New Fic: A Study in Winning (7/10) part 1 of 2
Title: A Study in Winning
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 11.5K 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 Six
*
A Study in Winning
Part Seven
*
It was all he could do not to drop his racket and fall down. He had beaten Murray. He had beaten Murray. He had beaten Murray. Oh god, he was through to the semi-finals. The Semi-Finals. Wimbledon. Him. Oh god.
The next however long was a bit of a blur. He shook hands with Murray. He grinned inanely at the BBC camera courtside and he told the accompanying interviewer something about how delighted he was. He waved to the crowd. He grabbed a drink. He signed some autographs on his way out.
He was sure the grin didn’t leave his face for a moment.
It was a miracle that he made it through his shower without choking since his mouth was still open in that grin for most of it. He had a brief moment of fantasy that included a proud and naked Sherlock coming up behind him and taking the shower gel from his hands to carefully and thoroughly smooth it all over him, while whispering something about the need for him to be thoroughly clean for what they were going to be doing later and then sinking onto his knees, water running through his dark curls, dripping down his forehead onto his eyelashes as he leant in, his mouth opening, warm and wide and… ah, oh, not good, not yet. Sherlock wasn’t here. He had been there, he recognised the smell of shampoo that still lingered, but he wasn’t here now, on his knees or otherwise.
He turned the shower to a much cooler setting. That was better.
He got a brief massage, loosening those muscles, stretching out his shoulder in particular, and then he dressed to go meet his awaiting crowd. The press room was packed. He answered the questions in a light, cheery way, expressing regret over Murray’s ankle before wishing him a speedy recovery.
Escape, though, couldn’t come soon enough, but eventually he found himself in the car on his way back to the Dorchester. As usual, Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone, but he had various other messages to listen to, all ecstatic, all congratulatory, all put aside for when he actually wanted to deal with them properly.
“Congratulations, Mr Watson.”
He smiled at the young lady on the main desk and then made his way up to his room. Provided Sherlock could be found, and he did have a talent at turning up when he was least expected, then the evening would be spent in a most pleasant way, probably involving a bed, and a distinct lack of clothing. Definitely a distinct lack of clothing.
Of course that was when reality very rudely overtook his fantasies.
“John. Congratulations.”
He sighed as Clara seemed to miraculously appear from nowhere, well dressed, mobile in hand.
“Clara, hello.” Damn, he had been hoping not to have to deal with all the additional things until the next day at the earliest.
“Hello, indeed. Now, we need to talk. This Morning have been on the phone, they want an interview. A Question of Sport is a go. Celebrity Total Wipeout are interested. How’s your general knowledge because there’s always Celebrity Weakest Link. No money in that of course, well, not much, but if you win you get to name the charity of your choice. Oooh, Top Gear have been on the phone. You’ll get to drive around their track, but we may need to limit Clarkson’s comments regarding your accident. And there’s a new sports centre opening in Harrow. They need someone to cut the ribbon and that someone could be you….”
“Clara!” Reaching his room, he finally halted and tried to stop her too. “I’m really not in the mood to deal with this now, and I’m not agreeing to anything until I’ve had the chance to think about it.”
“Yes, but….”
“No, buts.” He opened the door. “Goodbye, Clara. Tomorrow.”
He should have known she was hardly going to leave it there, and he really shouldn’t have opened the door with her still there, and he really, really shouldn’t have given her the slightest chance of getting into his room, because really that was never going to end well, and by the time all of that had happened she was past him and he was finally registering the long legged figure stretched out on his bed using his laptop. In any other situation that sight would have been nice, good, bloody brilliant, but now it was all about to turn into… shit… he had no idea.
Once in the room Clara of course stopped, her expression surprisingly neutral considering everything. Sherlock glanced up from the laptop, pressed his lips together and then went back to whatever it was he had been doing.
“Good evening, John,” he said mildly. Far too mildly. Mild and almost bored sounding. “The press have been hounding your room phone again. You really should do something about that. It’s hardly professional. Twenty-seven messages and counting, although at least this time it is due to your on court antics rather than your off court ones. Your sister called, twice. Apparently you’re not answering your mobile either. The second time she sounded somewhat inebriated. You may want to send her a text. Your agent called as well, but I see she’s managed to locate you already. Clara.”
“Mr Holmes.”
“Also, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve ordered dinner. Angelo has agreed to do a delivery. He’s going to call before bringing it here. I figured you would want to eat in rather than out, avoid the press and all that, although we can go out if you would prefer.”
He was being calm, ridiculously calm, ridiculously calm and extremely English.
“Ah,” he said wondering what on earth he was supposed to say to any of that and Clara was looking at him with an expression of, well god knows what, he really didn’t want to know what her expression was. “That’s fine,” he said at least managing that much. “Eating in is fine.”
“Good,” Sherlock said looking up again, his eyes narrowing. “Clara, in answer to most, if not all, of those questions currently racing through your head right at this moment; yes, I have a room key. Yes, we are shagging. Yes, tonight as well, should everything go to plan. Yes, of course we knew each other before you introduced us last Friday. No, neither my sexuality nor my sexual preference are of any concern of yours. Yes, believe it or not, despite what others choose to believe, English is my first language and I speak it like a native, and in most respects, better than the majority of natives. I choose to do otherwise because it amuses me and generally gets people to leave me alone. Yes, most of my reputations are correct and well earned. And yes, I can confirm that John’s reputation of being more than capable in bed is very, very much true. Now, while this is all rather fascinating and no doubt at least partially surprising, I believe we all have places to be and things to do this evening. So, if you will remove yourself from this room, I will assure you that John will be in contact tomorrow.”
He turned back to the laptop.
John stared at him, part in shock, part in wonder, part in pure horror.
“Clara,” he said turning to where her eyes were flicking between him and Sherlock, an odd expression on her face that reminded him of someone trying not to laugh. “I, uh, I can explain.”
“There’s really no need,” Clara said finally turning to him and holding her hands up. “I believe Mr Holmes has already said it all. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. I will see you tomorrow, John, when I’m sure we’ll be able to catch up fully.”
There was an amused little smile on her face. Yes, definitely laughing at him.
“Mr Holmes.”
“Clara.”
She shut the door behind her.
He tried counting to ten. He got as far as six.
“I can’t believe you said all that to her!”
“Relax,” Sherlock said shutting the lid on the laptop and placing it out of the way. “A lot of it she already knew and most of the rest she worked out herself from the moment she entered the room. She’s also your agent, so she is hardly going to tell anyone. That would not be professional.”
“Yes, but that’s… that’s not the point. You can’t just go around saying things like that.”
There was a pause, then Sherlock blinked and glanced away. “Just watched the highlights of your match. Lucky with that ankle.”
Pressing his lips together, John breathed out a sigh before slipping onto the bed, stretching out to lie down. “Yes, I know,” he said. “Would have lost otherwise.”
Sherlock made an agreeing sound.
“Hear your match wasn’t exactly plain sailing. Dropped a set? That’s not like you. Well, not here anyway.”
