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The idea had come to Sherlock shortly after the conclusion of their Creeping Man case, in which John demonstrated his shallow understanding of hand-to-hand combat. Brute force? Definitely. John could break a man’s jaw with one punch. Practical understanding of how to strike with minimal effort and maximum effect? Utterly nil.
For example: as capable as he was at breaking that poor technician’s nose, he wasn’t very capable at accomplishing what he’d set out to do in the first place - which, of course, was to knock the man out. Truly, sometimes brute force was only as effective as the wit and skill that applied it. And in that department, John was lacking.
Thankfully, Sherlock prided himself in excelling at boxing as a skill, and could as such teach John everything he may need to know.
...at least, as far as John was willing to learn.
“I’m just not so sure I want to lob a punch at you, mate – I want to learn, not hurt you,” John explains as Sherlock wraps his second hand, trailing the gauze between his fingers, over his knuckles, and under his palm with all of the gentle familiarity of someone who has done it hundreds of times before.
“Then don’t hurt me, Doctor.” Sherlock says simply, securing the end of the tape. “You should be perfectly capable of maintaining good form and restraint so as not to seriously injure your opponent. The intent of this exercise is merely to help you develop a basic understanding of stance, footwork, and defense – so only a perfectly healthy amount of force will be necessary. Regardless, as far as practicality is concerned – there is nothing more practical. Consistent experience is the best way to improve quickly over a short period of time, Watson – and that applies to being able to take a punch as skillfully as you may deal one. Getting hit in a fight is inevitable, and endurance is a skill.”
“I can take a punch, mate.” John replies sardonically, before looking down at his hands. “That’s secure.”
“Yes,” Sherlock replies, and begins binding his own hands.
————————
Later, John will reconsider just how seriously he’d been taking the whole matter prior to it getting out of hand. At the start, it had been a silly, distant sort of idea, the kind of thing you bring up once as a joke and never think about again. Sherlock cuffs the side of his chin hard enough to make his teeth clash together.
“Jesus Christ, mate,” John spits, stumbling back, his balance slipping away. They should’ve found a better place to do this - the best they could manage was Sherlock’s pacing area between the kitchen and living room, the couch pushed somewhat out of the way. John nearly bowls over their side table.
“Stronger defense, John. Don’t leave your sides so open.”
“I’m protecting my bloody face, Sherlock.”
“Evidently not,” Sherlock mutters, shrugging his shoulders in steady circles. It comes to him naturally, the muscle memory slipping in – stretching, hopping from one foot to the other, hyper aware of his weight and balance.
John rubs his face, frowning. “Do you have to hit so hard? Christ, mate.”
“Apologies, Doctor. That instance was…a bit of a knee jerk reaction.”
A moment, and then John’s wiping his face on the shoulder of his T-shirt and raising his fists once again. Perfect position, this time. Ready to strike, ready to defend, stance heavy and planted. It’s exhilarating how quickly John picks up on these things. Sherlock itches to push him further. He moves in once again and they step in circles for several seconds, each waiting for an opportunity, each poised to defend in the event of a sudden step in.
“Waiting for your opponent to make the first move?” Sherlock breathes, John’s eyes nearly pinning him on their own.
“Like you’ve not got the advantage,” John returns. There’s an intensity in his face, something past the sharp red bloom on his chin. He’s embarrassed, of course. Sherlock reads it in the tiny details of his stance, in the flush stretching from the tips of his ears, in the way he fidgets as he considers where to place his first punch.
It won’t land. Sherlock can feel the drift of his eyes, is tuned in to their movement, to John’s every tell. John is taking him in like a problem to be studied – like if he watches closely enough, intensely enough, he’ll be able to notice a sudden offense before it starts. He’s getting worked up. He’s embarrassed, taking his multiple previous losses as a testament to his capability. They aren’t, of course – failure is essential to improvement – but John won’t see it that way, not caught up in the moment as he is. Not when he’s trying to prove himself.
