Chapter Six: Finish
The cut at Sherlock's brow was almost unnoticeable by the time the day of the match rolled around, and he was flitting unhindered around the flat like a trapped bird before long. They had tried to make themselves scarce, stay isolated so as to not provoke another attack. There was no word on the news (Sherlock kept the telly on, only loud enough to drown out the annoying silence) on any other attacks or deaths, and it seemed as though the hypothesis of wanting to cut right at Emile's heart had been correct. It was all about hamstringing him, and getting money for their troubles. John wondered gloomily which fighters he paid to attack them, and how much they were getting from the cut.
It seemed to take forever, a looming dread like a thunderhead over Nantes, for John. For Sherlock, the wait was over in an instant.
It was unseasonably cold for Nantes, not quite to the freezing point but close enough to warrant an extra layer. And John pulled Sherlock back in the door before he could waltz out in shirtsleeves, fingers unnaturally steady as they stuffed Sherlock into a jacket with arms too short for his. Sherlock's fixed gaze down his nose knew why those hands weren't shaking, and knew that John felt they were getting into a serious bit of trouble because of the sudden total self-control. Even John's breathing was terse, collected.
"John," Sherlock muttered, and the doctor dropped his hands in frustration, scrubbed them both through his short hair and finally snapped his eyes up to find Sherlock's.
"I know." Dropped his hands, shook his head sharply. "I know."
Sherlock (no, Addison) clapped John on the shoulder, gave a brave smile that flashed more teeth than Sherlock would ever dare, and he hop-skipped down the steps like a kid out to play. John took several deep breaths before he slung his bag over his shoulder and rushed down after him.
Twilight was coming cooly down to Nantes, sky turning to cold violet with the stars bursting out in the crisp air. The traffic moved along like any other evening, but it didn't sit in John's gut like just another evening. Hanging behind Sherlock (eyes darting back and forth between every face that passed, tense and ready to grab a gun that wasn't there if he had to), watching the man lope merrily along like it was any other evening, he felt transported back to the long desert nights waiting for something he knew was going to happen. Trained tension, and the trained senses that came with it.
He would be ready. If something happened, he would be ready to stop it.
They didn't bother with the bus. Sherlock had told him that he wanted everyone to see him walking about as if nothing had happened (as if he hadn't rolled around in bed for two days complaining about the yellowing bruise under his eye and the stinging in his ribs). If there were any eyes peering out from the shadows, he wanted them to see. And John wanted them to see that he wasn't alone, that there was someone who was going to bite back if bitten.
This time, they arrived at the gym before most of the crowd had gathered. There was still a pack of rowdy spectators who were jostling for the prime seats, and soon there would be even more of them. John stuck to Sherlock's elbow, tight-lipped and observant. He'd learned to keep an eye on a hostile environment long before he'd met Sherlock.
Far in the corner, purposely avoiding any and all eye-contact, was Emile. And two men who John knew without a doubt were the gendarmes out of uniform he had said he would bring along. It had meant turning himself in, shutting down the ring once it was all over and done with, but (he had admitted, standing in the kitchenette a day ago, eyes at his feet and everything in him defeated) he was doing it for Henri. Maybe for Sherlock, if he was pressed to answering, but mostly for Henri.
Catch them in the act, Sherlock had said.
"Come on, Addison," John said without having to think (because Addison and Sherlock were so different now, he didn't know how he had ever confused them). "Let's get you dolled up."
Sherlock chuckled behind him, John having already taken steps for the changing room. He followed dutifully, stopping only once when a highly inebriated young woman approached and asked for him for a kiss. He politely leaned down and gave her a peck to the cheek, after which John had circled back and jerked him away from the suddenly raving girl, fuming.
The girl called after them, throwing kisses through the air that Sherlock caught, shouting something back over his shoulder in French. John shook his head, shoved Sherlock into the changing room before him to hide him before he could make even more of a fool out of himself.
"Glad to see you're taking this so seriously," John chided, peering once back out of the door to see if the enthusiastic young woman had followed them. She hadn't.
