Ficlet: Pulling No Punches
Title: Pulling No Punches
Relationship: Sherlock/John
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, "Anthea"
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 760
Summary: Sherlock is reunited with everyone in turn. And gets punched in the face.
When Greg Lestrade saw John Watson and a living, breathing Sherlock Holmes come striding into his office, he reacted instinctively: he punched Sherlock in the face.
"Hey!" said John as Sherlock staggered back, clutching his left eye.
"Oh come on," snapped Lestrade, "As if you didn't."
John looked chagrined.
"Actually," said Sherlock, squinting at him, "He didn't."
Lestrade stared at John. "You didn't punch him?"
"He fainted," said Sherlock.
"I did not--I didn't faint," John Watson said. "I got a bit woozy."
"And fell down," added Sherlock.
John glared at him. "And...fell down, yes. But that's not the same as fainting."
"I see."
John opened his mouth as if to continue the argument, then seemed to decide to let it go. He looked at Lestrade and shrugged. "And after that it really felt like the moment had passed."
"Surely any time is a good time to punch Sherlock Holmes in the face?"
"No, no." John looked thoughtful. "It has to be inspired. Has to come from the heart. Like yours. Which was beautiful, if I may say so."
Lestrade gripped his lapels and preened a bit. "Thank you. Very satisfying. Came from deep within me, very centered, just wham, right in the face."
"Yes, excuse me." Sherlock waved a hand between them. "Could we perhaps stop talking about punching me in the face and start talking about the case?"
John and Lestrade looked at him as if they'd forgotten he was there, which Sherlock thought was literally adding insult to injury. "Oh, right, Sherlock, sorry," said Lestrade, grinning.
"It's just such a fascinating topic," said John.
: : :
It took them some time to calm Mrs. Hudson down when she walked into 221B Baker Street and found them standing there, but eventually she stopped hyperventilating. "Sherlock! It's really you!" she managed. Then she seemed to finally take in his swollen left eye. "Oh dear!" she gasped, turning to John. "John, did you punch Sherlock?"
John gritted his teeth. "No. That was Lestrade."
"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson put her hands to her mouth. "Oh dear, what a shame."
Sherlock smiled gratefully at her.
"Did I ever mention my father was an amateur prizefighter?" she said moments later, as John helped Sherlock up to his chair. "Taught me a few tricks."
"You did not," Sherlock said in a subdued voice, hand over his right eye.
"It really is a shame you haven't punched him," Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head sadly at John. She looked back at Sherlock and smiled. "Now let me get you some ice packs for those, dear."
: : :
Sherlock grinned at his shocked brother. "Hello, Mycroft. Yes, do feel free to punch me and get it over with." He glanced over at John. "I'm not worried. Terrible upper-body strength. He might even miss me entirely."
Mycroft Holmes beckoned to the woman behind him. "Anthea?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"
"Would you kindly punch my brother in the face for me?"
"With pleasure, Mr. Holmes." She put away her phone and cracked her knuckles.
"Oh God," said Sherlock.
: : :
Back in the flat, John handed a third ice pack to Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair with his head thrown back. Sherlock added it to the collection. Then he said, his voice muffled by the ice, almost tentative, "John?"
"Yes?"
"I don't quite understand why you haven't punched me."
John made a considering noise. "I think I've found it's actually more satisfying to watch other people do it," he said thoughtfully. "I can savor the moment more: the cracking noise, the way your hair flops, the satisfied expression on the puncher's face. Each time is fresh and new. Age cannot wither, nor custom stale the infinite variety of watching you get punched in the face."
"Ah." Sherlock was silent under his ice packs for a full three minutes. Then he said, "That is not quite the answer I had wanted to hear."
"Well, now," said John, "I didn't say it was the only reason, did I?" Reaching down, he brushed Sherlock's hair off his forehead--one of the only spots left uncovered by ice packs--and bent down to kiss it.
Sherlock made a startled noise. He reached up blindly with one hand and John took it in his own, his lips still against his brow. They stayed that way for a moment, motionless, and then Sherlock sighed, and some indefinable tension went out of his limbs.
"Welcome home, Sherlock," murmured John, and in saying it, made it true at last.
