New Fic: A Study in Winning (6/10) part 1 of 2
Title: A Study in Winning
Author:
jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta:
trillsabells
Word Count: 10K 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 Three Four Five
*
A Study in Winning
Part Six
*
The first time he awoke, it was to Sherlock’s arm once more across his chest and their legs touching, threatening to entwine. It felt rather nice actually, a little strange for Sherlock to be there in that hotel room and bed, but nice none the less. His bladder on the other hand reminded him that not everything was nice and cosy after all.
Sighing softly, he carefully made his way out, Sherlock barely stirring, and went to relieve himself. It was still early, very early in fact and after he finished he returned to the bed and slipped back under the covers.
The second time he woke it was to find himself on his side, breathing in and out a mop of dark hair, his arm flung around the other man who was also on his side, facing away from him. Spooning, he realised once his brain had adequately kicked in, they were practically spooning. Any closer and he would be rubbing his morning erection against the other man’s arse.
A little disconcerted he rolled over onto his back, bringing his arm, leg and erection with him. He felt the loss of contact immediately, but it couldn’t be helped, it wouldn’t have done for Sherlock to have woken up with him plastered to his back like a limpet.
“I can do something about that if you’d like.”
Sherlock’s deep, sleep affected voice startled him for a moment. “What?” he managed absently, his brain slowly catching up with the fact that Sherlock could well have been awake the whole time he had been nuzzling at his neck and hair and holding him like a spoon. Oh god.
Sherlock turned, shifting first onto his back and then onto his side to face him. He looked surprisingly alert for the first thing in the morning and pre caffeinated beverage of any kind. His eyes were also flicking down to a specific part of the sheets that covered a certain part of his anatomy. Finally the meaning of the words sunk in and he felt the heat rise up on his face.
“Oh, uh,” he said clearing his throat, the memory of the last time Sherlock had ‘helped him out’ in such a situation springing to mind. “That’s nice, but uh, not necessary.”
Sherlock’s lips curved up. “Just nice?” he asked leaning over to flick his tongue across a particularly sensitive part of his neck, his hand sliding under the covers. “Sounds like I need to work on that then.”
The fingers ran across his cock - which was by now desperately trying to persuade him that it was better than just ‘nice’ thank you very much - before grasping it firmly just the way he liked. His hips jerked automatically and he let out a hiss.
“It’s uh, more than nice… yes… oh… but you don’t… don’t have to… yes….”
“Yes,” Sherlock replied dragging out the word as he drew a particularly long, slow stroke upwards, “but I want to. And I always tend to get what I want.”
With that he disappeared from view.
Oh god. Sherlock really was quite talented at that. Ridiculously talented in fact. Extraordinarily… yes, there god… talented, and always one… holy bloody bleeding hell… to set out to… ah, yes, ye-ess… prove his… yes… talent. Christ, yes, that had been good.
He blinked as Sherlock’s head reappeared licking his lips with a somewhat smug expression on his face. Arrogant, big headed Frenchman! He fell back against the pillow and rubbed his eyes. As wakeup calls went that had certainly been enjoyable.
“Still just ‘nice’?” Sherlock asked slumping against him.
He looked across as Sherlock stretched, looking remarkably like the cat who had just… he stopped the simile there and rolled his eyes. “Shut up,” he said. Sherlock just grinned.
Once again Sherlock declined all offers of reciprocation - “I don’t do that, not the day before a match, remember” - and it wasn’t long before reality encroached in on them.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said studying his new text message. “Unfortunately it seems that I must depart, but meet me at the club at twelve. We’ll grab something to eat, discuss our relevant game plans and then head over to the courts for a knock around.”
“Sure,” he said, watching as Sherlock tugged on his jeans and shirt from the night before.
“Who’ve you got in the next round?” he asked, curious because he hadn’t exactly bothered to check.
“Federer,” Sherlock said, his lip curling somewhat.
Blimey. John raised his eyebrow. “What about the others? I know He-Who-Should-Be-Punched-Again went through. He’s got Djokovic, hasn’t he?”
Sherlock nodded pulling on his socks.
“Which leaves Nadal and….” He paused and frowned. “Actually I don’t know who won that other match in the end. Roddick was leading, but did he win? Who’s Nadal playing?”
Sherlock pressed his lips together as he grabbed his shoes. “I believe Roddick lost. Nadal is playing Moran.”
Moran? Nadal verses Moran, that would be an interesting match.
“And you’ve got the Battle of Britain,” Sherlock said as he reached the door. “Let’s hope you don’t get shot down.”
He took breakfast downstairs, flicking through The Telegraph to find he had made the back page. Not the headline of course, that was still all Andy Murray, but a decent spread documenting his come back and speculating as to the cause of his sudden increase in form. Fortunately there was no mention of Sherlock, or at least no mention of them being linked, or of anything more.
The reporters were waiting for him when he left for Wimbledon. He wasn’t surprised by that, although he was then taken aback by the question as to why he wasn’t surprised by that. When had being followed, snapped and hounded by the press become such an ‘everyday’ experience? And to think that just a few weeks earlier he had been lying, licking his wounds having crashed out of Queens. How much had changed. How little time it had changed in.
The weather was a little cooler than it had been, dry but somewhat overcast. Almost typical English weather, although the report he had caught suggested that it would not stay like that indefinitely. It was to get warmer apparently. That would be fine provided it didn’t get too hot. He didn’t perform well in sweltering weather and there were only so many times you could wipe your brow with your sweat bands or towel and change your shirt before it became ridiculous.
He was now due to meet Sherlock at the practice courts at one o’clock, having received a text informing him of the change of plan but not telling him why. Today was of course traditionally Women’s Tuesday, being as it was dominated by the Ladies’ Quarter Final matches. While the men got a day off, the women - who played fewer sets, best of three rather than best of five - followed straight on from their fourth round matches the day before. Other matches taking place included the ladies doubles, although he wasn’t too certain what round they were now on.
Leaving the main block, he made his way down to the practice courts, stopping to sign a few autographs along the way. He was early when he got there, which meant that unsurprisingly Sherlock was not yet there. Much to his delight though, he found that Sarah was there, practicing her serve alone.
“John,” she said as she spotted him. Coming over, she greeted him with a pleasant smile and a “Congratulations. Quarter finals?” she said. “You’re having one hell of a tournament.”
He smiled. “You playing today?”
“Third round,” she said. “We’ve got Petrova and Stosur on Number Two Court, third on though, so still a while to wait yet. Thought we’d get some practice in first.”
“Where’s Molly?” he asked referring to her doubles partner.
“Running a little late,” Sarah said, “although she should be here soon. She’s not going to be happy to see you though.”
He frowned in surprise. “How comes?” he asked. As far as he was aware he and Molly had gotten on fine. It was less than a week since he’d spent a very pleasant dinner with the two of them.
“Well,” Sarah said, “you did punch her boyfriend.”
“I what?” he said. “Of course I haven’t punched her… oh,” he stopped, his eyes widening. “Moriarty,” he said. “She’s dating Jim Moriarty?” Quiet little Molly?”
“It’s not really public knowledge,” Sarah said, “so don’t go spreading it around, but yeah. They haven’t been together that long though.”
John stared at her. Molly and Moriarty? That wasn’t… surely that wasn’t possible. Not after what Sherlock had said, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly likely to lie. Was he?
“But I thought,” he said and then quickly found himself foundering.
“What did you think?” Sarah said a little more sharply. “That Molly’s too quiet, or plain, or timid to attract someone like Moriarty?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “It’s just I was under the impression that he was, uh, actually, never mind.” He had been about to say ‘gay’, but then a number of thoughts and images had flashed through his mind, including the phrase that included the words pot, kettle and black.
“They’re very happy together,” Sarah continued. “Certainly Molly is at least. Why? You’ve got this funny look on your face. What exactly aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” he said, because really what could he say? Your doubles partner may be involved with one of the most dangerously unhinged men around, let alone on the tennis circuit, who could well be using her as some kind of beard while he obsessed over another man. Yeah, that wasn’t likely to go down well. “Just, uh, tell her to be careful,” he said. “He has a, uh, reputation.”
“Bit rich coming from the man who is reported to be hanging around with one Sherlock Holmes,” Sarah said and for a moment he was a little caught off guard by the comment before realising that she was teasing him rather than being malicious.