There must’ve been a time when he knew these things, was taught the fundamentals and understood them – he would not have improved so quickly otherwise – yet, over the years of disuse, the memories have faded. He’s lost the muscle memory – or perhaps, he’d never truly obtained it in the first place.
After all, he was a doctor, not a fighter.
John is swinging forward, stance heavy, body low. His fist connects with Sherlock’s stomach.
Ah. Perhaps Sherlock was distracted.
Even as much as John’s boxing glove cushions the blow, the sharp burn still breathes its way up Sherlock’s abdomen. He’s gagging even as he brings his knee up, jamming it into John’s forehead – and then they’re both stumbling back again, putting distance between themselves.
“Were you always paired against blokes nearly a foot shorter than you?” John spits, irritated – though frankly, more at himself than anyone else-
“Sometimes,” Sherlock replies, truthfully. “It wasn’t uncommon, at least not in the unprofessional – even underground – rings I was a member of. Though, in those leagues, you’ll quickly learn not to over or underestimate an opponent. I was once beaten by a man no taller than five foot five – not too unlike yourself.”
“I’m not that short, Sherlock.”
“Of course not. Just – average.”
“Christ.”
“Don’t undersell yourself, Doctor. Many would trip over themselves to be a man of half your caliber,” Sherlock encourages.
John takes a moment to process the words, a flush stealing over his already-reddened face. Then, he’s smiling, a laugh breaking through his embarrassed frustration. “Hah – don’t you, heh – don’t you mean ‘don’t sell yourself short’?”
Sherlock sniffs. “I was trying to maintain the sincerity of my compliment.”
“Well. Thank you, then, mate. Could’ve bolstered my ego by elaborating, but – I’ll take what I can get.”
“I’ve mentioned you’re invaluable.”
“Yeah, mate.”
“Stunningly capable, and equally loyal.”
“Oh, stop.” A pause. Then, as he realizes his mistake: “...no no, go on.”
“Admirably quick to learn, if only just as quick to complain.”
“...that…doesn’t really feel as nice.”
“As you’ve just exhibited,” Sherlock continues, with a scoff.
John straightens, crouching into his fighting stance once again. “Them’s fighting words, Sherlock.”
“‘Them’s fighting words’?”
“It’s an-”
“I know it’s an expression, John. I just hoped you’d be a bit more articulate, is all.”
“Them’s also fighting words,” John replies, through a grin.
Sherlock punches him in the solar plexus moments later.
————————
“I feel like,” John says, on his back, his knees hooked around Sherlock’s stomach, his Adam's apple bobbing under the crook of John’s elbow, “this has drifted out of ‘boxing’ and more into ‘wrestling’ territory.”
“Get off,” Sherlock hisses, thrashing his legs about. Try as he might, he can’t escape the pin. John's stomach presses firmly against Sherlock's back, Sherlock’s wrists secured firmly in one hand.
“Only if you admit I’ve won this round.”
“You’ve – not followed the rules, Doctor, you’ve utterly lost. ”
“You never set any rules. You just don’t want to admit you’ve lost.”
“You said yourself this shows no semblance of boxing.”
“Jesus.”
“I will say,” Sherlock says, after a moment. “This pressure is rather distressing. I can imagine how one might lose fight under such an unpleasant force.”
John releases him within seconds. “Christ, sorry, mate. I got caught up in-”
“Not at all, John,” Sherlock says, rolling over onto his stomach. “I’m sure other pins would be far more suited to my pressure preferences – unfortunately, that’s not the point of this endeavor. Pressure below the diaphragm is hardly more unpleasant to me than a punch to the face.”
————————
“This is hardly what I meant,” Sherlock sighs, several minutes later, looking down at John’s face.
Their chests are pressed together, John’s arms wrapped firmly around Sherlock’s shoulders, one hand clasped around his right forearm. His legs are hooked around Sherlock’s, feet planted firmly on the floor. “Just wanted to experiment with your pressure preferences in mind, is all. How’s this?”
