New Fic: A Study in Winning (7/10) part 2 of 2
A Study in Winning
7/10 - part 2
Previous part
*
“Sebastian Moran.”
He looked up from the remains of his chicken salad and refrained from making the obvious quip about mistaken identities. Instead, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Interesting. Is that a statement, question or excuse?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched before he pulled out the chair opposite and smoothly sat, long legs stretched out slightly to the side. He was of course late, and having planned on meeting for lunch, John had given up and gotten his own food while waiting for the other man to grace him with his presence. No doubt an interview had overrun, or he’d had an argument with Lestrade, or something. As long as James Moriarty was not involved then everything was fine.
“Your next opponent,” Sherlock continued smoothly. “Tomorrow, Centre Court, two pm.”
“Yes,” he said with a brief smile. Of course he had already known all of that, although even if he hadn’t had the time confirmed that morning, the other details were predictable. The semi-final matches were always played on Centre Court and they were always one after the other. His match with Moran was to be first and then Sherlock’s match against Moriarty would follow. A big day of tennis according to the BBC sports presenters.
“Six foot three, right handed, South African,” Sherlock continued. “Seeded ninth, highest ever world ranking was sixth in 2008. Serve and volley. First serve can be as fast as a hundred and thirty-five miles an hour with a reasonable accuracy rate. It is his greatest weapon, but he is more than proficient close to the net as well. A strong, powerful player who hits hard and fast. Brutal, commanding, dominant, his game is one based on overwhelming and overpowering the opposition.”
Yes, John remembered all too well. It had been a while since he had last played Moran but he certainly remember the sheer force and speed the ball had flown back over the net at him. At six foot three, Moran would always be a commanding presence, especially when next to someone like him, and his height was only enhanced by the amount of muscle Moran had managed to pack onto his frame. Close up to the net as he liked to play, the man was a colossus. Not the ideal player to come up against and not helped by the fact he had never performed particularly well against a serve and volley player.
“And the bad news?” he joked when Sherlock paused.
Pressing his lips together, Sherlock acknowledged the attempt at humour - poor as it had been - but simply folded his hands neatly in front of him. “He can, of course, be beaten.”
“That’s certainly good to know.”
“Indeed. A great baseline player will always beat a great serve-and-volleyer; his returns will, by definition, be impossible to hit for winning volleys.”
Yes, he of course knew that theory, but serve-and-volley had, no pun intended, served some of the best recent players of the game extremely well. Henman, for example, Krajicek, Rafter, and of course Pete Sampras.
“Tilden,” he said instead, referring to Bill Tilden, the great former player and author of the theory Sherlock had just paraphrased.
“Naturally,” Sherlock said and then leant forward. “You are a great baseline player, John, when you believe it, and like any other player, Moran has his weaknesses. His ground shots are weak, notably his backhand. His bulk makes him slow to move. He has power but little agility and his game plan is basic at best. He will go in to overwhelm you and when you are still reeling from the strength of his attack he will attempt to land the winning blow.”
“You do realise those are boxing metaphors you’re using there,” he added in amusement.
Sherlock sat back. “They seemed appropriate. Whether a tennis court or a boxing ring, it is still a fight.”
“So I’m to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee then,” he said.
Sherlock looked blank before waving it away. “I believe it is no coincidence that Moran has progressed this far. My delay in meeting you was partly due to some information gathering. It seems that earlier this year, possibly in Australia, Moran and Moriarty struck up an unlikely acquaintance.”
It was a good thing he had stopped eating and drinking because that could have been embarrassing. “When you say ‘unlikely acquaintance’ you don’t mean, you know.” He waved his hand vaguely between them hoping that Sherlock would catch on.
“Oh no,” Sherlock said after a moment, his face taking on the look of someone who had just bitten into a lemon. “God, no. I’ve not heard nor seen anything even remotely to that effect. What I mean is that Moriarty is very much like me in that we both spend considerable time analysing the strengths and weaknesses of our opponents, finding ways of breaking them down and changing our strategies accordingly. We are both very good at it. Moran has never been known to employ such tactics, that is clear from his match history, until rather more recently. I believe that Moriarty may be sharing some of his skills in observation with Moran.”
Oh god. That didn’t bear thinking about. And he was supposed to face this man tomorrow?
“You mean like you are with me,” he said slowly wanting to make sure he wasn’t missing something.
“Quite, I’m afraid.”
“But why?”
Sherlock’s face narrowed into a frown. “That I haven’t yet deduced. But I have reviewed key moments of Moran’s match against Nadal and it is clear that he knew exactly how to exploit Nadal’s weaknesses.”
“Oh right,” John said. “Excellent. Right. So, uh, what do you suppose Moriarty has told Moran about me? What are my weaknesses?”
He was mildly surprised when Sherlock paused, taking the time to simply look at him, but not in a ‘I’m trying to deduce you’ sort of way he had seen him do to others, but more of a ‘I don’t have to rake my eyes over you to check because I already know everything about you’.
He tried not to shift too much in his chair.
“Your weaknesses are three fold,” Sherlock finally said still holding his gaze. “They are obvious, simple and you hardly need me to point them out, you know them all already.”
He pressed a small smile to his lips. “I’m tired, I’m old and I have no bloody idea how I’ve managed to get into the semi-final, well, other than down to your suggestions and pure luck?” he suggested.
“Mmmm,” Sherlock said pressing his fingers to his chin. “Not exactly how I would have put it, but not that far incorrect.”
He fidgeted slightly, unable to stop himself but tried to cover it by raising an eyebrow. “Go on then,” he said, “how you would put it then?”
Sherlock tapped his chin with the tips of his fingers.
“Your three weaknesses, John, are quite simply age, injury and confidence.”
He blinked. “Right,” he said.
“Age is obvious. You’re physically past your peak. You tire more easily and you take longer to recover, especially from long matches. Already you are showing the physical signs of prolonged intense play, even if those signs are only slight. Moran need only force you around the court and after a time your energy levels will drop and with it your shot accuracy will decrease also leaving him with easy winners. That said, with his bulk and mass, if you did the same to him he could well tire before you.
“Now injury. This one ties in with your age. Your body is prone to injury and you are already carrying more than the average player. You do not need me to tell you that your shoulder and back are your biggest weaknesses, but your legs and knees, particularly your right, could also become an issue. He will force you to move and twist, playing on the chance you could exacerbate an existing injury or create a new one.
“Which leaves confidence. Before this tournament you had lost twenty-two of your last thirty matches. Only once in the previous eighteen months have you progressed into the last eight of a tournament, in that case a minor ATP 250, twice past the second round in a ATP 500 or 1000 tournament, and more often than not only made it to a Grand Slam on a wild card, if at all.
Yes, he was more than a little aware of that and it was not something he particularly wanted to be reminded of, even by Sherlock Holmes. He cleared his throat. “I hope this isn’t you attempting to address my confidence issues,” he said critically, “because, well, in truth, you're rather crap at it.”