“Yeah, well, you know,” he said. “I’ve always been a bit of a masochist like that.”
Sarah laughed. “Don’t bother,” she said, “you forget I know you too well. You’re not a masochist. Adrenaline junky, yes. Masochist, no. Anyway, you do know he’s over there, don’t you,” she said nodding to a place behind his left shoulder.
Turning he found that Sherlock was indeed over there, flanked on either side by big men in dark suits wearing ear wires, and a weary looking Lestrade who had his arms crossed.
“Blimey,” Sarah said, “he must be up himself to think he needs that amount of security, and he certainly doesn’t look happy about something. Hope it’s not you.”
Sarah was right, Sherlock didn’t look happy, although he was sure that had more to do with the black suited minders surrounding him than anything else. It looked as if Mycroft was taking no chances.
“I’ve got to go,” he said quickly.
“Try and stay in one piece and don’t take any crap from him.”
He flashed a smile and then made his way over to where Sherlock and Lestrade were arguing in rapid French again. John didn’t bother trying to make any sense of it. The bodyguards were blatantly ignoring it, but he hadn’t missed the way they had checked him over as he had approached. He had half expected to have been stopped or questioned, but in the end they didn’t even move. Obviously they had been informed as to who he was and deemed ‘safe’. He honestly wasn’t sure how that made him feel.
“Salut, Jean,” Sherlock said still obviously in French mode after he had finished with Lestrade.
“Yeah, hi,” he said before moving closer. “Look, is it safe to talk, you know, about You-Know-Who?”
Sherlock looked momentarily surprised before casting his gaze around, at the bodyguards, at the Wimbledon staff, at the few reporters milling around, at the ticket holders who had come down to the practice courts in the hope of seeing some of their favourite players in action, at all the other players around.
“Come on,” he said softly and led them down to what appeared to be their practice court, to the place most secluded and away from everyone else. “Well?” he said.
“Did you know he’s apparently seeing someone? You know, romantically.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together. “Who?”
“Molly,” he said. “Molly Hooper. She’s….”
“Yes, I know who she is,” Sherlock said. “Ranked seventy-ninth for singles, about eighteenth for doubles, small, quick, accurate, a little timid but very proficient. Currently partnering Sarah Sawyer, old flame of yours, well, when I say flame, more of a glowing ember with the occasional spark. You had dinner with them at the Dorchester last Thursday. It was… pleasant. You hadn’t really met Molly before that, but you got on well enough, although that could well have changed now considering you punched her boyfriend in the jaw.”
John stared at him. “Wow,” he said, “that was… wait, do you have information like that on all tennis players?”
“Some,” Sherlock admitted. “If I deem it relevant to me or my tennis.”
“But you didn’t know who I was when we first met.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “At the time you were hardly what I would consider relevant.”
John wasn’t sure how to respond to that, particularly as he was fully aware of how ‘not relevant’ he had been in the world of tennis. “And Molly is relevant?” he asked instead.
“She is now,” Sherlock said. “But why Molly Hooper?”
He was frowning as if he couldn’t fathom why someone like Moriarty might go for someone like Molly.
“Maybe he just likes her,” he offered. From Sherlock’s look though he concluded that this was perhaps not the best thing to say. “Look,” he said, “whatever little game he’s playing, just, you know, ignore it or something. You’re not going to figure it out now, so let’s warm up, get some practice in and take it from there.”
Sherlock looked at him for a considerable moment, an inscrutable look on his face. Then he nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Come along, John. The game is on.”
*
Sherlock certainly didn’t hold back during the practice, powering the ball back faster and harder until they built up quite the little audience who watched fascinated from behind the fence. They even attracted the attention of someone with a microphone and a BBC badge, which pretty much confirmed that they would be unable to deny their acquaintance any longer.
“It’s just a practice,” Sherlock said after he raised the subject while they took a drinks break. “It’s hardly anything new. How’s your shoulder? From your serve it looks as if your serratus anterior is tightening up again.”
He shoulder was certainly starting to remind him that it was still there. Despite a thorough warm up he could feel the muscles starting to pull again. It wasn’t anything major - he was old, his body was old, at least in tennis years - and it was rare that he managed to get through anything, even the most simple of practices, without something tightening, seizing or aching.
“Mm, yes,” he said rolling his shoulders. “It’s alright though. Can keep going if you want.”
“Nonsense,” Sherlock said, “anymore and you will be barely fit to play tomorrow. You’ve done more continuous competitive playing this tournament than you have done in years. I say steam room, showers and a massage.”
He nodded. “Yup, okay, sounds,” …hot, sexy… “good,” he finished off. “Then you can tell me how long Murray’s going to take to beat me.”
“So defeatist,” Sherlock said. “Miracles can happen. Come on.”
As usual Sherlock was absolutely right, there would have been little benefit in continuing any longer, but there was one thing he hadn’t considered and that was being in close proximity in the steam room, let alone in the showers or during the massage, but it was the steam room that John realised he would have to get through first. Apparently the sight of a certain person all flushed and wrapped only in a towel was giving him ideas, which was odd because he had never had a problem like this before. Steam rooms were for relaxation and were associated with sport and physical exercise. He wasn’t one particularly turned on by the semi-nude male form, he saw it enough after all, and yet, this was Sherlock, and that apparently made all the difference.
Sighing, he opted to lie on his front and closed his eyes which gave him the advantage of both not having to see Sherlock and of being able to hide better should any part of his body suddenly decide to, uh, perk up a bit.
“Murray’s a defensive counter-puncher,” Sherlock said.
Fortunately for them they were currently the only people in the steam room, which at least meant there was no need for that ridiculous accent.
“He is one of the top returners of the game, has excellent reach and can block back nearly any serve, so don’t expect to ace him. He has a very good first serve, a low error rate groundstroke and his switch from defence to offence can be done extremely fast."
Yes, brilliant, just what he wanted to hear. “So,” he said his voice slightly muffled, “in short I should enjoy the match, enjoy the day, enjoy Centre Court, because it will be the last of my career. Well,” he concluded, “there are worse ways of ending one’s career than going out to the British Number One and world number four, in front of fifteen thousand people, Centre Court, home crowd, at the most famous tournament in the world.”
He actually meant it, because hell he would have jumped at that chance only a few weeks before. In fact forget the quarter finals, ten days ago he would have happily taken it had it been the second round. But now it felt tainted somehow. As a way of finishing he could think of nothing better, but that also meant that this wild little love affair - love affair? Lust or sex affair surely? - would come to an end and he wasn’t sure he wanted that.
“He has his weaknesses of course,” Sherlock said. “Prefers hard to grass, tends to play passively and can lack in offensive strokes.”
“So he can be beaten then.”
“He’s the fourth in the world,” Sherlock said with a certain amount of scorn in his voice, “of course he can be beaten. Anyone can be beaten.”
“Even you.”
Sherlock made an extremely negative noise. “Of course I can be beaten.” He didn’t need to include the words, ‘you idiot’, John could clearly hear them anyway.
Opening his eyes, he turned his head to where Sherlock was lying on his back on the next bench along. He had his hands clasped together and appeared to be thinking hard. Perhaps too hard from the tension in his body. His arms, however, were free from any nicotine patches.
“You shouldn’t be concerning yourself so much with it,” he said resisting the urge to do anything stupid like reach over and rest a hand on that shoulder. “Worry about your own match. You’ve got Federer after all. I’ll worry about Murray, and what will be will be.”
There was no point in remembering that one way or another, whether they won their matches or not, this little excursion would be coming to an end soon anyway.
He went to take a shower, the water slightly cooler than he normally would have it, using it to douse the whole torrent of emotions currently swirling around in him. Then came the massage, which Sherlock mercifully left him alone for. By the time he had had his shoulders, back and legs pummelled into submission, he was feeling relaxed and loose, or at least he was until he remembered he was playing Murray the next day.
Emerging, he found Sherlock now dressed in a smart black jogging suit and was talking quite animatedly on his mobile in something that seemed to change language every couple of sentences. He was sure he heard German, Italian and possible even Russian mixed in with the usual French.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said once he had finished as if the single word summed up everything, and in fact it could well do.
“Sounds important.”
