The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter 21

Eric returned Sherlock's smile, then settled into a defensive stance, fists raised. "With haste, please. I don't want to miss breakfast."

Sherlock mirrored him, and they began to circle. "Breakfast already? It's not even 3am."

"Is it? We keep odd hours."

"I didn't realize The Wolseley served food that early." Sherlock stepped forward and sent out an experimental jab.

Eric's broad frame jerked back, barely avoiding the hit. "Perk of the job."

"Hmm. I prefer my freedom."

"Freedom is an illusion." Eric sidestepped another jab. "Everyone serves something, be it a person, organization, or ideal."

"I serve no one."

An amused chuckle. "You can't possibly believe that. You serve London just as I do." Eric's chin rose, revealing the smug slash of his mouth. "You're less free than you think."

Sherlock took full advantage of the opening and struck. His fist slammed into the other man's jaw with a satisfying thud. The force of it reverberated through his knuckles and up his arm.

Eric staggered back a few steps, then shook his head like a dog flinging off water. He bared his teeth. "Not bad. You pack a stronger punch than I expected."

"And you have an iron chin," Sherlock said. "You're also a swarmer who's pretending to be an out boxer." The man's build had been the first clue; his ability to withstand the knockout blow merely confirmed it.

"I thought I'd change things up a bit," Eric said, backing away again as Sherlock stalked toward him. "Keep things fresh."

"You're lying. You said you don't want to miss breakfast, but you refuse to engage, even going so far as to adopt a fighting style that doesn't suit you. The question is: Why?"

A frustrated cry rang out from the ground floor. "Get back here!" Vivian yelled. A quick glance revealed Katarina dancing out of Vivian's reach.

Understanding flared. They were doing it on purpose. Instead of taking the risk of an uncertain fight, the two agents had chosen to delay the altercation in exchange for certain victory. A victory determined by sheer numbers. They were stalling for reinforcements. And Mycroft.

Sherlock spun away from Eric and sprinted to the opposite wall. "Cover your ears," he shouted at Vivian. Without waiting to see if she complied, he pulled the fire alarm.

An ear piercing siren tore through the stairwell. The shrill, merciless sound drilled into Sherlock's brain, setting his teeth on edge. He rushed toward the stairs. If it was uncomfortable for him, it had to be excruciating for Vivian. Eric intercepted him, no longer smiling. He lunged at Sherlock, fists flying. There was no hesitancy in him now. Sherlock threw himself back to avoid the flurry of blows. A swarmer used rapid, powerful punches to overwhelm an opponent. Their weakness lay in their heavier build and shorter reach. Sherlock feinted left, then slipped past him, landing a sharp jab to the kidney. Eric grunted. He twisted to face Sherlock, then drove his shoulder into Sherlock's chest and bore him to the ground. For the second time that evening, Sherlock's breath was knocked from his lungs. He much preferred the first instance. For one thing, Vivian smelled a great deal better than Eric, and another, she hadn't been trying to smash his face in. Lightning-fire blows rained down on Sherlock. He blocked them with his forearms. One slipped past his elbow and glanced off his cheek. Pain flared across the spot.

Sherlock scowled, ire rising. That was going to leave a mark. It was time he returned the favor four-fold. Going against all instinct, he leaned up into Eric's oncoming punches and pulled him into a tight embrace. Keeping the man close denied him from the space and leverage to hit him with any power. Snaking his right arm between them, Sherlock braced his forearm against the side of Eric's neck. He applied pressure, forcing the man's head to the side. At the same time, he threw his own body in the same direction. Where the head goes, the body follows. Eric's resistance broke. Sherlock rolled them, landing on top. And now the other man was on the defensive. A chorus of shrieks and screams far above them suddenly rose above the blaring of the siren. Any second now, the stairwells would be flooded with frantic, half-naked hot tub cinema goers. Sherlock had to end this, and end it now. He and Vivian would have only a small window of opportunity to use the chaos of the crowd as a shield for their escape. Sherlock sent a chopping blow at Eric's throat, but the other man seized his arms in an unrelenting, meaty grip. Option two, then. Messier, but equally as effective. He slammed his forehead into Eric's nose. Cartilage flattened. Eric gave a strangled cry, and his grip loosened. Sherlock broke his hold and sprinted back over to the fire alarm pull. He opened the clear cupboard door there and removed the fire extinguisher. His peripheral vision caught Eric already stumbling to his feet. It was going to take more than a blow to the jaw or face to knock this man out. Nose a fountain of red, Eric ran at him. Sherlock pulled the pin and aimed the nozzle. He squeezed the lever, and white foam blasted into Eric's face. Eric's hands flew to his eyes in reflex, and he sputtered, stumbling to a halt. Sherlock strode forward and slammed the butt of the fire extinguisher into Eric's stomach. The man doubled over, chin perfectly exposed. Sherlock swung it again, and metal met bone with an audible crunch. Eric's head snapped back, and he collapsed onto the concrete, unconscious. Finally.