Sherlock’s gaze flickered and then he was raising his chin, his lips momentarily pressed tighter together.
“Tennis is a game of confidence,” he said after a moment. “To win you must first go out there believing that you can win.”
He frowned. “So what? I stopped believing and so stopped winning?” It was far more complicated than that.
“You’re a brilliant tennis player, John Watson. You have the mind for strategy, excellent hand eye co-ordination and can play all round the court. A player is only as good as their weakest stroke and your stroke play is more than good. On the day you could beat anyone.”
Anyone? Really? Well, provided his body held up and he didn’t get injured and he wasn’t playing someone who knew him better than he knew himself. His lips twitched. “What about you?” he asked. “Could I beat you?”
He already knew the answer to that, they had played against each other in practice. He had seen what Sherlock could do to someone else’s game and what Sherlock could do to his own. He was under no illusions of what would happen should they meet competitively.
“Even me,” Sherlock said much to his surprise.
He laughed. “You’re lying,” he said. “Come on, if we both get through to the final do you really think I would stand a chance of beating you. Really?”
“There is always a chance,” Sherlock said. “And yes, there is always the possibility that in a competitive match you would beat me. After all, you did the last time we met each other.”
“Last time we… what? Wait, what? When have we ever played each other, I mean competitively?”
If Sherlock didn’t look so attractive when slightly smug the whole thing would have peeved him more than it did and it was bad enough as it was, especially as Sherlock appeared to be taking a certain amount of delight in the situation.
“Rotterdam, 2002, first round. You beat me in straight sets, 6-4, 6-3.”
“Really?”
“Hmmm, so I have been reliably informed.”
No, really?
“I don’t remember,” he tried instead. He honestly didn’t remember and he was sure he would recall playing someone like Sherlock, but then again he had played so many people over the years and the early rounds did tend to blend together, especially in minor competitions like Basel, Valencia and, of course, Rotterdam.
“No reason why you should,” Sherlock said. “You got to the final. Why would you remember the skinny, short haired French kid you breezed over in an early round?”
He cracked a grin trying to imagine what Sherlock might have looked like in 2002. All he was managing to picture was a skinner, wider eyed version of the man currently sat in front of him. “Skinny, short haired French kid?” he said.
Sherlock scowled. “I was seventeen and had recently taken to wearing my hair rather cropped. I was under the false impression it made me look tougher. Fortunately, both my hair and I quickly grew out of that.”
“Seventeen? A mere baby.”
“And I had a harsh reality wake up to the speed and force of a hard court against a player with very few weaknesses.”
“Hmmm, so you remember it then?” And yet he hadn’t mentioned it before now.
“Oh. No, not exactly. Deleted it of course, but I have recently been reminded of it though.”
Deleted? Okay, fair enough, it wasn’t as if he remembered either, which was a shame as 2002 to 2004 had been by far his best years.
“The point is, John, you are a brilliant player, but you need to remember and believe it. Moran is going to attack you hard and fast, break your rhythm and your spirit. Hold in there, wear him out, wear him down and you will win. After all, tennis matches are not won by big shots. They are won by getting the routine serve returns in court, making the easy volley and hanging tough through the match.”
He smiled recognising a quote when he heard one. “Tilden again?” he asked.
Sherlock smiled back. “Allen Fox.”
Fair enough.
“Here,” Sherlock said pulling a notebook out from the inside of his jacket. “Sebastian Moran, all I have on him.”
The notebook was rather thin compared to that of Andy Murray. Somehow that wasn’t surprising.
“Thanks,” he said. “You, uh, got plans for this evening?”
“Preparation,” Sherlock said, his eyes flickering. “Moriarty.”
John nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sherlock said as he got to his feet. “After we’re both through to the final of course. Gotta dash, left Lestrade in charge of my match rackets. Your shoulder looks a little stiff. Forget a practice, you don’t want to strain it. Steam room, deep muscle massage and a decent night’s sleep.”
“Yeah. Alright.” Of course he would have noticed his shoulder. “Good luck for tomorrow.”
Sherlock paused to offer a small smile and then he was gone.
John let out a deep breath and turned over the thin notebook. It was still warm.
*
The hotel room felt too empty. He might have used the word ‘big’ but it was hardly a large room, and yet it felt as if there was something missing from it.
Flopping down on the bed he knew exactly what - or more accurately - who that was, and it was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous that within a matter of a few days Sherlock Holmes had wormed his way into his life so firmly and thoroughly that he was now physically missing his presence. Damn it. Ridiculous!
Rolling over he stared up at the ceiling. Funnily enough it hadn’t changed since the last time he had stared at it, but this time he wasn’t sharing a bed with someone else. Now even the bed felt too big.
“Come on, Watson,” he growled, “get a grip.”
Grabbing the TV remote, he flicked through channels and settled on some comedy repeats on Dave. They at least added some noise and laughter to the room but he wasn’t interested enough to pay too much attention. It certainly didn’t take too long for his mind to cycle back to the two things most demanding his attention; Sherlock and Moran.
Tomorrow was going to be horrible. He just knew it. At best the match was going to be a long and painful one. He could hardly hope that Moran would pick up an injury like Murray had. Lightning didn’t strike the same spot twice. He would have to battle his way through and hope he came out the other side in one piece and preferably the victor, although not humiliated would also be acceptable. If he was going to lose then at least don’t let it be a total embarrassment.
No, stop thinking about this.
He pressed his palms against his face. It was no good thinking about it because he would just get himself stressed and agitated. He had to stay relaxed. He had his game plan, he had read Sherlock’s notes on Moran as thoroughly as he could - there were places in the notebook where Sherlock’s handwriting was almost as poor as his own grasp of French. He knew what he was doing when it came to Moran, which was more than he could say about Sherlock.
Christ, that was a mess. He was actually missing the stupid bugger, and miss him not in a sexual way - as in come here, I want a shag - but miss him in a companionship way. He actually wanted to spend time with Sherlock even if it was in near silence. What sort of madness was that?
Okay, he knew exactly what sort of madness that was, but being able to identify it was not helping in the least.
Oh he needed a drink. Except alcohol was the last thing he truly needed.
Bugger, fucking, blasted hell. He needed to do something, desperately needed a distraction.
Grabbing his mobile he flicked through the numbers. He wasn’t yet desperate enough to actually want to phone Clara. He had already spoken to Harry that day and any more would lead to her knowing that something was up. Dimmock, no. Mike, no. His finger hovered briefly over Sarah’s number but dismissed it.
Sherlock.
Just great. Everything always seemed to come back to him.
“Fine. Fine,” he said, and grabbing his room key and wallet he gave in and went for a walk. It was no accident that his walk left him outside Suite 212.
Steeling himself he figured what the hell and then knocked.
He waited. There was no answer.
He knocked again. He had the right room, he was sure. He considered calling Sherlock’s name but didn’t want to draw that much attention. It would be just like Sherlock not to answer the door just as he never answered his phone. Damn, he wasn’t answering his mobile either.