“Interfering more like. Something to do with extra security and my room. Damn it, he’s interrupting my preparation time. Is that what he wants? Is that part of his plan? Did he know Mycroft would stick his big nose in?”
John was lost. “Wait, who?” he asked.
“Moriarty of course,” Sherlock said. “It’s obvious. Do keep up. He sent me those trainers on purpose. He’s trying to…” he stopped and then looked at him, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got a laptop. I could use yours instead.”
Wait? What? Huh? “My laptop?” he asked. “You want to use my laptop?”
“No, I want to throw it to the ground and jump on it,” Sherlock said with a pronounced roll of the eyes. “Of course I want to use it.”
John refrained from snapping something particularly rude back. Sherlock was stressed, he could be forgiven a certain amount of rude arrogance - wait, was this what everyone else experienced? None of the good stuff, just the abrupt demanding side?
“Ever stopped to think that maybe I will want to use my laptop. You know, to do my own research.”
“Pointless,” Sherlock said. “There is nothing you could find out about Murray that I can’t tell you. I do have experience at playing him after all.”
“Yeah, and I have experience of getting my arse kicked around the court by him as well,” John said, although that had only been the once but Murray hadn’t even needed to work particularly hard to beat him. “It’s still my laptop, and while you seem perfectly at ease requisitioning it for your own needs, it would be nice to be, you know, asked.”
Sherlock’s expression, as blank as it was, did show the barest hint of surprise, a dash of confusion and a little bit of something else. He seemed to consider for a moment before saying, “John, I would very much appreciate it if in the light of current circumstances you would consent to loan me your laptop so I can continue with my pre-match preparation.”
There was no sorry, no please, the words were a little clipped but John had no problem seeing it for what it was.
“Of course,” he said more softly than he had spoken before. “You can use it in my room as well if you don’t want to go back to yours.”
“That would be… good,” Sherlock said. “Yes, I would, uh, appreciate that very much.”
They returned to the Dorchester together, trying to avoid the bulk of the press, Sherlock’s entourage following behind, looking intimidating if someone dared to come close to them. Back at the hotel, Sherlock disappeared to his suite before returning twenty minutes later having changed from his sportswear into jeans and a casual shirt. With him he brought a variety of notebooks and pens, a selection of healthy snack foods and a promise that later, if John wanted, he was not against watching another of those ridiculous spy movies.
“Are you going to criticise it again?” John asked.
“Of course,” Sherlock said with an expression that asked what else he was expected to do.
“Alright,” John said with a slight smile, mentally reviewing which film would be most entertaining with Sherlock’s running scathing commentary. Distracted, he was surprised when Sherlock handed him a specific notebook. “What’s this?”
“You need to open it and read,” Sherlock said.
He opened it and was faced by the words, ANDY MURRAY.
“Is this….” he started.
“Quite,” Sherlock said, “my notes, observations, deductions and analysis of Murray. It goes back a few years of course, although we have met half a dozen times in the past two years. You might want to focus on those more recent experiences in particular. I thought it would be helpful for you, although I apologise for the combination of the languages.”
“Uh, right, thanks,” he said flicking through, noting hand drawn pictures and diagrams, and writing scrawled in a mess of French and English. “This is good, yeah, very good. Thanks.”
Sherlock nodded and settled himself onto the bed with the laptop, pulling up video files and opening his notebook. They stayed like that for the rest of the afternoon, in pleasant company, followed by food and The Spy Who Loved Me.
*
“It’s Men’s Quarter Finals Day here at Wimbledon. The skies are blue, the temperature reaching into the mid-twenties and you can practically taste the excitement in the air.”
*
Sherlock had gone back to his own room the night before, leaving behind his notebook on Andy Murray and the unspoken expectation that he would collect it after their matches. That was the closest, John supposed, that either of them had come to wishing the other good luck.
He had a sinking sensation, however, that it wasn’t luck that he needed but a bloody miracle. Beating Trevor was one thing, but the man was on his way down having already reached his peak. Murray was ranked fourth in the world for a reason and was only getting better. Murray had been expected to reach the semi-finals here, if not the finals. He had been expected to go out in the first round, or if he was lucky, the second.
If this was going to be his last professional tennis match, well, at least let him go out in style.
*
“Starting from one o’clock we have Moran verses Nadal on Court Number One, followed by Holmes verses Federer. While Centre Court first gets to see the World Number Two, Jim Moriarty take on World Number Five Novak Djokovic, followed by that all British clash, Andy Murray verses John Watson. The question is… where exactly do you start?”
“Four incredible matches, Ann, the top six all in action, while ninth seed Moran has had a brilliant tournament so far, played superbly in the last round to knock out Andy Roddick, thoroughly deserving his place in the last eight.”
“And then there’s John Watson. By any measure he’s had an astonishing Wimbledon so far.”
“Astonishing barely covers it. Before it started most people had forgotten who he was, and even the most optimistic of fans wouldn’t have put him down as progressing further than the second round. I watched him at Queens just a few weeks ago and he looked tired and jaded. His games were mediocre at best, no fire, no spirit, no passion, and then he’s come here and he’s like a new man. He decimated Dimmock in the third round, and somehow found a new gear to come back from a set down to beat Trevor in the fourth when everyone, including myself, was ready to write him off and applaud the match as the last of his professional career. Yet here he is.”
“There are a lot of rumours flying around, but he has been seen quite a considerable amount in the company of Sherlock Holmes. They were out on the practice courts together again yesterday. Do you suppose this seemingly unlikely acquaintance has contributed to the change in Watson?”
“You’re not the first to have asked that, Ann. Watson himself mentioned in an interview that he’s been inspired by Holmes. It’s clear he’s getting something out of it, if only confidence and a positive outlook. Neither of them have coaches or trainers here with them, so maybe they’re getting the support and advice from each other. Sometimes confidence and encouragement is all you need and in a game like tennis can often make all the difference.”
*
He didn’t sleep particularly well, but that was hardly surprising. His mind was too full of rackets and nets and yellow balls and crowds and flags and Sherlock. It was strange how Sherlock had somehow managed to creep in there, weaving in and out of his thoughts and dreams.
He wasn’t playing until late, three, three thirty at the earliest, as he doubted Djokovic was the type to simply roll over. The pundits were predicting Moriarty to win but with the possibility of it going to four sets. Then again they were the same pundits who were predicting him to lose in three straight sets. The top four, the newspapers had decided were the ones most likely to meet each other in the semis; Nadal verses Murray in the first, Holmes verses Moriarty in the second. The most likely upset appeared to be the possibility of Moriarty losing to Djokovic, or as an even slimmer possibility, Holmes losing to Federer. No one was suggesting that he had a hope in hell of beating Murray.
He took his breakfast downstairs, needing to be away from his room. He noticed a few glances in his direction, a few ‘good lucks’ as he walked through from the hotel staff, but for the most part people left him alone.
“John.”
He had just finished his eggs when Sarah spotted him and made a beeline over. Rising to his feet he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and asked her to join him. She did so, but only briefly as she was due to be meeting Molly.
“You look terrible,” she said scrutinizing him. “Don’t take that the wrong way though, but pre-match nerves? Didn’t get much sleep then? It’s not like you to worry.”
That was true, he supposed, but then again it had been years since faced with a match of this importance and magnitude that he really wanted to win, and he was on Centre Court. Centre Court! It really had been a long time since he had played there. Did they still need to bow to the royal box? Hell, was there going to be any royalty there?
“Congratulations on your win,” he said instead turning it round to her and Molly’s victory the day before.
They talked about that until Sarah spotted Molly. John followed her gaze and froze as beside Molly was none other than Jim Moriarty. He of course looked cool and refreshed, no pre-match nerves for him, and before John knew it the pair were beside his table.
“Sarah,” Moriarty said smoothly, “you’re looking as lovely as ever.”
He gritted his teeth as an odd sensation over took him. Moriarty! Jim Moriarty himself. The man who had dared to cause Sherlock so much strife. The one who dared to consider himself worthy enough for a place in Sherlock’s bed, let along in Sherlock’s life and affections. The man he currently despised most in the world and hadn’t even realised it until that very moment.
“And John Watson,” Moriarty said smoothly, “such a pleasant surprise to see that you’ve reached this far. Could it be that Sherlock Holmes is rubbing off on you?”
There was nothing about that sentence that he even came close to liking.