Sherlock wiped his mouth clean on the sleeve of his jacket before he tugged himself out of it. "Someone may as well get something nice out of the evening, Peter."
They ceased talking as Michaud, the man with the scar, appeared through the door. Sherlock's eyes narrowed (deducting without having to think, fitting every little thing about the man into their separate files), and he smiled condescendingly. John flashed him a nervous little nod, trying not to look the man in the eye and appear busy. Grabbing Sherlock's gloves from the bag, that sounded like a good idea.
Sherlock said something in ridiculously perky French, smiling ear-to-ear.
Michaud replied grumpily, causing a delighted giggle to burst from Sherlock's chest. John smirked into his shoulder, having never heard the noise before, wondering how Sherlock had even managed it. Master of disguise.
"Someone isn't pleased that I'm looking fine and eager," Sherlock murmured, joining John and smiling to himself in a very pleased way when Michaud had moved away to make himself ready.
"You think he's one of..." He trailed off, because he knew Sherlock would follow him. Probably knew that John would ask.
"Possible. He doesn't bend at the torso, where you might have hit him with the curtain rod. I wish I'd been in a better state," he sighed absently. "I can't count on you to deduce anything while my eyes are out of commission."
"I suppose I'll just leave it to you, next time, then?" John asked, wanting to keep his face straight but unable to.
"Just try harder to collect details the next time you come to my rescue," Sherlock replied with a reptilian smirk.
The crowd had gotten quite loud very quickly, and it was chanting with new, brighter fervor than the bunch three nights ago, which John thought was quite an achievement in itself. The PA was loud enough to hear from the changing room, but he was hardly paying it any attention. He had focused on keeping his mind and eyes sharp for Sherlock, cataloguing what he could about every fighter, doctor, trainer, or janitor that walked into that changing room. While Sherlock warmed up, John collected data. Every eyebrow that rose at Sherlock's condition (or even his presence), every muffled conversation (in French, damn them and damn their language, and damn him for paying less attention to the words than to the back of Tara Brockman's head in French class).
Emile appeared at last, once the cheering had reached its climax and the PA had shut off with a whine. He didn't even need to open his mouth for Sherlock to guess who he would be going up against.
He smiled, and it was sharp, but even John could see the angry twist that came into it. "Michaud," Sherlock declared, and to his immense credit, his mask never flinched. "Well, I've dealt with him before, there shouldn't be any trouble." He sighed through his nose and held out both of his hands. "Gloves, Peter."
"No gloves," Emile interrupted, pressing Sherlock's outstretched hands away and down. "Bare-hands match, the conditions have been set for all matches tonight. They want more blood, more animal violence. Good old days," Emile added with a healthy sneer.
Sherlock shifted his weight and straightened his shoulders. "Very well. I'll need more tape, Peter. When do I go on?" he asked as John complied, his face gone pale.
"Last. You are the big name fight, tonight. They will all stay to see the two of you turn each other to ground meat." Emile did not sound happy. He sounded exactly the way John felt, wrapping Sherlock's knuckles and wrists in as much padding tape as he could afford without sacrificing movement.
From across the room, John and Michaud met gazes and stared one another down. Michaud smirked exactly as might a shark (two of his teeth were missing in the back). His eyes said I will kill him.
John's eyes screamed back Not if I have anything to say about it.
There was a great swell of sound when Addison Darling emerged for his fight. He waved his long, exposed fingers and grinned. Like a celebrity. All he needed were the paparazzi flashbulbs and microphones pressed into his face, John thought.
He caught Sherlock before he hopped up into the ring, clasping his shoulder tightly. Sherlock cocked his head, didn't say a thing.
"Mouthguard, idiot," John said for the second time, handing it over rather than administering it himself. Sherlock bit into it, grinned to show it off, and nodded once in finality that wrenched John's gut. He didn't stay to hear John call "Good luck" after him.
He vaguely registered the sound of the bell ringing and the seasurge of the crowd washing up around them, but the ringing in his ears slowly drowned them out—a ringing very much like gunfire, and the silence that followed after it.
