This week, Iām going to share a bit of BAMF!John from a fic Iām working on
Boots scraping on loose gravel, John drops the Sig against the back of the manās head, making him freeze, hand still stretched toward the door. He is wearing a uniform identical to the stolen clothes on Johnās back, and the rifle slung across his chest is a match to the one left behind in the truck.
When he speaks, Johnās voice is low and dangerous. āDonāt.ā Language barrier or no, the man gets the message. His hand slowly drops. John grabs the collar of his jacket, pulling him away from the door as he backs away from the truck, bringing the man with him. The strangerās feet tangle, forcing John to haul him along until he finds his balance again.
A safe distance from the vehicle, John pushes on the manās shoulder. A head taller than John, he remains standing, posture stiff-backed and rigid.
āKneel.ā John shoves, and the man makes a noise but doesnāt comply. āI said kneel, dammit.ā Slamming a boot into the back of the manās knee, driving a cry from his lips, John digs his fingers into muscle and forces him to the ground. With the man on his knees in front of him, John rips off his hat and grabs a handful of dark hair. Wrenches the manās head back until the setting sun illuminates his wide eyes, locked on Johnās face. āAre you alone?ā The manās mouth stays closed, and John waits.
Silence is his only answer.
Tongue flicking out to wet his lips, John leans down. Shifting the gun, pressing it to the manās cheek, he offers a hard, ugly smile. āIāll ask you one more time. If you donāt answer, you can eat a bullet.ā The smile widens a little, and the man goes pale. āIt wonāt kill you, but it will hurt. A lot. So, I ask again: are you alone?ā
Eyes flickering from the gun against his cheek to Johnās face, the man nods. John squints, features hardening. Behind him, a voice says, āHeās lying.ā
Shooting a look over his shoulder, John sees Sherlock leaning out of the open passenger-side door. His face is composed. Only the strange glitter of his eyes in the falling darkness gives away any sign of emotion as he watches John intimidate a man into the snow.
The man seizes on the distraction, lunging forward awkwardly, trying to make it to his feet.
John kicks out, heavy boot catching him in the spine and slamming the man onto his front. He grunts and tries to rise, but John plants a foot on his neck and presses until the man freezes, falling still. In the following quiet, John hears the crunch of snow beneath boots. He looks at Sherlock. Their eyes meet, and Sherlockās breath emerges in a pale cloud.
āGet in the truck,ā John orders. āLay down and donāt move.ā The voice he hears is that of the soldier, not the flatmate. Not the bumbling sidekick, or Sherlock Holmesā āconfirmed bachelorā partner in crime-solving.Ā This John Watson standing over a man, neck pinned to dirty snow with a planted boot, was born in the deserts of Afghanistan.
The man lets out a low, choked sound, and Sherlock ducks into the vehicle, closing the door behind him. He ducks out of sight, following orders without question for once in his life. Glancing over his shoulder, John bends and wraps an arm around the torso of the man on the ground.
āMove!ā He hauls the man with him, fear turning the strangerās limbs stiff, John dragging him toward the truck and underneath. Pinning him under his body, John wrestles with the knife in his belt, setting it over the manās right eye, gun held out toward the sound of approaching feet. Grateful for the falling darkness, John bends his head to whisper in the manās ear.
āIf you scream, youāre dead.ā He twitches the knife against the skin beneath the blade, feels blood trickle against his bare hand and wishes he hadnāt taken his gloves off.
Two pairs of legs move into view. John presses down, pushing the man into the snow with a muffled gasp. Digging the toe of his boot into the strangerās hamstring, hissing a warning, he watches the men circle the truck. As he tracks their movement, he notes that the back tires have been slashed and resists the urge to press the blade harder into the manās face.
The approaching men pause. Speak to one another and split up, one moving along the left side of the truck, the other going right. Johnās exhale crystallizes in front of his face, and he clamps his mouth shut, holding his breath.