He ended up down in reception.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” he said smiling at the young lady at the desk, a different one from the last time he noted. “Suite 212,” he said, “my friend is staying there. Could you give him a call and check if he’s in there. He’s not answering his mobile.”
“Certainly, sir.”
She quickly tapped at her keyboard. “I’m sorry, sir, but the room is currently vacant.”
“Vacant?” You mean he’s not currently there?”
“No, sir, I mean the room is not in use. Mr Bell and party checked out this afternoon.”
Mr Bell? Oh yes, Joseph Bell, Sherlock’s current pseudonym. Checked out this afternoon? Right. Oh.
“Thanks. Did they say why they were checking out?”
“No, sir.”
“Right.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir, and good luck tomorrow.”
Her smile was broad, bright and genuine. She knew exactly who he was and was wishing him pure and honest best wishes. Blimey, it had been a while since he had had that.
“Thanks… Stephanie” he said glancing at her name badge.
Right, so Sherlock had checked out. Where exactly would he go? Oh, it was so obvious.
Grabbing his mobile he quickly tapped in the number for directory enquiries.
“Hi, yes, telephone number for 221B Baker Street, London, please.”
“Please hold… I’m sorry but there is no number listed.”
Of course not. Why would Sherlock have his number listed? It had been a stupid idea.
“Would you like to try for another number?”
“No… no, wait, yes, can you try 221A Baker Street.”
“Please hold… number found. Would you like us to put you through?”
“Uh, yes.” Please don’t let him be making a huge mistake.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Hudson?”
“Speaking.”
Brilliant. “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Hudson, but it’s John Watson, Sherlock’s friend. We met over the weekend.”
“Oh of course,” she said actually sounding rather pleased to hear from him. “Congratulations on your wins. I’m going to be there tomorrow to cheer you both on. I’m ever so excited. Mrs Turner next door was ever so jealous.”
“Uh, thanks,” he said trying to cut her off before she got onto some kind of roll. “Look, I was just wondering, is Sherlock upstairs? It’s just he’s not answering his phone.”
“Oh, the silly boy. Yes, he’s upstairs. I think him and Lestrade are having a bit of a set-to. I could hear balls being thrown at the wall earlier. It’s the match tomorrow I suspect. He always gets worked up before a big match. Needs someone to steady him, he does. Do you want me to go and get him for you?”
“No… I, uh, do you think he would mind if I, uh, popped in for a bit. I know it’s getting late, but you know.”
Well, he hoped she knew because he all honesty he didn’t have a clue.
“Oh no, I’m sure he won’t mind a bit. It would probably do him the world of good, help him unwind and take his mind off tomorrow. Poor boy, always thinking too much, except when he’s ruining my walls. Do you want me to let him know you’re coming?”
“No, I’ll… it’ll be a surprise.” A good surprise or a bad one, but a surprise none the less. “Although, could you let me in when I get there? It’s just he’s not likely to answer the door. I’m sorry it’s a bit late.”
“Oh nonsense, dear, of course I’ll let you in. I won’t be going to bed for a while anyway, not with my hip and all the noise they’re making.”
“Thank you. I won’t be long.”
He hung up and made his way out of the hotel before he could change his mind and tell himself he was being stupid. More than stupid. Oh he was almost giddy with excitement.
“Taxi.”
Baker Street wasn’t actually all that far from the hotel, close enough for him to have been able to walk it, but hell, a taxi was right there and it would be faster.
“Uh, Baker Street,” he said as he closed the door. “Two, two, one.”
“Right you are.”
He was going to be there in a few minutes. He tried not to fidget although his thigh was bouncing a little too much.
“You look familiar,” the cabbie said glancing in his rear mirror. “Do I know you? ‘Ere, you wouldn’t be that tennis player, would you? The one who beat Murray?”
“Uh, yes,” he said caught momentarily off guard.
“Thought so. Seen you on the telly. Not a huge fan of tennis me-self, prefer football, but it’s Wimbledon. Gotta support the Brits at Wimbledon. You playing tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Uh, semi-final.”
“Well good luck with that. Win and you’ll be in the final. An Englishman in the final. Gotta love that. Here you go.”
He hopped out when the cab stopped before handing over the money.
“Good luck, mate.”
He nodded and shut the door.
221B Baker Street. He stared at it for a moment. Now he was here he was having second thoughts. What if Sherlock wouldn’t want to see him? What if Sherlock got angry? Could he handle an angry Sherlock? Oh hell, it wasn’t as if he was here for sex or anything. He knew where Sherlock stood on that and the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. No, he was here because anywhere else didn’t quite feel good enough, and in some respects, that was worse.
Damn, damn, Christ, damn.
He reached up and pressed the bell for 221A.
*
Mrs Hudson let him in, taking delight in telling him that it was lovely to see him and that it was a good thing he was here because Sherlock, the poor boy, was in one of his moods and poor Lestrade was bearing the brunt of it.
“I’m sure he’ll be better now you’re here,” she said. “He needs someone like you. You go and distract him from whatever is going on that head of his. All this shouting, banging and crashing, whatever will the neighbours think?”
Practically ushered upstairs, he climbed the seventeen steps to 221B and slowed when he got to the top, not sure what he would find or what the reaction to his presence would be.
If it were possible the flat looked even more untidy than the last time he had been there, which had unbelievably only been four days previous. There were more bags all over the place, probably from where they had checked out of the hotel. The piles of books and paper had been disturbed and there were more tennis balls haphazardly lying around from where they had most likely landed or rolled having collided first with the wall.
Sherlock himself was sprawled on the sofa dressed in a pair of pyjamas bottoms and a t-shirt, wrapped in his blue dressing gown. He appeared to be having harsh words - in rapid French of course - with Lestrade who was stood by the kitchen looking more haggard and more frazzled than John had yet to see him. Whatever the perks of the job were for Lestrade, John hoped that they were bloody good, because dealing with a Sherlock like this didn’t look like fun.
The conversation - if it could be called that - seemed to end with Sherlock snapping something that sounded somewhat insulting. Lestrade threw his hands up in the air in response before rubbing them across his face, obviously not bothering with a reply.
“Knock, knock,” he said a little tentatively, taking advantage of the pause. “Uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up from the sofa, eyes first widening and then narrowing when they looked at him.
“John… what are you doing here?”
Ah, there was the frown.
“Mrs Hudson let me in,” he said moving forward so he was now out of the landing area.
“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock snapped. “Not what I asked.”
Oh. He had never seen Sherlock like this before. He looked so tightly sprung, like a coil that could release or break at any moment.
“Oh, uh, the hotel said you’d checked out. You weren’t answering your phone. I thought I’d check that you were alright, that you were, you know, Moriarty and all that.”
“Oh.” Sherlock’s expression tightened for a moment and then relaxed. “No, I’m fine,” he said. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade said quietly.
“Alright, fine. He sent a card to my suite. It was decided it best that we therefore vacated the room and rather than take a new one agreed to come here instead.”
