Chapter Text
Oh, no, John thinks to himself. Oh, no, no, no, no, no.
“So, so what?” The stranger is an absolute giant of a man to begin with—okay, right, that’s maybe a touch of an exaggeration, but he hits the gym for sure—and then he swells out his chest, looking even bigger. “You’re not going to take my case? You’re just going to—to let that bitch flounce around as she pleases? This is your job. ”
He takes a threatening step forward. Hands are balled into fists at his side—oh, this is not good Not good at all. John spares an anxiety-spiked glance to Sherlock.
Sherlock is already checked out, because of course he fucking is. He’s reclined back on the sofa like a uni student home on holiday. Scrolling through his phone completes the image just as well, though John suspects he’s not idly flirting with the girl from Comparative Anatomy.
“You can’t just ignore me. I’m a client.”
“Mm, nope,” Sherlock replies, popping his p. “You were a hypothetical client. We heard your case, I don’t care for it, and now you’re nobody.” Sherlock, John tries to send with his eyes. Sherlock, don’t be doing this. “I mean,” he adds, with a slight laugh, “Unless you become a murder suspect in the next… oh, twenty minutes or so.”
He’s doing this on purpose. He has to be doing this on purpose. Nobody can be this socially dense. Well, nobody who’s made it to Sherlock’s age can be this socially dense. School would have destroyed him first.
“I figure after that time, I’ll be so off my head that it won’t really matter what you come to me with. Though, I suppose you could just leave it with Dr. Watson. He’ll relay the relevant details to me later. Or… Watson, is Mariana in?”
“Sherlock,” he forces through gritted teeth.
“Are you even a detective?” The client demands, his question booming in the small space. Why can’t Sherlock feel the tension rising in the air? John hasn’t been in loads of fistfights, granted, but he’s seen more than he can count. It sucks all the air out of the room. Even when you’re not in it, you can’t help but watch.
And the thing is, John’s not in it, but it looks like Sherlock is. That’s almost worse.
“Because, because I come in here, and you’re just sitting around, being—being fuckin’ weird, mate, is what you’re bein’. Laying around, talkin’ about shootin’ up. Haven’t looked me once in the eyes since I came in –”
“No, look, that’s normal –” John finds himself trying to explain, to no avail.
“And what even is this place? What kind of office is this?” He swings his arm around in a sharp, jerky gesture to indicate… well, the general mess that is their flat. John tries to keep it tidy.
Problem is that he’s not a particularly neat person himself (not that he’s filthy or anything, mind—though his mum might want to disagree) and Sherlock can be a force of nature when he wants to be. There’s a dozen half-full cups of various shapes and sizes, chemistry apparatus that looks more akin to a meth lab, newspapers scattered about, pinches and squeezes of cigar ash lined up in a tidy row on the table.
Well, if clients called before they came in, John might be able to sort something.
“You know what I think?”
Sherlock is well checked out at this point. He’s tapping at his phone in such a way that John is pretty sure he’s playing some mobile game.
“I don’t think you’re even a detective. Certainly not a bloody genius, like the papers have said.”
“Well, now, hang on,” John interrupts, and suddenly he’s standing.
Because the thing is, you’d expect Sherlock to take offense at someone telling him he’s not a genius. Sherlock can be… arrogant. Sherlock can be pompous. Sherlock can be utterly obsessed with himself.
The bloke just puts in so much pride at what he does. Rightfully so! It’s not the fame that Sherlock’s ever cared about, it’s getting a tightly knotted problem and prying it apart. So if anyone’s ever deserved to be a wee bit defensive about that sort of thing, it’s Sherlock.
But Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“Now you’ve done it, you fucking freak! ”
Only then does the guy go for Sherlock’s arm. Later, in therapy, when John recounts this, he’ll say that he only acted after the guy grabbed Sherlock’s arm. Because the clear intention was to throw Sherlock on the floor, and that put Sherlock in a very precarious position, didn’t it? Could’ve stomped on his neck. His head. Could’ve broken a couple ribs with a well-placed kick.
Except it’s a real Han-and-Greedo situation, isn’t it? Because John knows, to the depths of his soul, that he started moving after the cracking k in freak.
He grabs onto the man’s shoulder and pulls him back. In the same movement, he swings around his other fist and cracks him right on the cheekbone.
It’s a solid, good hit. Always more solid than you’d think, hitting someone. For little parcels of meat with bones inside, humans can be remarkably hard to move. Then again, John’s hitting far above his weight class, and despite the military, he isn’t actually an expert in hand-to-hand combat.