“Yes, well, it happens,” Sherlock said. “Even to me.”
“Well, good. I’m glad we’re agreed on that.”
“You’re angry with me.”
“Yes, I’m angry with you!”
No, wait, that wasn’t what he had been meaning to say, and he couldn’t help but notice the brief flash of something - hurt? - that crossed Sherlock’s face before his features settled on something far more neutral and somewhat closed off. God damn it, this wasn’t what he had been wanting.
He pressed a palm to his forehead, rubbing at it as if that would wipe it away, his eyes squeezing shut. Wipe away the last ten minutes, yes, that would be helpful. If only.
“Look,” he said, “I didn’t mean it like that, alright? I’m not angry at you. I’m just….”
“Angry?”
He offered a small smile. “Emotional,” he said, “although that’s hardly better. Christ, I sound pathetic.”
“You’ve just under gone an extremely physical ordeal which you’ve survived and conquered at great cost to yourself both physically and mentally. The adrenaline rush is over but you still have a wave of sensations rolling through you but now without an outlet. You feel as if you want to hit something, to shout, to scream, but you have neither target nor sufficiently low inhibitions to overcome your inherent Britishness to simply channel the sensations elsewhere and take what you need. I, on the other hand, know exactly how… to… take.”
He missed the signs, the build-up, so caught up in, well, himself, that he was taken completely by surprise by the long warm body that moved like quicksilver, pinning him firmly and comprehensively to the bed. He pushed back automatically, struggling against the hands that restrained him, but it was futile. The hips and legs refused to budge. Oh god. The weight shifted pressing him even further into the mattress.
Stopping his efforts, he stared up, his chest heaving as the pale blue eyes looked back at him, holding him in place as surely as the hands and body. His heart pounded in his chest but not once did he give in and totally relax and they both knew it. Sherlock’s smile told him as much.
Fight or flight.
“Take me, John,” he heard, felt, saw. “Fight me if you want, but take me. Take what you want.”
He let the words float over them, let them settle and sink in, then when he couldn’t wait any longer, he surged upwards, pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock’s… and took.
*
He had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Sherlock right at that moment.
The lips parted against his. Pressure? Delighted surprise? A smug smile? He didn’t care which, only that they were finally kissing. God, he wanted that mouth, and that body, and Sherlock, he wanted Sherlock, all of him, now, forever, writhing under him, swollen lips, hooded eyes, his, only his.
Growling, he ripped his hands away, taking advantage of Sherlock’s momentary lapse in concentration to push himself up and flip them over. It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t pretty, but it ended with him being the one on top, pelvises pressed together as he caught the long wrists in his hand and pinned them to the bed above the mass of dark curls. He predicted the resulting struggle, but held fast, tightening his grip warningly.
Sherlock stopped, his body tense but his eyes and expression screaming ‘go on then’.
He did.
The kiss was brutal, hot, messy and practically a battle, their tongues the weapons, their mouths the combat zone. He had thought about that mouth, fantasised about it, taken inspiration and comfort from it and now it was his. He could feel the surrender and then the challenge, the challenge to take.
To the victor goes the spoils.
“I’m going to fuck you.”
He murmured the words by the offered ear. Pulling from the kiss, but not from the hold, Sherlock had turned his face away, eyes closed as he panted to gain back his breath. They were hard, they were both so fucking hard that it was a wonder their clothes hadn’t torn under the pressure or melted due to the pure heat.
“I’m going to push my cock into your arse and my tongue into your mouth until you can’t even remember which language you are supposed to be speaking.”
The hips jerked beneath him, a soft exhalation of breath.
He pressed his mouth to the neck, the cheekbones, the ear itself.
“Been thinking about this,” he continued. “You, like this. Your body. Your mouth.”
Shifting he used his free hand to turn Sherlock’s face back to him, stroking down the cheek before pressing under the chin. The lips parted greedily and then they were kissing again, the hand finally breaking away from his to grasp at his clothing, holding him close, pulling him closer.
Not close enough. Naked, they had to get naked, to feel that skin against his. The clothes had to go. Now, now, now.
Rearing back, he impatiently tugged at his polo shirt, pulling it over his head even as Sherlock stared at him, lips parted, drinking in the sight.
“Jean.” The hand that reached out brushed against his chest, his ribs, before gripping his hips to pull him back down for another kiss.
It still wasn’t enough. Too much clothing, not enough skin, not enough of anything.
“Strip,” he gasped as they parted again. “Now!”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice more gravelly than usual. Then he was all movement, all but throwing him off as he rose from the bed, fingers frantic and fumbling as they made short work of his shirt buttons and then onwards, downwards to his belt and flies, pushing his trousers, pants and socks off in one go. He was fully erect, long and almost painfully hard.
Yes, that was it. Yes, yes, yes.
Scrambling forward, he forgot about his own trousers in lieu of slipping off the bed and reaching round to grab an arse cheek in each hand. Yes. Yes, yes, yes! Oh, god, yes. His mouth opened with very little thought and then he was gagging as a jerk of the hips and his own eagerness forced in more than he could comfortably manage.
He pulled back, coughing slightly before taking the head back in, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked.
“Jean. Mon Dieu, Jean. Bien… merci bien."
Sherlock’s breathy sighs gave way to indistinguishable babble, the words smoothing over him like silk, fingers flexing through his hair and then the word stop, once, then repeated firmer but more desperately, the fingers trying to pull his head back and away.
He moved back, releasing Sherlock with a slick pop before looking up. The lips were parted again, eyes a touch unfocused, a flush of arousal darkening his chest and creeping up his neck. Debauched. Desperate. Dishevelled.
Getting to his feet, he pulled away long enough to finally rid himself of his trousers. Pulling Sherlock back, he tugged his head down, gabbing another kiss, sinking into the sensation as the strong hands came up to hold him in turn.
“What do you want?” he mouthed against the neck as they were once again parted due to a need for oxygen. “How do you want it? Tell me. Tell me.”
“You,” he heard back. “You decide. I… fuck. Fuck me, John.”
“Yes,” he said, breathing out heavily through his teeth. “Christ, yes. Lube?”
“Jacket.”
It only took him seconds to find and then he was grabbing another kiss and pushing Sherlock back onto the bed. It was a question of position now; face to face had the bonus of both kissing and being able to see each other’s expressions, while hands and knees meant greater depth and more force.
The decision was taken from him when Sherlock rolled over and spread his legs, presenting his still gorgeous arse.
The preparation was quick but enough, and then he was sliding in, holding still for a moment as he fought every instinct to just take, take and keep taking until one or both of them collapsed from exhaustion.
Then Sherlock shifted and that was all it took.
It felt good, so good, so fucking good, that he wanted to go on forever. Please let this last. Don’t let it be over too soon.
He could feel it building already, hardly a surprise, but not what he wanted. Not yet. Not yet!
“Lie down,” he growled, pushing at the small of Sherlock’s back to make sure he complied. The new angle was different, but they were physically closer now, him plastered across Sherlock’s back. It still wasn’t right though, not enough.
