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holmesticeTitle: The World in My Pocket, the Sky in My Handkerchief
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lavvyan
Recipient:mresundance
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: graphic violence
Summary: The third time Sherlock gets himself kidnapped, John doesn't call the police.
Notes: Many thanks tokisa_hawklin for the wonderful beta. mresundance, have a kidnapping. I hope you enjoy it, though it got a bit darker than I intended it to. Um. Happy Solstice?
The World in My Pocket, the Sky in My Handkerchief
After Moriarty and his snipers; after the Golem; after Chinese assassins and a murderous cabbie; after Sherlock has been abducted for the second time in three months, John puts his foot down.
"You," he says, setting Sherlock's broken nose with just a little more force than is strictly necessary, "have the shittiest fighting technique I have ever seen in a grown man. How did you even survive this long?"
"Martial arts are boring." Sherlock's voice is as nasal as it is petulant. He winces as John presses the cartilage back into place. "And most of the men you saw fight were in the military, so that hardly counts."
"I'm not talking about martial arts, I'm talking about basic skills," John snaps back. "I don't care if you think it's boring. You will learn, and if I have to teach you myself."
Sherlock tilts his head to the side, pain apparently forgotten.
"What did you have in mind?" he asks.
~~~
The third time Sherlock gets himself kidnapped, John doesn't call the police. His chest is tight with a possessive fury so strong it frightens him. Frightens, but doesn't surprise. He doesn't allow himself to grow attached very often, but if he does, he doesn't hold back.
They've done their work on this case, so he knows that Morgan-the-petty-thief won't have more than two people with him. John can take care of those. He'll take care of Morgan, too. He doesn't need Lestrade and his circus of flashing lights and yellow tapes. Most of all, he doesn't need witnesses.
John Watson has had it. No more. And if London's underworld needs a clear signal, then John's bloody well going to send one.
It takes him longer to track Sherlock down than it would have the other way around, but he's learned enough of Sherlock's methods by now to manage. He's glad he won't have to call Mycroft; Sherlock's disturbing older brother always helps, but he is so very smug about it, and John can never be certain what Mycroft will ask for in return. Little things, most of the time, but Mycroft Holmes isn't the kind of man you want to owe a favour.
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock is being held in an abandoned warehouse. John grins through his lingering anger; no doubt Sherlock had words to Morgan about predictability and lack of originality. It probably got him slapped in the face. John's grin drops from his lips and he tightens his grip on the gun, its familiar weight of it not quite enough to reassure him. He shakes his head, just once, before he straightens. Mycroft was right, that first time they met. Sherlock is someone to worry about. Constantly.
When John's got Sherlock out of there, he'll clock him over the head himself. Maybe that'll make him feel better.
~~~
"I'm not in the mood for play-acting, John." Sherlock sounds so bored that John is half-afraid he'll melt into the sofa in a puddle of existential petulance. The perfect opportunity to distract him with a few lessons in self-preservation, if you ask John; not that John will let anyone question him. In this, he'll be the one calling the shots.
"Good," he says, reaching for the gun he has tucked behind his back, "neither am I."
Sherlock turns his head, but not nearly quickly enough to react in time. John is a doctor; he knows perfectly well where to hit, and how hard, to induce unconsciousness without doing any serious damage. Dragging the slumped body from the sofa to one of the kitchen chairs isn't easy, but John is determined. He manages.
"Told you I'd teach you," he mutters as he ties Sherlock to the chair. This isn't a game. John isn't playing. The only way to get Sherlock's attention is to make it real.
Needs must, John thinks, and pulls the zip ties a little tighter.
~~~
Morgan has a woman guarding the back door. John knocks her out with no remorse. She's not his target, but she is in his way, and in some things his moral standards aren't any higher than Sherlock's. He doesn't meet any more resistance as he makes his way between the dusty shelves of an empty high rack storage area, which is nice. John doesn't mind the violence – not now, not in this – but he can do without the noise.
He finds Sherlock tied to a chair in one of the many dead ends. A low table with an open laptop stands next to him, screen showing the unconscious woman by the door. Security camera. John winces.
"There's always something," Sherlock says softly, not quite an accusation. "Isn't there?"
"We've been waiting for you," says the man holding a gun to Sherlock's head. He's pleasant-looking, if a bit bland, but his easy smile doesn't reach the eyes. "It's more fun when someone's watching." The bloke – has to be Morgan – puts his finger on the trigger.
John looks at Sherlock and raises his eyebrows, just a bit. Sherlock blinks once, slowly. Then he jerks his head around.
Morgan shoots.