“Moriarty,” he said as calmly, as neutrally and as politely as he could considering that all he wanted to do was to punch the arrogant smug git in the jaw again. He tried not to clench his fist. “One o’clock match on Centre Court, isn’t it? Do try to warm the crowds up properly for me. Excuse me.”
He nodded to Molly and then made his escape before Moriarty could respond. God he loathed that man. He wouldn’t call himself a violent person by nature, but there was something about Moriarty that brought out his more basic instincts. That man deserved another punch. To think that he had ever dared to lay a finger on someone like Sherlock, especially a younger, more naïve version of Sherlock, was nauseating.
*
“How’s the celebrity watch going on out there, Ruth?”
“Fascinating so far, Richard. I’m currently out on Henman Hill, but before that I spotted Sir Michael Cain, Sir Cliff Richard who is well known as being a Wimbledon fan, and that tall ginger one from Harry Potter.”
“Rupert Grint?”
“That would be him. I’ve also heard rumours that David Beckham will be here later, and probably someone from the Royal Family.”
“Not the Queen, surely.”
“No, not the Queen. Most likely it will be the Duke and Duchess of Kent, although I have heard rumours that it could even be Prince Harry or Prince William.”
“And what’s the feeling like on the hill?”
“The atmosphere is electric, Richard. People have been queuing for days to get tickets, especially for Centre Court. There are so many flags around, banners, painted faces. Just a moment. Hello ladies, could I just ask, who are you most excited about seeing today.”
“Oh definitely Murray-Watson.”
“Yeah, Murray verses Watson all the way.”
“And who will you be cheering on?”
“Murray.”
“Yeah, Murray.”
“Any reason? Why not Watson?”
“Well Murray’s the better player, isn’t he? He’s got a better chance of getting to the final.”
“And what about you, sir?”
“Murray.”
“And what about this group here?”
“Watson all the way. Go Watson!”
“And who do you think will win?”
“Murray.”
“Murray.”
“Yeah, probably Murray.”
“Murray, although I hope it’s Watson. It would be cool if he did, but I don’t think that’s likely.”
“Murray, yeah.”
“Watson.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, well, gotta have faith, and he’s English. We like an underdog.”
“So there you have it, Richard. Murray to win and the crowd will be watching every moment.”
*
The cameras flashed the moment he stepped out the door. Covering his eyes he dived into the car and slammed the door shut. Right, this was it. Off to Wimbledon. Pick up his match rackets and try not to collapse with nerves and or worry.
He fiddled with his mobile phone, turning it over and over in his hands. He had received lots of supportive texts from so many people, including one from Harry where she didn’t complain about the lack of tickets. Of course he hadn’t heard a word from Sherlock, but then he hadn’t expected to.
Turning his phone over and over again, he sighed before pulling up a new blank text message. Good luck he wrote, found the right number and hit send.
All he could do now was go through his pre-match rituals and then wait.
*
“And it’s one o’clock here on Centre Court where world number two, Jim Moriarty, and world number five, Novak Djokovic, are warming up, while over on Court Number One, Sebastian Moran and Rafael Nadal are going through their own final preparations. So, Tim, John, what are your predictions?”
“Well, Ann, Moriarty and Djokovic could well be a close one. They are both excellent players, both on fine form, both hungry to win. If we’re looking for an upset, this could be the one. Moriarty is of course coming off the back of his victory in France, but grass and clay are rather different. I don’t think he’s going to find Djokovic all that easy to get past.”
“Tim’s right, Ann, of all the matches, this could be the closest, although Holmes-Federer later has the possibility to be a shock, but Moriarty shouldn’t underestimate Djokovic. He does have the advantage of course. What is it, four wins in the last five of their meetings, but it’s so easy to get arrogant. All you need is a little bit of luck and some near misses and you have a whole new game on your hands.”
“And what about Moran verses Nadal? Any predictions there?”
“Nadal, definitely. He’s been on fire all this tournament. Moran’s played some brilliant tennis, but technically wise he’s just not in the same league as the world number one.”
“Nadal all the way. On a court, with a racket, a day like today, Nadal is virtually unstoppable. Straight sets, Nadal.”
“Straight sets, Nadal.”
“And Moriarty-Djokovic?”
“Moriarty. Four sets.”
“With the possibility of a fifth, but most likely four.”
*
Wimbledon was heaving. It felt as if half of London had squeezed their way through the gates, and it had been a long time since he had seen so many familiar non-tennis faces. Was that David Beckham over there? Surely not.
There were union flags everywhere, and even some Saint George’s crosses, although there were just as many, if not more, of the blue and white of Saint Andrew’s cross. Within a few minutes he really wished he had Sherlock’s bodyguards, just so he could keep moving and make his way through the crowds of people.
Was that someone from Girls Aloud?
He managed to take refuge in the changing rooms, sitting on the long wooden bench to compose himself. Right, he could do this. Andy Murray, brilliant player, but beatable.
Take deep breathes. Check you have everything. Remember you will have to eat something whether you like it or not. Go and find somewhere quiet. Enjoy the day.
Enjoy the day. Right.
*
“Can you believe what you’re watching, Richard?”
“In all honesty, Ann, we’re as surprised as anyone, but Moran is really taking this match to Nadal and now the world number one looks a little bit lost out there. He may have won the first set, but by the time Moran took the second on that tie-break the momentum has fully swung towards him. Now he’s taken the third set and Nadal looks shaken. It’s two sets to one to Moran here and we could well be about to see the exit of the favourite.”
“We certainly could indeed, while over here on Centre Court things have been up and down too. Tim, John.”
“Up and down, Ann, but it seems to be back on the level again. Moriarty is very much back in control.”
“That he is, Ann, and… ooh, that was an excellent shot by Moriarty to take the point. He’s recovered brilliantly after losing that second set, but I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t take this one, and if he does break Djokovic, as he looks as if he’s about to, then I have to say that the match is pretty much his.”
“It’s 15-40, three games all here on Centre Court, third set, one set all between Moriarty and Djokovic… and yes, Moriarty has just broken Djokovic to go four games to three up, his serve to follow.”
*
He forced himself to eat, taking small bites and chewing slowly. He would need the energy later. Not long to go now. In a short while he would go to the gym to start a very slow warm up, make sure he got all those muscles stretched properly. It really wouldn’t do to injure himself part way through the game.
He wondered where Sherlock was and what he was doing now. Probably going through his own pre-match rituals, waiting for that Nadal-Moran match to finish.
*
“And Moran has done it, would you believe it? Sebastian Moran, currently ninth in the world is through to the semi-finals having beaten the number one seed, Rafael Nadal, 3-6, 7-6, 7-5, 6-4.”
“Now that is a shock. Of all the upsets today this wasn’t one that we were expecting. You can see the pain on Nadal’s face. This was his year. That trophy should have been his, and now it’ll go to one of his competitors and with the way the points system is, he could well find himself losing that number one spot come next Monday.”
“Beaten by Holmes in the semi-finals of the French Open, beaten here now in the quarter finals of Wimbledon, this has not been the best few months for Nadal, but for Moran it simply gets better and better. It was as if he knew exactly how to take apart Nadal’s game, knew exactly where all his weak spots were. In a moment we will have an interview with Moran, and we’ll be back here later to tell you all about the Federer-Holmes match that will be starting here soon, but first back to Centre Court.”
*
One match finished, one still just getting to the end. Wherever Sherlock was he hoped he was properly prepared and fired up for his encounter with Federer.
Oh what was he worrying about? Of course Sherlock would be fine. He was always fine. This was Sherlock Holmes.
“Watson.”
He looked up as a steward’s head pocked around the main door to the changing room. “There’s been a break. Looks like you’ll be on soon.”
Oh god. He nodded and swallowed firmly. If the match was going to end soon then there was little point in asking who the break was for. That was pretty obvious.
*
“And Moriarty has pulled it together and finally seen off the late challenge by Djokovic to march on to the semi-finals; 7-5, 6-7, 6-4, 7-5. The world number two, the new favourite to win after the shock defeat of Nadal at the hands of Moran, is safely through, which means the match we have all been waiting for will be starting shortly. Scotland verses England. The Battle of Britain. Andy Murray verses John Watson for that coveted spot in the semi-finals. Don’t go away, because this is not one to be missed.”
