New Fic: A Study in Winning 3/10
Title: A Study in Winning
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 9K this part. 100K+ total
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: None for Season 2.
Previous parts: One Two
*
A Study in Winning
Part Three
*
Day four brought with it rain, about forty minutes of pale sunshine, and then more rain. Unsurprisingly very little tennis was played for much of the afternoon with the exception of Centre Court where under the roof some of the best players in the world underwent their challenges.
John contented himself with the players and members area, switching between looking at the big screen, watching the rain and talking with some of the other players that he knew. Sherlock wasn’t there of course, but he received various texts throughout the day from the Frenchman, most on the theme of BORED or VERY BORED. He smiled when he read each and offered responses, but it was clear they would not be meeting up that day.
He spent some time chatting to Sarah, who had had her doubles match postponed, and since he had no other plans that evening agreed to join her and her doubles partner for dinner back at the Dorchester.
The rain cleared by mid-afternoon and he stood on the balcony and watched as Sarah and her partner finally got to play. They worked well together, something he was quite glad about.
He was momentarily interrupted by the officials asking for a urine and blood sample as part of their random drugs testing. After that he returned to his hotel room and tried to relax. Grabbing his laptop he spent time updating his blog, sometimes answering some of the comments, deleting a couple of rude ones from his sister. On a whim he took the opportunity to read up on Sherlock Holmes, eyes widening as he tried to reconcile the public persona with the man he had been getting to know. It was interesting none the less.
Dinner was pleasant and he was once again glad that he and Sarah had managed to part on good terms. Sherlock was only mentioned briefly and only in passing. The man himself was not seen at all.
It took a while for him to fall asleep, but he drifted off in the end and awoke to a somewhat drier, somewhat more action packed day.
*
“Welcome back to a hopefully drier day at Wimbledon. Clear blue skies and temperatures of nineteen degrees mean we should have a long and eventful day of tennis. As play resumes across the other courts we’ll be looking forward to what we can expect from Centre Court and Court Number One which will include play from Novak Djokovic, Andy Roddick, Serena Williams, Sherlock Holmes, Caroline Wozniacki and British hopeful Andy Murray. While our other men’s single player still in, John Watson, takes on his former training partner D.I. Dimmock on Court Number Four later this afternoon. Stay tuned because we have a lot for you.”
The bad weather the previous day had pushed his match back, something that only helped to make him feel that bit worse. It had been such a long time since he had reached the third round of any competition and here he was, about to face down one of his oldest and once closest friends, where the prize was to reach the second week of Wimbledon.
The second week of Wimbledon? Christ! No, he could do this. He knew Dimmock’s style, his strengths, his weaknesses. All he had to do was to keep his body together, keep his serve strong and fight, fight for every point.
*
He ached, he ached all over, but it was almost a pleasant kind of ache. Oh yes, a pleasant type indeed.
Closing his eyes he relaxed into the comfortable heat of the steam room, welcoming the pleasant relaxing stretch of his muscles as he laid face down resting on his folded arms.
*
“And warming up on Court Number Four now is former British number one, John Watson, who has already gone further in this competition than anyone could have possibly expected. Can he win for a third time this week? His opponent is none other than his friend and former training partner, D.I. Dimmock, who has already seen off a seed to reach this far.”
*
The heat was seeping through his muscles and bones, making him almost drowsy.
*
“And it looks like Watson has come out fighting. He is really attacking that ball. Long forehand from Dimmock, returned crosscourt by Watson who is moving forward, and yes, brilliant forehand volley from Watson following Dimmock’s backhand. Dimmock really had no chance of getting that.”
*
He should probably get Mike to check out his shoulder again. It had starting to feel a little off again towards the end of the match. Hopefully it wouldn’t be anything serious, although there was the chance he would feel the strain in his leg tomorrow.
*
“Watson is dominating. Who would have expected that?”
“Oh absolutely, such a change from his usual play, but he really is taking it to the Canadian. Dimmock to serve and he really is the one on the back foot here. Oh and another excellent return from Watson. Backhand from Dimmock, returned by Watson, Dimmock trying to drive the ball deeper, but Watson is right there, and an excellent backhand from Watson which Dimmock can only get half a racket to and Watson’s taking the point. Fifteen, Forty, Watson is really forcing Dimmock to move now, literally bashing him around the court.”
“Dimmock looks like he’s really starting to feel it. Did you see how he stared at his racket after that last ball?”
“Like a man searching for answers where there aren’t any. Nice serve by Dimmock, forehand return, Dimmock trying everything now. Watson matching him stroke for stroke. Backhand from Dimmock and…oh yes, an almost cheeky little drop shot there from Watson who takes the point and has just broken Dimmock’s serve.”
“That really was some clever play by Watson, you can see it on Dimmock’s face.”
*
Maybe he should get a massage. That might help to loosen him up a bit more. Or he could just continue to lie here, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
*
“And Watson has done it. Whoever would have guessed before this match started? 7-5, 6-3, 6-3, Watson is through to the fourth round of a major tournament for the first time in how long?”
“Over five years at least.”
“For the first time in over five years. And he certainly looks happy about it. There will be celebrations tonight.”
*
“It was a lot closer than it looked,” he said prying open his eyes when Dimmock came to join him on the neighbouring table. “An inch here or there and it could have been a whole different story.”
Dimmock snorted, stretching out on his back to stare up at the ceiling. “You’re a horrible liar, Watson,” Dimmock said. “I know when I’ve been beaten and today you trampled over me like a man possessed. I haven’t seen you play with that amount of passion and aggression for years, not since well before, you know.”
His accident. Yes, he knew.
He turned his head away to the other side.
“So, what’s bitten you, mate?” Dimmock asked.
John wasn’t sure he wanted to think about that answer and Dimmock definitely didn’t want to hear about the mouth of a certain Frenchman. So he just shrugged and then shook out his shoulders. “Oh you know,” he said vaguely before carefully turning onto his back. “Last tournament and all that, guess I’m throwing everything at it.”
“Well just make sure not to throw your shoulder out,” Dimmock warned. “You’ve got Trevor in the next round.”
John grunted. “You heard the results of any of the other matches?” he asked.
“Djokovic’s just taken down Albert Montañés. Roddick’s one set all with Philipp Kohlschreiber. Murray’s through.”
“Sh-Holmes?” he asked.
“Just warming up.
Right. Smiling slightly he closed his eyes and wondered how long it would take Sherlock to take down another player.
*
The press swarmed like flies the moment he stepped out of the dressing rooms, voices overlapping with questions like, “How do you feel?”, “How do you rate your chances?”, “What was it like beating your old practice partner?” merging with the click and flash of the cameras.
He held his hands up to his face to shield his eyes and was guided through the throng to a table he could at least half hide behind.
The press conference was only the start of it though. Once he got through that he was pulled into interview after interview, first with the BBC and then with a handful of other TV networks suddenly interested in the wild card entry who had somehow managed to make it through to the second week of the most famous tennis tournament in the world. He tried to keep each one brief until he was finally told by a pretty dark haired young lady that there was just one more and to follow her. Still very much going with the flow he did so, attempting some small talk as she showed him to a small private room. Of course he was rebuffed, but at least she offered a polite smile as she did so. Well, he thought with his own small smile as she held the door open for him, you couldn’t win them all.
“Ah, please do come in and take a seat, John.”
The room was small but pleasant looking, with a large window at one end that overlooked some of the higher numbered courts. It was by this window that a man in a suit stood looking out, the handle of his umbrella curved over his arm.
“I must congratulate you on your most recent victory. It vos quite the spectacle. You must be positively delighted,” the man said turning to face him. He appeared to be wearing a smart, tailored three piece suit, finely cut with a handkerchief in his breast pocket. He looked like the epitome of an English gentleman, although his accent said differently, a slight hint of Central Europe about it. Not German but perhaps Czech.
“Thank you,” he said glancing around but could not see any cameras or recording equipment. “Sorry,” he said, “but where did you say you were from? Which, uh, paper, magazine?”
The man gave a very small half smile. “I don’t believe I said,” he replied crossing over to where two comfortable looking seats stood facing each other. He sat down, carefully leaning his umbrella against the chair’s side and motioning to the other chair. “Do sit, John, you must be tired.”
Still wondering if he was missing something, John sat.
The man nodded in approval. “You could say I’m an independent,” the man said.
“Oh, right.”
“And I have been following your progress vith quite some interest. It has been quite… fascinating.”
John flashed a smile. “Thank you.”
“Tell me though, John, how vould you currently describe your relationship vith Sherlock Holmes?”
He gaped. “I’m sorry?” he managed not sure he had heard correctly.
The man chuckled. “No need to be coy,” he said, “it vos a simple question. Sherlock Holmes, how vould you describe your connection to him?”
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!
He tightened his hand into a fist and tried to control his rising panic. It was a simple question after all, probably really innocent. They had probably just been spotted together practicing or something. This man was no doubt just digging. Nothing to it. Nothing at all.
“I don’t have one,” he said as casually as he could, keeping both his gaze and his voice level. “I barely know him. I met him… Sunday.”
All true, well mainly, or at least all that this man was going to be told. Freelance journalist or not, he wasn’t going to find out anything that could be sold.
“Mmm,” the man said, “and since Sunday you’ve trained vith him, dined vith him, and engaged in sexual relations vith him… twice.”
What the hell? How? How did this man know this?
“Might ve expect a happy announcement by the end of the tournament?”
Shit, shit, holy fucking shit!
He rose to his feet hand still clenched. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know who you are or how you think you know this, but whatever your game is this interview is over. I’m leaving and if I see just one word of this in print or anywhere else, then I’ll sue. You got that?”
“Sit down, Mr Vatson,” the man said. “I have no desire for this information to go public. That vould not be in either of our best interests I assure you. But valking out of that door now vould also not be in yours.”
He hesitated by the door, staring at the handle that his hand was gripping. Taking a deep couple of breathes he finally turned back around. He knew that leaving would be the most sensible cause of action, but the voice, the man, this whole set up - how had he gotten this room? - they all stopped him.
“Who are you?” he asked with a frown.
“A fan,” the man said after a moment of consideration.
“A fan?” His frown deepened. This man certainly didn’t look like the type and certainly not the sort to be interested in a tennis nobody like him. Oh, of course. He tipped his head slightly. “A Sherlock Holmes fan,” he said.