Pulling out, he turned them onto their side, spooned behind Sherlock and slid back in. Oh, yes. He was lacking the depth and ease of motion but that didn’t matter. He was on the edge anyway and from the tensing of Sherlock’s stomach muscles, so was he.
He rocked back and forth, revelling in every gasp, every sharp intake of breath, every broken word. He could feel Sherlock with every ounce of his body, chest to back, legs entwined, nose pressed between the shoulder blades. He had one arm trapped, but the other was free to roam, to explore, to tease. Between his body, his hand and his cock, there was nowhere for Sherlock to go.
“Jean…” he heard as he flicked at a nipple. “Oui,” at a particularly well timed, well angled thrust. “Putain,” when he finally reached down to stroke the bobbing, spit coated cock. Then Sherlock’s body was curving in, pulling him with it. So close, he could feel it in Sherlock’s muscles, hear it in his babbling, smell it when he pressed against that back and breathed in deeply.
“Plus fort. S’il-te-plait, Jean…. J’vais… j’vais….”
And then like a coil released, Sherlock came. Mouth open, head falling back, leg straightening as he shuddered and gasped and gave himself over to the sensations.
That was enough, more than enough for John, and with a groan he pushed in as far as he could, tightening his arms around the still shaking body that was his world, and of everything else, he let go.
*
Nothing in his life had ever really gone to plan. As a child he had once had a dream of growing up and being able to help people, save people, even protect people, probably brought on by too many cartoons and superhero comic books. Then he had discovered tennis and everything had gone from there.
Believe it or not, even when he had been starting on the junior circuit, he had been giving thought to what else he could do with his life. At that point they had been unsure whether he had enough talent to make it in the sport professionally, or if he had the type of body that would be able to endure the amount of strain and pressure that would be continually inflicted on it day in, day out. So it had been sensible to come up with a plan B.
He was a bright lad, at least that was what his teachers and tutors had told him, although it wasn’t something he could easily verify himself as, for a while, he had rarely been around children of his own age in an academic setting. He had been accepted into a grammar school though, and one of the top ones at that, so he couldn’t have been thick. Then again he hoped that it hadn’t been his skill with a racket that had gotten him in. He didn’t think so although the doubts always remained. With all of that, his fall back plan was to become a doctor, not an easy choice and a lot of hard work would be involved, but then again the same thing was needed for the tennis.
It turned out, though, that he didn’t need a plan B and tennis became his life.
He had planned on becoming the best in the world, of winning Wimbledon, of being the player that everyone else had to beat, the big name, the famous face.
He had planned on finding the right woman to marry, the one who would follow him around as he toured, his own personal supporters club. He had planned on having a few houses, each in a place that was particularly nice; New York or Florida perhaps, Paris, London, somewhere in the Mediterranean or the Caribbean. He had planned on having a couple of kids, maybe a dog, and a nice car or three. He had planned on helping out his parents, of treating Harry, but then his parents were suddenly gone and Harry needed more than a ‘treat’.
So many plans, so many dreams, so many endings. Bill and Afghanistan. Harry and the bottle. His accident and tennis. Mary and The Sun Newspaper. Plans had turned into smoke as they had burnt on the furnace of reality. Then it had dawned on him the running constant through all of his plans; they had all contained him. He was the flaw, the problem, the reason why everything usually ended going tits up. Him and only him.
Fuckity fuck.
Which was why when he found himself staring at the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes, he knew with utter certainty that whatever plan he might have started their whole acquaintance with was doomed to complete and absolute failure. But more than that, he would only have himself to blame when it did.
He should have been asleep. He had been asleep, but an early morning trip to the bathroom had left him alert enough to want to look upon the other man, and in the early morning pale light to see the truth that he had been missing for so long.
Sherlock was gorgeous, but not just in the obvious physical way, although with his hair and his eyes and his cheekbones he was that too. He was gorgeous because he was Sherlock Holmes - abrupt, arrogant, sometimes rude, but at the same time, clever, insightful and witty. His mind was as sharp as his forehand, his gaze as piecing as a fully body strike, his tongue as quick as his serve. Sherlock Holmes had, before now, also never featured at all in any of his plans. After all, who would ever think that someone as talented, famous and stunning as Sherlock Holmes would ever even spare him a single glance, let alone a second, or anything more?
And yet, here he was, Sherlock Holmes, in his bed, stretched out and asleep, and he could think of nowhere he wanted to be more.
Oh god, he was so far gone it was like a bad joke. It had only been, what, ten days? Ten days of knowing each other and already he knew that ten years would not be enough time to quench his… what? Aches? Desires? Needs? Wants? Lust? Lov… No!
He shook his head and slid back under the covers.
He wanted Sherlock, that wasn’t exactly news, but now it was dawning on him that he didn’t want to let Sherlock go either. The mere thought of anyone else - of Moriarty - being here instead of him, of lying next to the other man, of touching him, filled him with bile and turned his stomach.
No, Sherlock was his, and only his.
But soon, far too soon, he would have to let him go. He would be forced to say goodbye.
Lying on his back he stared up at the plain ceiling.
They had had one of those pleasant evenings again, comfortable, relaxed, easy. How had he not noticed how easy it had all become? Had he really been that caught up in everything that he just hadn’t noticed?
He scrubbed a hand across his face, pressing the palm of his hand into one of his eyes.
This was not what was supposed to happen. It should have been just shagging. Stress relief, companionship, something mutually beneficial, short term before they both moved on and got on with their lives. But of course he couldn’t even keep to that plan. He just had to go and get it all messed up and confused, and now all he wanted to do was to slide an arm across Sherlock’s body and hold him tight.
He pursed his lips together.
No. No. He was not about to act like some love sick fool with their first crush. He was a grown man, a professional tennis player, and he was through to the semi-finals of Wimbledon. Tonight he had a beautiful man in his bed and later, after they awoke properly and got up, they would spend more time together, training, talking, sitting in silence in each other’s company. The next day would be their matches and anything could happen. That was the future, this was the present, and in his present he had to stop worrying and get some sleep, because the morning would come soon enough.
*
“Rough night?”
John figured it wasn’t worth rising to the less than subtle tease and just took the offered seat. He already knew he didn’t exactly look his best, but that was as much down to the amount of competitive tennis he had played at a high level over a reasonably short amount of time as it was to anything else. Admittedly though, the somewhat broken sleep hadn’t helped, although he doubted that was what Clara was alluding to.
He flashed a smile. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he said.
“So it wasn’t a certain handsome Frenchman keeping you up that’s put that expression on your face then?”
He fought the instinct to groan and roll his eyes. “What’s it going to take for you to never mention that again to anyone, to me included?”
“You wound me,” she said. “It would be unprofessional of me to ever reveal details of a client’s personal life and if it means that much to you I will refrain from saying anything more on the subject, well, other than to add that you, John Watson, are one lucky bastard. I swear, from how he was looking last night, if that had been my bed he had been waiting on, then well, I certainly would have been tempted, wrong gender be damned.”