~~~
"That was a stupid idea, Sherlock," John says almost kindly, trailing the muzzle of his gun down Sherlock's temple. A few strands of black hair get caught in the front sight; John yanks them free. Sherlock jerks, and glares at him.
"It seemed like the most promising option."
John smiles. "Wrong." He presses the muzzle into that sweet hollow place next to Sherlock's left eye, where the zygomatic bone meets the sphenoid. "Now pay attention. You'll only get one shot at this. Or rather, I will."
Sherlock scoffs. "You're hardly going to shoot me."
"No, of course not." That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. "But I can make you pay attention. Don't make me get creative. I mean it."
If he weren't standing so close to Sherlock, John never would have seen it, the slight flush rising to Sherlock's cheeks, the way his pupils dilate. Just a little, just barely enough to be noticeable, but along with the flutter of speeding pulse at the side of his neck, Sherlock might as well be holding up a sign. John's own breath catches in his throat.
"I'll show you, later," he whispers hoarsely, mesmerised by the way Sherlock stares at him, as if John himself is somehow fascinating instead of merely pragmatic. "For now, listen."
"I am," Sherlock murmurs, "listening."
John swallows hard. Then he goes back to his lecture.
~~~
Sherlock, who is an excellent pupil if he wants to be, hits exactly the right angle. The back of his head knocks against Morgan's gun hand, and instead of tearing a path through Sherlock's brain the bullet leaves a streak of red along Sherlock's temple. Morgan curses, but before he can aim again, John's first shot punches through his right shoulder. Morgan cries out and drops the gun. John keeps his face impassive, but that possessive fury is back as his second shot ruins Morgan's left knee.
No right, he thinks, the third shot hitting Morgan's gut before the man has finished collapsing, blood splattering against Sherlock's trousers. You had no right to touch him.
John's about to see if he can shatter someone's pelvis with a single well-placed bullet when Sherlock says, "That's enough, don't you think?"
No. John doesn't think so at all.
~~~
The thing is, Sherlock is an almost painfully brilliant man, but he's also kind of an idiot. No sense of self-preservation, no filter between his brain and his mouth, no contingency plans in case he might be wrong. He needs someone to ground him, and although John isn't always entirely sure why he bothers, he's committed to the cause.
The thing is, for better or worse, Sherlock is his now.
The thing is, John doesn't take kindly to other people trying to break his stuff.
~~~
They leave Morgan on the floor, crying softly. John honestly doesn't care; with the way he's bleeding, Morgan's going to be dead in a few minutes. No one will find him here except by accident, and all that's left for John to do is get rid of his gun and figure out how to get a new one without asking Mycroft. Sherlock seems more interested in John's lack of interest than anything else, but that's fine.
Everything's fine now. It should be; there's no reason for the anger that still jerks its way through John's body at the sight of the blood drying on Sherlock's temple. It's just a scratch, really. Just a small mark.
It's a mark that John hasn't put there.
He makes it almost all the way back to the back door before he snaps. One moment he's striding along between towering shelves, the next he finds himself pushing Sherlock against one of the flaking blue support beams. Sherlock lets out a startled sound as his back hits the steel, but he doesn't protest. He stays quiet, watching from slightly widened eyes as John's hand comes up and traces the blood-tacky edges of the wound, fingers skimming over powder burns and broken skin, touching the unblemished flesh around.
"That's awfully close to your eye," John says hoarsely. It's not at all what he's meaning to say.
Sherlock just looks at him, pale and silent and with Morgan's mark oozing red on his temple, and it's going to scar, John thinks crazily, it's going to scar and be there every time he looks, every time he touches, and he can't bear it.
Sherlock's hands land lightly on John's waist, pull him closer as Sherlock leans down. For a moment, John thinks Sherlock is going to kiss him, but then Sherlock tilts his head and the mark is right there, right in front of John, like an offering.
John huffs out a sharp breath that might be amusement, might be anger, as he tugs at Sherlock's head and brings the wound to his mouth. Blood-and-gunpowder taste on his tongue, he sucks on the mark, licks it clean, makes it his. Sherlock shudders beneath his lips, his fingers digging into John's waist as John bites at the bone of Sherlock's eye socket, mixes Sherlock's blood with his own saliva.
"I have bruises, too," he murmurs, and John almost laughs.
Almost.
~~~
"I'm not a possession," Sherlock says, in the tone of someone who's been thinking very carefully about his words.
John almost laughs.
"God, no," he says, smiling at the absurdity of that idea. "Of course you aren't."
But God help anyone, he thinks, who touches you and isn't me.
From the somewhat dazed expression on Sherlock's face, he's been telegraphing that loud and clear.
Good.
~~~
End.