It seemed slow, at first. Two fighters testing the air with their eyes, sizing the other up, tensing and relaxing. Sherlock's fingers flexing into tight fists, tucked up under his chin. Michaud rolling his shoulders and grinning cheekily. Both pairs of feet bouncing, shifting.
Sherlock was bold, took the first swipe. Michaud ducked, took two darting jabs at Sherlock's ribs. And the exchange began again. Sherlock tried to compensate for the height difference, turning his long reach rather to defense. Curled his arms against his ribs, blocking fists with wrists. Twisted his long body side to side when unshod fists approached.
Michaud was thick, properly muscled and broad, and he was much better than Sherlock was giving him credit for. His punches were heavy and blunt, and Sherlock lost gasps of air between his teeth with each one. There were no padded gloves to protect him this time, just skin on skin, knuckle to bone. It stung with every swipe, with every connection he made or was made against him.
So Sherlock stepped back, analyzed. Quick footwork coupled with quick deduction. Every time he went for the middle, for the ribs, Michaud blocked with meaty arms. Then, Sherlock wondered. He gave an experimental jab at the side of Michaud's face. It went through, not a single deflection. Sherlock came back with blood on the white tape wrapping his knuckles. Michaud was guarding his middle, protecting it, but allowing hits to his face and neck. He was sturdier there, he was allowing hits. He was buying time.
Then, John saw it, and it hit him as if he'd been the one taking punches up there. Michaud was wearing a gorgeous line of a bruise right across his middle. Not in the ribs, where a glove might have buffeted him, not even in the shape of a fist. Like a curtain rod had caught him in the middle. John's heart was beating too fast, blotting out all sound as it thundered in his ears. Prunier's doctor (Christ, if he'd been Sherlock he'd have seen it two years ago and from seven miles away) was sporting a long, violent bruise on the side of his face that John remembered bashing with the end of the broken rod in a stinking back alley filled with rubbish. And Prunier himself, with the black eye John had put there, staring right at him and gently massaging the old scars on his knuckles. John's breath felt solid in his throat, staring into that vengeful eye, old and calm and cold and hateful.
"Addison!" John cried out at once, never taking his eyes from the old man even as the blur of legs in the ring passed between them. But it was no use, it was only taken up in a chant by the crowd.
Prunier gave an imperceptible nod to someone at the table, the man with the microphone, and in response, two blasts were made on an air horn. The crowd only gave another cheer as one, but it was a signal. It was the signal for Michaud to drop to one knee and pull the switchblade from his sock.
"SHERLOCK!" John pealed like a warning bell just as someone in the crowd gave a high-pitched shriek at the sliver of metal that had appeared in the boxer's hand.
It was the swift turn of Sherlock's head in John's direction, the slight pitch in his shoulders and neck, that let the knife swipe right past his artery to slice a red line harmlessly across his shoulder. They seemed to hang that way for too long; wide, slant gray eyes shocked and (scared?) Michaud's dark eyes and face gone darker and pinched and why weren't they moving?
The world started again when Sherlock made a graceful birdlike move to sock Michaud straight in the nose. The boxer recovered quickly, made a backhanded slash at Sherlock's chest, missed by a hair. Two more exchanged blows, faster than John's eyes, one to Michaud's ear and the other to Sherlock's arm. Red.
Emile was shouting something in French, but was knocked aside as the crowd moved forward as one, screaming and flailing and knocking bodies to the ground to leap and step over in their excitement to escape. A stampede, one undulating wall of forward and sideways movement, panicked and directionless. One knife at a boxing match, one flick of silver and red, and they fled.
Sherlock tried to block another slash, well-aimed and efficient, and only succeeded in a long red line across his palm. Another was coming, and this time it was a stab.
And it might have plunged deep into his collar bone if John Watson hadn't come running in full-barrel and rugby tackled Michaud (so hard that the ring shook with the impact of both bodies, Sherlock's knees locking to keep his footing). And suddenly it was John trading punches with the frenchman, rolling on the floor of the ring half-wrestling for control of the knife, half-brawling with thick fists flying and teeth gnashing. John grabbed the knife wrist in one hand, slammed it back again and again against the floor with jaw-rattling strength, taking hits from Michaud's free fist to his ear, his neck, taking each one of them until the knife dropped away.
