Three!

A suspect is caught between Sherlock, John, and Lestrade and his gang. He makes a choice, hoping to take down the littlest. It was a bad choice.

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Living with Sherlock

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"I'm from the military Sherlock, there are some habits you pick up there that you can't let go of." John tried to explain, picking up the sheet the detective had carelessly tossed, "One of them is trying to be as cleanly as possible. You've got to admit, I let you get away with a lot." He gestured to the quite messy flat, taking solace in the fact his room was Spartan clean.

"You've been living the civilian life for nearly four years, John, I'm sure those instincts of yours have dulled." Sherlock mused, his fingers propped up against each other. He knew that in a few minutes Lestrade would call for a case he just had to be patient.

John twitched, "Are you calling me a civilian?" it was irrational to be so offended by it, but he was. "Calling me soft?!" Sherlock peering open his eye and gave the 'duh' look to John. Snorting, John proceeded to turn his back on him.

Lestrade did happen to call, about twenty minutes after Sherlock had seen him on the nes, hounded by those horrible people called 'reporters'. John did break his silence to follow him, of course, and within a handful of hours the two Baker Street Boys were crouched in wait in the alley behind a jewellery store, waiting for Lestrade and his police to flush the thief turned murderer out to them. It was damp, as London always is, and mildly chilly, and John resolutely refused to shiver in his beaten old black jacket. Sherlock would assuredly notice and force John away to be warm. He could be mothering like that now and then.

A siren went off, sounding only a few streets away, and a bang told them the thief had left the store in a rush. Authoritative shouts to 'Hold!' came from the opposite alley entrance then the pounding of feet. Sherlock swept out like a great bat to step straight in the way of the fleeing man, who seemed only a few inches shorter than Sherlock.

John stepped out as well, when the man took a desperate glance to the little side alley that cut into the larger one. London was full of alleys, just as it was full of rain.

"Stay where you are, Mr. Morley," Sherlock said, voice smug and victorious, "You are the one who's been breaking into every jewellery store this side of London. Just so happened that the owner was in the last one hm? Pity she had to die."

Mr. Morley looked like a cornered rat, from behind came Lestrade and his policemen, in front of him stood Sherlock, imposing, intimidating Sherlock. And to the left was John, small, compact little John standing infront of his only escape.

It was a testament to John that he say Morley's hand slip into his waistband, when Sherlock (the genius), Lestrade (detective inspector), and the policemen (FUCKING POLICEMEN) didn't. It was alos a testament ot John's strength that when the bigger, wider, taller Morley threw himself on John, knife flashing in the dim light, that John didn't fall.

He stood his ground, and those reflexes Sherlock had been mocking earlier? Yeah, those came back. Too bad for Mr. Morley.

"John!" Sherlock cried in alarm, when Morley launched himself onto the army doctor. Morley was going for a quick stab and run, hoping to barrel John over with his size, he was nearly a head taller, and give himself a good run in the enclosed space behind the doctor. That way, the others couldn't follow him, they'd be concerned with the small man and Morley would be home free.

That was the plan.

But, sadly, when he went to stab, John's hand flashed out, twisted, pulled in a different direction and three things happened at once. 1. Morley's momentum carried him through John's twist. 2. A terrible popping sound filled the air as Morley's arm was displaced out of his socket. 3. Morley went down, John's knee in his back and a gun to the back of his head.

It happened in a split second, Lestrade hadn't even been able to order his men not to shoot (lest they hit John). Sherlock hadn't been able to grab Morley and drag him away for some one on one time of what not to do with Sherlock around. Lesson number one being: Never. Touch. John.

So, there they were, one instant Sherlock having the worst moment of his life playing out, (Morley falling atop John, John gasping as a knife slid between his ribs, a bleeding, dying John lying there at Sherlock's feet) and the next, John was snarling at him to get over there and arrest the bastard.

Lestrade got there first, cuffing Morley, ignoring the way the man moaned when his shoulder shifted. The grey haired detective was gaping at John, mouth open and everything. The police men were whispering to each other, awed glances being cast at the little army doctor. Sherlock was blinking down at John, who was trying to speak to him. Tuning in, Sherlock listened to the melodious voice of John, his john, not bleeding on the pavement but instead calling him a buffoon.

"- slow, civilian, ha! Tell me that now you absolute-" John couldn't continue, as Sherlock had enveloped him in his arms and snogged the life out of him. Gasping when Sherlock finally released him, dazed and with red lips, John was speechless. As was Lestrade and his team, by the way, but Sherlock? No.

"Magnificent John, just magnificent. Thought you could take him out hm? He is of course the smallest, cutest of your three options, but bad move, Mr. Morley, bad move." Sherlock continued to gloat as they dragged Morley out, gasping and shaking in pain to the cruisers parked at the mouth of the alley.

"Oh hold still, you big baby. It's just dislocated." John marched up, told the two holding Morley to not left him fall, cause this would most likely knock him out. With experience ease, John reached up, grasped the injured shoulder and the limply hanging arm and had yanked it into place. There was another of those popping sound, Morley screamed hoarsely and then went limp. Huffing, John returned to Sherlock, bid goodnight to Lestrade, and took his detective home.

Later that night, Sherlock slid into bed with a snoring John. Kissing him tightly on the forehead, Sherlock allowed silly emotions (Pride, love, awe, relief, happiness) to break open in his chest. A goofy smile split his face and his silently giggled, counting on John not being able to see him.

From that day onward, John was given a new respect form the police force, as rumors that the tiny doctor had taken down a man three times his size, broken his arm in several places before healing them back together afterward circulated London's force. Sherlock didn't tease John about his fading military instincts anymore; instead, he found ways to make them come into their daily lives. How? Experimenting, of course.

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Ahh I thought it would be good for everyone to see how totally bad-ass John can be, and not even know it.