“Indeed,” the man confirmed. “In fact if you vere to ask him he’d probably say his biggest fan.”
“You mean stalker,” John said. Brilliant, he was talking to an absolute nutcase.
“I like to think of myself in less… derogatory terms,” the man said. “Do you plan to continue your association vith Sherlock Holmes?”
“I could be wrong…” he said slowly, “but I think that’s none of your business.”
“It could be.”
“It really couldn’t. Now excuse me.”
“I am not concerned vith your private actions, Mr Vatson, but I am by his tennis. Sherlock Holmes does not need a distraction and I fear, John, that you are a distraction.”
Shit. Shit. Shit!
“Are you threatening me?”
The man chuckled. “Not at all. But should you cease your contact vith Sherlock Holmes I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not a vealthy man.”
That was true, but that wasn’t really the question he had been asking.
“Is this… blackmail?” he said.
The man laughed. “Oh no, nothing so sordid. A business transaction, that is all. I imagine that people have already varned you to stay away from him. I am merely villing to make zat more zan vorth your vhile.”
“No.”
The man’s head tilted to the side in obvious surprise. He didn’t blame him, hell he was surprised. Not surprised by his response - blackmail, bribe, business transaction, didn’t matter, he wasn’t interested - but surprised by the little thought he had given it before responding in the absolute definite. He simply wasn’t interested.
His hand tightened back into a fist.
“Interesting,” the man said slowly. “Most very interesting.”
“Are we done?” he snapped, “because I really have better things to do than listen to you.”
“Oh, no doubt,” the man said, “but it is remarkable none the less.”
He pursed his lips together. “What is?” he forced out.
“Most people… are under the impression that you lack the necessary passion, the drive to truly take on this game. Vhen Sherlock Holmes plays, it is easy to see that fervour, the battlefield of the court. You’ve seen that in him, haven’t you? The vay he fights for every point.”
“What are you saying?”
“I see that in you now. Your fist, your shoulders, the vay you’ve clenched your jaw. Fight or flight, Mr Vatson… you’re standing your ground. The posture of a vinner.”
The man smiled.
“Velcome back.”
It was a smile hard to determine, not one of pleasure or delight, not exactly mocking or derisive, nor of satisfaction or contentment, yet the ends of his lips were raised and John felt himself being considered far more closely than he would have liked.
Opening the door he walked out. The noise and bustle struck him immediately, washing over him in an almost overwhelming manner after the quiet stillness of the last room.
Christ!
He ran his hands over his face. What the hell had that been all about? What the fucking hell was going on?
He could feel himself shaking, the come down after an intense encounter, like the crash after a match once the adrenaline had worn off. Fucking, sodding, fucking hell, he needed a drink, and he needed to get out of here, fast, but first a drink.
He made it to the players and members area and searched for something, anything that wasn’t bloody Pimms.
The big screen was on.
Downing half his beer in one he collapsed onto a chair and looked up, bottle by his lips. Fucking hell it was showing Centre Court and of course Sherlock was the one playing. And he was winning. Of course he was winning. Had almost won in fact. Christ that man could hit a ball. His fan was right, it was like a battlefield and Sherlock was taking no prisoners.
He sat in silence as the last set was played out, Sherlock producing some breathtaking shots. Then finally there came the winner, a backhanded volley that sent the crowd cheering. Sherlock won - 7-6, 6-3, 6-4.
Christ he had to get out of here.
*
He took refuge in his hotel room having managed to avoid the press and bystanders in the process to do so. Despite the passage of time and the drink he was still a little unnerved, his epic win that afternoon pushed aside by his most recent encounter.
A fan? Fuck! Whoever that man had been he had been as creepy as hell. Was that what Sherlock had to put up with? If so it was no wonder he didn’t check into hotels under his real name and had a glorified babysitter. If Lestrade wasn’t at least part bodyguard then he should hang up his racket now. In fact, was that why Lestrade had appeared when he had been asking the girl in reception where Sherlock was staying? Had she alerted him or something?
Christ, this was a mess.
Grabbing his mobile he checked it and then checked his room phone. There was no contact from Sherlock. Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? The guy was probably still in the shower of having to face his own press. Or his stalker. Bloody hell he needed to be warned.
He quickly dialled Sherlock’s number. Unsurprisingly it went to answerphone.
“Sherlock, it’s John. Uh, congrats on your recent win. Look, I need to talk to you. It’s pretty urgent actually, and important. Call me when you get this.”
He hung up and stared at it, but it adamantly refused to ring.
Bugger it to hell. Christ he could do with another drink.
The knock on his door had him springing to his feet and yanking it open. It had to be Sherlock and he was ready to grab him and pull him in, but froze when he realised it wasn’t the lanky Frenchman. In fact the person in front of him wasn’t lanky, wasn’t French and was most decidedly not a man.
“Clara?”
“John.”
They ended up downstairs in one of the opulent lounging areas, sat opposite each other across a small round table. Clara wasn’t particularly different from the last time he had seen her, which had been about a year earlier following her rather vocal break up from his sister. Her hair was shorter, now cut elegantly to her jaw line and she was dressed in a nicely cut dark suit that brought out her hazel eyes.
“Harry’s not here,” he said once they established that he wasn’t interested in ordering any of the hotel’s Wimbledon themed cakes or drinking their no doubt excellent tea.
“Yes, I know,” she replied sitting back with her own cup of Earl Grey. “It wasn’t Harry that I wanted to see.”
He sighed. Yes, he had suspected as much. “You’re not still my agent are you?” he said, “because I was quite sure that when you and Harry split I got the toss as well.”
Clara smiled a little tightly. “Of course you didn’t,” she said, “that would have been highly unprofessional of me.”
So, arguably had been shagging his sister, but he didn’t raise that because in truth they had been good together. Well, at least until the arguing and Harry’s drinking of course.
“You didn’t return any of my phone calls,” he said, “or my emails come to think about it. You can see how a guy can get the wrong impression.”
She ground her lips together and put down her cup. “Fine, alright,” she said, “I haven’t exactly been in communication.”
He snorted. “Oh please, you dumped me.”
“Yes, alright,” she said, “but that was because of you and not because of Harry. Look John, I like you and all but I can’t promote a non-entity. A year ago you were nothing. Hell, a week ago you were nothing, but here you are existing again and I want to take full advantage of that before you disappear again.”
“Oh god, you’re here to make money.”
“And you’re here to play tennis. With my help we can do both, and god knows you could do with the money.”
Well that was true. Tennis didn’t pay for itself and there was only so long that the prize money he had managed to accumulate by reaching later stages of major competitions early in his career would last. In fact he was pretty much at the end of it. Really at the end of it. That was one of the reasons in truth that he was hanging up his rackets, because he simply couldn’t afford to play - and lose - anymore.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Oh nothing major right now,” she admitted, “but there are some prize giving I could get you. Minor sponsorship. Question of Sport.”
“You’ll have to cut your commission,” he said.
“Oh no,” she said firmly, “the fee is non-negotiable. Everyone pays ten percent.”
He eyed her suit. It was a very nice suit. Hand made it looked like, and her watch was nice, new too, expensive. You can tell a lot about a person from their hair, clothes, shoes and watch. Christ he was already starting to sound like Sherlock. But none the less, Clara did appear to be doing well for herself. She could afford to take less. She owed him.
“Five percent,” he said firmly. “Argue and my next offer will be four.”
He watched her hesitate, her eyes flickering over him, her lips twitching into a sort of smile.
“Five percent,” she said with a nod and held out her hand for him to shake. “You are a changed man, John Watson. You’ve toughened up. I think I like it.”
He smiled and shook her hand.
“Excellent,” she continued. “Now, first things first, Slazenger are this evening hosting a cocktail party. You’re going, don’t argue with me. They’re eager to meet you for the very first time… again. Anyone who is anyone will be there. Murray, Nadal, Djokovic, Holmes, Williams, both Williams in fact. Lovely girls. I’ll introduce you if you want, or I’m sure I can find you a pretty Russian if that’s more your style. Now don’t look at me like that. Your reputation is of your own making. Now go, change, for god sake shave and remind me why I stuck with your arse for all those years.”
Put like that he knew he really didn’t have much of a choice.
*
He didn’t have much choice regarding his clothing. He, he hadn’t exactly packed with formal functions in mind. At worse he had figured he would go out in the first round, at best he was a tennis player, he didn’t do dressing up.
He ended up in this smartest trousers and the shirt he had worn to Angelo’s having had the foresight at least to have put it through the hotel’s laundry service. He showered, shaved, tried to do something with his hair and on a whim splashed himself with some cologne he had in his wash bag. Looking in the mirror he had to admit that he looked… well, good enough. He was an impoverished tennis player after all, not a male model.
Christ, Sherlock was going to look stunning, wasn’t he?
He still hadn’t heard from Sherlock, but that had ceased to surprise him. His anxiety had lessened slightly with the passing time as the memory of just how creepy that stalker had been started to fade from his mind. He also figured that Sherlock already knew about the stalker, hence the security and secrecy. Lestrade and co would be able to deal with it. He doubted that anything would go to the press and anyway, no one would print it, and it would be their word against that weirdo.
No, no, it would be fine. He still needed to talk to Sherlock though. Hopefully more than just talk, but first things first.
He was pleasantly surprised to find that they had laid a car on for him, and it wasn’t too long before they were pulling up near the London Eye. It looked like quite the do with nice outfits and the silver lights. Blimey did he feel out of place. Oh look, there was Maria Sharapova again.
Steadying himself he then entered the throng.
He was far from being the most interesting person there, not when there were some of the top tennis players in the world beside him, but he found himself being acknowledged at least, a few nods from players, some polite comments from agents or sponsors. Get to the semis or even the quarters he was told, and he could get a deal with Robinsons. They were one of Wimbledon’s official sponsors after all. It could be his face across the squash bottles for a while, although he suspected that was only because he was British and Andy Murray would be far too expensive.
“John!”
Looking up he found Clara coming his way, glass of something in her hand.
“John, excellent, you’re here. Let me introduce you around.”
The next… well, far too long really, consisted of him being introduced to apparently important people, none of whom really interested him, but he smiled and nodded as was required. The only person he really wanted to see was… Christ, he was looking good.