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to know that,” he said dryly.
“From a professional point of view though,” Clara continued, her expression suddenly that little bit more serious, “I do need you to be open and truthful with me. Can you honestly tell me that your… acquaintance with him has not affected your tennis? Two weeks ago you were a wild card, three weeks ago you crashed out of Queens in the second round, now you’re through to the semi-finals of Wimbledon. People suddenly remember who you are, newspapers are following you. You know, I’ve had six more requests for interviews with you just this morning. You’re hot stuff. The fire is back in your game and it’s because of him, isn’t it?”
Of course it was because of him - Sherlock. He could hardly deny it, not anymore.
“Clara,” he started but she held up her hand to stop him.
“No, no don’t,” she said. “The answer is pretty bloody obvious regardless of what you say. I guess what I really want to know is, what’s going to happen when this is all over? When is this all going to end? And what are you going to do then?”
It felt strange in that for the first time someone other than him was the one asking those questions. The answers though, didn’t change regardless of who posed the questions.
“It’s a knockout tournament,” he said as lightly as he could manage. “That means this whole thing could end at any time,” and statistically probably tomorrow. He had done the maths. At the most basic level they each had a fifty percent chance of winning their matches, and of course equally a fifty percent chance of losing each of them. Together that gave them just a twenty-five percent chance of both of them making it through to the final, a fifty percent chance of one of them making it through, and a twenty-five percent chance of neither of them making it through.
Of course that statistic had been the same all the way through the tournament for each round as it did not take into consideration the skill and ability of the players taking part, but suddenly the numbers felt very much more real. He was, after all, very much the underdog, and for the first time ever in this tournament this year, Sherlock wasn’t necessarily the favourite to win his match either. After France, Moriarty held the edge, however slight, but most the time a slight edge was all it took.
“Come on,” he continued, “you know the maths. Not even I would bet on the odds of both of us getting through to the final. So you know, it could well be goodbye Wimbledon tomorrow and that’s that. He goes off to the US and I retire to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.”
“You won’t reconsider your retirement plans?” she asked.
“Should I?”
“Semi-final, Wimbledon, John. You can’t tell me that when you decided and announced your retirement it wasn’t motivated by a losing streak as wide as the Pacific. First round, second round, then goodbye Wimbledon, goodbye tennis.”
“Alright, yes,” he said, “but that wasn’t the only reason. I’m old, Clara, in tennis years at least. My body is falling apart. I’m lucky to have gotten this far without my shoulder or my back or my leg giving out on me. I lost interest in the sport some time ago, and in all honesty I can’t afford to keep playing, to keep training. Air fares, hotels and equipment don’t pay for themselves you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, “which is where I come in. We’ll renegotiate your sponsorship deal with Wilson, get you as the new face of Robinsons, and see if one of the tabloids would be interested in an exclusive, behind the scenes of Wimbledon deal.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“We’ll repackage you and send you onto the US a new man, a new player. You wouldn’t even have to do all that well there, but keep your form and your inspiration and who knows, third round, fourth round, quarters, semis, the chance to meet up with a certain Frenchman for a little tête-à-tête. The sky’s the limit. You’ve still got the rest of the season in you, if not more. You’re not going to be significantly older in a month or two’s time, so take advantage while you can. Don’t throw away what you’ve done here, what you’ve achieved, and if it’s money you’re worried about, even without the sponsorship, you’re through to the semi-finals of Wimbledon. Even if you go out tomorrow, that’s prize money of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. That should tide you over for a little while.”
He had forgotten about that. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds? It had been so long since he had last gotten anywhere close to the semi-finals of a Grand Slam that he had forgotten just how much prize money could be won. In fact, all things said, he had to admit that Clara had a point. Things were going well, he could still play tennis at a high level, so why should he hang up his racket? He was playing brilliantly, and if he went to the US for a tour and then on to the Open, then what reason would he have not to be able to hook up with Sherlock again. They could continue this little thing there. They would be able to spend more time together and then maybe they might discover that whatever this thing was between them that it meant more than they had initially thought, and then maybe….
He slammed a break on those thoughts.
No. No, no, no, no, no. He was retiring and that was that. He had decided and that was it. All of this was just a fluke. It was like lightning. Just because it had struck him here at Wimbledon did not mean that it would happen again anywhere else. The US was a whole new kettle of fish. It was hard court for one, faster and decidedly less forgiving on the knees. No, he had made up his mind and had done so for good reason. Better for him to go out now, at the top - even if it was a fluke - than to crash and burn afterwards.
“I don’t know why I even let you try to convince me,” he said.
“Maybe because you know I’m right,” Clara said with a small smile. “Come on, John, don’t walk away now, not when it’s just getting good.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Clara. It’s tempting, yes, but my performance here doesn’t change anything. It’s time for me to go and nothing you can say can change that.”
She wanted to test him, she could see she wanted to push him, wanted to say something more, probably to call him lots of names - she probably was calling him lots of names in her head anyway, and no doubt rather creative ones - but much to his relief, she nodded and backed down.
“Watson stubbornness,” she said. “I remember that well. Okay, how about this then, you keep what I’ve said in mind and after the tournament we’ll have another talk about it. You might feel differently after your last official competitive match. Agreed?”
“Alright,” he relented. “But no promises.”
“Of course,” she said. “Now, about your immediate plans.”
“Tennis,” he said simply and very firmly.
“Naturally,” she said without missing a beat. “Now, the world and their dogs want an interview with the giant killer.”
“No.”
“But you haven’t heard what yet.”
“And still I’m not interested,” he said. “No interviews while I’m playing, with the exception of the usual BBC stuff and the press conferences. That’s not open to negotiation. I’m here to play tennis, not to be passed in front of one camera after another. Once I’m out of this competition, then if they’re still interested I’ll do a few, but I’ll pick which ones.”
“Newspapers?”
“Some. Except no exclusive interviews with any paper owned by Rupert Murdoch. I still haven’t forgotten what Mary did with their help.”
It brought a shiver over him even now. The horror of finding his personal life splashed across The Sun for everyone to see.
“Fair enough,” Clara agreed, her expression clear that she too remembered exactly what The Sun had published. “The Times included?”
“Preferably.”
“Noted. And if Sherlock Holmes’ name gets mentioned?”
He had to stop himself from tightening his hand into a fist.
“We’re friends and sometimes practice partners,” he said neutrally.
“And if anyone alludes to the pair of you being more than just friends?”
He raised an eyebrow. “With our reputations?” Who was really going to believe that him and Sherlock were together. Sherlock had a history of dating beautiful women and he had the nickname Three Continents Watson for a reason. “Ask them if they’re serious or something. I’m sure you can do scornfully dismissive.”
“And are you serious?” she asked a touch softer than usual. “Do you want it to be serious?”
He forced a smile onto his face. “You know me,” he said lightly, “when have I ever managed a serious relationship?”
