Sherlock Fanfic: Quiet Until Provoked (JWP #13)
Title: Quiet Until Provoked
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, BAMF!John, Off-screen Sherlock Whump, thugs being thugs
Warnings: Violence. Blood.
Word Count: 545
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #13: "Nature is red in tooth and claw". This is a type of nature, sort of.
Summary: He should have brought his gun.
-.-
Quiet Until Provoked
-.-
He should have brought his gun.
John could see the cherry glow of the lone guard's cigarette. One shot and he'd be dealt with, but too loud, too quick. Slinking through the shadows between box-rows in the warehouse, John waited for an opportunity.
Motion from behind the guard. John froze. The door opened, another thug leaned out, shaking out a bruised fist, smiling, laughing, inviting. The constant background sounds of fists hitting flesh, ugly laughter, and pained involuntary grunts increased with the door open. The smart-mouthed quips and cutting deductions had disappeared now; only gasps of agony and otherwise chilling silence.
John fought down the clamouring need to just rush in and cut a crimson swath through as many of these bastards as possible, somehow. Slow, breathe slow, wait, watch, plan. Don't think of who is behind that door, how much blood he's losing, how much of him is broken. One man against at least four, no help coming, there could only be one chance. Wait for it. Breathe.
The guard laughed back at his compatriot, then handed over the cigarette and the rifle and went back in through the door. The new man shouldered the rifle and took guard position.
The closing door dampened the sounds that hooked into John's brain and demanded he make them stop, immediately and recklessly, even if the rash attempt would certainly fail. Just sound. Ignore it until you can fix it. Crouched in the shadows, John's arms shook with nervous energy. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Another breath. Waiting. Watching.
The new guard wiped some spatters of blood - don't think whose blood, you know whose blood - off his face before holding the cigarette to his lips. John prowled closer, staying crouched; shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Smooth progress, no abrupt motions, nothing to catch the eye, always moving forward. Not taking his eyes off the guard.
With a curse, the new guard took the cigarette from his mouth and inspected the dead black end.
John paused, less than ten feet away now in the shadows of a stack of boxes, breathing silently through his mouth, ignoring the laughter and weakening cries of pain from behind the door. Soon. He inched forward another foot as the guard patted his pockets one-handedly. Soon.
With a muffled growl, the guard put the gun down on a crate and dug both hands into his pockets.
NOW!
John sprang from his hiding place, snarling, hands curled like claws. The startled guard lurched back, away from his gun, cigarette dropping from his mouth, his hands caught in his pockets.
Ducking low, John caught the man in the solar plexus with his shoulder. The man went down with an ugly grunt before he could shout an alarm. Scrambling back to his feet as the man gasped for air, John turned and snatched the abandoned rifle by the barrel with both hands. With little loss of momentum he pivoted. The solid stock of the weapon met the new guard's head with a devastating crunch.
The guard fell still and silent, a bloom of his own blood mixing with the spatters on his face and knuckles.
And now I have a gun, John thought with grim humour, checking the weapon's function by reflex before turning to the door and wrenching it open.
-.-.-
(that's it, everything works out just fine.)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, BAMF!John, Off-screen Sherlock Whump, thugs being thugs
Warnings: Violence. Blood.
Word Count: 545
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #13: "Nature is red in tooth and claw". This is a type of nature, sort of.
Summary: He should have brought his gun.
-.-
Quiet Until Provoked
-.-
He should have brought his gun.
John could see the cherry glow of the lone guard's cigarette. One shot and he'd be dealt with, but too loud, too quick. Slinking through the shadows between box-rows in the warehouse, John waited for an opportunity.
Motion from behind the guard. John froze. The door opened, another thug leaned out, shaking out a bruised fist, smiling, laughing, inviting. The constant background sounds of fists hitting flesh, ugly laughter, and pained involuntary grunts increased with the door open. The smart-mouthed quips and cutting deductions had disappeared now; only gasps of agony and otherwise chilling silence.
John fought down the clamouring need to just rush in and cut a crimson swath through as many of these bastards as possible, somehow. Slow, breathe slow, wait, watch, plan. Don't think of who is behind that door, how much blood he's losing, how much of him is broken. One man against at least four, no help coming, there could only be one chance. Wait for it. Breathe.
The guard laughed back at his compatriot, then handed over the cigarette and the rifle and went back in through the door. The new man shouldered the rifle and took guard position.
The closing door dampened the sounds that hooked into John's brain and demanded he make them stop, immediately and recklessly, even if the rash attempt would certainly fail. Just sound. Ignore it until you can fix it. Crouched in the shadows, John's arms shook with nervous energy. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Another breath. Waiting. Watching.
The new guard wiped some spatters of blood - don't think whose blood, you know whose blood - off his face before holding the cigarette to his lips. John prowled closer, staying crouched; shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Smooth progress, no abrupt motions, nothing to catch the eye, always moving forward. Not taking his eyes off the guard.
With a curse, the new guard took the cigarette from his mouth and inspected the dead black end.
John paused, less than ten feet away now in the shadows of a stack of boxes, breathing silently through his mouth, ignoring the laughter and weakening cries of pain from behind the door. Soon. He inched forward another foot as the guard patted his pockets one-handedly. Soon.
With a muffled growl, the guard put the gun down on a crate and dug both hands into his pockets.
NOW!
John sprang from his hiding place, snarling, hands curled like claws. The startled guard lurched back, away from his gun, cigarette dropping from his mouth, his hands caught in his pockets.
Ducking low, John caught the man in the solar plexus with his shoulder. The man went down with an ugly grunt before he could shout an alarm. Scrambling back to his feet as the man gasped for air, John turned and snatched the abandoned rifle by the barrel with both hands. With little loss of momentum he pivoted. The solid stock of the weapon met the new guard's head with a devastating crunch.
The guard fell still and silent, a bloom of his own blood mixing with the spatters on his face and knuckles.
And now I have a gun, John thought with grim humour, checking the weapon's function by reflex before turning to the door and wrenching it open.
-.-.-
(that's it, everything works out just fine.)