Sherlock Holmes, it appeared, knew exactly how to dress for one of these. He was in an excellent cut dark suit, with a positively stunning dark purple shirt that brought out both his tan and his eyes. He looked like… well, yes… he looked like a model.
Of course Clara noticed where his attention had gone to and a few minutes later he was being introduced to Sherlock Holmes. That was when it all went a little strange. Sherlock was polite of course (and French accented), but he was also quick to excuse himself and move away.
“Yeah,” Clara said once Sherlock had disappeared into the crowd, “he’s always like that.”
It was, John realised, the first time he had really been treated to the Sherlock Holmes that everyone else seemed to go on about, the rude, abrupt Frenchman who had a habit of looking bored and not caring what people thought of him. It was a surprise to tell the truth, not that he had expected the most passionate of acknowledgements, but really.
With little else to do he made his way into one of the London Eye pods, taking a position near the far end, away from the door, staring out across the city. A few people spoke to him as the pod rose up, but few were really interested and it wasn’t long before he found himself alone, just him and the beautiful night view of London.
“Stunning, isn’t it?”
He almost jumped when he heard the familiar rich deep voice, no trace of the French accent.
“Oh god,” he said with a gasp, turning slightly to find Sherlock very close behind him. “Did you have to do that?”
The Frenchman quirked his lips, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“I got your message,” he said. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Oh, yes,” he said momentarily distracted by the way Sherlock’s collar was open.
“Just talk?” the Frenchman said in a voice that was far, far too seductive for the time and place. “I’m disappointed, John. Or is that what you Brits are calling it now?”
Oh god, he really needed to pull himself together. This was bordering on embarrassing and they were in public for goodness sake. He really should not be having fantasies about slowly unbuttoning that shirt and running his tongue across that gorgeous collar bone.
“Yes! No!” he managed before gritting his teeth together in an attempt to ground himself and his thoughts. “That too. Of course. Yes. Very much. But I need to talk to you about something else, someone else. It’s important, but not here. I’m….”
“Ah Sherlock,” an almost sing song voice said from behind them. “Bonsoir. Tu es un homme très difficile à contacter.”
They both turned, automatically moving away from each other as they came face to face with a well-dressed man in a suit that was unmistakably bespoke. He was also a very familiar face, although not someone John knew personally, although from the look on Sherlock’s face he did, and was not best pleased by that fact.
“Jim,” he said shortly, his expression oddly closed off. “Goood eeevning.”
Jim tutted at the French accented words. “Rien de cela, Sherlock," he said in fluent French. “Tu sais que je ne suis pas comme les autres.”
“Maybeee,” Sherlock replied obstinately in English, “but ma Englessh obviously needs more practice then your francais, and as they say, ‘si fueris Romae, Romano vitito more!’”
“As you wish,” Jim replied in a soft American accent tinged with a hint of Irish. “I left you my number,” he said a touch peevishly, “I hoped you would call.”
“Ah have been bizzy,” Sherlock said. “And we ave been playing on different days.”
“Yes, unfortunate that,” Jim said his eyes flickering across to where John was watching the exchange more closely than he perhaps should have been.
“Ah, how careless ov me,” Sherlock said. “Ah should introduce you. John Watsen, Jim Moriartaay. As ah am sure you are aware, Jim is currently ranked seckond in the world.”
“Pleasure,” John said with a small. “Although we’ve kind of met. I bumped into Mr Moriarty at the hotel before the tournament started, quite literally actually. Sorry about that.”
Jim nodded, his smile a little tight. “No, no, no apology necessary. There was no harm done. At least I wasn’t wearing the Westwood.”
His smile held a slight hint of something darker.
“John has just reached the, uh, fourth rooound,” Sherlock continued. “That is quite goood for an Engleeshman, no?”
“Oh, very good,” Jim said with obviously forced delight. “Oh,” he suddenly said eyes flickering between them. “So he’s the one who’s stolen your attention.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh to think I thought… no matter. My, my, Sherlock, you have been slipping. You’ve always had strange tastes in pets, but really.”
“Hey,” John said finally having had enough. This was the second time today his not quite relationship had been thrown in his face and he was getting quite sick of it. Not including the fact this Westwood suited, second in the world arsehole had nothing - nothing! - on the demented fan with the umbrella, and he had had enough.
“Listen, mate,” he said quietly but forcefully as he stepped forward. “I don’t know what you think is going on, but….”
“Whoa, whoa,” Moriarty said raising his arms to stop him from getting close enough to touch him and his suit, “having your little pet fight your battles for you now? Tut, tut, Sherlock, he’s like what, a hundred and thirty in the world. He must be one pretty good lay, because that’s all there is for you, isn’t there? The winning and the screwing. Everything else is….”
The sentence didn’t have a chance to be finished as all the pent up emotions - the anxiety, the anger, the confusion - finally came to a head and reaching back, John then punched his fist forward, his knuckles colliding forcefully with Moriarty’s jaw. Fight or flight, as fan man had so succinctly put it. But bugger it to hell, that hurt more than he had expected.
“John.”
He looked up to find Sherlock staring at him wide eyed.
“Yeah,” he said shaking his hand and trying not to wince.
“If you’ve quite recovered… run.”
They ran for it, pushing their way through the other people and out the pod just as it reached ground level. Cameras flashed around them but they didn’t stop, Sherlock leading them through the groups and out onto the road, John on his heels, a grin plastered on his face.
“Taxi!”
They piled into the first cab they could find, Sherlock snapping some address to the cabbie and then they were off, escaping the flashes of the media, leaning back in their seats and then laughing… and then kissing.
*
The kiss… snog… oh god, that tongue… only stopped when their mutual need to ravish each other’s mouth was overwhelmed first by their need to breathe and then by their need to laugh.
Breaking away, John sucked in a deep breath, his hand fisted in dark purple silk as Sherlock’s forehead rested against his shoulder, chest first heaving and then shaking as they both gave way to their mirth.
“Oh god,” he gasped, head tilting back and not caring in the least about how debauched and wild they must look to the cabbie. Oh hell, who would have ever thought that he would care so little about being seen snogging another man? What had Sherlock Holmes done to him that he would first deck a world famous tennis player in front of the national media and then escape in a cab only to then stick his tongue down another man’s throat?
While he had accepted his bisexuality years ago, neither the world of sport, not the press had always been as accepting or opened minded. Therefore it had always been easier and simpler to be publicly seen with a woman and he had done nothing to dispel the image others had assigned to him as being a ladies man. He was a ladies man, but one that also like men. Or at the moment, one man in particular.
“Are you okay?”
He felt the words as they were muffled into his shirt, Sherlock’s head still buried on his shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he managed between the giggles. “I’m fine.”
“That, er… thing that you… that you did… with your, um, fist… that was, um… good.”
At the word good Sherlock finally pushed away from him, collapsing back on his side of the cab, cheeks flushed, lips delightfully pink.
“Oh god, they all saw that, didn’t they?” he said closing his eyes and trying not to imagine what the headlines might be. Tennis brawl - British nobody punches world number two!
“Me, punching him. I’ll be the talk of the night.”
“Best thing that could happened. Made the whole event far more… interesting.”
“Did you see the look on his face though?”
He laughed as Sherlock mimicked the look of surprise that had crossed Moriarty’s face, the opened mouthed ‘O’ of pure shock.
“Oh god, he’s going to hate me now,” he said.
“Better than the alternative,” Sherlock said in an off handed manner, but in a way that suggested there was a lot he wasn’t saying.
“Calls you a lot, does he?” he asked.
“He is… persistent,” Sherlock said glancing away in a fashion that said he didn’t want to talk about it. “Still,” he added after a pause, looking back to shoot him a flash of a smile, “at least now he’ll be more reluctant to approach me.”
They shared an amused grin and sank into a pleasant mutual quietness until the cab finally stopped. Looking out, John was surprised to find that they weren’t back at the hotel as he had expected them to be, but rather in a quiet London road, outside what appeared to be a small café. He frowned slightly as Sherlock leant over to pay the cabbie and then hopped out without a word.
“Where are we?” he asked following.
“Baker Street,” Sherlock said moving up behind him to practically breathe those words into his ear. “221B to be precise. My own flat, and where I plan on rewarding you greatly for defending my besmirched honour with your noble fist.
“Oh god,” he groaned as the lips brushed against his neck and the sensitive skin behind his ear. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body through their clothing and he was already itching to be able to feel all that bare skin against his, to kiss and lick and breathe against it, against the lips, into the mouth. He hadn’t felt like this in… hell, he couldn’t remember feeling like this for anyone, let alone for someone who was literally an extended one night stand.
“Jean,” he heard whispered softly, “que m’as-tu fait?”
He had no idea what that meant but it sounded good.
It sounded very good.
Turning, he twisted his head up to catch those seductive lips with his own. Oh, he could spend hours, days, weeks simply kissing that mouth, running his tongue over the lips, the teeth, sliding in and out of that warmth.
He felt Sherlock stiffen in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to be kissed here, now, on the street, in the middle of London, under the orange glow of the street lamps. A long few seconds passed and then he seemed to melt, his shoulders and head dropping, meeting the kiss but keeping it gentle and unhurried, even as his hands came up to pull their bodies closer together.
It was different from their other kisses, John realised, his left hand sliding into the hair at Sherlock’s nape. It was no less passionate even as it was less frantic, causing his toes to curl and the moment to last forever. He wasn’t a romantic and this was hardly the basis of some kind of rom-com, but this was….
He pressed deeper into the kiss, pulling the taller man closer, tongues moving from caressing to battling. Oh yes, that was it as well, the power, the intensity, the need to shed clothing.
Sherlock ripped his mouth away, panting hard, his eyes bordering on wild.
“In, now,” he said and for a moment John was confused but then he was being pushed up to the front door and then through it, urged bodily against a wall as the door was forcefully shut behind them.
“You… are… a marvel,” he heard and then he had the long, firm body pressing into him, a strong thigh thrust between his legs, flexing against the straining hardness in his trousers.
“God, yes,” he gasped as lips latched onto his neck, kissing, sucking and nipping as he turned to thrust his hands under that gorgeous shirt and racked his fingers down that back.