Well, yes, that made sense, or at least some of it did.
“Anything I can do?” he asked, the words forming before the thought did.
“No,” Sherlock said at virtually the same time Lestrade said, “yes.”
“You can keep him company for a bit,” Lestrade said. “Do what you like, but I’ve had enough. I’ll be upstairs, but unless the place is on fire I’m not interested, okay. And no setting the place on fire, Sherlock.”
Sherlock scowled.
“Good luck, mate,” Lestrade said clapping a hand briefly to John’s shoulder. “Won’t blame you if you bail quickly. He’s unmanageable when he’s like this.”
Then Lestrade was out of the room and making short work of the stairs to the upper floor bedroom.
“When you’re like what?” John asked turning back to Sherlock. Okay, so it wasn’t hard to see that Sherlock was in some kind of mood, but it was good to know what type and what had caused it. He was usually so much more… controlled.
Sherlock huffed and went back to stretching across the couch. With no answer immediately forthcoming, John took a seat on the nearest armchair having first cleared it of notebooks and pens.
“You always like this before a match, or is it because of, you know, tomorrow’s match?”
Semi-final. Wimbledon. Moriarty.
Sherlock didn’t respond immediately and when he did finally speak his words were slow and precise. “What are you really doing here, John?” he said.
“I, uh,” missed you, wanted to see you, needed to see you, have no idea other than the fact I wasn’t thinking and now I want to touch you, run my fingers through your curls, help you relax and believe it or not that’s a very scary thought because it means that somehow, somewhere along the line I’ve fallen for you, hard, and tomorrow could be the last time we ever see each other and that thought just kills me, so I’m sorry that I’m here, but it’s your fault because if you had never invaded my life then I would have gone out a week ago and would now be in a bar drinking, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life rather than sat here in your flat trying not to think about what it would be like to spend the rest of my life with you.
He clenched his hand into a fist.
“If you’re here for sex then I told you, not interested.”
Sex? Did he really think that little of him?
“Of course I’m not bloody well here for sex you egotistical bastard,” he snapped getting to his feet. “It’s not all about bloody sex you know. Did it never occur to you that maybe I really was worried about you?” Care for you. Miss you. Want you. “You know what, this was obviously a mistake. You’re fine, you’re obviously fine. You have everything under control. I should go, get a good night’s sleep, like you said. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck and all that.”
“John.”
He got as far as the door before Sherlock’s voice called him back. He hesitated then, part of him telling him to get the hell out of there, another part screaming at him to stay. He stopped and slowly turned back, his fists still clenched. He found Sherlock sitting up, a slightly confused and somewhat vulnerable expression on his face.
“I… I can’t stop my brain,” he said. “It won’t stop. It just keeps going round and round and round. It’s frustrating. All I can think about is Moriarty, and the French Open, and the trainers, and… this is what he wanted. He sent me a postcard of Paris. Paris, John. And the only thing he wrote was Nous Aurons Toujours Paris across the back.”
John frowned.
“We’ll Always Have Paris,” Sherlock supplied before scrubbing his hands through his hair. “He’s playing with me, knowing my brain will want to analyse every single little thing and I can’t make it stop. I can’t.”
For the first time ever he saw just how young Sherlock really was, that under all that confidence and talent was a young man facing perhaps the biggest and most crucial match of his adult career. It was no secret that the victor between Moriarty and Sherlock would be the one automatically tipped to be lifting the Wimbledon trophy, so this match was huge and Sherlock was feeling every inch of the pressure, and to make it worse, Moriarty was playing dirty.
Part of him wanted to go over there and gather Sherlock into his arms, to press a kiss to his head, but as much as he might desire it, they weren’t like that. Whatever this was, it was not a relationship.
“Yes,” he said, “that happens. Pre-match anxieties and all that.” And he knew all about that and having to find ways of combating it. Unfortunately for his tennis, his most recent method had involved reminding himself it was only a match, if wasn’t life or death. No wonder he had always expected to lose.
“Sounds like you need some sort of distraction,” he continued.
Sherlock looked intrigued as he swung his legs over to sit up. “What do you suggest?”
In the end they managed to find an acceptable movie on ITV 3 and settled down to watch George Clooney and Brad Pitt (neither of whom Sherlock knew anything about) rob a Vegas Casino. Of course it led to a whole host of different discussions - how plausible the movie was, whether the plan was even possible, most shaggable character - which were mostly restricted to the advert breaks but it wasn’t long before they continued talking into the rest of the movie as well. Sherlock was scornful of a lot of the film but admitted to appreciating some of the physical acrobatics and smirked at the changing disguises of a number of the characters.
By the time the plan had worked and the team were stood by the fountain - “Oh, Clair de Lune, dull.” “Hmm?” “The music. Debussy’s Clair de Lune from Suite Bergamasque. Overrated, overplayed, overused.” “Oh.” - it was rather late and both were slouched on the sofa, relaxed and barely awake.
Stretching, John caught a glance at a clock and groaned. He really should have been in bed. So much for the early night.
“Better go,” he said. “Important day tomorrow… today… later. Bugger.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said and then reached across to catch his hand and lace their fingers together. “Stay.”
And like that it was decided.
*
End Part Seven
Additional Authors Notes
Firstly, for the non-tennis fans in particular who may have been hit hard by technical stuff in this chapter:
There are basically four types of competitions throughout the tennis year played all over the world. The biggest and most grand are of course the four Grand Slams (Australia, France, Wimbledon, US), then the ATP 1000s, 500s and 250s in that order, named after the number of points the winner gets. A number of the smaller ones run at the same time, so are much smaller in number and less top players are involved in each, therefore it would be easier for John to go further in the small tournaments like an ATP 250. Also, with only 32 players entering, getting to the last 8 isn’t as impressive as it sounds. That’s only two wins.
Regarding some of the quotes Sherlock throws in:
The first, that a serve-and-volley player will lose to a good baseline player, is by Bill Tilden, who is considered to be the greatest player of the early part of the twentieth century having dominated the 1920s. He may well have spent more time analysing the game of tennis than anyone before or perhaps since and wrote several books about tennis. His greatest work is Match Play and the Spin of the Ball, which is the one that Sherlock takes the theory from. The book is still in print and is considered to be the definitive work on the subject. Interesting, besides having great physical abilities, Tilden was an extremely cerebral player, a master of both strategy and tactics, adept at adapting himself to his opponent’s style and turning his strengths against him. If there is one player I think Sherlock would admire and want to emulate, Tilden sounds like the one. Also, incidentally, Tilden is believed to have been homosexual.
The second quote about matches being won not by the big shots but by the routine ones, comes from Allen Fox’s book, If I’m the Better Player, Why Can’t I Win? Fox was a player in the 60s and 70s and is now an author and lecturer. I suspect Sherlock would have copies of his books even if John doesn’t.
There, now you know something more about tennis. ;)
7/10 - part 2
Previous part
*
“Sebastian Moran.”
