Prize-Fighter

DISCLAIMER: All things canonically Sherlock Holmes belong in right to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, their creator.

KS: Response to KCS's prompt no. 17. Written after an extremely unpleasant day and with only part of my brain focused on it, so don't expect anything spectacular. I'm not even in the mood to proofread it; I might come back later and do so.

Enjoy!

Sherlock Holmes shrugged on his coat and took up his hat, brushing a stray piece of lint from the crown before setting it upon his head.

"Going out, Holmes?" asked Watson as he looked up from his book.

"Yes," Holmes replied, feeling in his coat pockets to make sure he had his cigarettes, flask, and a small roll of bandages--just in case. "There's an event I want to attend to-night."

"Ah," said Watson, his face showing some puzzlement.

A slight smile flashed over Holmes's face as he read his companion's thoughts. "No, I'm not excluding you for any reason. I just fear you would be terribly bored, and I perceive your leg has been giving you much trouble lately."

"Oh, it's nothing, Holmes. Just the weather," Watson said as he turned his attention back to the pages of his book. "Do be careful," he added as Holmes opened the sitting-room door to leave.

"Mm," Holmes muttered absently in reply as he left.

Holmes easily dodged the great fist that came at him, his lithe form slipping out of the way as if the blow was barely moving at all. The great detective's nostrils flared with excitement as he took an opening to deliver a quick, powerful jab to his opponent's midsection. The attack had caught the fighter McMurdo off his guard, and over the din of the crowd Holmes heard a 'whoosh' of air from the sweaty fighter's mouth.

Holmes allowed himself a small grin of pleasure as the other fighter recovered. In another moment the bulkier fighter sent another great fist toward the detective, and again his thin frame moved out of harm's way with as much ease as a blade of grass in the wind.

One, two, three lightning jabs to his opponent's unprotected ribcage! In the moment of Holmes's exultation at the brilliant move, McMurdo launched an attack that caught Holmes squarely on his jaw; the punch was clumsy, but powerful, and the wiry man was sent reeling for a moment. McMurdo wasted no time and sent a left straight into Holmes's cheek, and another right to his torso. Holmes somehow managed to blink away the stars before his eyes and weaved out of the line of fire, keeping his fists ready.

McMurdo turned, ready to strike again, but he needed just a brief moment to locate his challenger, and in that time Holmes took his chance. A marvellous cross-hit struck the man under his jaw and sent him stumbling backwards. There was a count and a bell, and it was all over.

Sherlock Holmes smiled at his victory, his heart pulsating with the sheer thrill. Ah, it was a dangerous game to play, especially at the risk of damaging a mind such as his, but there was nothing like the ecstasy of a good bout! The victor rolled his shoulders and smiled as he stepped to the side of the ring.

Now in a cab returning to Baker Street, Holmes thought the cool night air rushing up against his face felt perfect on his stinging bruises. He was only now beginning to notice them as the energy from the fight was beginning to fade, but even still they were not at the fore of his mind.

He gave them very little thought as he shoved his house-keys into the door, entered, and ascended the stair. So little thought that the reaction from his friend startled him completely.

"Holmes!" Watson gasped upon seeing his companion enter. "What has happened to you?"

"Hm?" Holmes asked, his dark brows drawing together in confusion for a moment before clearing with comprehension. "Ah, these," he said, gingerly touching the darkening marks on his face. "These are the relics from the event I attended to-night."

Watson's brow furrowed deeply and he stood to his feet, marching quickly over to him and looking up at the discolourations and knots. "Good heavens…what sort of event was this?" he asked in wonder.

"A boxing event, my dear Watson. Three rounds against a prize fighter," Holmes replied with a satisfied smirk.

"Did you win?"

Holmes looked slightly insulted. "Of course I won." He smiled. "It was absolutely delicious."

"Of course it was…" said Watson with a smirk as he examined his friend's battered emaciated visage. "I only wish I had been there. Come, let me put something on those. You have a small cut on your cheek that could use a cleaning."

"Oh?"

"Indeed. You don't feel it?"

"I must admit that I don't," said Holmes, collapsing with a happy sigh into his favourite chair. "Though I think I might now that you mention it…"

Watson laughed as he brought a small jar of antiseptic, some ointment, and a small ball of cotton with him from his bag. "You knew I would want to see you fight," he said. "I could have withstood a bit of pain to be in the audience."

Holmes waved it off. "Not with the way you have been limping. I daresay you would have paid for your excursion to-morrow, and I could not have allowed that. You've seen me box enough times, anyhow." Holmes winced ever so slightly as the medicine-dampened cotton made contact with the small cut upon his cheek.

"Still, these bruises speak volumes…I'd hate to be the other fellow," said Watson.

Holmes could not stifle his laughter.

KS: Thanks for reading; don't forget to review!