“Fuck,” he muttered, grasping as a hand somehow managed to shove their way past the fastenings of his trousers and curve around his length. “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Perfectly sound analysis,” he heard by his ear, “but… I was hoping… you’d go… deeper.”
Deeper had him groaning and jerking against the hand.
“Stop it,” he hissed trying to bat the hand away. “Or I’ll… I’ll come. Sherlock!”
“There you are, Sherlock, dear… oh my, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
They froze at the sound of a female voice, eyes widening in alarm. Pressed as he was against the wall by Sherlock’s larger body, John couldn’t see too much but could make out the vague shape of an older quite small lady.
“I thought I heard noise, but only wanted to say that I did what you requested Sherlock, and there’s milk in the fridge should you need it, and other items as well, but I’m sure you’ll find it. Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy yourselves.”
Then she was gone and John found his head burying on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Oh, god,” he said knowing he was blushing. “Who? What?”
“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said breathing by his neck. “Landlady.”
“Christ!”
“Hmm,” Sherlock said and then they were laughing, because it was funny, embarrassing and far too like being caught by your mother.
They pulled away, hands retreating out of clothing, eyes darting to anywhere but the other’s face.
“Well,” Sherlock said clearing his throat, “I’ll show you up.”
Up involved seventeen stairs and a door that led into a cosy but cluttered main room. It was undeniably Sherlock’s. Tennis equipment and paraphernalia littered the room. Tennis balls lay abandoned against walls and under chairs, rackets were discarded on the table or sofa, some of them with broken strings. A skeleton stood in one corner, a paper racket clasped by its bony fingers. Boxes sat everywhere, some opened, some not. Clothes, shoes, racket covers, books, trophies.
“Is that a skull?” he asked pointing to the mantelpiece.
“Training partner,” Sherlock said. “Well, when I say partner.”
They were some signs of tidying, plates and mugs having been moved into the kitchen. Pre-planned he realised. Sherlock had called ahead, had known they would end up back here. Had intended for them to do so.
He swallowed.
“There’s a second bedroom upstairs,” Sherlock said not quite looking at him. “You know, should you… require it.”
That was an invitation if there ever was one.
“It’s fine,” he said licking his lips as he raised his eyes to meet the Frenchman’s gaze full one. “It’s all fine.”
Sherlock’s lips curved up into a grin. “Good,” he said, and then he pounced.
*
“Fuck me.”
The words slipped out before he had a chance to register them, register what they meant, but even when his brain caught up he somehow knew that he meant them.
Sherlock froze from where he had been layering kisses down his back, hands stopping to simply cup his arse.
They had ended up in what John took to be Sherlock’s bedroom. It had been the closest, most accessible place, and it had a bed. To his surprise it was also relatively bare compared to the rest of the flat.
Stripped of his clothing he had been pushed front first onto the bed by the Frenchman who seemed determined to kiss or lick every inch of his skin, starting at the back of his shoulder and working down. It felt glorious, adding to his growing arousal the closer the Frenchman got to his arse.
It had been years since he had been penetrated, years since he had even wanted that, but somehow he wanted that now, wanted Sherlock to take him, to slide in and make him feel that burn of being filled.
“No.”
He opened his eyes in surprise as Sherlock rolled to lie on the bed beside him. That was really not the answer he had been expecting. He twisted his head to look down just to check. Sherlock was hard, very hard, his erection straining with that slight curve that he knew would feel brilliant against his prostate.
Scrambling across, he caught the erection in his hand, smiling when Sherlock’s hips twitched, thrusting up into his fist with a gasp.
“Why not?” he asked stroking rhythmically, desire shooting through him when Sherlock did nothing to stop him, just turned his head so they could share another kiss.
“Because,” he heard breathed out against him, hand reaching out to finally grip his upper arm. “If you’re serious… ask me again… tomorrow.”
Then Sherlock was rolling away, passing over the lube and a condom before settling on his stomach, knees spread beneath him. It was a gorgeous sight, but not the one John had been hoping for.
He stared for a moment, pressing his lips together. He wanted to ask why not, why Sherlock wouldn’t just fuck him. He wanted it. He couldn’t imagine that Sherlock didn’t want it, so why was he denying them?
“Fine,” he said slapping a hand down to squeeze that rather shapely arse, “but I want you on your back.” If he was going to do this then he was going to watch the Frenchman come apart beneath him.
Sherlock nodded and made to roll over again.
“Wait,” John stopped him. “In a moment. First,” he bent over to press a kiss to the small of the back as he uncapped the lube bottle, “I’m going…” he ran his tongue down the back to the first swell of the arse, “to do this…” he pushed Sherlock’s thigh up so it now lay at a right angle, “my way.”
He pressed his lube coated finger to Sherlock’s entrance, tracing it slowly round and round until the muscle slowly began to relax. From their previous encounters he knew that Sherlock didn’t need much preparation, but he wanted to do it this time and make sure it was thorough. It would need to be for what he was planning.
He pressed a little harder and watched as the tip of his finger popped in.
“You know, you don’t have to…” he heard the Frenchman say but he ignored it in favour of pushing in a second.
Sherlock sighed, pressing back against him until both fingers were as far in as they could go. He twisted his hand, finger tips brushing against the hard nub they found.
“Oh… oui,” he heard, the voice partially muffled by the pillow. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed in a way John had not seen before. He looked almost younger, far more vulnerable than he would have imagined.
He added a third finger, stretching and twisting, watching as Sherlock’s mouth fell open and he rocked back and forth as if searching for something more.
“Gorgeous.”
The word slid past his mouth with little input from his brain - it appeared to be that sort of night - and then those eyes were flicking open, unfocussed for a moment and then narrowing.
“Gratifying,” he said, “but meretricious.”
John groaned pulling out his fingers. “Only you would use such a big word while being fingered. Roll over.”
Sherlock did so, stretching up before relaxing, his legs falling unashamedly open.
“How flexible are you?” he asked as he slid on the condom.
Sherlock smirked, his eyes lidded. “Very.”
“Good.”
Sliding back between the legs, he caught his arm under Sherlock’s knee and pulled it up, propping it over his good shoulder. “Because I intend to test that.”
He pressed in, not stopping until they were as close as they could get.
“You may want to hold onto something.”
He set a firm, steady but fast pace, watching with satisfaction as Sherlock’s head fell back, eyes closing as a satisfied gasp slid from the Frenchman’s mouth.
“Oh… oui. C’est bien. C’est très bien, Jean.”
Neither of them were going to last long, their foreplay having basically have been played out over many hours, but that didn’t mean he was going to make it easy.
“No,” he said, slapping Sherlock’s hand away from where it had moved towards his heavy cock.
The Frenchman glared for a moment before letting his arm fall back to the bed, reaching back to grip the headboard, hips lifting into the next thrust.
They were going to do this his way, damnit, and that meant Sherlock was just going to have to wait until he was good and ready to let the other man come. He groaned as that thought alone caused him to drive in more frequently.
“Jean.”
He twisted his head away, pressing his lips to the skin of the thigh still over his shoulder. He could smell him, that ridiculously earthy cologne, that musk of arousal.
“Jean. S’il-te-plait. Touche-moi.”
He looked back down, to where Sherlock was opened mouthed, to where one fist was desperately tight around the bed headboard, the other tugging at the bed sheets. He looked down to where the cock was bouncing against the bare stomach with every stroke. It was all he could do to stop himself from coming, or worse from saying something he would really regret, some sort of hormone fuelled confession that would shatter what they had, what they were doing. This wasn’t the time or place for some sort of ridiculous emotion driven sentiment, this was a time for fucking, for taking the gorgeous creature below him until he shattered apart.
“Jean. Please.”
It was the slip back into English that had him growling, the desperation clear in Sherlock’s eyes. Giving in, he finally wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s prick.
“Putain!”
“Fuck!” he gasped as the Frenchman arched against him, a stream of French coming from the mouth as a hand shot up to scrape across his shoulder.
“Mon Dieu… Jean… S’il-te-plait…j’vais…oui… oh….”
And he came, head thrown back, hips snapping up, eyes closed, mouth open, breathlessly riding the crest as John felt the contractions around his own cock and then he was coming too. Two short thrusts and he let Sherlock’s spasms take him over, all the fight, the emotion, the fear of the day shooting out from him, leaving him limp and sated, barely able to dispose of the condom before he collapsed on his back beside Sherlock, panting and drained.
That had been one hell of a fuck, hard and fast and so good. Beside him Sherlock lay staring up at the ceiling, both legs now flat on the mattress, stomach a sticky mess. They should do something about that, he thought, but for the moment he could barely move.
“Sherlock?” he said softly after a few moments. He reached out a hand but the Frenchman pulled away, rolling over to swing his legs over the side of the bed and sit for a moment with his head bowed.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m fine,” the Frenchman suddenly said, his tone sharp but softened by either tiredness or something else. “I’m….” Then he was on his feet and walking away.
John watched for a moment, not entirely sure what to do as Sherlock left the room. Following him was not an option, the other man clearly needing a moment alone, but leaving wasn’t much of an option either.
Damn. Bugger it. Sodding, bloody, bastard hell.
Grabbing a tissue from the box beside the bed, he scrubbed it over his stomach, cleaning himself as well as he could before flopping back down onto the bed. He waited, but after a few minutes it became clear that Sherlock might not actually be coming back.
Fuck it.
Scrambling off the bed he searched for his clothing, finally finding his pants, trousers and shirt. He also got one sock, but there was no sign of the other one. His shoes and jacket were in the main room. He just hoped he had enough cash on him to make it back to his hotel. He didn’t even know what the time was.
There was no sign of Sherlock when he finally ventured out of the bedroom and the rest of the flat was dark. He was reluctant to switch on any of the lights and couldn’t decide whether Sherlock’s absence was a good or bad thing. He didn’t think he had hurt him in any way, not physically at least. He had sat up, stood up and moved easily enough while saying that he was fine. So it must have been something else.
Slipping on his shoes, he cast another quick eye around for his missing sock but it was to no avail.
“Right,” he said, “right.”
“John.”
He jumped at the soft voice, startled to realise that Sherlock had been standing in the shadow of the window all that time, a robe wrapped around him.
“John, I…” and then he stopped, a slightly lost, somewhat confused frown on his face, before offering a one word question, “dinner?”
*
End of Part Three
*
Part Four
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 9K this part. 100K+ total
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: None for Season 2.
