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The bouncers insist on some rubbish ‘proper procedure’ that appears to mainly entail getting in Sherlock’s way. In the meantime, John takes off like a wolf for the back door, unwilling to let their quarry escape.
Sherlock shakes loose of his annoyers and hits the crash bar a few seconds behind him.
It’s fading towards night and raining, and the rear entrance of the club lets out onto a warren of back alleys and throughways between buildings. John is only intermittently in sight before he flicks around corners, but Sherlock follows the splashing, drumming sound of combat boots over cobblestone and macadam.
He rounds a corner just in time to see John launch himself in a low spear tackle, bowling over their killer from behind. They impact the ground with twin grunts. John grabs for the other man, hauling him onto his back by his collar, only for the thin sodden mesh of the killer’s clubbing shirt to rip in John’s fist. The man yanks the remains of his shirt off and down in a smooth move and then he’s pushing John back, bearing him down into the grimy pavement with his weight, John’s hands struggling captive in the twisted fabric-
-And then the attacker’s hands are clawing uselessly for purchase on John’s glistening, slippery wet neck as he’s kicked up and over, one combat-booted foot planted in his abdomen and levering him up and over John’s head to crash in a heap at Sherlock’s feet.
Sherlock kicks their criminal in the jaw and grinds him into the pavement with a foot between his shoulder blades. John rolls over onto still-tangled hands and knees and climbs to his feet with a satisfied groan, back shining and freckled with grit in the streetlamps.
He stops two feet from Sherlock, finally shrugging loose of the knotted shirt and discarding it into a puddle. He looks a bit smug, studying their handiwork. “That’s him sorted, then.”
“Are you alright?” With his eyes, Sherlock rakes over a thousand data points on John’s body: irritation, relief, broken tension, eagerness sated, pain deferred. Half-nude and gleaming slick with water, hair plastered messily to his forehead.
John rubs at his jaw. “Bastard kneed me in the chin, but I’ll survive so long as I don’t have to pose for pictures. So what do we do? Hang about in the rain till Lestrade locates the right alley?”
Sherlock purses his lips.
John looks up at him. “You didn’t call Lestrade, did you.”
Sherlock discovers that their criminal’s back is a fascinating map of his past exploits. He may also mutter something to the effect of, “Not as such, no.”
Unfortunately John can translate detective mumbling into human language. He sighs heavily. drops to his knees beside their captive, and knocks Sherlock’s foot away. “Right, then.” Within a minute, he has the fellow trussed and thrown over his naked shoulder. “C’mon. Back to the club. You’ll have to lead; I’ve got less than no idea where we are.”
Sherlock doesn’t move immediately. He thinks he deserves a moment to watch a sopping wet John stride off with an unconscious murderer’s head lolling against his bare spine.
It’s been a good night.