Nᴏᴛ Gᴀʏ {Tᴇᴇɴ/Jᴏʜɴʟᴏᴄᴋ}

№ 19

[A/N: This is a great song. I don't even know why because it's weird and creepy. But I love it for some reason^^^^]

I kept having to remind myself not to think it, but Sherlock's lean muscles were a whole lot easier to see when he was beating someone up. I was holding his coat in my right arm, awaiting the tension and simultaneously waiting for it to be over with. Every time I moved to stop him or to break it up, he pushed me back to where I was earlier standing and gave me a warning glare as if it would pin me down or anchor me to the soil.

I had found myself repeating his name over and over again out loud in hopes that he would stop. After a few moments of him ignoring my pleas, they became more of a breathy whisper, gasping and desperate. Please don't. Please, please don't... I wasn't quite sure of exactly when they turned into silent thoughts.

Sherlock Holmes was in midair, one hand tightly gripping Jim's shirt collar, the other in a compact, clenched fist, heading straight for his nose. His body was twisted, his feet in a powerful stance, his lips pursed as his knuckles hit bone with an audible crunch, his feet sticking their landing on the ground as Jim stumbled backward. Stunned, the nemesis was knocked out of character for a moment, his eyes changing from dead to full of pain as his hands flew up to where he had been punched.

"Ow," he said quietly, looking at his palms, which were dripping with his own blood. "I feel like that was uncalled for."

"I wasn't aware that you could feel in the first place." Sherlock, hyperactively pacing in front of me, said. He was breathing quickly and shaking the pain out of his hands, making his way back to Jim and baring his teeth in fury in attempt to properly prepare for the next move. I could see his eyes moving rapidly, calculating so efficiently that even wildfire would be impressed. I watched, feeling like punching Mary in the gut but deciding against it. Besides, there were people just a few hundred yards off; someone was bound to notice something soon. So it would be better if the noticeability levels stayed as low as possible.

Jim's blood was leaking steadily down his face, dripping from his dimpled chin as he spat it off his lips. "I think you broke it," he said in monotone, touching his nose cautiously with the thin fingers on his left hand, his eyes returning from their sudden real and pained state back to their usual dead manner. "You should apologise."

Sherlock laughed dryly, his mouth not even smiling. He shook his head, gasping. "I'm not giving you any apologies."

Jim slowly stepped forward. "Oh, that's unfortunate."

"No shit," Sherlock scoffed. "It's your move."

"Oh, is it?" Jim asked with an exaggerated gasp and a tilt of his head. "I must have lost track."

He jumped forward then, tackling Sherlock backwards into the ground, grass tearing out at its roots as his shoulders dug into it, dirt spraying my shoes. Pinning my friend's arms to the ground, Jim leaned over him, opening his mouth to speak again, his blood dripping on Sherlock's face, the blood from his hands staining his sleeves.

"You know, Sherlock, I could just go for the obvious places that are weakening for the biologically male population," Jim explained nonchalantly, lifting his foot up in the air as Sherlock struggled beneath him. "But I'm not going to."

He suddenly shifted forward, flipping upside down and kicking Sherlock in the face with the heel of his shoe, making him gasp and let out a soft whine in pain as his cheek immediately bruised and his skin broke and began to bleed. My heart thumping, I clenched my hands into stone as Jim hammered his fists at Sherlock's jaw, one blow hitting his eye and another impacting his lip, making him spit out blood after it caught on his tooth. Jim wouldn't stop.

So, making a split-second decision, I bounded forward, my feet digging into the loose soil as I guarded my face with my arms, ramming Jim in the ribcage and sending him flying off of Sherlock and over to Mary, who backed away as she saw the amount of blood that had escaped his nose.

I bent over Sherlock, not knowing how much blood came from him and how much was Moriarty's, but knowing I needed to stop it and clean it up if we were to get out of there without being noticed. I tried to bite my sleeve in attempt to rip it, but it didn't work, so I searched for something - anything - to help.

That's when Mary tossed me a torn half of her thin shawl, and I gave her a thankful smile, tending to Sherlock as she tended to Jim.

Sherlock inhaled sharply as I touched his cheek, and I tried my best to be gentle, rubbing the blood off as best I could as he winced in pain. His jaw was bruised along with his cheek, and he was just beginning to show signs of a black eye. His lip had torn a bit, and it was bleeding the most out of anything, so I pressed the fabric against that as he groaned in discomfort.

"Shhhh," I said, trying to stop the bleeding. "It's alright. Just another minute or so."

He began writhing under me as his adrenaline levels subsided and his pain began to fully emerge. "John," he whined, almost sobbed. "John, please." His hands gripped my wrists and tried to pull them away from his face, and I had to push them away with my foot in order to keep the pressure on the wound. Even through the fabric, even through the blood, his lips were soft velvet beneath my thumb. If the odds weren't against me, then perhaps they would one day press against mine.

"Stay still, Sherlock," I murmured, trying to calm him down. "It's alright. You'll be okay."

"My head hurts," he said, his voice a strained whisper. "My head hurts so bad..."

"You might have a concussion," I said. "Just wait a bit. If it still hurts by the time we leave, we can go to a doctor."

"We need to tell Mycroft to look out for Moriarty," Sherlock said, clenching his teeth together to distract him from the pain.

Jim, who was walking away with Mary now, holding her shawl against his bleeding nose, turned to us. "You can tell your brother to find me," he said. "You can tell the whole world to catch up with my footsteps. But you yourself will never catch me, Sherlock. You'll see in a few decades. Just you wait."

Sherlock, ignoring him, pointed to the other outdoor toilet. "Is Molly still sick?"

I nodded. "I saw her leave just as the chaos began." Slowly, I took the fabric off his lip, and he sighed for a moment before tensing up again.

"Oh, that's worse," he said. "God, that's worse."

I handed him the shawl. "Stop moving your mouth," I said soothingly. "You'll just open it back up again. Just stay calm and still."

"My head feels like fire," he breathed, pressing the fabric back to his mouth. "I need to go see a doctor. Please, John."

I nodded. "Of course," I said, taking his soft, strong hand and pulling him slowly to his feet. He furrowed his brow in pain, bringing his other hand to his forehead and vacillating a bit on his feet. I draped his arm over my shoulders, and we slowly walked to the street, getting in a cab and heading to the clinic.

"I'm sorry," I said, "For provoking this."

Sherlock spoke even though it hurt to. "It was worth it."

I chuckled softly, and we then both watched the streetlights speed by our windows as we waited to arrive at our destination. It was worth it. I was worth it. And that felt good.