Sherlock considers. “Not unpleasant – though you could achieve the same effect with far less effort through other means. In terms of combat effectiveness, a rather impractical pin – I feel we’ve lost the point of this entire endeavor.”
A moment.
Another.
John's eyes trail between the tip of Sherlock's nose and the dip of his chin.
Oh.
“Is that a new mouthwash?” John murmurs.
“No,” Sherlock responds. “John, if you feel the urge to kiss me, you could simply voice it.”
John flushes. Deeply. “I didn’t – I mean, I guess after, but-”
“Then again, perhaps with a bit of encouragement,” Sherlock murmurs, impatience itching at him. He can’t dip his head enough to accomplish the task on his own, but he can meet John halfway.
John’s hands lose their pressure within seconds, slipping loose to curl in Sherlock’s hair, to hold his face with such a gentleness. Not holding him fast , just – holding him up. John Watson is a bloody drug.
Steady, Holmes.
He slips out of John’s tangle of limbs with ease, flipping their weight, taking one of John’s wrists into his hand, his knee pressing into the small of John’s back. “I’ve won,” he manages, breathless. “again.”
“You’re awful,” John returns.
————————
“Pivot, John, pivot, ” Sherlock insists, after a third consecutive instance of his boxing glove colliding with John’s cheekbone. “You must-”
“Avoid the bloody jab, yeah, Sherlock, I think I’d gathered that after the first two times, fucking hell.”
“Avoid, and return your own counterattack - jab,”
“Cross, left body hook, uppercut,” John finishes for him, breathless and frustrated. “I know the steps. It’s the – the doing it that’s bloody hard, mate. I’ve just got to be faster.” He’s panting, sweat trailing down the inside of his neck as he tilts his head back and finishes his glass of water.
Sherlock’s eyes linger there for a moment, then draw themselves back up to John’s eyes. “We could finish, for now. You’re tired.”
“I’m fine,” John replies, setting the glass down with…maybe more force than entirely necessary. “Just hot. Whose brilliant idea was it to box during a heatwave, again?”
“We’ve gone on longer than anticipated.”
John is…still embarrassed, Sherlock notes – more so now, and firmly irritated because of it. Really, he’s got every disadvantage in this circumstance. He’s shorter, less experienced, and not as quick on his feet.
He’s far more a heavyset brawler – as evidenced by their previous distractions – than a lithe boxer like Sherlock. As quickly as he’s picked up on setting his feet, staying heavy, taking punches, keeping his defenses solid – he’s too planted now. Slow to react, slow at returning his gloves to shield his face after a swing, slow to pivot away from a potentially round-ending jab.
And of course, John is deeply aware of it. And humiliated by his failure, of course – now, even angry at it. Of course, he’s missing the point of the whole endeavor – to help him improve – and focusing on the competitive nature. Which, quite frankly, Sherlock should’ve anticipated, and – good god.
John is taking his shirt off, as if missing the thin layer of fabric would cool him very much at all.
He’s taken his shirt off.
Sherlock’s train of thought shatters.
John Watson.
He’s heavy set, all broad shoulders and natural muscle, with a decent amount of fat.
Of course, he indulges in his alcohol on a slightly worryingly frequent basis, which gives him a bit of a stomach he’s self-conscious of, but his frame wears it well. He looks…good.
He looks good. Healthy. Happy, usually, when he hasn’t been punched in the face a disproportionate amount in the past three hours. He’s shoving his gloves back on, stepping back towards the middle of their small boxing area.
Sherlock shakes his head, clearing his thoughts as he raises his hands. He mustn’t get distracted - and then they’re circling again, counter-clockwise, the kitchen rotating behind Sherlock’s back. Early start this time, he considers, developing a regimen in his mind.
Step in – John shifts back to compensate, gloves shielding his face – pivot right, punch in under the elbow, contact. John’s body shudders under the impact, bare skin rippling from the force of the swing, and Sherlock’s eyes catch on his collarbone.
Almost entirely hidden under fat and muscle, trailing from strong shoulders down to his chest-
John’s fist slams into Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock buckles, the floor rising to meet him.