*
Continue
Author:
jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta:
trillsabells
Word Count: 10K 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 Three Four Five
*
A Study in Winning
Part Six
*
The first time he awoke, it was to Sherlock’s arm once more across his chest and their legs touching, threatening to entwine. It felt rather nice actually, a little strange for Sherlock to be there in that hotel room and bed, but nice none the less. His bladder on the other hand reminded him that not everything was nice and cosy after all.
Sighing softly, he carefully made his way out, Sherlock barely stirring, and went to relieve himself. It was still early, very early in fact and after he finished he returned to the bed and slipped back under the covers.
The second time he woke it was to find himself on his side, breathing in and out a mop of dark hair, his arm flung around the other man who was also on his side, facing away from him. Spooning, he realised once his brain had adequately kicked in, they were practically spooning. Any closer and he would be rubbing his morning erection against the other man’s arse.
A little disconcerted he rolled over onto his back, bringing his arm, leg and erection with him. He felt the loss of contact immediately, but it couldn’t be helped, it wouldn’t have done for Sherlock to have woken up with him plastered to his back like a limpet.
“I can do something about that if you’d like.”
Sherlock’s deep, sleep affected voice startled him for a moment. “What?” he managed absently, his brain slowly catching up with the fact that Sherlock could well have been awake the whole time he had been nuzzling at his neck and hair and holding him like a spoon. Oh god.
Sherlock turned, shifting first onto his back and then onto his side to face him. He looked surprisingly alert for the first thing in the morning and pre caffeinated beverage of any kind. His eyes were also flicking down to a specific part of the sheets that covered a certain part of his anatomy. Finally the meaning of the words sunk in and he felt the heat rise up on his face.
“Oh, uh,” he said clearing his throat, the memory of the last time Sherlock had ‘helped him out’ in such a situation springing to mind. “That’s nice, but uh, not necessary.”
Sherlock’s lips curved up. “Just nice?” he asked leaning over to flick his tongue across a particularly sensitive part of his neck, his hand sliding under the covers. “Sounds like I need to work on that then.”
The fingers ran across his cock - which was by now desperately trying to persuade him that it was better than just ‘nice’ thank you very much - before grasping it firmly just the way he liked. His hips jerked automatically and he let out a hiss.
“It’s uh, more than nice… yes… oh… but you don’t… don’t have to… yes….”
“Yes,” Sherlock replied dragging out the word as he drew a particularly long, slow stroke upwards, “but I want to. And I always tend to get what I want.”
With that he disappeared from view.
Oh god. Sherlock really was quite talented at that. Ridiculously talented in fact. Extraordinarily… yes, there god… talented, and always one… holy bloody bleeding hell… to set out to… ah, yes, ye-ess… prove his… yes… talent. Christ, yes, that had been good.
He blinked as Sherlock’s head reappeared licking his lips with a somewhat smug expression on his face. Arrogant, big headed Frenchman! He fell back against the pillow and rubbed his eyes. As wakeup calls went that had certainly been enjoyable.
“Still just ‘nice’?” Sherlock asked slumping against him.
He looked across as Sherlock stretched, looking remarkably like the cat who had just… he stopped the simile there and rolled his eyes. “Shut up,” he said. Sherlock just grinned.
Once again Sherlock declined all offers of reciprocation - “I don’t do that, not the day before a match, remember” - and it wasn’t long before reality encroached in on them.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said studying his new text message. “Unfortunately it seems that I must depart, but meet me at the club at twelve. We’ll grab something to eat, discuss our relevant game plans and then head over to the courts for a knock around.”
“Sure,” he said, watching as Sherlock tugged on his jeans and shirt from the night before.
“Who’ve you got in the next round?” he asked, curious because he hadn’t exactly bothered to check.
“Federer,” Sherlock said, his lip curling somewhat.
Blimey. John raised his eyebrow. “What about the others? I know He-Who-Should-Be-Punched-Again went through. He’s got Djokovic, hasn’t he?”
Sherlock nodded pulling on his socks.
“Which leaves Nadal and….” He paused and frowned. “Actually I don’t know who won that other match in the end. Roddick was leading, but did he win? Who’s Nadal playing?”
Sherlock pressed his lips together as he grabbed his shoes. “I believe Roddick lost. Nadal is playing Moran.”
Moran? Nadal verses Moran, that would be an interesting match.
“And you’ve got the Battle of Britain,” Sherlock said as he reached the door. “Let’s hope you don’t get shot down.”
He took breakfast downstairs, flicking through The Telegraph to find he had made the back page. Not the headline of course, that was still all Andy Murray, but a decent spread documenting his come back and speculating as to the cause of his sudden increase in form. Fortunately there was no mention of Sherlock, or at least no mention of them being linked, or of anything more.
The reporters were waiting for him when he left for Wimbledon. He wasn’t surprised by that, although he was then taken aback by the question as to why he wasn’t surprised by that. When had being followed, snapped and hounded by the press become such an ‘everyday’ experience? And to think that just a few weeks earlier he had been lying, licking his wounds having crashed out of Queens. How much had changed. How little time it had changed in.
The weather was a little cooler than it had been, dry but somewhat overcast. Almost typical English weather, although the report he had caught suggested that it would not stay like that indefinitely. It was to get warmer apparently. That would be fine provided it didn’t get too hot. He didn’t perform well in sweltering weather and there were only so many times you could wipe your brow with your sweat bands or towel and change your shirt before it became ridiculous.
He was now due to meet Sherlock at the practice courts at one o’clock, having received a text informing him of the change of plan but not telling him why. Today was of course traditionally Women’s Tuesday, being as it was dominated by the Ladies’ Quarter Final matches. While the men got a day off, the women - who played fewer sets, best of three rather than best of five - followed straight on from their fourth round matches the day before. Other matches taking place included the ladies doubles, although he wasn’t too certain what round they were now on.
Leaving the main block, he made his way down to the practice courts, stopping to sign a few autographs along the way. He was early when he got there, which meant that unsurprisingly Sherlock was not yet there. Much to his delight though, he found that Sarah was there, practicing her serve alone.
“John,” she said as she spotted him. Coming over, she greeted him with a pleasant smile and a “Congratulations. Quarter finals?” she said. “You’re having one hell of a tournament.”
He smiled. “You playing today?”
“Third round,” she said. “We’ve got Petrova and Stosur on Number Two Court, third on though, so still a while to wait yet. Thought we’d get some practice in first.”
“Where’s Molly?” he asked referring to her doubles partner.
“Running a little late,” Sarah said, “although she should be here soon. She’s not going to be happy to see you though.”
He frowned in surprise. “How comes?” he asked. As far as he was aware he and Molly had gotten on fine. It was less than a week since he’d spent a very pleasant dinner with the two of them.
“Well,” Sarah said, “you did punch her boyfriend.”
“I what?” he said. “Of course I haven’t punched her… oh,” he stopped, his eyes widening. “Moriarty,” he said. “She’s dating Jim Moriarty?” Quiet little Molly?”
“It’s not really public knowledge,” Sarah said, “so don’t go spreading it around, but yeah. They haven’t been together that long though.”
John stared at her. Molly and Moriarty? That wasn’t… surely that wasn’t possible. Not after what Sherlock had said, and Sherlock wasn’t exactly likely to lie. Was he?
“But I thought,” he said and then quickly found himself foundering.
“What did you think?” Sarah said a little more sharply. “That Molly’s too quiet, or plain, or timid to attract someone like Moriarty?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “It’s just I was under the impression that he was, uh, actually, never mind.” He had been about to say ‘gay’, but then a number of thoughts and images had flashed through his mind, including the phrase that included the words pot, kettle and black.
“They’re very happy together,” Sarah continued. “Certainly Molly is at least. Why? You’ve got this funny look on your face. What exactly aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” he said, because really what could he say? Your doubles partner may be involved with one of the most dangerously unhinged men around, let alone on the tennis circuit, who could well be using her as some kind of beard while he obsessed over another man. Yeah, that wasn’t likely to go down well. “Just, uh, tell her to be careful,” he said. “He has a, uh, reputation.”
“Bit rich coming from the man who is reported to be hanging around with one Sherlock Holmes,” Sarah said and for a moment he was a little caught off guard by the comment before realising that she was teasing him rather than being malicious.
