Sherlock Fic: In the Nick of Time... ...Or Not?
A pair of drabbles for drabbles20in20. First for the category "heroic" and the second for the prompt "minute."
In the Nick of Time…
He turned off the doctor’s voice that started to describe the effects of blunt force trauma to the head… and the possibility of brain damage or death…
Instead he shouted in his best soldier’s voice to get the attention of the huge man with the club, and took aim. Threat neutralized. Garland hadn’t been a very nice man.
He pulled the blind-fold off the figure slumped in the chair, and began examining the battered head for serious injuries.
“John, I had everything under control! He was about to tell me who hired him!”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”
…Or Not?
He relaxed his neck. Garland was striking with angry imprecision, so even blind-folded it was simple enough to hear the trajectory of the blows, and increase impact time to avoid severe cranial injury while he waited for the inevitable gloating confession. Within fifteen minutes it would be captured on his well-hidden recording device, and he could plan his escape.
Suddenly-Shouting. Gunshots. The thud of a dead body hitting the floor.
Someone had removed the blind-fold and was gently feeling his skull.
“John, I had everything under control! He was about to tell me who hired him!”
“You’re welcome, Sherlock.”
In the Nick of Time…
He turned off the doctor’s voice that started to describe the effects of blunt force trauma to the head… and the possibility of brain damage or death…
Instead he shouted in his best soldier’s voice to get the attention of the huge man with the club, and took aim. Threat neutralized. Garland hadn’t been a very nice man.
He pulled the blind-fold off the figure slumped in the chair, and began examining the battered head for serious injuries.
“John, I had everything under control! He was about to tell me who hired him!”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome, Sherlock.”
…Or Not?
He relaxed his neck. Garland was striking with angry imprecision, so even blind-folded it was simple enough to hear the trajectory of the blows, and increase impact time to avoid severe cranial injury while he waited for the inevitable gloating confession. Within fifteen minutes it would be captured on his well-hidden recording device, and he could plan his escape.
Suddenly-Shouting. Gunshots. The thud of a dead body hitting the floor.
Someone had removed the blind-fold and was gently feeling his skull.
“John, I had everything under control! He was about to tell me who hired him!”
“You’re welcome, Sherlock.”