Sherlock hardly had time to register his shock before someone else had him from behind (Prunier's doctor, also an ex-boxer and one of the men that had attacked him, by John's handiwork on his face) and tried to lay him out on his own. This one was easier, even with his hand and shoulder bleeding red lines down pale skin. The smirk even came back to bruised lips when he blocked and parried and dodged the frustrated swinging fists.
Prunier had attempted to run for it. Emile (and thirty seconds later, the two gendarmes)were on him before he could lose himself in the frightened, jostling crowd. They didn't make any objection to the heavy-handed uppercut Emile landed. As the cuffs went on, Emile allowed himself a proud grin: he still had it.
The doctor gave in easily, once Sherlock had knocked two of his teeth loose and sent him tumbling out of the ring like a bag of refuse. He had another doctor to deal with, one far more important than the whinging, toothless ex-boxer.
John didn't stop swinging at Michaud even when Sherlock tried to peel him away. He got in two more good hits and a grazing third before Sherlock bundled him away, leaving the bloody and thoroughly beaten Michaud for the gendarmes. The doctor hadn't come away all roses either, and the left side of his face had been assaulted by desperate right-hand punches—if one of them had been any closer to his nose, it might have broken. John was half-beaten, bleeding from his lip and his nose, panting for breath and only partially free of the angry bloodlust, but it all drained away when Sherlock shook him roughly by the shoulders and called him back.
Then, he stumbled against the ropes and tried very hard not to pass out.
Backup had arrived seven minutes ago, including three ambulances and six police vehicles (five cars and one van) in which they could pack everyone they had managed to slip cuffs onto. Two spectators had been nearly crushed underfoot by the stampede and had to be driven away with all haste. One ambulance had been for Michaud (John had done quite a number on him, and Sherlock didn't say it, but he was quite impressed), which drove away at a leisurely pace with a uniformed officer sitting in watch beside the stretcher. The last was meant to be for either Sherlock or John, or even both of them, but neither seemed in that great a rush to get to a hospital.
Sherlock held a cold compress to John's swelling eye (oh, it would be black and beautiful in the morning, John knew from the drumming in his skull) with the hand that hadn't been sliced open and heavily bandaged (at least it had been a clean cut, and wouldn't scar too badly) as they sat on the back step of their patient ambulance. Sherlock did all the talking to the kind young sergeant (a pretty woman who might have reminded John a bit of Sally Donovan, if she'd been kind-hearted or warm), French spilling off his tongue as if he hadn't been punched in the mouth several times that evening.
Emile scrubbed a fond hand in Sherlock's short curls, congratulating him, thanking him, gingerly seizing the young man's face in his hands to kiss both cheeks in celebration. He said that, with any luck and his very fervent testimony against the three men who had attempted to kill them that evening, he may just be let off again. John wished him the best, and he didn't know precisely what it was that Sherlock said to him in French, but he did hear the name Henri. And he saw the pinched sadness in the smile that Emile gave them. He nodded, and he was gone into the back of the nearest police car.
"I can do that, you know," John said at last, trying to reach for the cold compress in Sherlock's hand. "My arm's not broken." Though his fists were certainly throbbing.
"You really must stop doing this," Sherlock said, dutifully handing over control of the cold pack to John.
"Doing what?"
Sherlock smiled, this time none of Addison straying in. "Saving my life."
John gave a single laugh and mirrored him. "You've got your uses."
AN: PHEW! Took me long enough to get this one up! This could very well be the end of this fic (I had planned on this being the end) but it could use a short epilogue if anyone thinks it could use one. BUT HOORAY! Villains caught, our heroes walk away, another mystery solved. I had so much fun writing this, and I hope y'all had fun reading, too. I'd grown rather fond of Addison and Emile, but it's time to put them in a box and move on. Thank you all so so much for reading and sending me your support, I really appreciate every lovely review (and readers who don't review, thanks for reading, it still gives me warm feelings!) So, hope you enjoyed the last chapter, leave us some love, and don't forget to STAY AWESOME!