Author:
lavvyanRecipient:
mresundanceCharacters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: graphic violence
Summary: The third time Sherlock gets himself kidnapped, John doesn't call the police.
Notes: Many thanks to
kisa_hawklin for the wonderful beta. mresundance, have a kidnapping. I hope you enjoy it, though it got a bit darker than I intended it to. Um. Happy Solstice?After Moriarty and his snipers; after the Golem; after Chinese assassins and a murderous cabbie; after Sherlock has been abducted for the second time in three months, John puts his foot down.
"You," he says, setting Sherlock's broken nose with just a little more force than is strictly necessary, "have the shittiest fighting technique I have ever seen in a grown man. How did you even survive this long?"
"Martial arts are boring." Sherlock's voice is as nasal as it is petulant. He winces as John presses the cartilage back into place. "And most of the men you saw fight were in the military, so that hardly counts."
"I'm not talking about martial arts, I'm talking about basic skills," John snaps back. "I don't care if you think it's boring. You will learn, and if I have to teach you myself."
Sherlock tilts his head to the side, pain apparently forgotten.
"What did you have in mind?" he asks.
~~~
The third time Sherlock gets himself kidnapped, John doesn't call the police. His chest is tight with a possessive fury so strong it frightens him. Frightens, but doesn't surprise. He doesn't allow himself to grow attached very often, but if he does, he doesn't hold back.
They've done their work on this case, so he knows that Morgan-the-petty-thief won't have more than two people with him. John can take care of those. He'll take care of Morgan, too. He doesn't need Lestrade and his circus of flashing lights and yellow tapes. Most of all, he doesn't need witnesses.
John Watson has had it. No more. And if London's underworld needs a clear signal, then John's bloody well going to send one.
It takes him longer to track Sherlock down than it would have the other way around, but he's learned enough of Sherlock's methods by now to manage. He's glad he won't have to call Mycroft; Sherlock's disturbing older brother always helps, but he is so very smug about it, and John can never be certain what Mycroft will ask for in return. Little things, most of the time, but Mycroft Holmes isn't the kind of man you want to owe a favour.
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock is being held in an abandoned warehouse. John grins through his lingering anger; no doubt Sherlock had words to Morgan about predictability and lack of originality. It probably got him slapped in the face. John's grin drops from his lips and he tightens his grip on the gun, its familiar weight of it not quite enough to reassure him. He shakes his head, just once, before he straightens. Mycroft was right, that first time they met. Sherlock is someone to worry about. Constantly.
When John's got Sherlock out of there, he'll clock him over the head himself. Maybe that'll make him feel better.
~~~
"I'm not in the mood for play-acting, John." Sherlock sounds so bored that John is half-afraid he'll melt into the sofa in a puddle of existential petulance. The perfect opportunity to distract him with a few lessons in self-preservation, if you ask John; not that John will let anyone question him. In this, he'll be the one calling the shots.
"Good," he says, reaching for the gun he has tucked behind his back, "neither am I."
Sherlock turns his head, but not nearly quickly enough to react in time. John is a doctor; he knows perfectly well where to hit, and how hard, to induce unconsciousness without doing any serious damage. Dragging the slumped body from the sofa to one of the kitchen chairs isn't easy, but John is determined. He manages.
"Told you I'd teach you," he mutters as he ties Sherlock to the chair. This isn't a game. John isn't playing. The only way to get Sherlock's attention is to make it real.
Needs must, John thinks, and pulls the zip ties a little tighter.
~~~
Morgan has a woman guarding the back door. John knocks her out with no remorse. She's not his target, but she is in his way, and in some things his moral standards aren't any higher than Sherlock's. He doesn't meet any more resistance as he makes his way between the dusty shelves of an empty high rack storage area, which is nice. John doesn't mind the violence – not now, not in this – but he can do without the noise.
He finds Sherlock tied to a chair in one of the many dead ends. A low table with an open laptop stands next to him, screen showing the unconscious woman by the door. Security camera. John winces.
"There's always something," Sherlock says softly, not quite an accusation. "Isn't there?"
"We've been waiting for you," says the man holding a gun to Sherlock's head. He's pleasant-looking, if a bit bland, but his easy smile doesn't reach the eyes. "It's more fun when someone's watching." The bloke – has to be Morgan – puts his finger on the trigger.
John looks at Sherlock and raises his eyebrows, just a bit. Sherlock blinks once, slowly. Then he jerks his head around.
Morgan shoots.
~~~
"That was a stupid idea, Sherlock," John says almost kindly, trailing the muzzle of his gun down Sherlock's temple. A few strands of black hair get caught in the front sight; John yanks them free. Sherlock jerks, and glares at him.
"It seemed like the most promising option."
