was dumped unceremoniously further along the wall. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his belly, Greg watched as Sally and Sherlock were bound to the pipes behind them with a rough sisal rope. He forced himself not to flinch as Red Square and Fosters hauled him upright by the shoulders and did the same to him.

"How long do you plan on keeping us here, Miss Marchand?"

The blonde woman's eyes flicked to her left, and Greg was thrown backwards by the force of a meaty fist ploughing into the side of his face. Sally gasped as he blinked away the stars that crept into his vision.

"Thought I'd better ask."

She smiled, feral and cold. "Guard them. I've got a plane to catch."

He had no idea how long they'd been sitting there, but dusk had come and gone, with Sherlock waking groggily at some point in the night. They'd taken it in turns to talk to one another about-well, anything, really-to keep each other awake and alert, so it was with great trepidation that Greg listened as a crunching noise sounded from outside. Before Red Square, Fosters and Whisky Galore had a chance to react, the door to the warehouse had creaked open. Weak winter sunshine spilled in through the gap, and Red Square went down like a sack of potatoes. Face first-that's got to hurt.

Sherlock's mouth crinkled up at the corners as he watched the onslaught, Sally sitting gobsmacked beside him. John scythed through the air, planting both feet into Whisky Galore's chest and dealing him a nasty blow across the windpipe. Landing on the balls of his feet, he whipped around in a perfect roundhouse kick, shuffling forwards to wrest Fosters's gun from his hands. He cracked him across the back of the leg, smirking grimly as he fell. "John-what...?"

John turned to Greg on the other side of the room, surveying the damage as he went. "Did some training with the SAS, donkey's years ago now; they must have needed a new Medical Officer, 'cause they went to the RAMC and asked us if anyone wanted to see if they were tough enough. I volunteered, just for shits and giggles really, with two mates of mine. One of them dropped out with a nasty concussion after three weeks; Mike and I both passed, but I left to go back to the 5th Northumberlands. He stayed, got blown up in Fallujah in 2003." He sighed. The expression on his face shifted from one of regret to one of coldest fury as a shadow loomed behind him. He slammed his elbow into Fosters's ribs, wheeling round to punch him square in the throat. He went down with barely a groan.

John was halfway over to the three of them before he realised that both Sally and Greg were staring at him agog. Sherlock, sounding as unconcerned as ever, jerked his head towards the other captives. "Help Donovan first, she's in severe shock. Krav Maga?"

"A mixture of Krav Maga, Kung Fu, jiu-jitsu and capoiera, to be exact. Deleted that, had you?"

"I did not delete it, I merely forg-Sally, he won't harm you. He just wants to check you over." Sherlock looked at Donovan with a peculiar mixture of pity and exasperation as she shrank away from John's hands when they reached for the ropes that bound her. Putting them up in a gesture of surrender, he knelt beside her. "Greg, if I untie you, do you think you could untie Sally for me?" He avoided her gaze as he set about working the knot free and slipping the rope down Lestrade's grazed wrists. As they stood shakily, leaning against one another, John planted his feet firmly on the ground in front of Greg. "It wasn't lethal force, if that's what you're both thinking. I only kill when there's no alternative. In this case, having them out cold for long enough that your backup would arrive was more than adequate..."

Greg nodded, leaning forward so John could peer into his face, oh-so-gently palpating his cheekbone and eye socket. "Nothing's broken, but you'll have a hell of a shiner for the next week. Which of our benighted guests was it? Larry, Curly or Moe?"

Grinning at the reference, Greg winked. "Larry, but I decided to call them Red Square, Whisky Galore, Fosters and Bacardi Breezer." Snorting, John turned to Sherlock, who waved a hand dismissively at him as expected before (entirely unexpectedly) nodding to Sally, who had curled up at the back of one of the police cars. Shrinking into herself as he approached, she looked up at him with a painfully familiar thousand-yard stare. He crouched beside her, speaking softly and remembering not to make any sudden movements.

"Sally, can I take your pulse for a sec? I need to see how shocky you are." Trembling, she extended her wrist, staring straight ahead as John counted the beats.

"You're not a violent man."

"Sorry?"

She spoke slightly louder this time. "You're not a violent man, John. You're-you're good. Seeing you like that was frightening-it's not supposed to be you doing the enforcing. Sherlock, I might have expected it from, but not you. You were," she hiccupped, beginning to cry now, "you were so cold."

"I used to be a soldier, Sally. I was a pacifist before I went to war, but I came to the conclusion that it was better to be armed and able to defend people than not to be armed at all. That's what I meant when I said I would kill if necessary. If one of them had had a gun to your head, and he hadn't put it down when I told him to, I'd have given him two more chances. When they were up, I'd have shot him to save you, because you couldn't have defended yourself. What's more, I wouldn't have regretted it. I remember every person I've ever killed, because I think to exonerate myself, to justify killing someone as if it was just another thing I did, would be disrespectful. In the end, I've only ever killed three. Two of those were on my side. I couldn't do anything for them and they were in pain, so they asked me to do it and I did. I had my gun on me today, but I chose not to use it because I knew using my hands would be less damaging." Nodding shakily, she sat back, letting the paramedics help her up.

Standing up from where he'd been murmuring into Sally's ear, John turned to speak to them as Sherlock strode over, looking every inch the rake despite the dark trail down his cheek.

"Chinese?"

"God, yes. Night Greg." (A shout from the back of another ambulance told him Greg had heard.)

He spared a glance behind him as Sally was wrapped in a thick orange blanket, a pulse ox monitor on her right ring finger.

"Night Sally." She nodded, still dazed, and dropped her gaze back to the floor.

"Did you tell her the real reason you learned martial arts?"

"'Course not, don't be an idiot. Why would I tell Regina George over there something like that?"

"Who the hell is Regina George?"

"Never mind."

A/N: So what is the real reason why John learned martial arts, and why didn't he at least tell Greg the truth? Answers on a postcard (or, preferably, in a review). If you would like a chapter explaining it later on, just say the world and I shall attempt to write one!

PS: I wonder why John would know who Regina George is?