John doesn’t even have time to duck. The last thing he’s aware of is the guy’s eyes meeting his— aw, tender moment—and seeing the sheer, meatheaded rage shine inside of them. Really, he doesn’t even see the guy move to punch him.
Just pain. A great big burning starburst of it, right over his right eye.
He falls backward, because of course he falls backward. John doesn’t quite remember hitting the ground. It’s probably more a matter of being stunned than properly losing consciousness, as John only realizes the world around him when he realizes he can move his hands. Everything moves so slowly, though—except his eye, of course, and except the thudding pain across the back of his body. Ow, ow, ow. Oh, that’s swelling. That’s definitely swelling.
A loud thump rattles the floorboards below John’s body. It’s soon accompanied by a low growl of pain. Something falls onto the floor and shatters.
Shit.
“Sh…” He wheezes. Great. He might’ve made this whole thing worse, actually! Good, good. Fat lot of help he is. Down at the first punch.
Then he hears a groan, and he realizes the man on the floor is not Sherlock Holmes.
“If you so much as look at him again,” Sherlock threatens, “Then my wrist will rotate a mere 120 degrees, and the contents of this mug will pour in the square center of your forehead. Shall we have a demonstration?”
Getting his elbows underneath him, John woozily makes out the scene.
The guy is on the floor, looking about as stunned as Jon feels. Sherlock’s got one foot planted on his chest, though really, it’s a bit like a toothpick trying to hold down a Mastiff. What’s more concerning, probably, is the Swindon Town mug that he holds precariously between two fingers. With a flourish, he swings his arm to the side and lets it tip.
As soon as the clear liquid inside strikes the rug, something… sizzles. A plume of smoke starts to rise from the floor.
Sherlock, that’s our rug. His mind’s not in order, not just yet, but he does bemoan that for as many messes as Sherlock makes, he could stand to clean a few. Then Sherlock moves his arm back, a bit too freely for a man who’s clearly carrying a volatile acid, and situates it right above his head.
And the man whimpers. High-pitched, too. Doesn’t say a word otherwise. Certainly, his eyes are trained right on the Swindon crest rather than anywhere near John’s direction.
“Or perhaps, ” Sherlock adds, with some light glee, “I should test some of it out, anyway? On your fingers. Perhaps. Your nose is made out of cartilage, so long as it didn’t drip into your brain, it wouldn’t have any long lasting neurological impacts. Just a reminder to—”
He doesn’t think Sherlock’s being serious, for the record. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Everyone likes thinking that the people they live with don’t have the possibility to go off the deep end. Still, for as much as a bastard Sherlock is, he doesn’t like mutilating people for fun.
… That look in his eyes, though. That’s a bit… bit scary, that is. The smile is definitely off-putting.
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s mask falls as he regards John. His eyebrows raise, bringing out the worry lines on his forehead. Still, the cup remains still. John puts on his best whatever it is you’re doing, stop it expression, which admittedly is tainted by his swiftly blackening eye and his grimaces of pain.
“No… at-home lobotomies, please, okay? I think he’s learned his lesson. Just send him on his way.”
Sherlock hesitates. Christ, does he really want to keep torturing this guy? Not for the first time, John wants to talk with Sherlock’s parents. He won’t even lecture them. He just sort of wants to know what their problem is, because clearly, they have problems.
Then, with a noise of effort, Sherlock takes his foot back from the man’s chest. He puts the mug back on the end table. John makes a mental note to get that fucking thing into the hazardous waste disposal bin as soon as possible.
(The hazardous waste disposal bin is an old coffee tin that he pours out in the park, sometimes. Better than the sink.)
“You heard the man,” Sherlock says imperiously, taking a step back. “For the sake of any poor souls you encounter in the future, I hope you have learned your lesson. You miserable cretin of a human being.”
***
“Miserable cretin of a human being,” John muses. He takes the frozen bag of peas from Sherlock. Mariana probably won’t mind if her frozen vegetables have a bit of John taint on them— god, no, wait, he can’t word it like that. He’ll think of a better way later.
That cold is heavenly. He might actually be able to have a coherent thought, now. Hard to think when your entire eye is constantly reminding you that it’s swollen. While Sherlock was rooting around downstairs, he got a look at himself in the mirror. It’s pretty bad. Hopefully he can at least open it, tomorrow. Otherwise, he’s going to have a long day of laying on the couch and feeling sorry for himself.
“Well. It is accurate.”
“Yeah. You’re right, there. Well, I hope he takes it to heart.”