“Yeah, well, you know,” he said. “I’ve always been a bit of a masochist like that.”
Sarah laughed. “Don’t bother,” she said, “you forget I know you too well. You’re not a masochist. Adrenaline junky, yes. Masochist, no. Anyway, you do know he’s over there, don’t you,” she said nodding to a place behind his left shoulder.
Turning he found that Sherlock was indeed over there, flanked on either side by big men in dark suits wearing ear wires, and a weary looking Lestrade who had his arms crossed.
“Blimey,” Sarah said, “he must be up himself to think he needs that amount of security, and he certainly doesn’t look happy about something. Hope it’s not you.”
Sarah was right, Sherlock didn’t look happy, although he was sure that had more to do with the black suited minders surrounding him than anything else. It looked as if Mycroft was taking no chances.
“I’ve got to go,” he said quickly.
“Try and stay in one piece and don’t take any crap from him.”
He flashed a smile and then made his way over to where Sherlock and Lestrade were arguing in rapid French again. John didn’t bother trying to make any sense of it. The bodyguards were blatantly ignoring it, but he hadn’t missed the way they had checked him over as he had approached. He had half expected to have been stopped or questioned, but in the end they didn’t even move. Obviously they had been informed as to who he was and deemed ‘safe’. He honestly wasn’t sure how that made him feel.
“Salut, Jean,” Sherlock said still obviously in French mode after he had finished with Lestrade.
“Yeah, hi,” he said before moving closer. “Look, is it safe to talk, you know, about You-Know-Who?”
Sherlock looked momentarily surprised before casting his gaze around, at the bodyguards, at the Wimbledon staff, at the few reporters milling around, at the ticket holders who had come down to the practice courts in the hope of seeing some of their favourite players in action, at all the other players around.
“Come on,” he said softly and led them down to what appeared to be their practice court, to the place most secluded and away from everyone else. “Well?” he said.
“Did you know he’s apparently seeing someone? You know, romantically.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together. “Who?”
“Molly,” he said. “Molly Hooper. She’s….”
“Yes, I know who she is,” Sherlock said. “Ranked seventy-ninth for singles, about eighteenth for doubles, small, quick, accurate, a little timid but very proficient. Currently partnering Sarah Sawyer, old flame of yours, well, when I say flame, more of a glowing ember with the occasional spark. You had dinner with them at the Dorchester last Thursday. It was… pleasant. You hadn’t really met Molly before that, but you got on well enough, although that could well have changed now considering you punched her boyfriend in the jaw.”
John stared at him. “Wow,” he said, “that was… wait, do you have information like that on all tennis players?”
“Some,” Sherlock admitted. “If I deem it relevant to me or my tennis.”
“But you didn’t know who I was when we first met.”
Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “At the time you were hardly what I would consider relevant.”
John wasn’t sure how to respond to that, particularly as he was fully aware of how ‘not relevant’ he had been in the world of tennis. “And Molly is relevant?” he asked instead.
“She is now,” Sherlock said. “But why Molly Hooper?”
He was frowning as if he couldn’t fathom why someone like Moriarty might go for someone like Molly.
“Maybe he just likes her,” he offered. From Sherlock’s look though he concluded that this was perhaps not the best thing to say. “Look,” he said, “whatever little game he’s playing, just, you know, ignore it or something. You’re not going to figure it out now, so let’s warm up, get some practice in and take it from there.”
Sherlock looked at him for a considerable moment, an inscrutable look on his face. Then he nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Come along, John. The game is on.”
*
Sherlock certainly didn’t hold back during the practice, powering the ball back faster and harder until they built up quite the little audience who watched fascinated from behind the fence. They even attracted the attention of someone with a microphone and a BBC badge, which pretty much confirmed that they would be unable to deny their acquaintance any longer.
“It’s just a practice,” Sherlock said after he raised the subject while they took a drinks break. “It’s hardly anything new. How’s your shoulder? From your serve it looks as if your serratus anterior is tightening up again.”
He shoulder was certainly starting to remind him that it was still there. Despite a thorough warm up he could feel the muscles starting to pull again. It wasn’t anything major - he was old, his body was old, at least in tennis years - and it was rare that he managed to get through anything, even the most simple of practices, without something tightening, seizing or aching.
“Mm, yes,” he said rolling his shoulders. “It’s alright though. Can keep going if you want.”
“Nonsense,” Sherlock said, “anymore and you will be barely fit to play tomorrow. You’ve done more continuous competitive playing this tournament than you have done in years. I say steam room, showers and a massage.”
He nodded. “Yup, okay, sounds,” …hot, sexy… “good,” he finished off. “Then you can tell me how long Murray’s going to take to beat me.”
“So defeatist,” Sherlock said. “Miracles can happen. Come on.”
As usual Sherlock was absolutely right, there would have been little benefit in continuing any longer, but there was one thing he hadn’t considered and that was being in close proximity in the steam room, let alone in the showers or during the massage, but it was the steam room that John realised he would have to get through first. Apparently the sight of a certain person all flushed and wrapped only in a towel was giving him ideas, which was odd because he had never had a problem like this before. Steam rooms were for relaxation and were associated with sport and physical exercise. He wasn’t one particularly turned on by the semi-nude male form, he saw it enough after all, and yet, this was Sherlock, and that apparently made all the difference.
Sighing, he opted to lie on his front and closed his eyes which gave him the advantage of both not having to see Sherlock and of being able to hide better should any part of his body suddenly decide to, uh, perk up a bit.
“Murray’s a defensive counter-puncher,” Sherlock said.
Fortunately for them they were currently the only people in the steam room, which at least meant there was no need for that ridiculous accent.
“He is one of the top returners of the game, has excellent reach and can block back nearly any serve, so don’t expect to ace him. He has a very good first serve, a low error rate groundstroke and his switch from defence to offence can be done extremely fast."
Yes, brilliant, just what he wanted to hear. “So,” he said his voice slightly muffled, “in short I should enjoy the match, enjoy the day, enjoy Centre Court, because it will be the last of my career. Well,” he concluded, “there are worse ways of ending one’s career than going out to the British Number One and world number four, in front of fifteen thousand people, Centre Court, home crowd, at the most famous tournament in the world.”
He actually meant it, because hell he would have jumped at that chance only a few weeks before. In fact forget the quarter finals, ten days ago he would have happily taken it had it been the second round. But now it felt tainted somehow. As a way of finishing he could think of nothing better, but that also meant that this wild little love affair - love affair? Lust or sex affair surely? - would come to an end and he wasn’t sure he wanted that.
“He has his weaknesses of course,” Sherlock said. “Prefers hard to grass, tends to play passively and can lack in offensive strokes.”
“So he can be beaten then.”
“He’s the fourth in the world,” Sherlock said with a certain amount of scorn in his voice, “of course he can be beaten. Anyone can be beaten.”
“Even you.”
Sherlock made an extremely negative noise. “Of course I can be beaten.” He didn’t need to include the words, ‘you idiot’, John could clearly hear them anyway.
Opening his eyes, he turned his head to where Sherlock was lying on his back on the next bench along. He had his hands clasped together and appeared to be thinking hard. Perhaps too hard from the tension in his body. His arms, however, were free from any nicotine patches.
“You shouldn’t be concerning yourself so much with it,” he said resisting the urge to do anything stupid like reach over and rest a hand on that shoulder. “Worry about your own match. You’ve got Federer after all. I’ll worry about Murray, and what will be will be.”
There was no point in remembering that one way or another, whether they won their matches or not, this little excursion would be coming to an end soon anyway.
He went to take a shower, the water slightly cooler than he normally would have it, using it to douse the whole torrent of emotions currently swirling around in him. Then came the massage, which Sherlock mercifully left him alone for. By the time he had had his shoulders, back and legs pummelled into submission, he was feeling relaxed and loose, or at least he was until he remembered he was playing Murray the next day.
Emerging, he found Sherlock now dressed in a smart black jogging suit and was talking quite animatedly on his mobile in something that seemed to change language every couple of sentences. He was sure he heard German, Italian and possible even Russian mixed in with the usual French.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock said once he had finished as if the single word summed up everything, and in fact it could well do.
“Sounds important.”
“Interfering more like. Something to do with extra security and my room. Damn it, he’s interrupting my preparation time. Is that what he wants? Is that part of his plan? Did he know Mycroft would stick his big nose in?”