Previous parts: One Two
*
A Study in Winning
Part Three
*
Day four brought with it rain, about forty minutes of pale sunshine, and then more rain. Unsurprisingly very little tennis was played for much of the afternoon with the exception of Centre Court where under the roof some of the best players in the world underwent their challenges.
John contented himself with the players and members area, switching between looking at the big screen, watching the rain and talking with some of the other players that he knew. Sherlock wasn’t there of course, but he received various texts throughout the day from the Frenchman, most on the theme of BORED or VERY BORED. He smiled when he read each and offered responses, but it was clear they would not be meeting up that day.
He spent some time chatting to Sarah, who had had her doubles match postponed, and since he had no other plans that evening agreed to join her and her doubles partner for dinner back at the Dorchester.
The rain cleared by mid-afternoon and he stood on the balcony and watched as Sarah and her partner finally got to play. They worked well together, something he was quite glad about.
He was momentarily interrupted by the officials asking for a urine and blood sample as part of their random drugs testing. After that he returned to his hotel room and tried to relax. Grabbing his laptop he spent time updating his blog, sometimes answering some of the comments, deleting a couple of rude ones from his sister. On a whim he took the opportunity to read up on Sherlock Holmes, eyes widening as he tried to reconcile the public persona with the man he had been getting to know. It was interesting none the less.
Dinner was pleasant and he was once again glad that he and Sarah had managed to part on good terms. Sherlock was only mentioned briefly and only in passing. The man himself was not seen at all.
It took a while for him to fall asleep, but he drifted off in the end and awoke to a somewhat drier, somewhat more action packed day.
*
“Welcome back to a hopefully drier day at Wimbledon. Clear blue skies and temperatures of nineteen degrees mean we should have a long and eventful day of tennis. As play resumes across the other courts we’ll be looking forward to what we can expect from Centre Court and Court Number One which will include play from Novak Djokovic, Andy Roddick, Serena Williams, Sherlock Holmes, Caroline Wozniacki and British hopeful Andy Murray. While our other men’s single player still in, John Watson, takes on his former training partner D.I. Dimmock on Court Number Four later this afternoon. Stay tuned because we have a lot for you.”
The bad weather the previous day had pushed his match back, something that only helped to make him feel that bit worse. It had been such a long time since he had reached the third round of any competition and here he was, about to face down one of his oldest and once closest friends, where the prize was to reach the second week of Wimbledon.
The second week of Wimbledon? Christ! No, he could do this. He knew Dimmock’s style, his strengths, his weaknesses. All he had to do was to keep his body together, keep his serve strong and fight, fight for every point.
*
He ached, he ached all over, but it was almost a pleasant kind of ache. Oh yes, a pleasant type indeed.
Closing his eyes he relaxed into the comfortable heat of the steam room, welcoming the pleasant relaxing stretch of his muscles as he laid face down resting on his folded arms.
*
“And warming up on Court Number Four now is former British number one, John Watson, who has already gone further in this competition than anyone could have possibly expected. Can he win for a third time this week? His opponent is none other than his friend and former training partner, D.I. Dimmock, who has already seen off a seed to reach this far.”
*
The heat was seeping through his muscles and bones, making him almost drowsy.
*
“And it looks like Watson has come out fighting. He is really attacking that ball. Long forehand from Dimmock, returned crosscourt by Watson who is moving forward, and yes, brilliant forehand volley from Watson following Dimmock’s backhand. Dimmock really had no chance of getting that.”
*
He should probably get Mike to check out his shoulder again. It had starting to feel a little off again towards the end of the match. Hopefully it wouldn’t be anything serious, although there was the chance he would feel the strain in his leg tomorrow.
*
“Watson is dominating. Who would have expected that?”
“Oh absolutely, such a change from his usual play, but he really is taking it to the Canadian. Dimmock to serve and he really is the one on the back foot here. Oh and another excellent return from Watson. Backhand from Dimmock, returned by Watson, Dimmock trying to drive the ball deeper, but Watson is right there, and an excellent backhand from Watson which Dimmock can only get half a racket to and Watson’s taking the point. Fifteen, Forty, Watson is really forcing Dimmock to move now, literally bashing him around the court.”
“Dimmock looks like he’s really starting to feel it. Did you see how he stared at his racket after that last ball?”
“Like a man searching for answers where there aren’t any. Nice serve by Dimmock, forehand return, Dimmock trying everything now. Watson matching him stroke for stroke. Backhand from Dimmock and…oh yes, an almost cheeky little drop shot there from Watson who takes the point and has just broken Dimmock’s serve.”
“That really was some clever play by Watson, you can see it on Dimmock’s face.”
*
Maybe he should get a massage. That might help to loosen him up a bit more. Or he could just continue to lie here, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
*
“And Watson has done it. Whoever would have guessed before this match started? 7-5, 6-3, 6-3, Watson is through to the fourth round of a major tournament for the first time in how long?”
“Over five years at least.”
“For the first time in over five years. And he certainly looks happy about it. There will be celebrations tonight.”
*
“It was a lot closer than it looked,” he said prying open his eyes when Dimmock came to join him on the neighbouring table. “An inch here or there and it could have been a whole different story.”
Dimmock snorted, stretching out on his back to stare up at the ceiling. “You’re a horrible liar, Watson,” Dimmock said. “I know when I’ve been beaten and today you trampled over me like a man possessed. I haven’t seen you play with that amount of passion and aggression for years, not since well before, you know.”
His accident. Yes, he knew.
He turned his head away to the other side.
“So, what’s bitten you, mate?” Dimmock asked.
John wasn’t sure he wanted to think about that answer and Dimmock definitely didn’t want to hear about the mouth of a certain Frenchman. So he just shrugged and then shook out his shoulders. “Oh you know,” he said vaguely before carefully turning onto his back. “Last tournament and all that, guess I’m throwing everything at it.”
“Well just make sure not to throw your shoulder out,” Dimmock warned. “You’ve got Trevor in the next round.”
John grunted. “You heard the results of any of the other matches?” he asked.
“Djokovic’s just taken down Albert Montañés. Roddick’s one set all with Philipp Kohlschreiber. Murray’s through.”
“Sh-Holmes?” he asked.
“Just warming up.
Right. Smiling slightly he closed his eyes and wondered how long it would take Sherlock to take down another player.
*
The press swarmed like flies the moment he stepped out of the dressing rooms, voices overlapping with questions like, “How do you feel?”, “How do you rate your chances?”, “What was it like beating your old practice partner?” merging with the click and flash of the cameras.
He held his hands up to his face to shield his eyes and was guided through the throng to a table he could at least half hide behind.
The press conference was only the start of it though. Once he got through that he was pulled into interview after interview, first with the BBC and then with a handful of other TV networks suddenly interested in the wild card entry who had somehow managed to make it through to the second week of the most famous tennis tournament in the world. He tried to keep each one brief until he was finally told by a pretty dark haired young lady that there was just one more and to follow her. Still very much going with the flow he did so, attempting some small talk as she showed him to a small private room. Of course he was rebuffed, but at least she offered a polite smile as she did so. Well, he thought with his own small smile as she held the door open for him, you couldn’t win them all.
“Ah, please do come in and take a seat, John.”
The room was small but pleasant looking, with a large window at one end that overlooked some of the higher numbered courts. It was by this window that a man in a suit stood looking out, the handle of his umbrella curved over his arm.
“I must congratulate you on your most recent victory. It vos quite the spectacle. You must be positively delighted,” the man said turning to face him. He appeared to be wearing a smart, tailored three piece suit, finely cut with a handkerchief in his breast pocket. He looked like the epitome of an English gentleman, although his accent said differently, a slight hint of Central Europe about it. Not German but perhaps Czech.
“Thank you,” he said glancing around but could not see any cameras or recording equipment. “Sorry,” he said, “but where did you say you were from? Which, uh, paper, magazine?”
The man gave a very small half smile. “I don’t believe I said,” he replied crossing over to where two comfortable looking seats stood facing each other. He sat down, carefully leaning his umbrella against the chair’s side and motioning to the other chair. “Do sit, John, you must be tired.”
Still wondering if he was missing something, John sat.
The man nodded in approval. “You could say I’m an independent,” the man said.
“Oh, right.”
“And I have been following your progress vith quite some interest. It has been quite… fascinating.”
John flashed a smile. “Thank you.”
“Tell me though, John, how vould you currently describe your relationship vith Sherlock Holmes?”
He gaped. “I’m sorry?” he managed not sure he had heard correctly.
The man chuckled. “No need to be coy,” he said, “it vos a simple question. Sherlock Holmes, how vould you describe your connection to him?”
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!
He tightened his hand into a fist and tried to control his rising panic. It was a simple question after all, probably really innocent. They had probably just been spotted together practicing or something. This man was no doubt just digging. Nothing to it. Nothing at all.
“I don’t have one,” he said as casually as he could, keeping both his gaze and his voice level. “I barely know him. I met him… Sunday.”
All true, well mainly, or at least all that this man was going to be told. Freelance journalist or not, he wasn’t going to find out anything that could be sold.
“Mmm,” the man said, “and since Sunday you’ve trained vith him, dined vith him, and engaged in sexual relations vith him… twice.”
What the hell? How? How did this man know this?
“Might ve expect a happy announcement by the end of the tournament?”
Shit, shit, holy fucking shit!
He rose to his feet hand still clenched. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know who you are or how you think you know this, but whatever your game is this interview is over. I’m leaving and if I see just one word of this in print or anywhere else, then I’ll sue. You got that?”
“Sit down, Mr Vatson,” the man said. “I have no desire for this information to go public. That vould not be in either of our best interests I assure you. But valking out of that door now vould also not be in yours.”
He hesitated by the door, staring at the handle that his hand was gripping. Taking a deep couple of breathes he finally turned back around. He knew that leaving would be the most sensible cause of action, but the voice, the man, this whole set up - how had he gotten this room? - they all stopped him.
“Who are you?” he asked with a frown.
“A fan,” the man said after a moment of consideration.
“A fan?” His frown deepened. This man certainly didn’t look like the type and certainly not the sort to be interested in a tennis nobody like him. Oh, of course. He tipped his head slightly. “A Sherlock Holmes fan,” he said.
