Sometimes He Has Bad Days
The word on London’s streets was quite clear on one point.
Sherlock Holmes was a B.A.M.F.
Sure, he was pretty, looked skinny as a rail and was quite the posh bastard with the accent and the Spencer Hart suits but still, said “pretty, skinny, well-dressed, posh bastard” was stronger than he looked and was quite perfectly capable of more than holding his own in a scrap.
And just like James Bond, it was a guarantee he’d be able to do it with nary a wrinkle on those pretty suits.
In contrast, a certain Dr. John H. Watson was short, had one of those classic pleasant English faces that betrayed an amiable and even temperament, wore wooly cable-knit jumpers that looked like Christmas presents from doting grandmas and generally just looked so harmless.
Pete figured that he ought to be an easy mark then. The thing was that Mr. Holmes made Pete’s Boss Very Unhappy by poking his posh nose into business that weren’t his own. Pete’s Boss had decided that Mr. Holmes ought to be sent a Clear Message that persisting in this line of work wasn’t very profitable. Especially for Mr. Holmes’ friends. Now that nice landlady of theirs might have been a target but Pete’s Boss muttered something in Italian about infamita and yeah, Pete didn’t feel too good about messing with a little old lady about his Mum’s age.
So the doctor it was and Pete had been tailing the man ever since he stepped out of 221B Baker Street and made his way to Tesco’s. He liked his plans clean and simple. It would be a quick snatch and grab, rough him up in a nice, deserted alleyway near Tesco’s that Pete had already scoped out a couple of days earlier. He didn’t want to kill the man - just hurt him badly enough so that Mr. Posh Nosey Parker Sherlock Holmes would get the gist of how things were meant to be.
So he waited until the doctor bought whatever it was he wanted at Tesco’s (tea, milk and honey apparently, judging from the lovely, sticky mess it later made on the ground….) and nabbed him.
Only Pete somehow ended up flat on the ground, his face mashed into the tea-milk-honey combo that was the doctor’s shopping, his shoulder dislocated, his head ringing, his stomach groaning and prompting him to throw up the remains of his breakfast today and every remaining nerve in his body screaming in pain.
Later, he’ll have a chance to remember in excruciating detail how a man who was a good 6 inches shorter and should have been a few stone lighter than he was moved like fucking lightning and managed to quickly take him down with a few, efficient and painful blows. Fucking doctor was actually a fucking wolf in a wooly jumper. Doctor, hell- Pete would bet anything the tough little bastard was SAS at the very least.
“I’ll reset your shoulder,” said Dr. Watson quietly. “And we’re going to sit here and wait for the police to arrive and you will not try anything else or next time I will break both your arms. Is that understood?”
Pete was quite familiar with the tone known as Do Not Fuck With Me and nodded helplessly, trying not to throw up all over again once the doctor reset his shoulder. He did, however, scream very loudly.
Later, the police came and there was the expected fuss and Pete, sitting on a gurney being looked at by a paramedic before he’d be taken away in cuffs had a front row seat to the show that was about to begin. Because, of course, Sherlock Holmes himself appeared and looked positively gleeful as he crowed something about finally cottoning on to what Pete’s Boss was up to and that the case was solved and that he’d been expecting Pete’s Boss to send somebody after the good doctor and damn, that was just a complete toss-up, wasn’t it?
“Sherlock,” Dr. Watson said, still in that same quiet tone. “We’re out of milk and tea. And the honey.”
Holmes blinked. “You can always get more later -” He paused and tilted his head, considering him. “A bit not good, then?”
“More than that, Sherlock,” said Dr. Watson. “I’m really having a bad day right now. Which happens when one wakes up to find that all the tea and milk in the flat was thrown away by certain fucking idiots who needed to use perfectly serviceable kitchen items to hold unmentionable bodily fluids.”
“Oh.” Holmes paused.
“Milk. Tea. Honey, Sherlock. Tesco’s. Now.”
Evidently, Sherlock also recognized the Do Not Fuck With Me tone and with surprising mildness, nodded briefly and went to buy said grocery items.
The word on London’s streets was quite clear from then on.
Sherlock Holmes was a B.A.M.F.
Dr. John H. Watson was a B.A.M.F. in a Fuzzy Wooly Jumper.
Note: Yeah, BAMF!John is like my OTL for this fandom. God I love that man. XD
Picture Source: BBC Sherlock wikia