John was lost. “Wait, who?” he asked.
“Moriarty of course,” Sherlock said. “It’s obvious. Do keep up. He sent me those trainers on purpose. He’s trying to…” he stopped and then looked at him, eyes narrowing. “You’ve got a laptop. I could use yours instead.”
Wait? What? Huh? “My laptop?” he asked. “You want to use my laptop?”
“No, I want to throw it to the ground and jump on it,” Sherlock said with a pronounced roll of the eyes. “Of course I want to use it.”
John refrained from snapping something particularly rude back. Sherlock was stressed, he could be forgiven a certain amount of rude arrogance - wait, was this what everyone else experienced? None of the good stuff, just the abrupt demanding side?
“Ever stopped to think that maybe I will want to use my laptop. You know, to do my own research.”
“Pointless,” Sherlock said. “There is nothing you could find out about Murray that I can’t tell you. I do have experience at playing him after all.”
“Yeah, and I have experience of getting my arse kicked around the court by him as well,” John said, although that had only been the once but Murray hadn’t even needed to work particularly hard to beat him. “It’s still my laptop, and while you seem perfectly at ease requisitioning it for your own needs, it would be nice to be, you know, asked.”
Sherlock’s expression, as blank as it was, did show the barest hint of surprise, a dash of confusion and a little bit of something else. He seemed to consider for a moment before saying, “John, I would very much appreciate it if in the light of current circumstances you would consent to loan me your laptop so I can continue with my pre-match preparation.”
There was no sorry, no please, the words were a little clipped but John had no problem seeing it for what it was.
“Of course,” he said more softly than he had spoken before. “You can use it in my room as well if you don’t want to go back to yours.”
“That would be… good,” Sherlock said. “Yes, I would, uh, appreciate that very much.”
They returned to the Dorchester together, trying to avoid the bulk of the press, Sherlock’s entourage following behind, looking intimidating if someone dared to come close to them. Back at the hotel, Sherlock disappeared to his suite before returning twenty minutes later having changed from his sportswear into jeans and a casual shirt. With him he brought a variety of notebooks and pens, a selection of healthy snack foods and a promise that later, if John wanted, he was not against watching another of those ridiculous spy movies.
“Are you going to criticise it again?” John asked.
“Of course,” Sherlock said with an expression that asked what else he was expected to do.
“Alright,” John said with a slight smile, mentally reviewing which film would be most entertaining with Sherlock’s running scathing commentary. Distracted, he was surprised when Sherlock handed him a specific notebook. “What’s this?”
“You need to open it and read,” Sherlock said.
He opened it and was faced by the words, ANDY MURRAY.
“Is this….” he started.
“Quite,” Sherlock said, “my notes, observations, deductions and analysis of Murray. It goes back a few years of course, although we have met half a dozen times in the past two years. You might want to focus on those more recent experiences in particular. I thought it would be helpful for you, although I apologise for the combination of the languages.”
“Uh, right, thanks,” he said flicking through, noting hand drawn pictures and diagrams, and writing scrawled in a mess of French and English. “This is good, yeah, very good. Thanks.”
Sherlock nodded and settled himself onto the bed with the laptop, pulling up video files and opening his notebook. They stayed like that for the rest of the afternoon, in pleasant company, followed by food and The Spy Who Loved Me.
*
“It’s Men’s Quarter Finals Day here at Wimbledon. The skies are blue, the temperature reaching into the mid-twenties and you can practically taste the excitement in the air.”
*
Sherlock had gone back to his own room the night before, leaving behind his notebook on Andy Murray and the unspoken expectation that he would collect it after their matches. That was the closest, John supposed, that either of them had come to wishing the other good luck.
He had a sinking sensation, however, that it wasn’t luck that he needed but a bloody miracle. Beating Trevor was one thing, but the man was on his way down having already reached his peak. Murray was ranked fourth in the world for a reason and was only getting better. Murray had been expected to reach the semi-finals here, if not the finals. He had been expected to go out in the first round, or if he was lucky, the second.
If this was going to be his last professional tennis match, well, at least let him go out in style.
*
“Starting from one o’clock we have Moran verses Nadal on Court Number One, followed by Holmes verses Federer. While Centre Court first gets to see the World Number Two, Jim Moriarty take on World Number Five Novak Djokovic, followed by that all British clash, Andy Murray verses John Watson. The question is… where exactly do you start?”
“Four incredible matches, Ann, the top six all in action, while ninth seed Moran has had a brilliant tournament so far, played superbly in the last round to knock out Andy Roddick, thoroughly deserving his place in the last eight.”
“And then there’s John Watson. By any measure he’s had an astonishing Wimbledon so far.”
“Astonishing barely covers it. Before it started most people had forgotten who he was, and even the most optimistic of fans wouldn’t have put him down as progressing further than the second round. I watched him at Queens just a few weeks ago and he looked tired and jaded. His games were mediocre at best, no fire, no spirit, no passion, and then he’s come here and he’s like a new man. He decimated Dimmock in the third round, and somehow found a new gear to come back from a set down to beat Trevor in the fourth when everyone, including myself, was ready to write him off and applaud the match as the last of his professional career. Yet here he is.”
“There are a lot of rumours flying around, but he has been seen quite a considerable amount in the company of Sherlock Holmes. They were out on the practice courts together again yesterday. Do you suppose this seemingly unlikely acquaintance has contributed to the change in Watson?”
“You’re not the first to have asked that, Ann. Watson himself mentioned in an interview that he’s been inspired by Holmes. It’s clear he’s getting something out of it, if only confidence and a positive outlook. Neither of them have coaches or trainers here with them, so maybe they’re getting the support and advice from each other. Sometimes confidence and encouragement is all you need and in a game like tennis can often make all the difference.”
*
He didn’t sleep particularly well, but that was hardly surprising. His mind was too full of rackets and nets and yellow balls and crowds and flags and Sherlock. It was strange how Sherlock had somehow managed to creep in there, weaving in and out of his thoughts and dreams.
He wasn’t playing until late, three, three thirty at the earliest, as he doubted Djokovic was the type to simply roll over. The pundits were predicting Moriarty to win but with the possibility of it going to four sets. Then again they were the same pundits who were predicting him to lose in three straight sets. The top four, the newspapers had decided were the ones most likely to meet each other in the semis; Nadal verses Murray in the first, Holmes verses Moriarty in the second. The most likely upset appeared to be the possibility of Moriarty losing to Djokovic, or as an even slimmer possibility, Holmes losing to Federer. No one was suggesting that he had a hope in hell of beating Murray.
He took his breakfast downstairs, needing to be away from his room. He noticed a few glances in his direction, a few ‘good lucks’ as he walked through from the hotel staff, but for the most part people left him alone.
“John.”
He had just finished his eggs when Sarah spotted him and made a beeline over. Rising to his feet he greeted her with a kiss on the cheek and asked her to join him. She did so, but only briefly as she was due to be meeting Molly.
“You look terrible,” she said scrutinizing him. “Don’t take that the wrong way though, but pre-match nerves? Didn’t get much sleep then? It’s not like you to worry.”
That was true, he supposed, but then again it had been years since faced with a match of this importance and magnitude that he really wanted to win, and he was on Centre Court. Centre Court! It really had been a long time since he had played there. Did they still need to bow to the royal box? Hell, was there going to be any royalty there?
“Congratulations on your win,” he said instead turning it round to her and Molly’s victory the day before.
They talked about that until Sarah spotted Molly. John followed her gaze and froze as beside Molly was none other than Jim Moriarty. He of course looked cool and refreshed, no pre-match nerves for him, and before John knew it the pair were beside his table.
“Sarah,” Moriarty said smoothly, “you’re looking as lovely as ever.”
He gritted his teeth as an odd sensation over took him. Moriarty! Jim Moriarty himself. The man who had dared to cause Sherlock so much strife. The one who dared to consider himself worthy enough for a place in Sherlock’s bed, let along in Sherlock’s life and affections. The man he currently despised most in the world and hadn’t even realised it until that very moment.
“And John Watson,” Moriarty said smoothly, “such a pleasant surprise to see that you’ve reached this far. Could it be that Sherlock Holmes is rubbing off on you?”
There was nothing about that sentence that he even came close to liking.
