Mrs. Hudson cringed, hearing another solid thump coming from upstairs. The boys had been at it all morning, and she didn't know what was going to be in the worst shape by the time they were finished: the living room or themselves. She put some cold sandwiches and tea on a tray, hoping they would take a break when she brought it to them. She was about to mount the stairs when the living room door flung open and Doctor Watson fell through it, landing on his back with a solid thud.
"Get up!" Sherlock Holmes yelled at him from right inside the doorway.
The doctor grunted, raised himself on one elbow, gasped for breath.
"Get up!" Holmes yelled again. He stepped out onto the landing, his back to Mrs. Hudson and the stairs down. "You want to learn to fight? Let's fight!"
"I can fight!" Watson growled back at him. "I was…"
"I was the champion of my regiment," Holmes finished for him, nearly mocking him. "Yes, I know, but that means nothing! Not when you haven't learned to compensate for the wounds you've since gained. You're the champion of nothing! Not yet! Now get up!"
Watson growled something that likely wasn't even words, climbed to his feet, swung a gloved hand at Holmes. Holmes blocked him, his other arm swinging quickly and his gloved hand striking Watson across the cheek. Watson stumbled backwards against the railing as Holmes made to punch him again. The doctor yelled, blocked the punch with his 'bad' arm in a way that seemed strange but was effective. He set his feet, lunged, and struck Holmes so hard the detective stumbled backwards dangerously near the edge of landing, his heel slipping off the top stair.
Mrs. Hudson almost screamed, but Watson saw it, too. He lunged, wrapped both arms around Holmes, and threw his body backwards so they collapsed on the landing. Each of them were panting hard from the panic and exertion, and there was blood on both of their faces. Not enough blood that Mrs. Hudson worried they'd been trying to hurt each other, of course, but enough to show they hadn't been pulling punches.
Holmes recovered first, his breathing evening out. He pushed himself to sit upright, biting his boxing glove laces to undo the knots and free his hands. When the first one came off, he reached over to Watson and touched his face, peering at him. "You're fine," he declared. "Well done, Watson. Soon we'll have you fighting as well as once you did."
"I can fight," Watson murmured, blinking at Holmes. It seemed like he was still a little dazed.
"I know," Holmes replied, untying the knots on Watson's gloves for him. "With more practice you'll be the champion of any regiment you wish."
"I don't want to beat anyone else, just you. So I can protect you if anyone else tries to."
"And I want you to be able to defend yourself, though I know you'll take it upon yourself to be a bodyguard for Baker Street just as I try to be. Keep learning to compensate for those wounds and you'll be fine, I'm certain. We'll be ready for any intruder."
"We have bigger problems than that," Watson pointed out.
"We do?"
Watson gestured to the bottom landing where Mrs. Hudson was standing, staring up at them with crossed arms and a sour frown.
"Never again," she growled, "will I find you fighting on my stairs."
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," they both chorused, looking chastised.
She took a deep breath. "Get cleaned up. Both of you. And if there's any blood on the carpet use the hydrogen peroxide from the cupboard."
"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," they said again.
They slowly got to their feet, leaning against each other, and Mrs. Hudson sighed as she watched them go. How, she wondered, were they able to be so endearing right when she was ready to be angry with them? Maybe it was the way Sherlock had been so gentle and thoughtful, reaching to check the blood on Watson's face before worrying about his own split lip. Maybe it was the way Watson had freely admitted he wanted to learn to fight again so he could protect Sherlock Holmes. Or, maybe, it was the way they helped each other up, leaned on each other, and laughed as they tended each other's wounds even though Holmes had just punched Watson so hard he'd fallen through a doorway and Watson had nearly knocked Holmes down the stairs.
Whatever the reason, she wasn't annoyed with them, not really. Not even when she went into the living room to find they'd broken one of her flowerpots. Sherlock Holmes was applying a plaster to a small cut on Watson's cheek as she entered, and the blood from his lip had already been wiped away.
"There you are," Holmes said, patting the plaster with one fingertip. "Have a little faith in me, Watson. I promised you we'd both be fine and we are."
Watson rolled his eyes and pushed Holmes' hand away, but he was grinning.
Mrs. Hudson placed their lunch tray on the table, and they both looked over at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," they said together, still looking and acting like schoolboys caught skipping their classes. She couldn't help it, she smiled at them.
"Let me show you something," she said, and reached into her dress pocket. She laughed as she watched their eyes widen. She was holding a derringer, a gun smaller than her hand but with two barrels and certainly enough to protect her. It was made of shining silver, was sleek and deadly and clearly well taken care of. "If there is a Baker Street bodyguard around here," Mrs. Hudson declared, "it is me."
Author's Note:
This story was inspired by the boxing scenes in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson starring Vasiliy Livanov as Holmes, Vitaly Solomin as Dr. Watson, and Rina Zelyonaya Mrs. Hudson as well as the "new" Russian Sherlock Holmes series with Andrey Panin as Watson and Igor Petrenko as Holmes. They're both good series (Livanov and Solomin are among the best Holmes and Watson actors of all time), and both feature boxing scenes between Holmes and Watson. In the first, Mrs. Hudson admonishes Holmes to be careful because of Watson's wounded shoulder, and in the second Watson sends Holmes tumbling down the stairs.