*
Continue
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 11.5K 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 Six
*
A Study in Winning
Part Seven
*
It was all he could do not to drop his racket and fall down. He had beaten Murray. He had beaten Murray. He had beaten Murray. Oh god, he was through to the semi-finals. The Semi-Finals. Wimbledon. Him. Oh god.
The next however long was a bit of a blur. He shook hands with Murray. He grinned inanely at the BBC camera courtside and he told the accompanying interviewer something about how delighted he was. He waved to the crowd. He grabbed a drink. He signed some autographs on his way out.
He was sure the grin didn’t leave his face for a moment.
It was a miracle that he made it through his shower without choking since his mouth was still open in that grin for most of it. He had a brief moment of fantasy that included a proud and naked Sherlock coming up behind him and taking the shower gel from his hands to carefully and thoroughly smooth it all over him, while whispering something about the need for him to be thoroughly clean for what they were going to be doing later and then sinking onto his knees, water running through his dark curls, dripping down his forehead onto his eyelashes as he leant in, his mouth opening, warm and wide and… ah, oh, not good, not yet. Sherlock wasn’t here. He had been there, he recognised the smell of shampoo that still lingered, but he wasn’t here now, on his knees or otherwise.
He turned the shower to a much cooler setting. That was better.
He got a brief massage, loosening those muscles, stretching out his shoulder in particular, and then he dressed to go meet his awaiting crowd. The press room was packed. He answered the questions in a light, cheery way, expressing regret over Murray’s ankle before wishing him a speedy recovery.
Escape, though, couldn’t come soon enough, but eventually he found himself in the car on his way back to the Dorchester. As usual, Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone, but he had various other messages to listen to, all ecstatic, all congratulatory, all put aside for when he actually wanted to deal with them properly.
“Congratulations, Mr Watson.”
He smiled at the young lady on the main desk and then made his way up to his room. Provided Sherlock could be found, and he did have a talent at turning up when he was least expected, then the evening would be spent in a most pleasant way, probably involving a bed, and a distinct lack of clothing. Definitely a distinct lack of clothing.
Of course that was when reality very rudely overtook his fantasies.
“John. Congratulations.”
He sighed as Clara seemed to miraculously appear from nowhere, well dressed, mobile in hand.
“Clara, hello.” Damn, he had been hoping not to have to deal with all the additional things until the next day at the earliest.
“Hello, indeed. Now, we need to talk. This Morning have been on the phone, they want an interview. A Question of Sport is a go. Celebrity Total Wipeout are interested. How’s your general knowledge because there’s always Celebrity Weakest Link. No money in that of course, well, not much, but if you win you get to name the charity of your choice. Oooh, Top Gear have been on the phone. You’ll get to drive around their track, but we may need to limit Clarkson’s comments regarding your accident. And there’s a new sports centre opening in Harrow. They need someone to cut the ribbon and that someone could be you….”
“Clara!” Reaching his room, he finally halted and tried to stop her too. “I’m really not in the mood to deal with this now, and I’m not agreeing to anything until I’ve had the chance to think about it.”
“Yes, but….”
“No, buts.” He opened the door. “Goodbye, Clara. Tomorrow.”
He should have known she was hardly going to leave it there, and he really shouldn’t have opened the door with her still there, and he really, really shouldn’t have given her the slightest chance of getting into his room, because really that was never going to end well, and by the time all of that had happened she was past him and he was finally registering the long legged figure stretched out on his bed using his laptop. In any other situation that sight would have been nice, good, bloody brilliant, but now it was all about to turn into… shit… he had no idea.
Once in the room Clara of course stopped, her expression surprisingly neutral considering everything. Sherlock glanced up from the laptop, pressed his lips together and then went back to whatever it was he had been doing.
“Good evening, John,” he said mildly. Far too mildly. Mild and almost bored sounding. “The press have been hounding your room phone again. You really should do something about that. It’s hardly professional. Twenty-seven messages and counting, although at least this time it is due to your on court antics rather than your off court ones. Your sister called, twice. Apparently you’re not answering your mobile either. The second time she sounded somewhat inebriated. You may want to send her a text. Your agent called as well, but I see she’s managed to locate you already. Clara.”
“Mr Holmes.”
“Also, I hope you don’t mind but I’ve ordered dinner. Angelo has agreed to do a delivery. He’s going to call before bringing it here. I figured you would want to eat in rather than out, avoid the press and all that, although we can go out if you would prefer.”
He was being calm, ridiculously calm, ridiculously calm and extremely English.
“Ah,” he said wondering what on earth he was supposed to say to any of that and Clara was looking at him with an expression of, well god knows what, he really didn’t want to know what her expression was. “That’s fine,” he said at least managing that much. “Eating in is fine.”
“Good,” Sherlock said looking up again, his eyes narrowing. “Clara, in answer to most, if not all, of those questions currently racing through your head right at this moment; yes, I have a room key. Yes, we are shagging. Yes, tonight as well, should everything go to plan. Yes, of course we knew each other before you introduced us last Friday. No, neither my sexuality nor my sexual preference are of any concern of yours. Yes, believe it or not, despite what others choose to believe, English is my first language and I speak it like a native, and in most respects, better than the majority of natives. I choose to do otherwise because it amuses me and generally gets people to leave me alone. Yes, most of my reputations are correct and well earned. And yes, I can confirm that John’s reputation of being more than capable in bed is very, very much true. Now, while this is all rather fascinating and no doubt at least partially surprising, I believe we all have places to be and things to do this evening. So, if you will remove yourself from this room, I will assure you that John will be in contact tomorrow.”
He turned back to the laptop.
John stared at him, part in shock, part in wonder, part in pure horror.
“Clara,” he said turning to where her eyes were flicking between him and Sherlock, an odd expression on her face that reminded him of someone trying not to laugh. “I, uh, I can explain.”
“There’s really no need,” Clara said finally turning to him and holding her hands up. “I believe Mr Holmes has already said it all. Enjoy your evening, gentlemen. I will see you tomorrow, John, when I’m sure we’ll be able to catch up fully.”
There was an amused little smile on her face. Yes, definitely laughing at him.
“Mr Holmes.”
“Clara.”
She shut the door behind her.
He tried counting to ten. He got as far as six.
“I can’t believe you said all that to her!”
“Relax,” Sherlock said shutting the lid on the laptop and placing it out of the way. “A lot of it she already knew and most of the rest she worked out herself from the moment she entered the room. She’s also your agent, so she is hardly going to tell anyone. That would not be professional.”
“Yes, but that’s… that’s not the point. You can’t just go around saying things like that.”
There was a pause, then Sherlock blinked and glanced away. “Just watched the highlights of your match. Lucky with that ankle.”
Pressing his lips together, John breathed out a sigh before slipping onto the bed, stretching out to lie down. “Yes, I know,” he said. “Would have lost otherwise.”
Sherlock made an agreeing sound.
“Hear your match wasn’t exactly plain sailing. Dropped a set? That’s not like you. Well, not here anyway.”