“Moriarty,” he said as calmly, as neutrally and as politely as he could considering that all he wanted to do was to punch the arrogant smug git in the jaw again. He tried not to clench his fist. “One o’clock match on Centre Court, isn’t it? Do try to warm the crowds up properly for me. Excuse me.”
He nodded to Molly and then made his escape before Moriarty could respond. God he loathed that man. He wouldn’t call himself a violent person by nature, but there was something about Moriarty that brought out his more basic instincts. That man deserved another punch. To think that he had ever dared to lay a finger on someone like Sherlock, especially a younger, more naïve version of Sherlock, was nauseating.
*
“How’s the celebrity watch going on out there, Ruth?”
“Fascinating so far, Richard. I’m currently out on Henman Hill, but before that I spotted Sir Michael Cain, Sir Cliff Richard who is well known as being a Wimbledon fan, and that tall ginger one from Harry Potter.”
“Rupert Grint?”
“That would be him. I’ve also heard rumours that David Beckham will be here later, and probably someone from the Royal Family.”
“Not the Queen, surely.”
“No, not the Queen. Most likely it will be the Duke and Duchess of Kent, although I have heard rumours that it could even be Prince Harry or Prince William.”
“And what’s the feeling like on the hill?”
“The atmosphere is electric, Richard. People have been queuing for days to get tickets, especially for Centre Court. There are so many flags around, banners, painted faces. Just a moment. Hello ladies, could I just ask, who are you most excited about seeing today.”
“Oh definitely Murray-Watson.”
“Yeah, Murray verses Watson all the way.”
“And who will you be cheering on?”
“Murray.”
“Yeah, Murray.”
“Any reason? Why not Watson?”
“Well Murray’s the better player, isn’t he? He’s got a better chance of getting to the final.”
“And what about you, sir?”
“Murray.”
“And what about this group here?”
“Watson all the way. Go Watson!”
“And who do you think will win?”
“Murray.”
“Murray.”
“Yeah, probably Murray.”
“Murray, although I hope it’s Watson. It would be cool if he did, but I don’t think that’s likely.”
“Murray, yeah.”
“Watson.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, well, gotta have faith, and he’s English. We like an underdog.”
“So there you have it, Richard. Murray to win and the crowd will be watching every moment.”
*
The cameras flashed the moment he stepped out the door. Covering his eyes he dived into the car and slammed the door shut. Right, this was it. Off to Wimbledon. Pick up his match rackets and try not to collapse with nerves and or worry.
He fiddled with his mobile phone, turning it over and over in his hands. He had received lots of supportive texts from so many people, including one from Harry where she didn’t complain about the lack of tickets. Of course he hadn’t heard a word from Sherlock, but then he hadn’t expected to.
Turning his phone over and over again, he sighed before pulling up a new blank text message. Good luck he wrote, found the right number and hit send.
All he could do now was go through his pre-match rituals and then wait.
*
“And it’s one o’clock here on Centre Court where world number two, Jim Moriarty, and world number five, Novak Djokovic, are warming up, while over on Court Number One, Sebastian Moran and Rafael Nadal are going through their own final preparations. So, Tim, John, what are your predictions?”
“Well, Ann, Moriarty and Djokovic could well be a close one. They are both excellent players, both on fine form, both hungry to win. If we’re looking for an upset, this could be the one. Moriarty is of course coming off the back of his victory in France, but grass and clay are rather different. I don’t think he’s going to find Djokovic all that easy to get past.”
“Tim’s right, Ann, of all the matches, this could be the closest, although Holmes-Federer later has the possibility to be a shock, but Moriarty shouldn’t underestimate Djokovic. He does have the advantage of course. What is it, four wins in the last five of their meetings, but it’s so easy to get arrogant. All you need is a little bit of luck and some near misses and you have a whole new game on your hands.”
“And what about Moran verses Nadal? Any predictions there?”
“Nadal, definitely. He’s been on fire all this tournament. Moran’s played some brilliant tennis, but technically wise he’s just not in the same league as the world number one.”
“Nadal all the way. On a court, with a racket, a day like today, Nadal is virtually unstoppable. Straight sets, Nadal.”
“Straight sets, Nadal.”
“And Moriarty-Djokovic?”
“Moriarty. Four sets.”
“With the possibility of a fifth, but most likely four.”
*
Wimbledon was heaving. It felt as if half of London had squeezed their way through the gates, and it had been a long time since he had seen so many familiar non-tennis faces. Was that David Beckham over there? Surely not.
There were union flags everywhere, and even some Saint George’s crosses, although there were just as many, if not more, of the blue and white of Saint Andrew’s cross. Within a few minutes he really wished he had Sherlock’s bodyguards, just so he could keep moving and make his way through the crowds of people.
Was that someone from Girls Aloud?
He managed to take refuge in the changing rooms, sitting on the long wooden bench to compose himself. Right, he could do this. Andy Murray, brilliant player, but beatable.
Take deep breathes. Check you have everything. Remember you will have to eat something whether you like it or not. Go and find somewhere quiet. Enjoy the day.
Enjoy the day. Right.
*
“Can you believe what you’re watching, Richard?”
“In all honesty, Ann, we’re as surprised as anyone, but Moran is really taking this match to Nadal and now the world number one looks a little bit lost out there. He may have won the first set, but by the time Moran took the second on that tie-break the momentum has fully swung towards him. Now he’s taken the third set and Nadal looks shaken. It’s two sets to one to Moran here and we could well be about to see the exit of the favourite.”
“We certainly could indeed, while over here on Centre Court things have been up and down too. Tim, John.”
“Up and down, Ann, but it seems to be back on the level again. Moriarty is very much back in control.”
“That he is, Ann, and… ooh, that was an excellent shot by Moriarty to take the point. He’s recovered brilliantly after losing that second set, but I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t take this one, and if he does break Djokovic, as he looks as if he’s about to, then I have to say that the match is pretty much his.”
“It’s 15-40, three games all here on Centre Court, third set, one set all between Moriarty and Djokovic… and yes, Moriarty has just broken Djokovic to go four games to three up, his serve to follow.”
*
He forced himself to eat, taking small bites and chewing slowly. He would need the energy later. Not long to go now. In a short while he would go to the gym to start a very slow warm up, make sure he got all those muscles stretched properly. It really wouldn’t do to injure himself part way through the game.
He wondered where Sherlock was and what he was doing now. Probably going through his own pre-match rituals, waiting for that Nadal-Moran match to finish.
*
“And Moran has done it, would you believe it? Sebastian Moran, currently ninth in the world is through to the semi-finals having beaten the number one seed, Rafael Nadal, 3-6, 7-6, 7-5, 6-4.”
“Now that is a shock. Of all the upsets today this wasn’t one that we were expecting. You can see the pain on Nadal’s face. This was his year. That trophy should have been his, and now it’ll go to one of his competitors and with the way the points system is, he could well find himself losing that number one spot come next Monday.”
“Beaten by Holmes in the semi-finals of the French Open, beaten here now in the quarter finals of Wimbledon, this has not been the best few months for Nadal, but for Moran it simply gets better and better. It was as if he knew exactly how to take apart Nadal’s game, knew exactly where all his weak spots were. In a moment we will have an interview with Moran, and we’ll be back here later to tell you all about the Federer-Holmes match that will be starting here soon, but first back to Centre Court.”
*
One match finished, one still just getting to the end. Wherever Sherlock was he hoped he was properly prepared and fired up for his encounter with Federer.
Oh what was he worrying about? Of course Sherlock would be fine. He was always fine. This was Sherlock Holmes.
“Watson.”
He looked up as a steward’s head pocked around the main door to the changing room. “There’s been a break. Looks like you’ll be on soon.”
Oh god. He nodded and swallowed firmly. If the match was going to end soon then there was little point in asking who the break was for. That was pretty obvious.
*
“And Moriarty has pulled it together and finally seen off the late challenge by Djokovic to march on to the semi-finals; 7-5, 6-7, 6-4, 7-5. The world number two, the new favourite to win after the shock defeat of Nadal at the hands of Moran, is safely through, which means the match we have all been waiting for will be starting shortly. Scotland verses England. The Battle of Britain. Andy Murray verses John Watson for that coveted spot in the semi-finals. Don’t go away, because this is not one to be missed.”
*
Continue