A/N: To my usual readers: this is not a romance fic!

It is my personal head canon, as it probably is to most readers, that Sherlock participated in bare-knuckle boxing at some stage in his life. This little ficlet can serve as a background to either of my Sherlock/OC romances (my series canon-compliant story 15 Minutes, or my completely AU mega-fic The Mutual Suicide Pact) or it can stand alone as an independent back story. It was initially going to be a one-shot, but has ended up being four short (by my usual standards) chapters.

I hope you enjoy the story!

Chapter 1: The Wrap

It was only my second bout this year, but the first where I'd been hired by the promoters, rather than by the fighter himself. With illegal bare-knuckle boxing, you never knew what the terms and conditions of your employment were going to be. For me, it generally meant being treated with the utmost contempt and paid very little, if at all, for the privilege.

The fighter whose lacerations and nosebleeds I would be tending to this evening was called Shezza. He didn't look like a Shezza. But then again, I don't have the paunch, broad shoulders and stubble of a cuts man. When Vince, a muscled giant from Newcastle and one of the promoter's menacing-looking offsiders, pointed out Shezza to me, Shezza practically rolled his eyes and tutted at the sound of his own moniker. I guessed it wasn't he who had thought up his boxing handle. I was allocated to him because he didn't even arrive with anyone in his corner.

Shezza was pacing along one side of the 'venue.' We weren't in a gym or sporting complex. This bout was being run from a disused tyre warehouse in an industrial estate just out Stafford. I'd travelled two and a half hours from London for the Saturday night fight. I was hoping it would be worth it. There were no backrooms, or change-rooms for the fighters. Everyone stood, or in Shezza's case, paced, around the large workroom. At least there was a raised platform for a ring, erected from plywood. An improvement on the gravelled car park, or hay bales and dirt of previous comps I'd been to.

This competition allowed hand-wrapping, unlike other comps, as long as the process was supervised by an 'official'. I use the term 'official' lightly. He was a bouncer with a gun tucked into the front of his trousers. I vaguely wondered what would happen if it accidentally went off.

I asked Shezza if he wanted his hands wrapped. It was optional, of course. He looked at me blankly, and I hoped it was because he didn't understand English very well and not because he was appalled that I was in his corner. So I made wrapping gestures with my hands that he eyed suspiciously.

Eventually, he asked, "Are you competent?"

His posh English accent initially threw me, even though I knew that bare-knuckle boxers weren't just Irish travellers or East End rogues. I drew in a deep breath, preparing to deliver my regular spiel. I opened my mouth to recite my credentials of having wrapped hands before, and having volunteered with St. John's Ambulance in my teen years, and that I'm currently studying at uni.

"No, don't bother," Shezza drawled before I had even made a sound. "I'm not interested in your curriculum vitae."

I may have been unprepared for his honest but disinterested dismissal, but I found it a lot more refreshing than being the recipient of the derogatory and irrelevant insults that I usually got.

Shezza took off toward the official who was to dole out our allocation of tape and gauze and to monitor my hand-wrapping skills, or more specifically, ensure I didn't include anything illegal within the wrapping. And I'm talking 'illegal' as in the fairness of the fight, since the whole competition fell under the banner of 'illegal.'

Shezza silently watched me wrap. When I asked him to splay his fingers or close his fists as I worked, he immediately obliged. I was hoping he was impressed with the speed and efficiency with which I completed his hand wrapping. I had given him maximum support and hoped to avoid potential damage to his wrist joints and metacarpus. I think I detected a faint nod of approval.

"Not bad for a medical student," he remarked, testing the firmness of the wrap by clenching and unclenching his fists and then knocking his knuckles together.

I was just about to ask how he knew that about me when he abruptly stalked away.

He wanted to keep warm and oiled, I imagined, as I watched him move about the warehouse from my position at the back of the crowd of baying punters. Shezza's bout was the next but one on the undercard, four fights from the main event. I think I was feeling as nervous as he was.

If Shezza won, I would come home with 3% of his earnings, which I believe stood at £10,000. Yes, I was nervous. I could do with three hundred quid. If Shezza lost, I would come home with zero. In fact, less than zero. I had to pay for my own travel expenses, and if I wasn't lucky enough to be staying at a friend's place, I would never have been able to afford to come. I also had to pay for the stocking of my kit. I'm not sure what Shezza would leave with. He may be lucky to leave with his life, depending on how much was riding on him with the punters. I shuddered to think.

Now and then Shezza would stop and scratch his head. Or he would study the bout that was currently underway. There was nothing to study. It was a one-sided fight.

When the loser took to the canvas, and refused to get up, the ref and his cornerman each grabbed him underneath the arm by the pits and dragged him out of the ring. He lay in a crumpled heap beside a couple of old Michelin CrossClimates.

Shezza strode over to me and tugged his shirt over his head. He threw it toward me where it landed at my feet.

"Grease," he commanded.

I quickly opened my kit bag, which was loaded up with cotton tips, petroleum jelly, a vial of adrenalin at a ratio of 1:1000, coagulant, and an eye iron sitting in a small container of ice. I also had a small towel, an assortment of gauze strips, latex gloves plus a mini first aid kit. I saw Shezza critically eyeing the bag's contents.

I debated whether to don the gloves now or later. Since there was only one fight between now and Shezza's, I decided to be prepared.

Shezza patiently stood in front of me while I slipped on a pair of blue latex gloves. His jaw hardened only slightly at a drunken passerby who coughed up a wad a phlegm and spat it at our feet. I ignored it. I was used to it.

I heaped a blob of the petroleum jelly onto the back of my glove, then began applying it around Shezza's eyes and cheeks. I couldn't help notice how prominent his cheekbones were. They would cause us both a lot of grief, I thought. The skin was stretched over bone and if too dry, it would easily split when struck, giving me a decent laceration I'd have to deal with. I applied an extra layer of grease for good measure.

"You need a prescription for epinephrine," he said, nodding toward my vial. His words were neither a question nor an accusation. I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw a faint hint of a smile on his lips.

He stood by me as we watched the fight. I was drawn to the actions of the cornermen, in between rounds, rather than following which fighter was gaining the upper hand at any point in time. I did eye their growing contusions and lacerations, though, and mentally prepared how I would treat them, giving myself fifty seconds in which to do so. I wondered what kind of fighter Shezza would be. He appeared quiet and contemplative, and he had intelligent eyes. Would that be enough?

At one point, one of the 'officials' sidled up next to Shezza and had a quiet word in his ear. Shezza's eyes remained firmly on the drama in the ring, but he gave one tiny nod in agreement, narrowing his focus only slightly.

I busied myself applying epinephrine to half a dozen cotton tips, and inserting them into a band I wore around my wrist. Shezza glanced over at me, furrowing his brow before fixing me with a half-smile. If it was out of annoyance or appreciation, I couldn't tell.

Suddenly there were loud boos, as the majority of the crowd was upset with the final decision for the current bout. Both fighters sported equal amounts of blood and drooped in identical exhaustion. It was a draw, and as I took in the angry crowd around me, I hadn't noticed Shezza disappear from my side until I spied him on the other side of the ring.

We were up!

A/N: Next chapter: The Pretender.

Please review! I hope it's been interesting enough to make you want to keep reading.