“Yes, well, it happens,” Sherlock said. “Even to me.”
“Well, good. I’m glad we’re agreed on that.”
“You’re angry with me.”
“Yes, I’m angry with you!”
No, wait, that wasn’t what he had been meaning to say, and he couldn’t help but notice the brief flash of something - hurt? - that crossed Sherlock’s face before his features settled on something far more neutral and somewhat closed off. God damn it, this wasn’t what he had been wanting.
He pressed a palm to his forehead, rubbing at it as if that would wipe it away, his eyes squeezing shut. Wipe away the last ten minutes, yes, that would be helpful. If only.
“Look,” he said, “I didn’t mean it like that, alright? I’m not angry at you. I’m just….”
“Angry?”
He offered a small smile. “Emotional,” he said, “although that’s hardly better. Christ, I sound pathetic.”
“You’ve just under gone an extremely physical ordeal which you’ve survived and conquered at great cost to yourself both physically and mentally. The adrenaline rush is over but you still have a wave of sensations rolling through you but now without an outlet. You feel as if you want to hit something, to shout, to scream, but you have neither target nor sufficiently low inhibitions to overcome your inherent Britishness to simply channel the sensations elsewhere and take what you need. I, on the other hand, know exactly how… to… take.”
He missed the signs, the build-up, so caught up in, well, himself, that he was taken completely by surprise by the long warm body that moved like quicksilver, pinning him firmly and comprehensively to the bed. He pushed back automatically, struggling against the hands that restrained him, but it was futile. The hips and legs refused to budge. Oh god. The weight shifted pressing him even further into the mattress.
Stopping his efforts, he stared up, his chest heaving as the pale blue eyes looked back at him, holding him in place as surely as the hands and body. His heart pounded in his chest but not once did he give in and totally relax and they both knew it. Sherlock’s smile told him as much.
Fight or flight.
“Take me, John,” he heard, felt, saw. “Fight me if you want, but take me. Take what you want.”
He let the words float over them, let them settle and sink in, then when he couldn’t wait any longer, he surged upwards, pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock’s… and took.
*
He had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Sherlock right at that moment.
The lips parted against his. Pressure? Delighted surprise? A smug smile? He didn’t care which, only that they were finally kissing. God, he wanted that mouth, and that body, and Sherlock, he wanted Sherlock, all of him, now, forever, writhing under him, swollen lips, hooded eyes, his, only his.
Growling, he ripped his hands away, taking advantage of Sherlock’s momentary lapse in concentration to push himself up and flip them over. It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t pretty, but it ended with him being the one on top, pelvises pressed together as he caught the long wrists in his hand and pinned them to the bed above the mass of dark curls. He predicted the resulting struggle, but held fast, tightening his grip warningly.
Sherlock stopped, his body tense but his eyes and expression screaming ‘go on then’.
He did.
The kiss was brutal, hot, messy and practically a battle, their tongues the weapons, their mouths the combat zone. He had thought about that mouth, fantasised about it, taken inspiration and comfort from it and now it was his. He could feel the surrender and then the challenge, the challenge to take.
To the victor goes the spoils.
“I’m going to fuck you.”
He murmured the words by the offered ear. Pulling from the kiss, but not from the hold, Sherlock had turned his face away, eyes closed as he panted to gain back his breath. They were hard, they were both so fucking hard that it was a wonder their clothes hadn’t torn under the pressure or melted due to the pure heat.
“I’m going to push my cock into your arse and my tongue into your mouth until you can’t even remember which language you are supposed to be speaking.”
The hips jerked beneath him, a soft exhalation of breath.
He pressed his mouth to the neck, the cheekbones, the ear itself.
“Been thinking about this,” he continued. “You, like this. Your body. Your mouth.”
Shifting he used his free hand to turn Sherlock’s face back to him, stroking down the cheek before pressing under the chin. The lips parted greedily and then they were kissing again, the hand finally breaking away from his to grasp at his clothing, holding him close, pulling him closer.
Not close enough. Naked, they had to get naked, to feel that skin against his. The clothes had to go. Now, now, now.
Rearing back, he impatiently tugged at his polo shirt, pulling it over his head even as Sherlock stared at him, lips parted, drinking in the sight.
“Jean.” The hand that reached out brushed against his chest, his ribs, before gripping his hips to pull him back down for another kiss.
It still wasn’t enough. Too much clothing, not enough skin, not enough of anything.
“Strip,” he gasped as they parted again. “Now!”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, his voice more gravelly than usual. Then he was all movement, all but throwing him off as he rose from the bed, fingers frantic and fumbling as they made short work of his shirt buttons and then onwards, downwards to his belt and flies, pushing his trousers, pants and socks off in one go. He was fully erect, long and almost painfully hard.
Yes, that was it. Yes, yes, yes.
Scrambling forward, he forgot about his own trousers in lieu of slipping off the bed and reaching round to grab an arse cheek in each hand. Yes. Yes, yes, yes! Oh, god, yes. His mouth opened with very little thought and then he was gagging as a jerk of the hips and his own eagerness forced in more than he could comfortably manage.
He pulled back, coughing slightly before taking the head back in, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked.
“Jean. Mon Dieu, Jean. Bien… merci bien."
Sherlock’s breathy sighs gave way to indistinguishable babble, the words smoothing over him like silk, fingers flexing through his hair and then the word stop, once, then repeated firmer but more desperately, the fingers trying to pull his head back and away.
He moved back, releasing Sherlock with a slick pop before looking up. The lips were parted again, eyes a touch unfocused, a flush of arousal darkening his chest and creeping up his neck. Debauched. Desperate. Dishevelled.
Getting to his feet, he pulled away long enough to finally rid himself of his trousers. Pulling Sherlock back, he tugged his head down, gabbing another kiss, sinking into the sensation as the strong hands came up to hold him in turn.
“What do you want?” he mouthed against the neck as they were once again parted due to a need for oxygen. “How do you want it? Tell me. Tell me.”
“You,” he heard back. “You decide. I… fuck. Fuck me, John.”
“Yes,” he said, breathing out heavily through his teeth. “Christ, yes. Lube?”
“Jacket.”
It only took him seconds to find and then he was grabbing another kiss and pushing Sherlock back onto the bed. It was a question of position now; face to face had the bonus of both kissing and being able to see each other’s expressions, while hands and knees meant greater depth and more force.
The decision was taken from him when Sherlock rolled over and spread his legs, presenting his still gorgeous arse.
The preparation was quick but enough, and then he was sliding in, holding still for a moment as he fought every instinct to just take, take and keep taking until one or both of them collapsed from exhaustion.
Then Sherlock shifted and that was all it took.
It felt good, so good, so fucking good, that he wanted to go on forever. Please let this last. Don’t let it be over too soon.
He could feel it building already, hardly a surprise, but not what he wanted. Not yet. Not yet!
“Lie down,” he growled, pushing at the small of Sherlock’s back to make sure he complied. The new angle was different, but they were physically closer now, him plastered across Sherlock’s back. It still wasn’t right though, not enough.