“Indeed,” the man confirmed. “In fact if you vere to ask him he’d probably say his biggest fan.”
“You mean stalker,” John said. Brilliant, he was talking to an absolute nutcase.
“I like to think of myself in less… derogatory terms,” the man said. “Do you plan to continue your association vith Sherlock Holmes?”
“I could be wrong…” he said slowly, “but I think that’s none of your business.”
“It could be.”
“It really couldn’t. Now excuse me.”
“I am not concerned vith your private actions, Mr Vatson, but I am by his tennis. Sherlock Holmes does not need a distraction and I fear, John, that you are a distraction.”
Shit. Shit. Shit!
“Are you threatening me?”
The man chuckled. “Not at all. But should you cease your contact vith Sherlock Holmes I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not a vealthy man.”
That was true, but that wasn’t really the question he had been asking.
“Is this… blackmail?” he said.
The man laughed. “Oh no, nothing so sordid. A business transaction, that is all. I imagine that people have already varned you to stay away from him. I am merely villing to make zat more zan vorth your vhile.”
“No.”
The man’s head tilted to the side in obvious surprise. He didn’t blame him, hell he was surprised. Not surprised by his response - blackmail, bribe, business transaction, didn’t matter, he wasn’t interested - but surprised by the little thought he had given it before responding in the absolute definite. He simply wasn’t interested.
His hand tightened back into a fist.
“Interesting,” the man said slowly. “Most very interesting.”
“Are we done?” he snapped, “because I really have better things to do than listen to you.”
“Oh, no doubt,” the man said, “but it is remarkable none the less.”
He pursed his lips together. “What is?” he forced out.
“Most people… are under the impression that you lack the necessary passion, the drive to truly take on this game. Vhen Sherlock Holmes plays, it is easy to see that fervour, the battlefield of the court. You’ve seen that in him, haven’t you? The vay he fights for every point.”
“What are you saying?”
“I see that in you now. Your fist, your shoulders, the vay you’ve clenched your jaw. Fight or flight, Mr Vatson… you’re standing your ground. The posture of a vinner.”
The man smiled.
“Velcome back.”
It was a smile hard to determine, not one of pleasure or delight, not exactly mocking or derisive, nor of satisfaction or contentment, yet the ends of his lips were raised and John felt himself being considered far more closely than he would have liked.
Opening the door he walked out. The noise and bustle struck him immediately, washing over him in an almost overwhelming manner after the quiet stillness of the last room.
Christ!
He ran his hands over his face. What the hell had that been all about? What the fucking hell was going on?
He could feel himself shaking, the come down after an intense encounter, like the crash after a match once the adrenaline had worn off. Fucking, sodding, fucking hell, he needed a drink, and he needed to get out of here, fast, but first a drink.
He made it to the players and members area and searched for something, anything that wasn’t bloody Pimms.
The big screen was on.
Downing half his beer in one he collapsed onto a chair and looked up, bottle by his lips. Fucking hell it was showing Centre Court and of course Sherlock was the one playing. And he was winning. Of course he was winning. Had almost won in fact. Christ that man could hit a ball. His fan was right, it was like a battlefield and Sherlock was taking no prisoners.
He sat in silence as the last set was played out, Sherlock producing some breathtaking shots. Then finally there came the winner, a backhanded volley that sent the crowd cheering. Sherlock won - 7-6, 6-3, 6-4.
Christ he had to get out of here.
*
He took refuge in his hotel room having managed to avoid the press and bystanders in the process to do so. Despite the passage of time and the drink he was still a little unnerved, his epic win that afternoon pushed aside by his most recent encounter.
A fan? Fuck! Whoever that man had been he had been as creepy as hell. Was that what Sherlock had to put up with? If so it was no wonder he didn’t check into hotels under his real name and had a glorified babysitter. If Lestrade wasn’t at least part bodyguard then he should hang up his racket now. In fact, was that why Lestrade had appeared when he had been asking the girl in reception where Sherlock was staying? Had she alerted him or something?
Christ, this was a mess.
Grabbing his mobile he checked it and then checked his room phone. There was no contact from Sherlock. Well, there wouldn’t be, would there? The guy was probably still in the shower of having to face his own press. Or his stalker. Bloody hell he needed to be warned.
He quickly dialled Sherlock’s number. Unsurprisingly it went to answerphone.
“Sherlock, it’s John. Uh, congrats on your recent win. Look, I need to talk to you. It’s pretty urgent actually, and important. Call me when you get this.”
He hung up and stared at it, but it adamantly refused to ring.
Bugger it to hell. Christ he could do with another drink.
The knock on his door had him springing to his feet and yanking it open. It had to be Sherlock and he was ready to grab him and pull him in, but froze when he realised it wasn’t the lanky Frenchman. In fact the person in front of him wasn’t lanky, wasn’t French and was most decidedly not a man.
“Clara?”
“John.”
They ended up downstairs in one of the opulent lounging areas, sat opposite each other across a small round table. Clara wasn’t particularly different from the last time he had seen her, which had been about a year earlier following her rather vocal break up from his sister. Her hair was shorter, now cut elegantly to her jaw line and she was dressed in a nicely cut dark suit that brought out her hazel eyes.
“Harry’s not here,” he said once they established that he wasn’t interested in ordering any of the hotel’s Wimbledon themed cakes or drinking their no doubt excellent tea.
“Yes, I know,” she replied sitting back with her own cup of Earl Grey. “It wasn’t Harry that I wanted to see.”
He sighed. Yes, he had suspected as much. “You’re not still my agent are you?” he said, “because I was quite sure that when you and Harry split I got the toss as well.”
Clara smiled a little tightly. “Of course you didn’t,” she said, “that would have been highly unprofessional of me.”
So, arguably had been shagging his sister, but he didn’t raise that because in truth they had been good together. Well, at least until the arguing and Harry’s drinking of course.
“You didn’t return any of my phone calls,” he said, “or my emails come to think about it. You can see how a guy can get the wrong impression.”
She ground her lips together and put down her cup. “Fine, alright,” she said, “I haven’t exactly been in communication.”
He snorted. “Oh please, you dumped me.”
“Yes, alright,” she said, “but that was because of you and not because of Harry. Look John, I like you and all but I can’t promote a non-entity. A year ago you were nothing. Hell, a week ago you were nothing, but here you are existing again and I want to take full advantage of that before you disappear again.”
“Oh god, you’re here to make money.”
“And you’re here to play tennis. With my help we can do both, and god knows you could do with the money.”
Well that was true. Tennis didn’t pay for itself and there was only so long that the prize money he had managed to accumulate by reaching later stages of major competitions early in his career would last. In fact he was pretty much at the end of it. Really at the end of it. That was one of the reasons in truth that he was hanging up his rackets, because he simply couldn’t afford to play - and lose - anymore.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Oh nothing major right now,” she admitted, “but there are some prize giving I could get you. Minor sponsorship. Question of Sport.”
“You’ll have to cut your commission,” he said.
“Oh no,” she said firmly, “the fee is non-negotiable. Everyone pays ten percent.”
He eyed her suit. It was a very nice suit. Hand made it looked like, and her watch was nice, new too, expensive. You can tell a lot about a person from their hair, clothes, shoes and watch. Christ he was already starting to sound like Sherlock. But none the less, Clara did appear to be doing well for herself. She could afford to take less. She owed him.
“Five percent,” he said firmly. “Argue and my next offer will be four.”
He watched her hesitate, her eyes flickering over him, her lips twitching into a sort of smile.
“Five percent,” she said with a nod and held out her hand for him to shake. “You are a changed man, John Watson. You’ve toughened up. I think I like it.”
He smiled and shook her hand.
“Excellent,” she continued. “Now, first things first, Slazenger are this evening hosting a cocktail party. You’re going, don’t argue with me. They’re eager to meet you for the very first time… again. Anyone who is anyone will be there. Murray, Nadal, Djokovic, Holmes, Williams, both Williams in fact. Lovely girls. I’ll introduce you if you want, or I’m sure I can find you a pretty Russian if that’s more your style. Now don’t look at me like that. Your reputation is of your own making. Now go, change, for god sake shave and remind me why I stuck with your arse for all those years.”
Put like that he knew he really didn’t have much of a choice.
*
He didn’t have much choice regarding his clothing. He, he hadn’t exactly packed with formal functions in mind. At worse he had figured he would go out in the first round, at best he was a tennis player, he didn’t do dressing up.
He ended up in this smartest trousers and the shirt he had worn to Angelo’s having had the foresight at least to have put it through the hotel’s laundry service. He showered, shaved, tried to do something with his hair and on a whim splashed himself with some cologne he had in his wash bag. Looking in the mirror he had to admit that he looked… well, good enough. He was an impoverished tennis player after all, not a male model.
Christ, Sherlock was going to look stunning, wasn’t he?
He still hadn’t heard from Sherlock, but that had ceased to surprise him. His anxiety had lessened slightly with the passing time as the memory of just how creepy that stalker had been started to fade from his mind. He also figured that Sherlock already knew about the stalker, hence the security and secrecy. Lestrade and co would be able to deal with it. He doubted that anything would go to the press and anyway, no one would print it, and it would be their word against that weirdo.
No, no, it would be fine. He still needed to talk to Sherlock though. Hopefully more than just talk, but first things first.
He was pleasantly surprised to find that they had laid a car on for him, and it wasn’t too long before they were pulling up near the London Eye. It looked like quite the do with nice outfits and the silver lights. Blimey did he feel out of place. Oh look, there was Maria Sharapova again.
Steadying himself he then entered the throng.
He was far from being the most interesting person there, not when there were some of the top tennis players in the world beside him, but he found himself being acknowledged at least, a few nods from players, some polite comments from agents or sponsors. Get to the semis or even the quarters he was told, and he could get a deal with Robinsons. They were one of Wimbledon’s official sponsors after all. It could be his face across the squash bottles for a while, although he suspected that was only because he was British and Andy Murray would be far too expensive.
“John!”
Looking up he found Clara coming his way, glass of something in her hand.
“John, excellent, you’re here. Let me introduce you around.”
The next… well, far too long really, consisted of him being introduced to apparently important people, none of whom really interested him, but he smiled and nodded as was required. The only person he really wanted to see was… Christ, he was looking good.