John smiles. "Wrong." He presses the muzzle into that sweet hollow place next to Sherlock's left eye, where the zygomatic bone meets the sphenoid. "Now pay attention. You'll only get one shot at this. Or rather, I will."
Sherlock scoffs. "You're hardly going to shoot me."
"No, of course not." That would defeat the purpose of the exercise. "But I can make you pay attention. Don't make me get creative. I mean it."
If he weren't standing so close to Sherlock, John never would have seen it, the slight flush rising to Sherlock's cheeks, the way his pupils dilate. Just a little, just barely enough to be noticeable, but along with the flutter of speeding pulse at the side of his neck, Sherlock might as well be holding up a sign. John's own breath catches in his throat.
"I'll show you, later," he whispers hoarsely, mesmerised by the way Sherlock stares at him, as if John himself is somehow fascinating instead of merely pragmatic. "For now, listen."
"I am," Sherlock murmurs, "listening."
John swallows hard. Then he goes back to his lecture.
~~~
Sherlock, who is an excellent pupil if he wants to be, hits exactly the right angle. The back of his head knocks against Morgan's gun hand, and instead of tearing a path through Sherlock's brain the bullet leaves a streak of red along Sherlock's temple. Morgan curses, but before he can aim again, John's first shot punches through his right shoulder. Morgan cries out and drops the gun. John keeps his face impassive, but that possessive fury is back as his second shot ruins Morgan's left knee.
No right, he thinks, the third shot hitting Morgan's gut before the man has finished collapsing, blood splattering against Sherlock's trousers. You had no right to touch him.
John's about to see if he can shatter someone's pelvis with a single well-placed bullet when Sherlock says, "That's enough, don't you think?"
No. John doesn't think so at all.
~~~
The thing is, Sherlock is an almost painfully brilliant man, but he's also kind of an idiot. No sense of self-preservation, no filter between his brain and his mouth, no contingency plans in case he might be wrong. He needs someone to ground him, and although John isn't always entirely sure why he bothers, he's committed to the cause.
The thing is, for better or worse, Sherlock is his now.
The thing is, John doesn't take kindly to other people trying to break his stuff.
~~~
They leave Morgan on the floor, crying softly. John honestly doesn't care; with the way he's bleeding, Morgan's going to be dead in a few minutes. No one will find him here except by accident, and all that's left for John to do is get rid of his gun and figure out how to get a new one without asking Mycroft. Sherlock seems more interested in John's lack of interest than anything else, but that's fine.
Everything's fine now. It should be; there's no reason for the anger that still jerks its way through John's body at the sight of the blood drying on Sherlock's temple. It's just a scratch, really. Just a small mark.
It's a mark that John hasn't put there.
He makes it almost all the way back to the back door before he snaps. One moment he's striding along between towering shelves, the next he finds himself pushing Sherlock against one of the flaking blue support beams. Sherlock lets out a startled sound as his back hits the steel, but he doesn't protest. He stays quiet, watching from slightly widened eyes as John's hand comes up and traces the blood-tacky edges of the wound, fingers skimming over powder burns and broken skin, touching the unblemished flesh around.
"That's awfully close to your eye," John says hoarsely. It's not at all what he's meaning to say.
Sherlock just looks at him, pale and silent and with Morgan's mark oozing red on his temple, and it's going to scar, John thinks crazily, it's going to scar and be there every time he looks, every time he touches, and he can't bear it.
Sherlock's hands land lightly on John's waist, pull him closer as Sherlock leans down. For a moment, John thinks Sherlock is going to kiss him, but then Sherlock tilts his head and the mark is right there, right in front of John, like an offering.
John huffs out a sharp breath that might be amusement, might be anger, as he tugs at Sherlock's head and brings the wound to his mouth. Blood-and-gunpowder taste on his tongue, he sucks on the mark, licks it clean, makes it his. Sherlock shudders beneath his lips, his fingers digging into John's waist as John bites at the bone of Sherlock's eye socket, mixes Sherlock's blood with his own saliva.
"I have bruises, too," he murmurs, and John almost laughs.
Almost.
~~~
"I'm not a possession," Sherlock says, in the tone of someone who's been thinking very carefully about his words.
John almost laughs.
"God, no," he says, smiling at the absurdity of that idea. "Of course you aren't."
But God help anyone, he thinks, who touches you and isn't me.
From the somewhat dazed expression on Sherlock's face, he's been telegraphing that loud and clear.
Good.
~~~
End.
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no subject
Date: 2010-12-14 05:52 am (UTC)Y HELLO NEW HEAD CANON
YES
Seriously, this. This is delicious.
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Date: 2010-12-14 06:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-01 02:46 pm (UTC)