He looked up from the remains of his chicken salad and refrained from making the obvious quip about mistaken identities. Instead, he raised his eyebrows and said, “Interesting. Is that a statement, question or excuse?”
Sherlock’s lips twitched before he pulled out the chair opposite and smoothly sat, long legs stretched out slightly to the side. He was of course late, and having planned on meeting for lunch, John had given up and gotten his own food while waiting for the other man to grace him with his presence. No doubt an interview had overrun, or he’d had an argument with Lestrade, or something. As long as James Moriarty was not involved then everything was fine.
“Your next opponent,” Sherlock continued smoothly. “Tomorrow, Centre Court, two pm.”
“Yes,” he said with a brief smile. Of course he had already known all of that, although even if he hadn’t had the time confirmed that morning, the other details were predictable. The semi-final matches were always played on Centre Court and they were always one after the other. His match with Moran was to be first and then Sherlock’s match against Moriarty would follow. A big day of tennis according to the BBC sports presenters.
“Six foot three, right handed, South African,” Sherlock continued. “Seeded ninth, highest ever world ranking was sixth in 2008. Serve and volley. First serve can be as fast as a hundred and thirty-five miles an hour with a reasonable accuracy rate. It is his greatest weapon, but he is more than proficient close to the net as well. A strong, powerful player who hits hard and fast. Brutal, commanding, dominant, his game is one based on overwhelming and overpowering the opposition.”
Yes, John remembered all too well. It had been a while since he had last played Moran but he certainly remember the sheer force and speed the ball had flown back over the net at him. At six foot three, Moran would always be a commanding presence, especially when next to someone like him, and his height was only enhanced by the amount of muscle Moran had managed to pack onto his frame. Close up to the net as he liked to play, the man was a colossus. Not the ideal player to come up against and not helped by the fact he had never performed particularly well against a serve and volley player.
“And the bad news?” he joked when Sherlock paused.
Pressing his lips together, Sherlock acknowledged the attempt at humour - poor as it had been - but simply folded his hands neatly in front of him. “He can, of course, be beaten.”
“That’s certainly good to know.”
“Indeed. A great baseline player will always beat a great serve-and-volleyer; his returns will, by definition, be impossible to hit for winning volleys.”
Yes, he of course knew that theory, but serve-and-volley had, no pun intended, served some of the best recent players of the game extremely well. Henman, for example, Krajicek, Rafter, and of course Pete Sampras.
“Tilden,” he said instead, referring to Bill Tilden, the great former player and author of the theory Sherlock had just paraphrased.
“Naturally,” Sherlock said and then leant forward. “You are a great baseline player, John, when you believe it, and like any other player, Moran has his weaknesses. His ground shots are weak, notably his backhand. His bulk makes him slow to move. He has power but little agility and his game plan is basic at best. He will go in to overwhelm you and when you are still reeling from the strength of his attack he will attempt to land the winning blow.”
“You do realise those are boxing metaphors you’re using there,” he added in amusement.
Sherlock sat back. “They seemed appropriate. Whether a tennis court or a boxing ring, it is still a fight.”
“So I’m to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee then,” he said.
Sherlock looked blank before waving it away. “I believe it is no coincidence that Moran has progressed this far. My delay in meeting you was partly due to some information gathering. It seems that earlier this year, possibly in Australia, Moran and Moriarty struck up an unlikely acquaintance.”
It was a good thing he had stopped eating and drinking because that could have been embarrassing. “When you say ‘unlikely acquaintance’ you don’t mean, you know.” He waved his hand vaguely between them hoping that Sherlock would catch on.
“Oh no,” Sherlock said after a moment, his face taking on the look of someone who had just bitten into a lemon. “God, no. I’ve not heard nor seen anything even remotely to that effect. What I mean is that Moriarty is very much like me in that we both spend considerable time analysing the strengths and weaknesses of our opponents, finding ways of breaking them down and changing our strategies accordingly. We are both very good at it. Moran has never been known to employ such tactics, that is clear from his match history, until rather more recently. I believe that Moriarty may be sharing some of his skills in observation with Moran.”
Oh god. That didn’t bear thinking about. And he was supposed to face this man tomorrow?
“You mean like you are with me,” he said slowly wanting to make sure he wasn’t missing something.
“Quite, I’m afraid.”
“But why?”
Sherlock’s face narrowed into a frown. “That I haven’t yet deduced. But I have reviewed key moments of Moran’s match against Nadal and it is clear that he knew exactly how to exploit Nadal’s weaknesses.”
“Oh right,” John said. “Excellent. Right. So, uh, what do you suppose Moriarty has told Moran about me? What are my weaknesses?”
He was mildly surprised when Sherlock paused, taking the time to simply look at him, but not in a ‘I’m trying to deduce you’ sort of way he had seen him do to others, but more of a ‘I don’t have to rake my eyes over you to check because I already know everything about you’.
He tried not to shift too much in his chair.
“Your weaknesses are three fold,” Sherlock finally said still holding his gaze. “They are obvious, simple and you hardly need me to point them out, you know them all already.”
He pressed a small smile to his lips. “I’m tired, I’m old and I have no bloody idea how I’ve managed to get into the semi-final, well, other than down to your suggestions and pure luck?” he suggested.
“Mmmm,” Sherlock said pressing his fingers to his chin. “Not exactly how I would have put it, but not that far incorrect.”
He fidgeted slightly, unable to stop himself but tried to cover it by raising an eyebrow. “Go on then,” he said, “how you would put it then?”
Sherlock tapped his chin with the tips of his fingers.
“Your three weaknesses, John, are quite simply age, injury and confidence.”
He blinked. “Right,” he said.
“Age is obvious. You’re physically past your peak. You tire more easily and you take longer to recover, especially from long matches. Already you are showing the physical signs of prolonged intense play, even if those signs are only slight. Moran need only force you around the court and after a time your energy levels will drop and with it your shot accuracy will decrease also leaving him with easy winners. That said, with his bulk and mass, if you did the same to him he could well tire before you.
“Now injury. This one ties in with your age. Your body is prone to injury and you are already carrying more than the average player. You do not need me to tell you that your shoulder and back are your biggest weaknesses, but your legs and knees, particularly your right, could also become an issue. He will force you to move and twist, playing on the chance you could exacerbate an existing injury or create a new one.
“Which leaves confidence. Before this tournament you had lost twenty-two of your last thirty matches. Only once in the previous eighteen months have you progressed into the last eight of a tournament, in that case a minor ATP 250, twice past the second round in a ATP 500 or 1000 tournament, and more often than not only made it to a Grand Slam on a wild card, if at all.
Yes, he was more than a little aware of that and it was not something he particularly wanted to be reminded of, even by Sherlock Holmes. He cleared his throat. “I hope this isn’t you attempting to address my confidence issues,” he said critically, “because, well, in truth, you're rather crap at it.”
Sherlock’s gaze flickered and then he was raising his chin, his lips momentarily pressed tighter together.