Sherlock Holmes, it appeared, knew exactly how to dress for one of these. He was in an excellent cut dark suit, with a positively stunning dark purple shirt that brought out both his tan and his eyes. He looked like… well, yes… he looked like a model.
Of course Clara noticed where his attention had gone to and a few minutes later he was being introduced to Sherlock Holmes. That was when it all went a little strange. Sherlock was polite of course (and French accented), but he was also quick to excuse himself and move away.
“Yeah,” Clara said once Sherlock had disappeared into the crowd, “he’s always like that.”
It was, John realised, the first time he had really been treated to the Sherlock Holmes that everyone else seemed to go on about, the rude, abrupt Frenchman who had a habit of looking bored and not caring what people thought of him. It was a surprise to tell the truth, not that he had expected the most passionate of acknowledgements, but really.
With little else to do he made his way into one of the London Eye pods, taking a position near the far end, away from the door, staring out across the city. A few people spoke to him as the pod rose up, but few were really interested and it wasn’t long before he found himself alone, just him and the beautiful night view of London.
“Stunning, isn’t it?”
He almost jumped when he heard the familiar rich deep voice, no trace of the French accent.
“Oh god,” he said with a gasp, turning slightly to find Sherlock very close behind him. “Did you have to do that?”
The Frenchman quirked his lips, his eyes dancing with amusement.
“I got your message,” he said. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Oh, yes,” he said momentarily distracted by the way Sherlock’s collar was open.
“Just talk?” the Frenchman said in a voice that was far, far too seductive for the time and place. “I’m disappointed, John. Or is that what you Brits are calling it now?”
Oh god, he really needed to pull himself together. This was bordering on embarrassing and they were in public for goodness sake. He really should not be having fantasies about slowly unbuttoning that shirt and running his tongue across that gorgeous collar bone.
“Yes! No!” he managed before gritting his teeth together in an attempt to ground himself and his thoughts. “That too. Of course. Yes. Very much. But I need to talk to you about something else, someone else. It’s important, but not here. I’m….”
“Ah Sherlock,” an almost sing song voice said from behind them. “Bonsoir. Tu es un homme très difficile à contacter.”
They both turned, automatically moving away from each other as they came face to face with a well-dressed man in a suit that was unmistakably bespoke. He was also a very familiar face, although not someone John knew personally, although from the look on Sherlock’s face he did, and was not best pleased by that fact.
“Jim,” he said shortly, his expression oddly closed off. “Goood eeevning.”
Jim tutted at the French accented words. “Rien de cela, Sherlock," he said in fluent French. “Tu sais que je ne suis pas comme les autres.”
“Maybeee,” Sherlock replied obstinately in English, “but ma Englessh obviously needs more practice then your francais, and as they say, ‘si fueris Romae, Romano vitito more!’”
“As you wish,” Jim replied in a soft American accent tinged with a hint of Irish. “I left you my number,” he said a touch peevishly, “I hoped you would call.”
“Ah have been bizzy,” Sherlock said. “And we ave been playing on different days.”
“Yes, unfortunate that,” Jim said his eyes flickering across to where John was watching the exchange more closely than he perhaps should have been.
“Ah, how careless ov me,” Sherlock said. “Ah should introduce you. John Watsen, Jim Moriartaay. As ah am sure you are aware, Jim is currently ranked seckond in the world.”
“Pleasure,” John said with a small. “Although we’ve kind of met. I bumped into Mr Moriarty at the hotel before the tournament started, quite literally actually. Sorry about that.”
Jim nodded, his smile a little tight. “No, no, no apology necessary. There was no harm done. At least I wasn’t wearing the Westwood.”
His smile held a slight hint of something darker.
“John has just reached the, uh, fourth rooound,” Sherlock continued. “That is quite goood for an Engleeshman, no?”
“Oh, very good,” Jim said with obviously forced delight. “Oh,” he suddenly said eyes flickering between them. “So he’s the one who’s stolen your attention.” He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh to think I thought… no matter. My, my, Sherlock, you have been slipping. You’ve always had strange tastes in pets, but really.”
“Hey,” John said finally having had enough. This was the second time today his not quite relationship had been thrown in his face and he was getting quite sick of it. Not including the fact this Westwood suited, second in the world arsehole had nothing - nothing! - on the demented fan with the umbrella, and he had had enough.
“Listen, mate,” he said quietly but forcefully as he stepped forward. “I don’t know what you think is going on, but….”
“Whoa, whoa,” Moriarty said raising his arms to stop him from getting close enough to touch him and his suit, “having your little pet fight your battles for you now? Tut, tut, Sherlock, he’s like what, a hundred and thirty in the world. He must be one pretty good lay, because that’s all there is for you, isn’t there? The winning and the screwing. Everything else is….”
The sentence didn’t have a chance to be finished as all the pent up emotions - the anxiety, the anger, the confusion - finally came to a head and reaching back, John then punched his fist forward, his knuckles colliding forcefully with Moriarty’s jaw. Fight or flight, as fan man had so succinctly put it. But bugger it to hell, that hurt more than he had expected.
“John.”
He looked up to find Sherlock staring at him wide eyed.
“Yeah,” he said shaking his hand and trying not to wince.
“If you’ve quite recovered… run.”
They ran for it, pushing their way through the other people and out the pod just as it reached ground level. Cameras flashed around them but they didn’t stop, Sherlock leading them through the groups and out onto the road, John on his heels, a grin plastered on his face.
“Taxi!”
They piled into the first cab they could find, Sherlock snapping some address to the cabbie and then they were off, escaping the flashes of the media, leaning back in their seats and then laughing… and then kissing.
*
The kiss… snog… oh god, that tongue… only stopped when their mutual need to ravish each other’s mouth was overwhelmed first by their need to breathe and then by their need to laugh.
Breaking away, John sucked in a deep breath, his hand fisted in dark purple silk as Sherlock’s forehead rested against his shoulder, chest first heaving and then shaking as they both gave way to their mirth.
“Oh god,” he gasped, head tilting back and not caring in the least about how debauched and wild they must look to the cabbie. Oh hell, who would have ever thought that he would care so little about being seen snogging another man? What had Sherlock Holmes done to him that he would first deck a world famous tennis player in front of the national media and then escape in a cab only to then stick his tongue down another man’s throat?
While he had accepted his bisexuality years ago, neither the world of sport, not the press had always been as accepting or opened minded. Therefore it had always been easier and simpler to be publicly seen with a woman and he had done nothing to dispel the image others had assigned to him as being a ladies man. He was a ladies man, but one that also like men. Or at the moment, one man in particular.
“Are you okay?”
He felt the words as they were muffled into his shirt, Sherlock’s head still buried on his shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he managed between the giggles. “I’m fine.”
“That, er… thing that you… that you did… with your, um, fist… that was, um… good.”
At the word good Sherlock finally pushed away from him, collapsing back on his side of the cab, cheeks flushed, lips delightfully pink.
“Oh god, they all saw that, didn’t they?” he said closing his eyes and trying not to imagine what the headlines might be. Tennis brawl - British nobody punches world number two!
“Me, punching him. I’ll be the talk of the night.”
“Best thing that could happened. Made the whole event far more… interesting.”
“Did you see the look on his face though?”
He laughed as Sherlock mimicked the look of surprise that had crossed Moriarty’s face, the opened mouthed ‘O’ of pure shock.
“Oh god, he’s going to hate me now,” he said.
“Better than the alternative,” Sherlock said in an off handed manner, but in a way that suggested there was a lot he wasn’t saying.
“Calls you a lot, does he?” he asked.
“He is… persistent,” Sherlock said glancing away in a fashion that said he didn’t want to talk about it. “Still,” he added after a pause, looking back to shoot him a flash of a smile, “at least now he’ll be more reluctant to approach me.”
They shared an amused grin and sank into a pleasant mutual quietness until the cab finally stopped. Looking out, John was surprised to find that they weren’t back at the hotel as he had expected them to be, but rather in a quiet London road, outside what appeared to be a small café. He frowned slightly as Sherlock leant over to pay the cabbie and then hopped out without a word.
“Where are we?” he asked following.
“Baker Street,” Sherlock said moving up behind him to practically breathe those words into his ear. “221B to be precise. My own flat, and where I plan on rewarding you greatly for defending my besmirched honour with your noble fist.
“Oh god,” he groaned as the lips brushed against his neck and the sensitive skin behind his ear. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body through their clothing and he was already itching to be able to feel all that bare skin against his, to kiss and lick and breathe against it, against the lips, into the mouth. He hadn’t felt like this in… hell, he couldn’t remember feeling like this for anyone, let alone for someone who was literally an extended one night stand.
“Jean,” he heard whispered softly, “que m’as-tu fait?”
He had no idea what that meant but it sounded good.
It sounded very good.
Turning, he twisted his head up to catch those seductive lips with his own. Oh, he could spend hours, days, weeks simply kissing that mouth, running his tongue over the lips, the teeth, sliding in and out of that warmth.
He felt Sherlock stiffen in surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to be kissed here, now, on the street, in the middle of London, under the orange glow of the street lamps. A long few seconds passed and then he seemed to melt, his shoulders and head dropping, meeting the kiss but keeping it gentle and unhurried, even as his hands came up to pull their bodies closer together.
It was different from their other kisses, John realised, his left hand sliding into the hair at Sherlock’s nape. It was no less passionate even as it was less frantic, causing his toes to curl and the moment to last forever. He wasn’t a romantic and this was hardly the basis of some kind of rom-com, but this was….
He pressed deeper into the kiss, pulling the taller man closer, tongues moving from caressing to battling. Oh yes, that was it as well, the power, the intensity, the need to shed clothing.
Sherlock ripped his mouth away, panting hard, his eyes bordering on wild.
“In, now,” he said and for a moment John was confused but then he was being pushed up to the front door and then through it, urged bodily against a wall as the door was forcefully shut behind them.
“You… are… a marvel,” he heard and then he had the long, firm body pressing into him, a strong thigh thrust between his legs, flexing against the straining hardness in his trousers.
“God, yes,” he gasped as lips latched onto his neck, kissing, sucking and nipping as he turned to thrust his hands under that gorgeous shirt and racked his fingers down that back.
