Skald Rambles

"He's pissed off loads of people. Loads of people who'll pay good money to see him hurt."

John sniffs, looks at Sherlock, looks away. Keeps his voice casual, unconcerned. "Yeah, don't think so."

"John—" Sherlock says.

"No," John says. He shakes his head. His hand clenches once, unclenches. He presses it against his thigh, scraped knuckles against stiff denim.

The gun eases away from the back of his head.

He sniffs again, locks eyes with Sherlock. There is a furious, helpless expression trapped there in the furrow of his brow, the downward curl of his mouth. They really are in trouble, then.  

A red dot appears on Sherlock's forehead, dancing merrily between his eyes. John sighs, looks down at the ground. The bravado that has kept him upright slides away. His shoulders slump.

"Hit him," the man says again. "Or he dies."

"No," John breathes. He closes his eyes and is back in the cold air of the Saint Caedwalla's morgue, Sherlock at his feet. No, not this. He'd rather have the gun.

"Go on. Nothing you haven't done before, right?"

"Who are you?" John growls.

There is no answer. He did not expect one.

He lifts his head, squares his shoulders again. Presses his lips into a tight line. Sherlock holds his gaze, gives him a little nod.

"No," John says again. "Nope. Not doing—not doing this."

"I'm not asking you to kill him," the man says. "Just rough him up a little bit for the camera. Won't that be fun?"

"John—" Sherlock says.

"Shut up," John says, because Sherlock is going to try to convince him that it needs to be done, and he knows it needs to be done, because the gun is trained on Sherlock and not on John. Because he'd gladly die to keep from hurting Sherlock, but he'd do just about anything to keep from watching Sherlock die again.

"Go on," Sherlock says, puffing himself up a little bit, his mouth curling into a disingenuous smile, and John knows he is going to start saying awful, terrible, monstrous things. Just so that it's just that much easier to swing his fist.

He won't let Sherlock do that. John doesn't deserve that mercy.

He swings. His fist connects with Sherlock's cheek. There is a muted thud of flesh on flesh. Sherlock rocks but stays standing.

"Don't pull your punches."

"I'm not," he lies through gritted teeth.

The red light jitters on Sherlock's forehead, drawing his attention. He shakes his hands out, presses them flat against his thighs. Shakes his head.

"John," Sherlock says. His voice is low, and serious. "It's all right."

"No. This is very fucking far from all right."

Sherlock's head droops a little bit, a flicker of sadness on his face. When he speaks again, his voice is resigned. "I know. But it is—"

"Don't say it," John chokes, and swings again. This time he connects solidly, and Sherlock drops to his knees, breathing hard.

"Again," the man says.

"Shut the fuck up," John shakes his head. He puts his hands on his knees, blows out a shaky breath. His ears are ringing. He thinks he might be sick.

"Again or I'll paint the wall with his brains and leave you down here to clean up the mess," the man says. "I'll film that, too."

John groans and straightens up. His face is hot. His eyes leak. There is a pressure in his chest, rising, bubbling, catching in his throat.

Sherlock looks up at him from where he waits on his knees. There is a bruise darkening his cheekbone.

John swings, and Sherlock turns his face into the punch. Teeth slice into the thin skin of his knuckles. He jerks his hand back as Sherlock doubles over, blood dribbling from his split lip to the ground.

"Again."

"John," Sherlock says, lifting his head. His voice is hoarse. His eyes are wet. He is trying to smile, but his teeth are smeared with red. "It's all right."

"Any idea who this arsehole is, yet?" John grinds out, trying to sound casual and missing by a mile. "Any great deductions? Escape plans? Now would be a brilliant time."

"Again."

Sherlock climbs slowly to his feet. He brushes dirt from his coat, an achingly familiar motion. Stands, calmly waiting.

It's just about the worst thing that John has ever seen in his life.

It isn't, of course. He has seen worse things. Sherlock, dead on the pavement in front of Barts Hospital. Sherlock, eyes wet and wounded, smeared with his own blood, staring up at him from the morgue floor. His own knuckles, split and bleeding, itching to keep going, to strike again and again and again. Wanting to crush him, shatter him, stamp him down and kill him all over again.  

"No," John says. "No."

Sherlock closes his eyes, bracing for another hit. The red light on his forehead slides teasingly along the slope of his brows.

There is no getting out of this, John thinks. No matter what he's told. He will be forced to split his knuckles against Sherlock's face, to crack bone and bruise flesh and spill blood. To kill him in the name of saving his life.

Their captor is right, he thinks. There are loads of people who would pay a great deal of money to see that.

Christ, if he has to be the one to cause Sherlock's death, let it be for something good.

John surges forward, fists his hands in Sherlock's coat, yanks him into a rough kiss. Their faces press together, their legs tangle. Sherlock stumbles and they both go down, knees against concrete. Sherlock's mouth opens to him and John tastes blood and he tugs harder at the coat, trying to drag them together into one, so that the bullet, when it flies, will pass through them both.

Sherlock bites his lip. Hard. John cries out at the unexpected pain, lets go. Sherlock rolls sideways and staggers to his feet and John pushes up to follow, only to be felled again when Sherlock delivers a brutally efficient kick to the back of his knee. There is the sound of a scuffle, and the heavy, meaty thud of a body striking the hard ground.

John climbs unsteadily to his feet, touches his bruised lip with bruised fingers.

Sherlock stands only a few paces away, chest heaving, staring down at the crumpled form of their captor. He's unconscious. Respiration steady. If John had been the one to get at him, he would not be breathing. He wonders if Sherlock knew that, if that's why he knocked him down.  

"Laser pointer," Sherlock says, and he quirks a smile that pulls at the tear in his lip, sending a fresh trickle of blood down his chin. "Fake gun. Thought that might be the case, didn't want to risk it until I was sure."

"You—" John says, his words tripping over themselves, tangling in his mouth. He shakes his head. He cannot seem to speak.

And then Sherlock gives a groan and sinks back down to the ground, his back against the grimy wall. His head lolls, adrenaline fading. "Might need—a little help. Getting out of here."

John drops into a crouch next to him, presses a hand against Sherlock's bruised face. The skin beneath his palm is hot and damp. "Hey," he says, because he can think of nothing else. "Stay with me. Sherlock. Stay awake. Hey."

"Handcuffs," Sherlock says, flailing an uncoordinated hand towards his pocket, and John dutifully digs them out, secures their assailant before turning back towards him.

"How's your head?" John asks, helpless.

Sherlock squints at him, his brow crumpled up in bewildered pain. "Hurts. Obviously. Thought you were a doctor."

"Ta for that," John says, and there is a part of him that wants to laugh and a part of him that fears he might be sick all over the filthy concrete floor.

"You kissed me."

John presses his lips together, a bright spark of pain. He breathes out through his nose. Says nothing.

"Effective distraction," Sherlock says, finally. His eyes fix on John's, pale and wondering, before slipping shut again.