Chapter Text
John walked happily down the street. He just got his first assignment as a brand-new army doctor and would fly to Afghanistan in merely a month. Now he was on his way to his little flat which he was sharing with Mike Stanford, a guy he got to know from Bart´s College. He would rather have had his own flat to be honest, but London being expensive and him not having a proper income yet, it really was all he could afford.
Without staying in his parent´s home, that is. Their house wasn´t too far from London. So theoretically he could have stayed there. The reason he was not was his father, being regularly drunk, which was a state in which he could and mostly would get quite violent. And guess who was getting the worst of it, if this happened? Indeed, John was the one he always would beat up worst, since however drunk he was, he did have a codex not to hit women. Not to mention John being a disappointment for him, not wanting to join the army as a “real man” (a soldier like his dad was before he got sacked), which he constantly reminded him of. So that only left John as a target. Well, his mother and sometimes even his sister Harry got something off too now and then, but only for trying of protecting him. Harry was always boasting about what a good sister she was, after this happened, which really only was when she was in a sisterly mood, which was seldom.
This plus the fact he wanted to become an army doctor, which was luckily also nearly the only job coming close enough to being a soldier so that his dad doesn´t completely despise it, was the reason John left home as soon as possible. Right after college to be exact, regardless of the fact, that it meant doing a lot of part-time jobs. Nowadays it was only Christmas he came home for, a time, when his parent´s insisted for their children to visit. His father would try harder to play happy-family in this time and was actually more bearable then the rest of the year, since for the Watsons being religious (more or less), Christmas was of some importance. Well, he wasn´t there for much longer now anyway, thank god.
He got to the end of the street and turned left in a rather deserted narrow street. This is, until all of a sudden a sturdy looking bald man with tattoos all over his muscular arms and thick neck came running from the other end of the street towards him. A short way behind him, a tall and slim, very elegant looking young man with curly black hair dressed in a long coat and another man, middle-aged, with a stronger stature and grey hair, being at the back, followed him. Apparently, they were trying to catch the guy in front, which John assumed, was a criminal. He was now only a few meters away from John and would pass him by very soon.
But John, always being a man of strong morals, made a split-second decision and stepped quickly to the side, right in the way of the fleeing man. The latter crashed into him, causing both of them to fall to the ground. John’s body was pressed violently on the hard concrete, causing all air to leave his lungs and his head to hit the pavement hard, making him gasp in pain. The bulky man on top of him used his momentary disorientation to his advantage and suddenly, he was hauled up and there was a knife scratching slightly into the skin of John´s neck. “No, no, no, why does he have a bloody knife?” John cursed inwardly, feeling guilty for making the situation worse, at the same time hoping for the attractive (“what the heck am I thinking?!”) young man and his companion to save him.
Meanwhile, the persecutors caught up with them and stopped dead in their tracks when they saw the unfolding hostage situation. The grey-haired one grabbed his phone and spoke some urgent words in it, before drawing out a gun and pointing it to the criminal, shouting “drop the knife and get on your knees!”, while curly-hairs just stood there and roamed his steel blue eyes all over John. “Holy shit, is he checking me out?” John thought, trying to keep still and breathing shallowly to avoid a deepening of the cut. He considered fighting the man, using his fighting-training which he did in preparation for Afghanistan, but the grip the man had on him was very strong and he didn´t dare do something, not while the knife was on his neck. Also, he was feeling weaker by the second, his head throbbing really painfully. “Back away or this man will die!” the criminal shouted back, increasing the pressure of the knife. A small trace of blood was now running down from the wound. The guy with the phone looked unsure, changing a look with the tall one. Curly-hairs stepped a bit nearer and said in a deep, velvety voice: “You won´t kill him, since you’re a thief, not a killer, you don´t have the gut to do it, which is obvious considering your hand holding the knife is already shaking violently. Also, you did the stupid mistake of gripping the knife with your left hand, instead of your right one, which is stronger since you are clearly right-handed. You are in a panic, since your boss, who told you to steal the data stick, threatens to kill your wife, if you don´t succeed. How do I know this? I can see a part of the blackmail note sticking out of your pocket. So what are you going to do? The wisest decision by far would be to do what Lestrade said and cooperate with us, giving us information about the blackmailer, so we can catch him and meanwhile safe your wife. The worst would be to continue with your actions of what I strongly advise against.” This he all said very quickly, without a break.
There was a short moment of suspense, while everyone seemed to take in the spoken words and no one moved. “You guarantee protection of my wife?” the knife armed man finally spoke. “Yes we do, we can get her into a save-house.” Lestrade answered, he also took a step closer and lowered his gun, making a reassuringly gesture. John felt the metal leaving his neck and the grip on his arm lessen. The knife fell to the ground and John was pushed forwards roughly in the direction of his rescuers. He stumbled and would have hit the ground a second time but before he crashed, he was caught and straightened up by another set of strong arms and found himself face-to-face with the elegant man, he still didn´t know the name of. John gulped and thanked the man in a croaking voice, while regaining his balance. “No problem.” was the nonchalant answer.
Meanwhile, Lestrade was handcuffing the thief, regaining the data stick. The sounds of sirens came closer and a police car stopped beside them, two officers stepping out. “Ah, you´re there” Lestrade said to the police officers, “took you long enough! Take Mr Nelson to the interrogation room and make sure his wife is brought into a save house. I will follow shortly, after having a word with Sherlock.” The policemen carried out his order, leading Mr Nelson into their car and drove off.
“So his name´s Sherlock” John thought dimly, having listened to Lestrade. While he was secretly enjoying the close proximity of Sherlock, his head was killing him by now and he felt quite sick (hopefully he wouldn´t have to vomit). Lestrade now turned to them, eyeing John and noticing his pale face. “I´m detective inspector Lestrade”, he said. “And as happy as we are for your help, in future you better should let the police do their work.” Sherlock snorted, as he heard that. “What´s so funny?” Lestrade asked, clearly irritated. “Nothing” Sherlock answered, “just the fact, that the police is utterly useless in solving any cases above a six without help from a mind like mine.” he added arrogantly. Lestrade just sighed. In this moment, an ambulance arrived, parking at the same spot, where the police car stood previously. “You should have someone have a look at your head, Mr..?” Lestrade shot John a questioning look. “Watson. John Watson.” He answered, shaking hands with Lestrade, who then turned around to ask Sherlock some questions concerning the case. Sherlock answered them, sounding very bored again and John reluctantly left them, not before throwing one more peek at Sherlock´s impressive figure and marvellous porcelain face. He hoped Sherlock wouldn´t notice, but then, he probably wouldn´t even see him again. While walking away, he made extra sure not to stumble and thus making a fool out of himself. Well, he probably already did, now that he thought about it.
****
John was finally back in his flat, making himself a tea after all the excitement. Mike seemed to be elsewhere, not that he minded. He needed a few minutes to clear his head (thankfully it wasn´t throbbing so badly now, the painkillers helped). What the heck was wrong with him, first stopping a thief, which had nearly double the mass of him, and then thinking stupid things about this Sherlock guy, even analysing his looks, as if he was gay?? He wasn´t gay, never had been. John was pretty damn sure that he could consider himself as your normal, average heterosexual being. He had never thought of any men as “elegant”, never admired one´s fair skin nor liked his deep voice… John was utter clueless and confused. How could one single man impress him more in a matter of a mere few minutes than any women ever could in days??? He really should better forget this fellow and concentrate on his nearing future as an army doctor. He would be away for a long time anyway. John emptied the rest of his tea in one big gulp and leaned heavily back in his armchair.