Two weeks after his breakup with Sarah, John found himself on the rooftop of a building in central London. He was attempting to sneak up on a sniper. Sherlock had agreed to solve the kidnapping of the Austrian Chancellor’s niece. One thing led to another, and now an assassin had his rifle trained on a limousine that he thought contained the Austrian Chancellor.
Sherlock, with his flair for the dramatic, had jumped at the chance to play decoy, while John was tasked with the less enviable duty of keeping the sodding decoy from being killed.
He crept across the asphalt roof. The sniper looked up from his scope and scanned the horizon. The opportunity for surprise was lost. John launched himself at his adversary and tackled him. They rolled across the roof, one over the other. The tripod that held the rifle tumbled to the ground in the melee.
John was on top. He scrabbled for the man’s arms, trying to pin him, but the sniper got a hand free. He struck a lucky hit on John’s chin. He saw stars for a fraction of a second, which was all the man needed to free up his knife. John used his forearm to deflect the first stab. The sniper couldn’t get a good angle from his current position.
John grabbed the knife arm with both his hands and beat it against the ground. He ducked his head close the enemy’s chest in an effort to lessen the force of the punches landing on his unprotected face. After a bone-cracking slam against the asphalt, the sniper dropped the knife. John reached for it. The enemy used the opportunity to overbalance him. He aimed a kick at the sniper and crawled for the knife, but it was too far out of reach. The man was on him, and John forgot about the weapon.
Now, he was at a profound disadvantage. The enemy straddled him and aimed punch after punch at his face. The only thing that saved John was his enemy’s inexperience at fist-fighting. He didn’t know how to put proper power behind his blows. John aimed a savage left hook at the man’s windpipe, and wiggled out from under him while he was gasping. The sniper lurched to his feet and staggered in the direction of the rifle. John dove for it, smashing his hand against in the tripod and splitting his knuckles to the bone.
The sniper crashed into him from behind. John used the momentum to try to push the tripod over the edge of the roof. It wasn’t enough. The man lunged for the rifle. John had a moment of choice. For an instant, he could see the consequences of his decision flash by. He could dodge out of the way, which would enable the assassin to recover the rifle. He had ample time to shoot John in the head and set up the shot again in time to take out Sherlock. Or John could allow himself to pushed over the edge, taking the rifle with him. He would die, but Sherlock would live.
He threw himself over the edge, shoving the rifle away with all his strength. At the last possible second, John grabbed the sniper, dragging the man over with him. Together they tumbled, but for only a short time. They’d managed to land on a three-foot wide ledge only one floor down. The assassin hadn’t fared as well as John. The top half of his body was on the ledge, while the bottom half dangled. John scrambled into a sitting position and kicked the sniper in the face over and over, driving him back with the force of his kicks until finally, his hands lost their precarious hold and he slid off the edge.
John leaned against the building, gasping. His ribs, which he hadn’t noticed before, were in agony. His face felt battered. His hand hurt. He stared dully into the distance. He was in too much pain to move. After a minute, which felt like an eon, he mustered the energy to look down at the street. The sniper’s corpse lay crumpled on the pavement. A crowd of onlookers filmed him with their phones while a pair of good Samaritans crouched over him. The rifle was a gleam of metal on the street.
He eased himself down again. Sherlock was safe. He could collapse now.
Fill: No Refuge from Memory: 2a/?
Two weeks after his breakup with Sarah, John found himself on the rooftop of a building in central London. He was attempting to sneak up on a sniper. Sherlock had agreed to solve the kidnapping of the Austrian Chancellor’s niece. One thing led to another, and now an assassin had his rifle trained on a limousine that he thought contained the Austrian Chancellor.
Sherlock, with his flair for the dramatic, had jumped at the chance to play decoy, while John was tasked with the less enviable duty of keeping the sodding decoy from being killed.
He crept across the asphalt roof. The sniper looked up from his scope and scanned the horizon. The opportunity for surprise was lost. John launched himself at his adversary and tackled him. They rolled across the roof, one over the other. The tripod that held the rifle tumbled to the ground in the melee.
John was on top. He scrabbled for the man’s arms, trying to pin him, but the sniper got a hand free. He struck a lucky hit on John’s chin. He saw stars for a fraction of a second, which was all the man needed to free up his knife. John used his forearm to deflect the first stab. The sniper couldn’t get a good angle from his current position.
John grabbed the knife arm with both his hands and beat it against the ground. He ducked his head close the enemy’s chest in an effort to lessen the force of the punches landing on his unprotected face. After a bone-cracking slam against the asphalt, the sniper dropped the knife. John reached for it. The enemy used the opportunity to overbalance him. He aimed a kick at the sniper and crawled for the knife, but it was too far out of reach. The man was on him, and John forgot about the weapon.
Now, he was at a profound disadvantage. The enemy straddled him and aimed punch after punch at his face. The only thing that saved John was his enemy’s inexperience at fist-fighting. He didn’t know how to put proper power behind his blows. John aimed a savage left hook at the man’s windpipe, and wiggled out from under him while he was gasping. The sniper lurched to his feet and staggered in the direction of the rifle. John dove for it, smashing his hand against in the tripod and splitting his knuckles to the bone.
The sniper crashed into him from behind. John used the momentum to try to push the tripod over the edge of the roof. It wasn’t enough. The man lunged for the rifle. John had a moment of choice. For an instant, he could see the consequences of his decision flash by. He could dodge out of the way, which would enable the assassin to recover the rifle. He had ample time to shoot John in the head and set up the shot again in time to take out Sherlock. Or John could allow himself to pushed over the edge, taking the rifle with him. He would die, but Sherlock would live.
He threw himself over the edge, shoving the rifle away with all his strength. At the last possible second, John grabbed the sniper, dragging the man over with him. Together they tumbled, but for only a short time. They’d managed to land on a three-foot wide ledge only one floor down. The assassin hadn’t fared as well as John. The top half of his body was on the ledge, while the bottom half dangled. John scrambled into a sitting position and kicked the sniper in the face over and over, driving him back with the force of his kicks until finally, his hands lost their precarious hold and he slid off the edge.
John leaned against the building, gasping. His ribs, which he hadn’t noticed before, were in agony. His face felt battered. His hand hurt. He stared dully into the distance. He was in too much pain to move. After a minute, which felt like an eon, he mustered the energy to look down at the street. The sniper’s corpse lay crumpled on the pavement. A crowd of onlookers filmed him with their phones while a pair of good Samaritans crouched over him. The rifle was a gleam of metal on the street.
He eased himself down again. Sherlock was safe. He could collapse now.