“How does it feel?”
When John opens his good eye, he sees that Sherlock has not moved back from the couch. In fact, he’s no more than a handful of millimeters away from his face. His eyes are practically glued to John’s bruise.
“I’m not going to stop breathing, you can back up a bit.”
“Right. Sorry.” Sherlock does so. Perches himself like a bird on the sofa arm, actually. John’s mum hated people putting their feet on the couch, and sometimes John feels the rise of Carol Watson within him, but largely he doesn’t care. Would prefer Sherlock’s feet on the couch than him falling asleep upside down again.
“Thanks. No, no. It’s fine. I don’t think I hit my head all that hard, and the eye will… well, it’ll be annoying. But it’ll be fine. We’ll just tell people, wait until you see the other guy. ”
He realizes his mistake about two seconds after he says it. By that point, Sherlock’s already responded. “ The other guy? The other guy looks fine. More or less. He wee’ed himself a bit.”
“He –” Okay, he was planning on explaining a saying to Sherlock again, but he breaks up into snickers before he can even try. “Okay, that does make me feel a bit better, actually. Christ. ”
Sherlock looks almost meek when John laughs at his joke. That is not a look he sees often on Sherlock. Slowly, like he’s frightened of scaring off an animal, Sherlock shifts himself down from the sofa arm and sits next to him. His gaze is straight ahead, fixed on the opposite wall. There’s a scattering of holes across it. John doesn’t want to ask. He stares at them just the same.
“Why on Earth did you attack that man?” Sherlock eventually asks.
“Er, I’d think it was obvious. You weren’t paying attention, he was going to grab you.” John tries to put a bit of casual military masculine machismo in his voice. If he sounds confident enough, then maybe Sherlock won’t—
But of course he will.
“That’s not how things played out, Watson. You had taken one step back to steady yourself—incorrectly, I may add— before he reached for my arm.”
Great. Salt to the wound, there. He appreciates it. John sighs. Part of him just wants to go to bed, except it’s two in the afternoon, and Sherlock may very well follow him there anyway. He’s been hovering.
“He called you a freak. And you weren’t going to do anything about it, so –”
“Why would I?” Sherlock asks curiously, turning to look at John.
“I— because.” Some days, it’s tempting to just leave it at that. Sherlock’s forced himself to think of social implications he’s never had to think about before. “Because people are generally displeased when people say rude things to them. It makes people feel angry.”
“Why would I care? I didn’t like him. He’s a woman-hating bully whose girlfriend isn’t missing, she’s left him. Did you like him?”
“ No. I punched him across the face, Sherlock, of course I don’t like him.”
“Then…?”
The thing is, there is not an ounce of irritation in Sherlock’s brain right now with him. He’s genuinely deeply curious. Not for the first time (that hour), John’s frustrated with himself. He’s the one who… knows people. He’s the one who should be able to explain this, and with Sherlock looking at him so intently, John suddenly feels like a massive, massive idiot.
Testy, John shoots back, “W-Well, don’t pretend like you didn’t go overboard with that mug of acid.”
That does make Sherlock frown and return to staring at the wall. “Yes,” he muses. “Logically, I wanted to inform him that his behavior was inappropriate and that I would not tolerate further instances.”
“And… illogically?”
“I…” Sherlock briefly bites his lower lip, considering his words. “Wanted to see him scared. Remorseful. Interesting. I hadn’t considered sadism as one of my traits.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say sadism, alright, Mr. No. At least—not any more sadistic than I was. You were just angry. People are stupid when they’re angry. Mean, sometimes.”
“Hm.” Sherlock exhales to the very end of his lungs. John turns to see him and his faraway expression. After a very long moment, during which John considers asking Sherlock to put something on the telly, Sherlock adds: “It didn’t feel like being stupid.”
“Yeah, well.” Right, he can’t feel that side of his face at all anymore. John removes the bag of peas with a wince and probes at the area tenderly. Well, good thing he doesn’t have a date in the next couple of days (not that he’s had one for months, but now it’s a good thing). “I… for what it’s worth, don’t think I’m going to be trying this again. If it doesn’t bother you, and… well, didn’t exactly end well for me, so.”
Shouldn’t go around getting punched in the head like this. He’s already working at a deficit with Sherlock, last thing he needs is to be sacrificing a few more of his brain cells. Oh, he needs a drink. He wonders if Sherlock feels enough pity for him to get him a beer.
“Well, drawbacks aside—I think I’d do it again, actually,” Sherlock says. “It
was
remarkably effective.”