Rating: K for mild language, some violence.

A/N: The idea popped into my head while watching season 2. Sherlock deserves to get punched far more often than he is.

Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. Batman, Ironman, Superman, and Wolverine don't belong to me either. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.

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One time John punched Sherlock was because of a bet.

It had started like most bets do, a combination of boredom, speculation, and competition.

"Batman would totally beat Iron Man in a fight! He's much smarter, for one thing," said Anderson with authority as he sipped his coffee.

"Really. A man who's pathetic excuse of a disguise is only slightly better that Superman's, and he reveals his true identity to every pretty thing with boobs besides," Donovan sniped back, unpacking her lunch.

"Iron Man gave his bloody address over live TV and taunted a terrorist to blow it up!" Anderson retorted, setting down his cup with a slight clink.

"At least he owned it, instead of slinking in the shadows like a coward!" Donovan was getting rather frothed up, crumbs from her sandwich spewing everywhere.

Thankfully, Lestrade made an appearance at this juncture.

"Seriously, people!" he exclaimed, and everyone in the room had the good grace to look ashamed.

"Wolverine would beat them both any day," he smirked, watching their faces. After a moment of awkward faces and stifled laughter, the discussion resumed.

"Seriously, though. Telling your address to your enemy and telling him the front door's unlocked? No one is that stupid in real life," Anderson muttered, contemplating his cooling coffee.

"Sherlock is," Lestrade supplied blithely, narrowly avoiding the spray of coffee Anderson expelled in shock. "Of course, it just proves your point—he is his own special brand of idiot."

The two officers looked at him incredulously.

"What? It's on his website. John's forever whining about how Sherlock always steals his phone for texts, because a criminal might recognize Sherlock's number," Lestrade defended himself against the stares.

"He posted his number too? Jesus. Advertising his freakiness for all the other freaks," Donovan looked astounded. "It's nothing short of a miracle that Baker Street isn't a pile of rubble. How Mrs. Hudson puts up with him, I'll never know. And frankly, I don't want to."

"True enough," Lestrade replied, pulling his pizza from the microwave.

"Now there's a thought," Anderson murmured to himself.

"Hmmm?" Donovan asked through a mouthful of chips.

"Mrs. Hudson vs Sherlock. Who'd win?" he supplied.

"Mrs. Hudson" was the emphatic, unanimous, reply. Several other officers had entered the lunch room and were eagerly listening in on the conversation.

"Sherlock threw a man out a bloody window because he laid a finger on Mrs. Hudson. And she's the only person I know that cannot only hug the sociopath without him freaking out, but he hugs her voluntarily. Make no mistake, Sherlock is wrapped around Mrs. Hudson's little finger. He'd no more hurt her than kiss his prig of a brother," Lestrade explained. "Besides, it takes one hell of a woman to put up with half the nonsense Sherlock puts her through on a daily basis."

"Ok," Anderson countered, "How about Sherlock vs. John?"

Silence. Then the room broke into two very vocal sides and the arguing ensued.

"John has a George Cross, for chrissakes, he didn't get that by sitting on the sidelines!"

"Sherlock has a bloody black belt, he got it before he went to uni at a ridiculously young age!"

"Bet you 20 quid you're wrong about that medal, and even so, Sherlock could totally beat John to a pulp."

"I'll take you up on that."

"I saw John shoot three perfect headshots in less than thirty seconds on the training lot. While he was running."

"Exactly! John would kick Sherlock's…."

"Nonsense! I've seen Sherlock take out thugs three times his size, while high on who knows what sorts of drugs. And I've seen him come out of 4:1 odds with nothing more than a black eye, and the other blokes had to be hospitalized!"

"50 quid!"

The bickering would have gone on for quite some time, if the two people in question had not burst unexpectedly into the room.

They had obviously been fighting, both faces flushed as they pointedly refused to look at each other. Lestrade had never seen John angry before, and frankly, never wanted to see him angry again. Sherlock was all thunder and lighting and dramatics. Nothing new there, just more of the same. John, on the other hand, was ice with a fiery core, boiling emotions kept barely kept in check by a cool veneer of military training. Usually, John was like a little hearth flame, all cozy and comforting. Now, he was more like a volcano about to blow, practically trembling with repressed rage. Lestrade (and everyone else in the room) took an unconscious step backwards, feeling like trapped mice facing a pair of ravenous lions. He wasn't completely sure that he'd much rather face the lions.

"I'm glad to see Inspector, that you are so thoroughly investigating that important case that required my immediate attention," Sherlock spat, glaring at everyone in the room. "Wasting your precious few brain cells on this particular topic is quite a spectacular waste of your time. I would win, of course, due to my superior brainpower and stature, as well as my ability to keep my emotions in check, unlike certain people. Pass over the 50 quid, Anderson, and may it teach you not to…"

Sherlock found himself quite unable to complete his dressing-down, as the volcano that was John exploded. John's heel smashed down on the top of Sherlock's foot, causing him to double over, into the waiting fist that slammed into his diaphragm. A well-placed swipe to the back of the knees caused him to topple over, and John used the momentum to neatly flip Sherlock over his shoulder and onto the lunchroom table, spilling food and scattering dishes everywhere. The entire 'fight' was over in a matter of seconds.

Dead silence for the third time in as many minutes.

All that could be heard was Sherlock gasping for breath and John's angry hiss, one arm pinning him to the table, the other poised to punch his face.

"You forgot again, Sherlock, I was a soldier. I killed people on bad days. And you have made my day spectacularly bad."

John held Sherlock for a moment more, glowering sparks, before roughly releasing him, causing the gangly detective to roll off the table and onto the floor. As Sherlock sputtered out an apology, the army doctor held out his hand imperiously.

"I believe you said 50 quid?"