“Tennis is a game of confidence,” he said after a moment. “To win you must first go out there believing that you can win.”
He frowned. “So what? I stopped believing and so stopped winning?” It was far more complicated than that.
“You’re a brilliant tennis player, John Watson. You have the mind for strategy, excellent hand eye co-ordination and can play all round the court. A player is only as good as their weakest stroke and your stroke play is more than good. On the day you could beat anyone.”
Anyone? Really? Well, provided his body held up and he didn’t get injured and he wasn’t playing someone who knew him better than he knew himself. His lips twitched. “What about you?” he asked. “Could I beat you?”
He already knew the answer to that, they had played against each other in practice. He had seen what Sherlock could do to someone else’s game and what Sherlock could do to his own. He was under no illusions of what would happen should they meet competitively.
“Even me,” Sherlock said much to his surprise.
He laughed. “You’re lying,” he said. “Come on, if we both get through to the final do you really think I would stand a chance of beating you. Really?”
“There is always a chance,” Sherlock said. “And yes, there is always the possibility that in a competitive match you would beat me. After all, you did the last time we met each other.”
“Last time we… what? Wait, what? When have we ever played each other, I mean competitively?”
If Sherlock didn’t look so attractive when slightly smug the whole thing would have peeved him more than it did and it was bad enough as it was, especially as Sherlock appeared to be taking a certain amount of delight in the situation.
“Rotterdam, 2002, first round. You beat me in straight sets, 6-4, 6-3.”
“Really?”
“Hmmm, so I have been reliably informed.”
No, really?
“I don’t remember,” he tried instead. He honestly didn’t remember and he was sure he would recall playing someone like Sherlock, but then again he had played so many people over the years and the early rounds did tend to blend together, especially in minor competitions like Basel, Valencia and, of course, Rotterdam.
“No reason why you should,” Sherlock said. “You got to the final. Why would you remember the skinny, short haired French kid you breezed over in an early round?”
He cracked a grin trying to imagine what Sherlock might have looked like in 2002. All he was managing to picture was a skinner, wider eyed version of the man currently sat in front of him. “Skinny, short haired French kid?” he said.
Sherlock scowled. “I was seventeen and had recently taken to wearing my hair rather cropped. I was under the false impression it made me look tougher. Fortunately, both my hair and I quickly grew out of that.”
“Seventeen? A mere baby.”
“And I had a harsh reality wake up to the speed and force of a hard court against a player with very few weaknesses.”
“Hmmm, so you remember it then?” And yet he hadn’t mentioned it before now.
“Oh. No, not exactly. Deleted it of course, but I have recently been reminded of it though.”
Deleted? Okay, fair enough, it wasn’t as if he remembered either, which was a shame as 2002 to 2004 had been by far his best years.
“The point is, John, you are a brilliant player, but you need to remember and believe it. Moran is going to attack you hard and fast, break your rhythm and your spirit. Hold in there, wear him out, wear him down and you will win. After all, tennis matches are not won by big shots. They are won by getting the routine serve returns in court, making the easy volley and hanging tough through the match.”
He smiled recognising a quote when he heard one. “Tilden again?” he asked.
Sherlock smiled back. “Allen Fox.”
Fair enough.
“Here,” Sherlock said pulling a notebook out from the inside of his jacket. “Sebastian Moran, all I have on him.”
The notebook was rather thin compared to that of Andy Murray. Somehow that wasn’t surprising.
“Thanks,” he said. “You, uh, got plans for this evening?”
“Preparation,” Sherlock said, his eyes flickering. “Moriarty.”
John nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sherlock said as he got to his feet. “After we’re both through to the final of course. Gotta dash, left Lestrade in charge of my match rackets. Your shoulder looks a little stiff. Forget a practice, you don’t want to strain it. Steam room, deep muscle massage and a decent night’s sleep.”
“Yeah. Alright.” Of course he would have noticed his shoulder. “Good luck for tomorrow.”
Sherlock paused to offer a small smile and then he was gone.
John let out a deep breath and turned over the thin notebook. It was still warm.
*
The hotel room felt too empty. He might have used the word ‘big’ but it was hardly a large room, and yet it felt as if there was something missing from it.
Flopping down on the bed he knew exactly what - or more accurately - who that was, and it was ridiculous, utterly ridiculous that within a matter of a few days Sherlock Holmes had wormed his way into his life so firmly and thoroughly that he was now physically missing his presence. Damn it. Ridiculous!
Rolling over he stared up at the ceiling. Funnily enough it hadn’t changed since the last time he had stared at it, but this time he wasn’t sharing a bed with someone else. Now even the bed felt too big.
“Come on, Watson,” he growled, “get a grip.”
Grabbing the TV remote, he flicked through channels and settled on some comedy repeats on Dave. They at least added some noise and laughter to the room but he wasn’t interested enough to pay too much attention. It certainly didn’t take too long for his mind to cycle back to the two things most demanding his attention; Sherlock and Moran.
Tomorrow was going to be horrible. He just knew it. At best the match was going to be a long and painful one. He could hardly hope that Moran would pick up an injury like Murray had. Lightning didn’t strike the same spot twice. He would have to battle his way through and hope he came out the other side in one piece and preferably the victor, although not humiliated would also be acceptable. If he was going to lose then at least don’t let it be a total embarrassment.
No, stop thinking about this.
He pressed his palms against his face. It was no good thinking about it because he would just get himself stressed and agitated. He had to stay relaxed. He had his game plan, he had read Sherlock’s notes on Moran as thoroughly as he could - there were places in the notebook where Sherlock’s handwriting was almost as poor as his own grasp of French. He knew what he was doing when it came to Moran, which was more than he could say about Sherlock.
Christ, that was a mess. He was actually missing the stupid bugger, and miss him not in a sexual way - as in come here, I want a shag - but miss him in a companionship way. He actually wanted to spend time with Sherlock even if it was in near silence. What sort of madness was that?
Okay, he knew exactly what sort of madness that was, but being able to identify it was not helping in the least.
Oh he needed a drink. Except alcohol was the last thing he truly needed.
Bugger, fucking, blasted hell. He needed to do something, desperately needed a distraction.
Grabbing his mobile he flicked through the numbers. He wasn’t yet desperate enough to actually want to phone Clara. He had already spoken to Harry that day and any more would lead to her knowing that something was up. Dimmock, no. Mike, no. His finger hovered briefly over Sarah’s number but dismissed it.
Sherlock.
Just great. Everything always seemed to come back to him.
“Fine. Fine,” he said, and grabbing his room key and wallet he gave in and went for a walk. It was no accident that his walk left him outside Suite 212.
Steeling himself he figured what the hell and then knocked.
He waited. There was no answer.
He knocked again. He had the right room, he was sure. He considered calling Sherlock’s name but didn’t want to draw that much attention. It would be just like Sherlock not to answer the door just as he never answered his phone. Damn, he wasn’t answering his mobile either.
