There's a Game of Foot
sooooo I wrote this during the World Cup, but never finished.
Until now.
(It's not the best, but here you go)
IN THIS FIC, WATSON’S LEG IS UNINJURED
I shouldn’t have been surprised when Holmes came looking for me after I hadn’t returned to our rooms one Tuesday afternoon. James Matear, an old acquaintance, had appeared at my surgery as I was closing with something akin to boyish joy on his face.
“I heard you were around here, John!” he clapped me on the shoulder, and I saw his eyes unfocus before doing so, trying to remember which shoulder was not to be jostled. Then his eyes cleared, and patted my good shoulder, “I’ve been able to track down about thirty other of the old boys, and we’ve been wanting to put together a football game. Are you good for it, John?” It only took a moment to decide, Holmes had been working on a case, and being underfoot was all I seemed capable of at the moment .
Four hours later I found myself lapsing back into my university days, feeling so much younger. I had to run slightly awkwardly, holding my arm clenched to my side, but it was more fun than I’d had in a long time. It was when we had called the end to our second game that I noticed Holmes glowering at me from a bench. I made my excuses, receiving some heart felt goodbyes and promises that we would not wait ten years before seeing each other again, before I went to join Holmes.
“You never told me you were a football authority, old boy.” He wasn’t even a little amused by the game he had seen played out.
“Lighten up, mother hen!” I laughed, feeling particularly giddy, “What’s brought you to the park?” Holmes didn’t answer my question, but glared at me. “I suppose you’ve never taken a liking to the sport?”
“Now why would you suppose that, Watson?” His tone was biting “What possessed you to…waste your day here?”
“It wasn’t a waste, Holmes. Some of these men I haven’t seen in years!” I was taken aback as his venom, I certainly hadn’t promised any of my time to Holmes that afternoon. “Did I miss an appointment?”
“Do I need an appointment, Watson?”
“Of course not Holmes,”
“You missed dinner.” the detective’s voice was deadpan, his face hidden by his hat.
“That can’t be all, old boy,”
“You didn’t answer my first question.”
“It’s obvious, Holmes, you don’t like people and you need to, at least, be amenable to your team mates.” Holmes removed his hat and met my eyes.
“I’m amenable to you.”
“Indeed you are,” said I, “we are a team. Would you like to learn?”
“Why would I clutter my brain with such a trifle?”
“Because you want to know why an injured soldier would risk his shoulder for a few hours of fun.”
Four hours more, Holmes and I volleyed the ball back an forth, and upon his face was the look of boyish joy James had possessed when he appeared to me.
Until now.
(It's not the best, but here you go)
IN THIS FIC, WATSON’S LEG IS UNINJURED
I shouldn’t have been surprised when Holmes came looking for me after I hadn’t returned to our rooms one Tuesday afternoon. James Matear, an old acquaintance, had appeared at my surgery as I was closing with something akin to boyish joy on his face.
“I heard you were around here, John!” he clapped me on the shoulder, and I saw his eyes unfocus before doing so, trying to remember which shoulder was not to be jostled. Then his eyes cleared, and patted my good shoulder, “I’ve been able to track down about thirty other of the old boys, and we’ve been wanting to put together a football game. Are you good for it, John?” It only took a moment to decide, Holmes had been working on a case, and being underfoot was all I seemed capable of at the moment .
Four hours later I found myself lapsing back into my university days, feeling so much younger. I had to run slightly awkwardly, holding my arm clenched to my side, but it was more fun than I’d had in a long time. It was when we had called the end to our second game that I noticed Holmes glowering at me from a bench. I made my excuses, receiving some heart felt goodbyes and promises that we would not wait ten years before seeing each other again, before I went to join Holmes.
“You never told me you were a football authority, old boy.” He wasn’t even a little amused by the game he had seen played out.
“Lighten up, mother hen!” I laughed, feeling particularly giddy, “What’s brought you to the park?” Holmes didn’t answer my question, but glared at me. “I suppose you’ve never taken a liking to the sport?”
“Now why would you suppose that, Watson?” His tone was biting “What possessed you to…waste your day here?”
“It wasn’t a waste, Holmes. Some of these men I haven’t seen in years!” I was taken aback as his venom, I certainly hadn’t promised any of my time to Holmes that afternoon. “Did I miss an appointment?”
“Do I need an appointment, Watson?”
“Of course not Holmes,”
“You missed dinner.” the detective’s voice was deadpan, his face hidden by his hat.
“That can’t be all, old boy,”
“You didn’t answer my first question.”
“It’s obvious, Holmes, you don’t like people and you need to, at least, be amenable to your team mates.” Holmes removed his hat and met my eyes.
“I’m amenable to you.”
“Indeed you are,” said I, “we are a team. Would you like to learn?”
“Why would I clutter my brain with such a trifle?”
“Because you want to know why an injured soldier would risk his shoulder for a few hours of fun.”
Four hours more, Holmes and I volleyed the ball back an forth, and upon his face was the look of boyish joy James had possessed when he appeared to me.