This week, I’m going to share a bit of BAMF!John from a fic I’m working on
Boots scraping on loose gravel, John drops the Sig against the back of the man’s head, making him freeze, hand still stretched toward the door. He is wearing a uniform identical to the stolen clothes on John’s back, and the rifle slung across his chest is a match to the one left behind in the truck.
When he speaks, John’s voice is low and dangerous. “Don’t.” Language barrier or no, the man gets the message. His hand slowly drops. John grabs the collar of his jacket, pulling him away from the door as he backs away from the truck, bringing the man with him. The stranger’s feet tangle, forcing John to haul him along until he finds his balance again.
A safe distance from the vehicle, John pushes on the man’s shoulder. A head taller than John, he remains standing, posture stiff-backed and rigid.
“Kneel.” John shoves, and the man makes a noise but doesn’t comply. “I said kneel, dammit.” Slamming a boot into the back of the man’s knee, driving a cry from his lips, John digs his fingers into muscle and forces him to the ground. With the man on his knees in front of him, John rips off his hat and grabs a handful of dark hair. Wrenches the man’s head back until the setting sun illuminates his wide eyes, locked on John’s face. “Are you alone?” The man’s mouth stays closed, and John waits.
Silence is his only answer.
Tongue flicking out to wet his lips, John leans down. Shifting the gun, pressing it to the man’s cheek, he offers a hard, ugly smile. “I’ll ask you one more time. If you don’t answer, you can eat a bullet.” The smile widens a little, and the man goes pale. “It won’t kill you, but it will hurt. A lot. So, I ask again: are you alone?”
Eyes flickering from the gun against his cheek to John’s face, the man nods. John squints, features hardening. Behind him, a voice says, “He’s lying.”
Shooting a look over his shoulder, John sees Sherlock leaning out of the open passenger-side door. His face is composed. Only the strange glitter of his eyes in the falling darkness gives away any sign of emotion as he watches John intimidate a man into the snow.
The man seizes on the distraction, lunging forward awkwardly, trying to make it to his feet.
John kicks out, heavy boot catching him in the spine and slamming the man onto his front. He grunts and tries to rise, but John plants a foot on his neck and presses until the man freezes, falling still. In the following quiet, John hears the crunch of snow beneath boots. He looks at Sherlock. Their eyes meet, and Sherlock’s breath emerges in a pale cloud.
“Get in the truck,” John orders. “Lay down and don’t move.” The voice he hears is that of the soldier, not the flatmate. Not the bumbling sidekick, or Sherlock Holmes’ ‘confirmed bachelor’ partner in crime-solving. This John Watson standing over a man, neck pinned to dirty snow with a planted boot, was born in the deserts of Afghanistan.
The man lets out a low, choked sound, and Sherlock ducks into the vehicle, closing the door behind him. He ducks out of sight, following orders without question for once in his life. Glancing over his shoulder, John bends and wraps an arm around the torso of the man on the ground.
“Move!” He hauls the man with him, fear turning the stranger’s limbs stiff, John dragging him toward the truck and underneath. Pinning him under his body, John wrestles with the knife in his belt, setting it over the man’s right eye, gun held out toward the sound of approaching feet. Grateful for the falling darkness, John bends his head to whisper in the man’s ear.
“If you scream, you’re dead.” He twitches the knife against the skin beneath the blade, feels blood trickle against his bare hand and wishes he hadn’t taken his gloves off.
Two pairs of legs move into view. John presses down, pushing the man into the snow with a muffled gasp. Digging the toe of his boot into the stranger’s hamstring, hissing a warning, he watches the men circle the truck. As he tracks their movement, he notes that the back tires have been slashed and resists the urge to press the blade harder into the man’s face.
The approaching men pause. Speak to one another and split up, one moving along the left side of the truck, the other going right. John’s exhale crystallizes in front of his face, and he clamps his mouth shut, holding his breath.