He ended up down in reception.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” he said smiling at the young lady at the desk, a different one from the last time he noted. “Suite 212,” he said, “my friend is staying there. Could you give him a call and check if he’s in there. He’s not answering his mobile.”
“Certainly, sir.”
She quickly tapped at her keyboard. “I’m sorry, sir, but the room is currently vacant.”
“Vacant?” You mean he’s not currently there?”
“No, sir, I mean the room is not in use. Mr Bell and party checked out this afternoon.”
Mr Bell? Oh yes, Joseph Bell, Sherlock’s current pseudonym. Checked out this afternoon? Right. Oh.
“Thanks. Did they say why they were checking out?”
“No, sir.”
“Right.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, thank you.”
“My pleasure, sir, and good luck tomorrow.”
Her smile was broad, bright and genuine. She knew exactly who he was and was wishing him pure and honest best wishes. Blimey, it had been a while since he had had that.
“Thanks… Stephanie” he said glancing at her name badge.
Right, so Sherlock had checked out. Where exactly would he go? Oh, it was so obvious.
Grabbing his mobile he quickly tapped in the number for directory enquiries.
“Hi, yes, telephone number for 221B Baker Street, London, please.”
“Please hold… I’m sorry but there is no number listed.”
Of course not. Why would Sherlock have his number listed? It had been a stupid idea.
“Would you like to try for another number?”
“No… no, wait, yes, can you try 221A Baker Street.”
“Please hold… number found. Would you like us to put you through?”
“Uh, yes.” Please don’t let him be making a huge mistake.
“Hello?”
“Mrs Hudson?”
“Speaking.”
Brilliant. “Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Hudson, but it’s John Watson, Sherlock’s friend. We met over the weekend.”
“Oh of course,” she said actually sounding rather pleased to hear from him. “Congratulations on your wins. I’m going to be there tomorrow to cheer you both on. I’m ever so excited. Mrs Turner next door was ever so jealous.”
“Uh, thanks,” he said trying to cut her off before she got onto some kind of roll. “Look, I was just wondering, is Sherlock upstairs? It’s just he’s not answering his phone.”
“Oh, the silly boy. Yes, he’s upstairs. I think him and Lestrade are having a bit of a set-to. I could hear balls being thrown at the wall earlier. It’s the match tomorrow I suspect. He always gets worked up before a big match. Needs someone to steady him, he does. Do you want me to go and get him for you?”
“No… I, uh, do you think he would mind if I, uh, popped in for a bit. I know it’s getting late, but you know.”
Well, he hoped she knew because he all honesty he didn’t have a clue.
“Oh no, I’m sure he won’t mind a bit. It would probably do him the world of good, help him unwind and take his mind off tomorrow. Poor boy, always thinking too much, except when he’s ruining my walls. Do you want me to let him know you’re coming?”
“No, I’ll… it’ll be a surprise.” A good surprise or a bad one, but a surprise none the less. “Although, could you let me in when I get there? It’s just he’s not likely to answer the door. I’m sorry it’s a bit late.”
“Oh nonsense, dear, of course I’ll let you in. I won’t be going to bed for a while anyway, not with my hip and all the noise they’re making.”
“Thank you. I won’t be long.”
He hung up and made his way out of the hotel before he could change his mind and tell himself he was being stupid. More than stupid. Oh he was almost giddy with excitement.
“Taxi.”
Baker Street wasn’t actually all that far from the hotel, close enough for him to have been able to walk it, but hell, a taxi was right there and it would be faster.
“Uh, Baker Street,” he said as he closed the door. “Two, two, one.”
“Right you are.”
He was going to be there in a few minutes. He tried not to fidget although his thigh was bouncing a little too much.
“You look familiar,” the cabbie said glancing in his rear mirror. “Do I know you? ‘Ere, you wouldn’t be that tennis player, would you? The one who beat Murray?”
“Uh, yes,” he said caught momentarily off guard.
“Thought so. Seen you on the telly. Not a huge fan of tennis me-self, prefer football, but it’s Wimbledon. Gotta support the Brits at Wimbledon. You playing tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Uh, semi-final.”
“Well good luck with that. Win and you’ll be in the final. An Englishman in the final. Gotta love that. Here you go.”
He hopped out when the cab stopped before handing over the money.
“Good luck, mate.”
He nodded and shut the door.
221B Baker Street. He stared at it for a moment. Now he was here he was having second thoughts. What if Sherlock wouldn’t want to see him? What if Sherlock got angry? Could he handle an angry Sherlock? Oh hell, it wasn’t as if he was here for sex or anything. He knew where Sherlock stood on that and the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. No, he was here because anywhere else didn’t quite feel good enough, and in some respects, that was worse.
Damn, damn, Christ, damn.
He reached up and pressed the bell for 221A.
*
Mrs Hudson let him in, taking delight in telling him that it was lovely to see him and that it was a good thing he was here because Sherlock, the poor boy, was in one of his moods and poor Lestrade was bearing the brunt of it.
“I’m sure he’ll be better now you’re here,” she said. “He needs someone like you. You go and distract him from whatever is going on that head of his. All this shouting, banging and crashing, whatever will the neighbours think?”
Practically ushered upstairs, he climbed the seventeen steps to 221B and slowed when he got to the top, not sure what he would find or what the reaction to his presence would be.
If it were possible the flat looked even more untidy than the last time he had been there, which had unbelievably only been four days previous. There were more bags all over the place, probably from where they had checked out of the hotel. The piles of books and paper had been disturbed and there were more tennis balls haphazardly lying around from where they had most likely landed or rolled having collided first with the wall.
Sherlock himself was sprawled on the sofa dressed in a pair of pyjamas bottoms and a t-shirt, wrapped in his blue dressing gown. He appeared to be having harsh words - in rapid French of course - with Lestrade who was stood by the kitchen looking more haggard and more frazzled than John had yet to see him. Whatever the perks of the job were for Lestrade, John hoped that they were bloody good, because dealing with a Sherlock like this didn’t look like fun.
The conversation - if it could be called that - seemed to end with Sherlock snapping something that sounded somewhat insulting. Lestrade threw his hands up in the air in response before rubbing them across his face, obviously not bothering with a reply.
“Knock, knock,” he said a little tentatively, taking advantage of the pause. “Uh, hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Sherlock’s head snapped up from the sofa, eyes first widening and then narrowing when they looked at him.
“John… what are you doing here?”
Ah, there was the frown.
“Mrs Hudson let me in,” he said moving forward so he was now out of the landing area.
“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock snapped. “Not what I asked.”
Oh. He had never seen Sherlock like this before. He looked so tightly sprung, like a coil that could release or break at any moment.
“Oh, uh, the hotel said you’d checked out. You weren’t answering your phone. I thought I’d check that you were alright, that you were, you know, Moriarty and all that.”
“Oh.” Sherlock’s expression tightened for a moment and then relaxed. “No, I’m fine,” he said. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Sherlock,” Lestrade said quietly.
“Alright, fine. He sent a card to my suite. It was decided it best that we therefore vacated the room and rather than take a new one agreed to come here instead.”