Pulling out, he turned them onto their side, spooned behind Sherlock and slid back in. Oh, yes. He was lacking the depth and ease of motion but that didn’t matter. He was on the edge anyway and from the tensing of Sherlock’s stomach muscles, so was he.
He rocked back and forth, revelling in every gasp, every sharp intake of breath, every broken word. He could feel Sherlock with every ounce of his body, chest to back, legs entwined, nose pressed between the shoulder blades. He had one arm trapped, but the other was free to roam, to explore, to tease. Between his body, his hand and his cock, there was nowhere for Sherlock to go.
“Jean…” he heard as he flicked at a nipple. “Oui,” at a particularly well timed, well angled thrust. “Putain,” when he finally reached down to stroke the bobbing, spit coated cock. Then Sherlock’s body was curving in, pulling him with it. So close, he could feel it in Sherlock’s muscles, hear it in his babbling, smell it when he pressed against that back and breathed in deeply.
“Plus fort. S’il-te-plait, Jean…. J’vais… j’vais….”
And then like a coil released, Sherlock came. Mouth open, head falling back, leg straightening as he shuddered and gasped and gave himself over to the sensations.
That was enough, more than enough for John, and with a groan he pushed in as far as he could, tightening his arms around the still shaking body that was his world, and of everything else, he let go.
*
Nothing in his life had ever really gone to plan. As a child he had once had a dream of growing up and being able to help people, save people, even protect people, probably brought on by too many cartoons and superhero comic books. Then he had discovered tennis and everything had gone from there.
Believe it or not, even when he had been starting on the junior circuit, he had been giving thought to what else he could do with his life. At that point they had been unsure whether he had enough talent to make it in the sport professionally, or if he had the type of body that would be able to endure the amount of strain and pressure that would be continually inflicted on it day in, day out. So it had been sensible to come up with a plan B.
He was a bright lad, at least that was what his teachers and tutors had told him, although it wasn’t something he could easily verify himself as, for a while, he had rarely been around children of his own age in an academic setting. He had been accepted into a grammar school though, and one of the top ones at that, so he couldn’t have been thick. Then again he hoped that it hadn’t been his skill with a racket that had gotten him in. He didn’t think so although the doubts always remained. With all of that, his fall back plan was to become a doctor, not an easy choice and a lot of hard work would be involved, but then again the same thing was needed for the tennis.
It turned out, though, that he didn’t need a plan B and tennis became his life.
He had planned on becoming the best in the world, of winning Wimbledon, of being the player that everyone else had to beat, the big name, the famous face.
He had planned on finding the right woman to marry, the one who would follow him around as he toured, his own personal supporters club. He had planned on having a few houses, each in a place that was particularly nice; New York or Florida perhaps, Paris, London, somewhere in the Mediterranean or the Caribbean. He had planned on having a couple of kids, maybe a dog, and a nice car or three. He had planned on helping out his parents, of treating Harry, but then his parents were suddenly gone and Harry needed more than a ‘treat’.
So many plans, so many dreams, so many endings. Bill and Afghanistan. Harry and the bottle. His accident and tennis. Mary and The Sun Newspaper. Plans had turned into smoke as they had burnt on the furnace of reality. Then it had dawned on him the running constant through all of his plans; they had all contained him. He was the flaw, the problem, the reason why everything usually ended going tits up. Him and only him.
Fuckity fuck.
Which was why when he found himself staring at the sleeping form of Sherlock Holmes, he knew with utter certainty that whatever plan he might have started their whole acquaintance with was doomed to complete and absolute failure. But more than that, he would only have himself to blame when it did.
He should have been asleep. He had been asleep, but an early morning trip to the bathroom had left him alert enough to want to look upon the other man, and in the early morning pale light to see the truth that he had been missing for so long.
Sherlock was gorgeous, but not just in the obvious physical way, although with his hair and his eyes and his cheekbones he was that too. He was gorgeous because he was Sherlock Holmes - abrupt, arrogant, sometimes rude, but at the same time, clever, insightful and witty. His mind was as sharp as his forehand, his gaze as piecing as a fully body strike, his tongue as quick as his serve. Sherlock Holmes had, before now, also never featured at all in any of his plans. After all, who would ever think that someone as talented, famous and stunning as Sherlock Holmes would ever even spare him a single glance, let alone a second, or anything more?
And yet, here he was, Sherlock Holmes, in his bed, stretched out and asleep, and he could think of nowhere he wanted to be more.
Oh god, he was so far gone it was like a bad joke. It had only been, what, ten days? Ten days of knowing each other and already he knew that ten years would not be enough time to quench his… what? Aches? Desires? Needs? Wants? Lust? Lov… No!
He shook his head and slid back under the covers.
He wanted Sherlock, that wasn’t exactly news, but now it was dawning on him that he didn’t want to let Sherlock go either. The mere thought of anyone else - of Moriarty - being here instead of him, of lying next to the other man, of touching him, filled him with bile and turned his stomach.
No, Sherlock was his, and only his.
But soon, far too soon, he would have to let him go. He would be forced to say goodbye.
Lying on his back he stared up at the plain ceiling.
They had had one of those pleasant evenings again, comfortable, relaxed, easy. How had he not noticed how easy it had all become? Had he really been that caught up in everything that he just hadn’t noticed?
He scrubbed a hand across his face, pressing the palm of his hand into one of his eyes.
This was not what was supposed to happen. It should have been just shagging. Stress relief, companionship, something mutually beneficial, short term before they both moved on and got on with their lives. But of course he couldn’t even keep to that plan. He just had to go and get it all messed up and confused, and now all he wanted to do was to slide an arm across Sherlock’s body and hold him tight.
He pursed his lips together.
No. No. He was not about to act like some love sick fool with their first crush. He was a grown man, a professional tennis player, and he was through to the semi-finals of Wimbledon. Tonight he had a beautiful man in his bed and later, after they awoke properly and got up, they would spend more time together, training, talking, sitting in silence in each other’s company. The next day would be their matches and anything could happen. That was the future, this was the present, and in his present he had to stop worrying and get some sleep, because the morning would come soon enough.
*
“Rough night?”
John figured it wasn’t worth rising to the less than subtle tease and just took the offered seat. He already knew he didn’t exactly look his best, but that was as much down to the amount of competitive tennis he had played at a high level over a reasonably short amount of time as it was to anything else. Admittedly though, the somewhat broken sleep hadn’t helped, although he doubted that was what Clara was alluding to.
He flashed a smile. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he said.
“So it wasn’t a certain handsome Frenchman keeping you up that’s put that expression on your face then?”
He fought the instinct to groan and roll his eyes. “What’s it going to take for you to never mention that again to anyone, to me included?”
“You wound me,” she said. “It would be unprofessional of me to ever reveal details of a client’s personal life and if it means that much to you I will refrain from saying anything more on the subject, well, other than to add that you, John Watson, are one lucky bastard. I swear, from how he was looking last night, if that had been my bed he had been waiting on, then well, I certainly would have been tempted, wrong gender be damned.”