“Fuck,” he muttered, grasping as a hand somehow managed to shove their way past the fastenings of his trousers and curve around his length. “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Perfectly sound analysis,” he heard by his ear, “but… I was hoping… you’d go… deeper.”
Deeper had him groaning and jerking against the hand.
“Stop it,” he hissed trying to bat the hand away. “Or I’ll… I’ll come. Sherlock!”
“There you are, Sherlock, dear… oh my, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
They froze at the sound of a female voice, eyes widening in alarm. Pressed as he was against the wall by Sherlock’s larger body, John couldn’t see too much but could make out the vague shape of an older quite small lady.
“I thought I heard noise, but only wanted to say that I did what you requested Sherlock, and there’s milk in the fridge should you need it, and other items as well, but I’m sure you’ll find it. Well, I’ll leave you to enjoy yourselves.”
Then she was gone and John found his head burying on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Oh, god,” he said knowing he was blushing. “Who? What?”
“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said breathing by his neck. “Landlady.”
“Christ!”
“Hmm,” Sherlock said and then they were laughing, because it was funny, embarrassing and far too like being caught by your mother.
They pulled away, hands retreating out of clothing, eyes darting to anywhere but the other’s face.
“Well,” Sherlock said clearing his throat, “I’ll show you up.”
Up involved seventeen stairs and a door that led into a cosy but cluttered main room. It was undeniably Sherlock’s. Tennis equipment and paraphernalia littered the room. Tennis balls lay abandoned against walls and under chairs, rackets were discarded on the table or sofa, some of them with broken strings. A skeleton stood in one corner, a paper racket clasped by its bony fingers. Boxes sat everywhere, some opened, some not. Clothes, shoes, racket covers, books, trophies.
“Is that a skull?” he asked pointing to the mantelpiece.
“Training partner,” Sherlock said. “Well, when I say partner.”
They were some signs of tidying, plates and mugs having been moved into the kitchen. Pre-planned he realised. Sherlock had called ahead, had known they would end up back here. Had intended for them to do so.
He swallowed.
“There’s a second bedroom upstairs,” Sherlock said not quite looking at him. “You know, should you… require it.”
That was an invitation if there ever was one.
“It’s fine,” he said licking his lips as he raised his eyes to meet the Frenchman’s gaze full one. “It’s all fine.”
Sherlock’s lips curved up into a grin. “Good,” he said, and then he pounced.
*
“Fuck me.”
The words slipped out before he had a chance to register them, register what they meant, but even when his brain caught up he somehow knew that he meant them.
Sherlock froze from where he had been layering kisses down his back, hands stopping to simply cup his arse.
They had ended up in what John took to be Sherlock’s bedroom. It had been the closest, most accessible place, and it had a bed. To his surprise it was also relatively bare compared to the rest of the flat.
Stripped of his clothing he had been pushed front first onto the bed by the Frenchman who seemed determined to kiss or lick every inch of his skin, starting at the back of his shoulder and working down. It felt glorious, adding to his growing arousal the closer the Frenchman got to his arse.
It had been years since he had been penetrated, years since he had even wanted that, but somehow he wanted that now, wanted Sherlock to take him, to slide in and make him feel that burn of being filled.
“No.”
He opened his eyes in surprise as Sherlock rolled to lie on the bed beside him. That was really not the answer he had been expecting. He twisted his head to look down just to check. Sherlock was hard, very hard, his erection straining with that slight curve that he knew would feel brilliant against his prostate.
Scrambling across, he caught the erection in his hand, smiling when Sherlock’s hips twitched, thrusting up into his fist with a gasp.
“Why not?” he asked stroking rhythmically, desire shooting through him when Sherlock did nothing to stop him, just turned his head so they could share another kiss.
“Because,” he heard breathed out against him, hand reaching out to finally grip his upper arm. “If you’re serious… ask me again… tomorrow.”
Then Sherlock was rolling away, passing over the lube and a condom before settling on his stomach, knees spread beneath him. It was a gorgeous sight, but not the one John had been hoping for.
He stared for a moment, pressing his lips together. He wanted to ask why not, why Sherlock wouldn’t just fuck him. He wanted it. He couldn’t imagine that Sherlock didn’t want it, so why was he denying them?
“Fine,” he said slapping a hand down to squeeze that rather shapely arse, “but I want you on your back.” If he was going to do this then he was going to watch the Frenchman come apart beneath him.
Sherlock nodded and made to roll over again.
“Wait,” John stopped him. “In a moment. First,” he bent over to press a kiss to the small of the back as he uncapped the lube bottle, “I’m going…” he ran his tongue down the back to the first swell of the arse, “to do this…” he pushed Sherlock’s thigh up so it now lay at a right angle, “my way.”
He pressed his lube coated finger to Sherlock’s entrance, tracing it slowly round and round until the muscle slowly began to relax. From their previous encounters he knew that Sherlock didn’t need much preparation, but he wanted to do it this time and make sure it was thorough. It would need to be for what he was planning.
He pressed a little harder and watched as the tip of his finger popped in.
“You know, you don’t have to…” he heard the Frenchman say but he ignored it in favour of pushing in a second.
Sherlock sighed, pressing back against him until both fingers were as far in as they could go. He twisted his hand, finger tips brushing against the hard nub they found.
“Oh… oui,” he heard, the voice partially muffled by the pillow. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed in a way John had not seen before. He looked almost younger, far more vulnerable than he would have imagined.
He added a third finger, stretching and twisting, watching as Sherlock’s mouth fell open and he rocked back and forth as if searching for something more.
“Gorgeous.”
The word slid past his mouth with little input from his brain - it appeared to be that sort of night - and then those eyes were flicking open, unfocussed for a moment and then narrowing.
“Gratifying,” he said, “but meretricious.”
John groaned pulling out his fingers. “Only you would use such a big word while being fingered. Roll over.”
Sherlock did so, stretching up before relaxing, his legs falling unashamedly open.
“How flexible are you?” he asked as he slid on the condom.
Sherlock smirked, his eyes lidded. “Very.”
“Good.”
Sliding back between the legs, he caught his arm under Sherlock’s knee and pulled it up, propping it over his good shoulder. “Because I intend to test that.”
He pressed in, not stopping until they were as close as they could get.
“You may want to hold onto something.”
He set a firm, steady but fast pace, watching with satisfaction as Sherlock’s head fell back, eyes closing as a satisfied gasp slid from the Frenchman’s mouth.
“Oh… oui. C’est bien. C’est très bien, Jean.”
Neither of them were going to last long, their foreplay having basically have been played out over many hours, but that didn’t mean he was going to make it easy.
“No,” he said, slapping Sherlock’s hand away from where it had moved towards his heavy cock.
The Frenchman glared for a moment before letting his arm fall back to the bed, reaching back to grip the headboard, hips lifting into the next thrust.
They were going to do this his way, damnit, and that meant Sherlock was just going to have to wait until he was good and ready to let the other man come. He groaned as that thought alone caused him to drive in more frequently.
“Jean.”
He twisted his head away, pressing his lips to the skin of the thigh still over his shoulder. He could smell him, that ridiculously earthy cologne, that musk of arousal.
“Jean. S’il-te-plait. Touche-moi.”
He looked back down, to where Sherlock was opened mouthed, to where one fist was desperately tight around the bed headboard, the other tugging at the bed sheets. He looked down to where the cock was bouncing against the bare stomach with every stroke. It was all he could do to stop himself from coming, or worse from saying something he would really regret, some sort of hormone fuelled confession that would shatter what they had, what they were doing. This wasn’t the time or place for some sort of ridiculous emotion driven sentiment, this was a time for fucking, for taking the gorgeous creature below him until he shattered apart.
“Jean. Please.”
It was the slip back into English that had him growling, the desperation clear in Sherlock’s eyes. Giving in, he finally wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s prick.
“Putain!”
“Fuck!” he gasped as the Frenchman arched against him, a stream of French coming from the mouth as a hand shot up to scrape across his shoulder.
“Mon Dieu… Jean… S’il-te-plait…j’vais…oui… oh….”
And he came, head thrown back, hips snapping up, eyes closed, mouth open, breathlessly riding the crest as John felt the contractions around his own cock and then he was coming too. Two short thrusts and he let Sherlock’s spasms take him over, all the fight, the emotion, the fear of the day shooting out from him, leaving him limp and sated, barely able to dispose of the condom before he collapsed on his back beside Sherlock, panting and drained.
That had been one hell of a fuck, hard and fast and so good. Beside him Sherlock lay staring up at the ceiling, both legs now flat on the mattress, stomach a sticky mess. They should do something about that, he thought, but for the moment he could barely move.
“Sherlock?” he said softly after a few moments. He reached out a hand but the Frenchman pulled away, rolling over to swing his legs over the side of the bed and sit for a moment with his head bowed.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m fine,” the Frenchman suddenly said, his tone sharp but softened by either tiredness or something else. “I’m….” Then he was on his feet and walking away.
John watched for a moment, not entirely sure what to do as Sherlock left the room. Following him was not an option, the other man clearly needing a moment alone, but leaving wasn’t much of an option either.
Damn. Bugger it. Sodding, bloody, bastard hell.
Grabbing a tissue from the box beside the bed, he scrubbed it over his stomach, cleaning himself as well as he could before flopping back down onto the bed. He waited, but after a few minutes it became clear that Sherlock might not actually be coming back.
Fuck it.
Scrambling off the bed he searched for his clothing, finally finding his pants, trousers and shirt. He also got one sock, but there was no sign of the other one. His shoes and jacket were in the main room. He just hoped he had enough cash on him to make it back to his hotel. He didn’t even know what the time was.
There was no sign of Sherlock when he finally ventured out of the bedroom and the rest of the flat was dark. He was reluctant to switch on any of the lights and couldn’t decide whether Sherlock’s absence was a good or bad thing. He didn’t think he had hurt him in any way, not physically at least. He had sat up, stood up and moved easily enough while saying that he was fine. So it must have been something else.
Slipping on his shoes, he cast another quick eye around for his missing sock but it was to no avail.
“Right,” he said, “right.”
“John.”
He jumped at the soft voice, startled to realise that Sherlock had been standing in the shadow of the window all that time, a robe wrapped around him.
“John, I…” and then he stopped, a slightly lost, somewhat confused frown on his face, before offering a one word question, “dinner?”
*
End of Part Three
*
Part Four