Relationship: Sherlock/John
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, "Anthea"
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: PG
Word Count: 760
Summary: Sherlock is reunited with everyone in turn. And gets punched in the face.
When Greg Lestrade saw John Watson and a living, breathing Sherlock Holmes come striding into his office, he reacted instinctively: he punched Sherlock in the face.
"Hey!" said John as Sherlock staggered back, clutching his left eye.
"Oh come on," snapped Lestrade, "As if you didn't."
John looked chagrined.
"Actually," said Sherlock, squinting at him, "He didn't."
Lestrade stared at John. "You didn't punch him?"
"He fainted," said Sherlock.
"I did not--I didn't faint," John Watson said. "I got a bit woozy."
"And fell down," added Sherlock.
John glared at him. "And...fell down, yes. But that's not the same as fainting."
"I see."
John opened his mouth as if to continue the argument, then seemed to decide to let it go. He looked at Lestrade and shrugged. "And after that it really felt like the moment had passed."
"Surely any time is a good time to punch Sherlock Holmes in the face?"
"No, no." John looked thoughtful. "It has to be inspired. Has to come from the heart. Like yours. Which was beautiful, if I may say so."
Lestrade gripped his lapels and preened a bit. "Thank you. Very satisfying. Came from deep within me, very centered, just wham, right in the face."
"Yes, excuse me." Sherlock waved a hand between them. "Could we perhaps stop talking about punching me in the face and start talking about the case?"
John and Lestrade looked at him as if they'd forgotten he was there, which Sherlock thought was literally adding insult to injury. "Oh, right, Sherlock, sorry," said Lestrade, grinning.
"It's just such a fascinating topic," said John.
: : :
It took them some time to calm Mrs. Hudson down when she walked into 221B Baker Street and found them standing there, but eventually she stopped hyperventilating. "Sherlock! It's really you!" she managed. Then she seemed to finally take in his swollen left eye. "Oh dear!" she gasped, turning to John. "John, did you punch Sherlock?"
John gritted his teeth. "No. That was Lestrade."
"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson put her hands to her mouth. "Oh dear, what a shame."
Sherlock smiled gratefully at her.
"Did I ever mention my father was an amateur prizefighter?" she said moments later, as John helped Sherlock up to his chair. "Taught me a few tricks."
"You did not," Sherlock said in a subdued voice, hand over his right eye.
"It really is a shame you haven't punched him," Mrs. Hudson said, shaking her head sadly at John. She looked back at Sherlock and smiled. "Now let me get you some ice packs for those, dear."
: : :
Sherlock grinned at his shocked brother. "Hello, Mycroft. Yes, do feel free to punch me and get it over with." He glanced over at John. "I'm not worried. Terrible upper-body strength. He might even miss me entirely."
Mycroft Holmes beckoned to the woman behind him. "Anthea?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"
"Would you kindly punch my brother in the face for me?"
"With pleasure, Mr. Holmes." She put away her phone and cracked her knuckles.
"Oh God," said Sherlock.
: : :
Back in the flat, John handed a third ice pack to Sherlock, who was sitting in his chair with his head thrown back. Sherlock added it to the collection. Then he said, his voice muffled by the ice, almost tentative, "John?"
"Yes?"
"I don't quite understand why you haven't punched me."
John made a considering noise. "I think I've found it's actually more satisfying to watch other people do it," he said thoughtfully. "I can savor the moment more: the cracking noise, the way your hair flops, the satisfied expression on the puncher's face. Each time is fresh and new. Age cannot wither, nor custom stale the infinite variety of watching you get punched in the face."
"Ah." Sherlock was silent under his ice packs for a full three minutes. Then he said, "That is not quite the answer I had wanted to hear."
"Well, now," said John, "I didn't say it was the only reason, did I?" Reaching down, he brushed Sherlock's hair off his forehead--one of the only spots left uncovered by ice packs--and bent down to kiss it.
Sherlock made a startled noise. He reached up blindly with one hand and John took it in his own, his lips still against his brow. They stayed that way for a moment, motionless, and then Sherlock sighed, and some indefinable tension went out of his limbs.
"Welcome home, Sherlock," murmured John, and in saying it, made it true at last.