“I’m sure he’ll be delighted to know that,” he said dryly.
“From a professional point of view though,” Clara continued, her expression suddenly that little bit more serious, “I do need you to be open and truthful with me. Can you honestly tell me that your… acquaintance with him has not affected your tennis? Two weeks ago you were a wild card, three weeks ago you crashed out of Queens in the second round, now you’re through to the semi-finals of Wimbledon. People suddenly remember who you are, newspapers are following you. You know, I’ve had six more requests for interviews with you just this morning. You’re hot stuff. The fire is back in your game and it’s because of him, isn’t it?”
Of course it was because of him - Sherlock. He could hardly deny it, not anymore.
“Clara,” he started but she held up her hand to stop him.
“No, no don’t,” she said. “The answer is pretty bloody obvious regardless of what you say. I guess what I really want to know is, what’s going to happen when this is all over? When is this all going to end? And what are you going to do then?”
It felt strange in that for the first time someone other than him was the one asking those questions. The answers though, didn’t change regardless of who posed the questions.
“It’s a knockout tournament,” he said as lightly as he could manage. “That means this whole thing could end at any time,” and statistically probably tomorrow. He had done the maths. At the most basic level they each had a fifty percent chance of winning their matches, and of course equally a fifty percent chance of losing each of them. Together that gave them just a twenty-five percent chance of both of them making it through to the final, a fifty percent chance of one of them making it through, and a twenty-five percent chance of neither of them making it through.
Of course that statistic had been the same all the way through the tournament for each round as it did not take into consideration the skill and ability of the players taking part, but suddenly the numbers felt very much more real. He was, after all, very much the underdog, and for the first time ever in this tournament this year, Sherlock wasn’t necessarily the favourite to win his match either. After France, Moriarty held the edge, however slight, but most the time a slight edge was all it took.
“Come on,” he continued, “you know the maths. Not even I would bet on the odds of both of us getting through to the final. So you know, it could well be goodbye Wimbledon tomorrow and that’s that. He goes off to the US and I retire to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.”
“You won’t reconsider your retirement plans?” she asked.
“Should I?”
“Semi-final, Wimbledon, John. You can’t tell me that when you decided and announced your retirement it wasn’t motivated by a losing streak as wide as the Pacific. First round, second round, then goodbye Wimbledon, goodbye tennis.”
“Alright, yes,” he said, “but that wasn’t the only reason. I’m old, Clara, in tennis years at least. My body is falling apart. I’m lucky to have gotten this far without my shoulder or my back or my leg giving out on me. I lost interest in the sport some time ago, and in all honesty I can’t afford to keep playing, to keep training. Air fares, hotels and equipment don’t pay for themselves you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, “which is where I come in. We’ll renegotiate your sponsorship deal with Wilson, get you as the new face of Robinsons, and see if one of the tabloids would be interested in an exclusive, behind the scenes of Wimbledon deal.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“We’ll repackage you and send you onto the US a new man, a new player. You wouldn’t even have to do all that well there, but keep your form and your inspiration and who knows, third round, fourth round, quarters, semis, the chance to meet up with a certain Frenchman for a little tête-à-tête. The sky’s the limit. You’ve still got the rest of the season in you, if not more. You’re not going to be significantly older in a month or two’s time, so take advantage while you can. Don’t throw away what you’ve done here, what you’ve achieved, and if it’s money you’re worried about, even without the sponsorship, you’re through to the semi-finals of Wimbledon. Even if you go out tomorrow, that’s prize money of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. That should tide you over for a little while.”
He had forgotten about that. Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds? It had been so long since he had last gotten anywhere close to the semi-finals of a Grand Slam that he had forgotten just how much prize money could be won. In fact, all things said, he had to admit that Clara had a point. Things were going well, he could still play tennis at a high level, so why should he hang up his racket? He was playing brilliantly, and if he went to the US for a tour and then on to the Open, then what reason would he have not to be able to hook up with Sherlock again. They could continue this little thing there. They would be able to spend more time together and then maybe they might discover that whatever this thing was between them that it meant more than they had initially thought, and then maybe….
He slammed a break on those thoughts.
No. No, no, no, no, no. He was retiring and that was that. He had decided and that was it. All of this was just a fluke. It was like lightning. Just because it had struck him here at Wimbledon did not mean that it would happen again anywhere else. The US was a whole new kettle of fish. It was hard court for one, faster and decidedly less forgiving on the knees. No, he had made up his mind and had done so for good reason. Better for him to go out now, at the top - even if it was a fluke - than to crash and burn afterwards.
“I don’t know why I even let you try to convince me,” he said.
“Maybe because you know I’m right,” Clara said with a small smile. “Come on, John, don’t walk away now, not when it’s just getting good.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Clara. It’s tempting, yes, but my performance here doesn’t change anything. It’s time for me to go and nothing you can say can change that.”
She wanted to test him, she could see she wanted to push him, wanted to say something more, probably to call him lots of names - she probably was calling him lots of names in her head anyway, and no doubt rather creative ones - but much to his relief, she nodded and backed down.
“Watson stubbornness,” she said. “I remember that well. Okay, how about this then, you keep what I’ve said in mind and after the tournament we’ll have another talk about it. You might feel differently after your last official competitive match. Agreed?”
“Alright,” he relented. “But no promises.”
“Of course,” she said. “Now, about your immediate plans.”
“Tennis,” he said simply and very firmly.
“Naturally,” she said without missing a beat. “Now, the world and their dogs want an interview with the giant killer.”
“No.”
“But you haven’t heard what yet.”
“And still I’m not interested,” he said. “No interviews while I’m playing, with the exception of the usual BBC stuff and the press conferences. That’s not open to negotiation. I’m here to play tennis, not to be passed in front of one camera after another. Once I’m out of this competition, then if they’re still interested I’ll do a few, but I’ll pick which ones.”
“Newspapers?”
“Some. Except no exclusive interviews with any paper owned by Rupert Murdoch. I still haven’t forgotten what Mary did with their help.”
It brought a shiver over him even now. The horror of finding his personal life splashed across The Sun for everyone to see.
“Fair enough,” Clara agreed, her expression clear that she too remembered exactly what The Sun had published. “The Times included?”
“Preferably.”
“Noted. And if Sherlock Holmes’ name gets mentioned?”
He had to stop himself from tightening his hand into a fist.
“We’re friends and sometimes practice partners,” he said neutrally.
“And if anyone alludes to the pair of you being more than just friends?”
He raised an eyebrow. “With our reputations?” Who was really going to believe that him and Sherlock were together. Sherlock had a history of dating beautiful women and he had the nickname Three Continents Watson for a reason. “Ask them if they’re serious or something. I’m sure you can do scornfully dismissive.”
“And are you serious?” she asked a touch softer than usual. “Do you want it to be serious?”
He forced a smile onto his face. “You know me,” he said lightly, “when have I ever managed a serious relationship?”
*
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