Well, yes, that made sense, or at least some of it did.
“Anything I can do?” he asked, the words forming before the thought did.
“No,” Sherlock said at virtually the same time Lestrade said, “yes.”
“You can keep him company for a bit,” Lestrade said. “Do what you like, but I’ve had enough. I’ll be upstairs, but unless the place is on fire I’m not interested, okay. And no setting the place on fire, Sherlock.”
Sherlock scowled.
“Good luck, mate,” Lestrade said clapping a hand briefly to John’s shoulder. “Won’t blame you if you bail quickly. He’s unmanageable when he’s like this.”
Then Lestrade was out of the room and making short work of the stairs to the upper floor bedroom.
“When you’re like what?” John asked turning back to Sherlock. Okay, so it wasn’t hard to see that Sherlock was in some kind of mood, but it was good to know what type and what had caused it. He was usually so much more… controlled.
Sherlock huffed and went back to stretching across the couch. With no answer immediately forthcoming, John took a seat on the nearest armchair having first cleared it of notebooks and pens.
“You always like this before a match, or is it because of, you know, tomorrow’s match?”
Semi-final. Wimbledon. Moriarty.
Sherlock didn’t respond immediately and when he did finally speak his words were slow and precise. “What are you really doing here, John?” he said.
“I, uh,” missed you, wanted to see you, needed to see you, have no idea other than the fact I wasn’t thinking and now I want to touch you, run my fingers through your curls, help you relax and believe it or not that’s a very scary thought because it means that somehow, somewhere along the line I’ve fallen for you, hard, and tomorrow could be the last time we ever see each other and that thought just kills me, so I’m sorry that I’m here, but it’s your fault because if you had never invaded my life then I would have gone out a week ago and would now be in a bar drinking, trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life rather than sat here in your flat trying not to think about what it would be like to spend the rest of my life with you.
He clenched his hand into a fist.
“If you’re here for sex then I told you, not interested.”
Sex? Did he really think that little of him?
“Of course I’m not bloody well here for sex you egotistical bastard,” he snapped getting to his feet. “It’s not all about bloody sex you know. Did it never occur to you that maybe I really was worried about you?” Care for you. Miss you. Want you. “You know what, this was obviously a mistake. You’re fine, you’re obviously fine. You have everything under control. I should go, get a good night’s sleep, like you said. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good luck and all that.”
“John.”
He got as far as the door before Sherlock’s voice called him back. He hesitated then, part of him telling him to get the hell out of there, another part screaming at him to stay. He stopped and slowly turned back, his fists still clenched. He found Sherlock sitting up, a slightly confused and somewhat vulnerable expression on his face.
“I… I can’t stop my brain,” he said. “It won’t stop. It just keeps going round and round and round. It’s frustrating. All I can think about is Moriarty, and the French Open, and the trainers, and… this is what he wanted. He sent me a postcard of Paris. Paris, John. And the only thing he wrote was Nous Aurons Toujours Paris across the back.”
John frowned.
“We’ll Always Have Paris,” Sherlock supplied before scrubbing his hands through his hair. “He’s playing with me, knowing my brain will want to analyse every single little thing and I can’t make it stop. I can’t.”
For the first time ever he saw just how young Sherlock really was, that under all that confidence and talent was a young man facing perhaps the biggest and most crucial match of his adult career. It was no secret that the victor between Moriarty and Sherlock would be the one automatically tipped to be lifting the Wimbledon trophy, so this match was huge and Sherlock was feeling every inch of the pressure, and to make it worse, Moriarty was playing dirty.
Part of him wanted to go over there and gather Sherlock into his arms, to press a kiss to his head, but as much as he might desire it, they weren’t like that. Whatever this was, it was not a relationship.
“Yes,” he said, “that happens. Pre-match anxieties and all that.” And he knew all about that and having to find ways of combating it. Unfortunately for his tennis, his most recent method had involved reminding himself it was only a match, if wasn’t life or death. No wonder he had always expected to lose.
“Sounds like you need some sort of distraction,” he continued.
Sherlock looked intrigued as he swung his legs over to sit up. “What do you suggest?”
In the end they managed to find an acceptable movie on ITV 3 and settled down to watch George Clooney and Brad Pitt (neither of whom Sherlock knew anything about) rob a Vegas Casino. Of course it led to a whole host of different discussions - how plausible the movie was, whether the plan was even possible, most shaggable character - which were mostly restricted to the advert breaks but it wasn’t long before they continued talking into the rest of the movie as well. Sherlock was scornful of a lot of the film but admitted to appreciating some of the physical acrobatics and smirked at the changing disguises of a number of the characters.
By the time the plan had worked and the team were stood by the fountain - “Oh, Clair de Lune, dull.” “Hmm?” “The music. Debussy’s Clair de Lune from Suite Bergamasque. Overrated, overplayed, overused.” “Oh.” - it was rather late and both were slouched on the sofa, relaxed and barely awake.
Stretching, John caught a glance at a clock and groaned. He really should have been in bed. So much for the early night.
“Better go,” he said. “Important day tomorrow… today… later. Bugger.”
“Hmmm,” Sherlock said and then reached across to catch his hand and lace their fingers together. “Stay.”
And like that it was decided.
*
End Part Seven
Additional Authors Notes
Firstly, for the non-tennis fans in particular who may have been hit hard by technical stuff in this chapter:
There are basically four types of competitions throughout the tennis year played all over the world. The biggest and most grand are of course the four Grand Slams (Australia, France, Wimbledon, US), then the ATP 1000s, 500s and 250s in that order, named after the number of points the winner gets. A number of the smaller ones run at the same time, so are much smaller in number and less top players are involved in each, therefore it would be easier for John to go further in the small tournaments like an ATP 250. Also, with only 32 players entering, getting to the last 8 isn’t as impressive as it sounds. That’s only two wins.
Regarding some of the quotes Sherlock throws in:
The first, that a serve-and-volley player will lose to a good baseline player, is by Bill Tilden, who is considered to be the greatest player of the early part of the twentieth century having dominated the 1920s. He may well have spent more time analysing the game of tennis than anyone before or perhaps since and wrote several books about tennis. His greatest work is Match Play and the Spin of the Ball, which is the one that Sherlock takes the theory from. The book is still in print and is considered to be the definitive work on the subject. Interesting, besides having great physical abilities, Tilden was an extremely cerebral player, a master of both strategy and tactics, adept at adapting himself to his opponent’s style and turning his strengths against him. If there is one player I think Sherlock would admire and want to emulate, Tilden sounds like the one. Also, incidentally, Tilden is believed to have been homosexual.
The second quote about matches being won not by the big shots but by the routine ones, comes from Allen Fox’s book, If I’m the Better Player, Why Can’t I Win? Fox was a player in the 60s and 70s and is now an author and lecturer. I suspect Sherlock would have copies of his books even if John doesn’t.
There, now you know something more about tennis. ;)