Fic: It Must Be Thursday (Sherlock & John)
Title: It Must Be Thursday
Characters: BBC Sherlock and John (gen/friendship)
Rating: PG
Summary: John getting kidnapped again? It must be Thursday. BAMF!John
Warnings: violence, bodily fluids not staying inside the body.
It had been a long, boring day at the surgery. Not even a case or two of strep throat to break up the monotony. For once, most of London was remarkably healthy. So why was he so blasted tired? Oh, right. Because he'd spent a large portion of the previous night chasing after Sherlock. Bloody Sherlock, who never waited for the police, never made a plan...just went flying off after dangerous criminals on a regular basis and improvising once he got there. How he'd survived this long without John (and his gun) to back him up, he'll never know.
A car pulled to a stop beside him. Oh great, now bloody Mycroft wanted to have a chat. Honestly, couldn't he call like a normal person? John realized he'd used the word “normal” in the same sentence as a Holmes brother and smirked. But when the doors opened and three nondescript men emerged, he began to suspect they were not in Mycroft's employ. John sensed another person behind him, and when he turned, his suspicions were confirmed.
“Dr. Watson. Come with us.” It was the man who had climbed out of the driver's seat. He was slightly smaller than the others and wearing a brown leather jacket.
John sighed. “Am I being kidnapped again?” he asked. The question like that apparently wasn't part of their training, because they took turns staring at him and giving each other questioning looks. “You are here to take me hostage, right? To use as bait. Against Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well, yes,” the driver/spokesman said.
Bloody fucking hell, not again. He was sick to bloody death of this. As if he was nothing but some damsel in distress-a figurative damsel-to be rescued by the hero. “Look, I had a very busy night last night, and I'd rather not do this right now. So maybe if you'd just go...find someone else to harass, that'd be great.”
“We insist, Dr. Watson,” the man behind him said. To show just how much he meant it, he gripped John's shoulders. John bowed his head seeming to accept the inevitable.
Suddenly, he snapped his head back, catching the man in the nose. He heard the satisfying crunch of broken cartilage. The man groaned, grabbing instinctively at his nose and pitching backwards. While he was off balance, John hooked a leg behind his captor and swept the man's legs out from under him. He hit the ground, hard, clutching his nose, the blood flowing freely.
John launched himself at the next closest foe. John chopped him in the throat. The man gagged and John drove his fingers just below the man's ribcage. He backed away as the man began to retch. He vomited all over himself and sank weakly to the ground.
The man who was not Brown Jacket grabbed John from behind in a bear hug. John forced himself to go limp, then pushed his arms up, easily slipping out of the hold. In one swift move, John stepped to the side and drove his fist into the man's crotch. For good measure, he seized the man's testicles. A strangled cry wormed its way out of his throat as he toppled over.
Brown Jacket's mouth was hanging open slightly and he was standing absolutely still. “Go. Now,” John said calmly. Brown Jacket jumped back into the driver's seat and sped away.
John smoothed out his jumper and continued on to 221b.
“Ah, John, good!” Sherlock said, bounding towards John when he was halfway in the door. “I wanted to ask your opinion on--” he stopped, frowning. “Did something happen?”
“Foiled kidnapping,” he replied. “My own.”
“Again?”
Characters: BBC Sherlock and John (gen/friendship)
Rating: PG
Summary: John getting kidnapped again? It must be Thursday. BAMF!John
Warnings: violence, bodily fluids not staying inside the body.
It had been a long, boring day at the surgery. Not even a case or two of strep throat to break up the monotony. For once, most of London was remarkably healthy. So why was he so blasted tired? Oh, right. Because he'd spent a large portion of the previous night chasing after Sherlock. Bloody Sherlock, who never waited for the police, never made a plan...just went flying off after dangerous criminals on a regular basis and improvising once he got there. How he'd survived this long without John (and his gun) to back him up, he'll never know.
A car pulled to a stop beside him. Oh great, now bloody Mycroft wanted to have a chat. Honestly, couldn't he call like a normal person? John realized he'd used the word “normal” in the same sentence as a Holmes brother and smirked. But when the doors opened and three nondescript men emerged, he began to suspect they were not in Mycroft's employ. John sensed another person behind him, and when he turned, his suspicions were confirmed.
“Dr. Watson. Come with us.” It was the man who had climbed out of the driver's seat. He was slightly smaller than the others and wearing a brown leather jacket.
John sighed. “Am I being kidnapped again?” he asked. The question like that apparently wasn't part of their training, because they took turns staring at him and giving each other questioning looks. “You are here to take me hostage, right? To use as bait. Against Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well, yes,” the driver/spokesman said.
Bloody fucking hell, not again. He was sick to bloody death of this. As if he was nothing but some damsel in distress-a figurative damsel-to be rescued by the hero. “Look, I had a very busy night last night, and I'd rather not do this right now. So maybe if you'd just go...find someone else to harass, that'd be great.”
“We insist, Dr. Watson,” the man behind him said. To show just how much he meant it, he gripped John's shoulders. John bowed his head seeming to accept the inevitable.
Suddenly, he snapped his head back, catching the man in the nose. He heard the satisfying crunch of broken cartilage. The man groaned, grabbing instinctively at his nose and pitching backwards. While he was off balance, John hooked a leg behind his captor and swept the man's legs out from under him. He hit the ground, hard, clutching his nose, the blood flowing freely.
John launched himself at the next closest foe. John chopped him in the throat. The man gagged and John drove his fingers just below the man's ribcage. He backed away as the man began to retch. He vomited all over himself and sank weakly to the ground.
The man who was not Brown Jacket grabbed John from behind in a bear hug. John forced himself to go limp, then pushed his arms up, easily slipping out of the hold. In one swift move, John stepped to the side and drove his fist into the man's crotch. For good measure, he seized the man's testicles. A strangled cry wormed its way out of his throat as he toppled over.
Brown Jacket's mouth was hanging open slightly and he was standing absolutely still. “Go. Now,” John said calmly. Brown Jacket jumped back into the driver's seat and sped away.
John smoothed out his jumper and continued on to 221b.
“Ah, John, good!” Sherlock said, bounding towards John when he was halfway in the door. “I wanted to ask your opinion on--” he stopped, frowning. “Did something happen?”
“Foiled kidnapping,” he replied. “My own.”
“Again?”