He’s unconscious before he reaches it.
————————
“Christ, Sherlock!” John shouts, ripping his gloves off and dropping to his knees by Sherlock’s side.
Sherlock is face down on the floor, having twisted back from the force of John’s punch. His face is pressed into the floorboards, eyes closed, nose bleeding.
Carefully, so, so carefully, John turns him onto his side – keeping his head tipped down to let the blood flow freely from his nose – and feels at his jaw and nose and cheekbones and skull. Nothing out of place, nothing broken. Thank fuck, Jesus Christ.
Still, he’s out cold.
“Sherlock,” John urges, tapping the sides of his face, shaking him gently. He should come to within seconds, provided John hadn’t caused brain damage – which, quite frankly, was very unlikely.
Five seconds, then ten, and Sherlock’s eyelids flutter, a murmured groan following soon after.
John breathes a sigh of relief. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock rolls onto his back, hands rising, drifting against John’s, pushing, searching, feeling at his nose and the blood there. “M’nose?” He mumbles, eyes fluttering open, unfocused. “Broke m’nose?”
“No, I didn’t break your nose. You’re fine, you’re alright, steady on, mate,” John reassures, “just bleeding a bit, is all. Keep your head tipped forward, Sherlock, you’re gonna choke.”
Sherlock blinks several times, trying to clear the tears from his eyes. Getting punched in the face tends to bring those. “My nose,” he repeats, with the same urgency, voice thick and barely intelligible.
“Your nose is fine, Sherlock.”
“Okay.” A pause. “Okay.”
“Just take a second, relax. You’ll be alright,” John breathes, leaning forward to observe Sherlock’s pupils. “Can you look straight for me, mate?”
Sherlock’s eyes slip out of focus a few times, then settle, fixed firmly on John’s, searching in that way they so often do. No difference in the size of the pupils, no particular irregularities.
“You’ll be okay,” John repeats, if only a confirmation to himself. Sure, he’d just punched Sherlock in the face hard enough that the impact led to a depression of the skull that caused a hydrostatic pressure pulse in the subarachnoid space with was then transferred through the perivascular space to reach deeper regions of the brain and-
Sherlock’s staring at him, eyes steady, now, focused intently as he regains his full awareness. Then, they’re slipping, trailing over John’s face, down to his lips, and further. “You’re not wearing a shirt,” Sherlock breathes.
He’ll be fine.
His face is warm under John’s fingertips – the only part of his hands not still wrapped with boxing tape – a steady flush trailing from his cheeks to his ears, then down his neck.
“Yeah, sorry, mate. I didn’t think it’d be such a distraction – flattering, though.”
“You’re holding my face.”
“Right, ah – yes, sorry,” John chokes, stealing his hands away, falling back off his knees, standing. “Let me – get you tissues. For your nose.”
Sherlock sits up, blood trailing from his nose as he watches John’s back and shoulders slip away into the kitchen. Good god.
Distraction indeed.
————————
“I won,” John says later as he towels at his hair, the smell of his cedarwood body wash drifting from the bathroom.
“You utilized what advantages you have to overwhelm your opponent,” Sherlock agrees, with a smile. “In the fullest sense of the word, you did win.”
“Got a little carried away though, didn’t I? Sorry about that, mate. Really didn’t think that punch would connect.”
“It was a good punch, Watson. And evidently, you utilized the correct technique necessary to properly knock me out – so by all means, an immense improvement from this morning. Excellent job.”
————————
Later, Mariana walks into 221B to find the sofa still out of place, Sherlock sitting in his lounge chair with his nose stuffed with tissues.
John is scrolling on his phone, lying on his back on the carpet.
Sherlock looks up from his newspaper. “Good evening, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Should I – even ask?”
“John took his shirt off,” Sherlock explains.
John chokes from his spot on the floor.
Mariana raises an eyebrow, opens her mouth, then closes it again.
“...and then he punched me in the face.”