New Fic: A Study in Winning 8/10
Title: A Study in Winning
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 8.5K 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 Seven
*
A Study in Winning
Part Eight
*
Sherlock was still asleep when John pulled his jeans back on. Sprawled on his front, Sherlock was already unconsciously stretching into the warm spot that John had only recently vacated. His curly hair obscured much of his face, but he looked so relaxed and peaceful that John found himself wishing that he could stay and watch him, but knew beyond certainly that for so many reasons that would not be a good idea. Nor would it be good thing to give in to his urge to lean over and press a kiss to Sherlock’s head.
Buttoning his shirt, he took one last look - please don’t let this be the last time he would ever see such a sight - before making his way out.
It was early but not that early. London was already wide awake and busy with activity, but 221B wasn’t yet stirring. That was hardly a surprise. Sherlock had the later match and needed as much sleep as he could get and Lestrade was probably taking advantage of the respite. He, though, had to get back to his hotel to shower and shave before starting his own pre-match preparations.
“Good morning, John.”
Oh god, not again.
He tried not to jump as once again he found Mycroft sat comfortably in the main room, fully dressed in a white pinstriped dark blue three piece suit, although his jacket lay across the back of the other chair, this time flicking through one of Sherlock’s many notebooks rather than a newspaper.
“Mycroft,” he said as he retrieved his trainers. “Uh, been here long?”
Mycroft’s lips twitched his eyes flicking briefly to the stairs behind him before he replied. “I’m an early riser.”
Tying his laces, John didn’t bother asking what that meant or wonder if he was missing something. If it involved Sherlock’s brother then he was probably better off not knowing.
“Oh, right, well, I’d best be off then.”
“Mmm,” Mycroft said as if in agreement before rising to his feet. “Yes, a rather important day today. I believe a twofold congratulation is in order.”
“Thanks,” he said then frowned. “Twofold?”
“Of course,” Mycroft said placing down the notebook which remarkably - and surprisingly - had John Watson scrawled messily across it in Sherlock’s distinctive handwriting.
Wait, Sherlock had a notebook on him? Why? They hadn’t played against each other in over eight years. He had been a non-entity up until a week ago. He had only gotten into the competition on a wild card anyway. So why would Sherlock have started a notebook about him, unless, oh, the final. Sherlock was making preparations for the final, taking apart his game, figuring out the best way of beating him just as he had done with everyone else. In the end the tennis was the most important thing. He supposed he should have been flattered. Sherlock at least did honestly think that he could beat Moran.
“Rather fascinating read, I must admit,” Mycroft said obviously following his gaze to the notebook. “But separate from what I was referring to. A twofold congratulation as I said, firstly on reaching this stage of the competition and secondly on being the only person to have ever shared my brother’s bed without the incentive of intercourse.”
Without the incentive of… oh, right, uh, he really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that.
“You are a rather remarkable man.”
And also one who was having a discussion about his sex life, or lack there was, with the brother of the man whose bed he had just platonically left.
“I’ve, uh, got to go. Nice seeing you again.”
“You too, John. And good luck.”
Yes, well, it sounded as if he needed it.
Making sure he had everything, he bolted for the door and down the stairs. He had a hotel to walk back to and a match to prepare for.
*
“Welcome back to a bright and sunny Wimbledon. It’s Men’s Semi-Finals day and the place is packed with tennis fans from all over, but clearly dominated by the white and red of the Saint George’s Cross, out in force as in less than one hour, John Watson, the unlikeliest of British hopes, bids to become the first British player to reach a Wimbledon final since Bunny Austin in 1938. The man looking to stop him is of course Sebastian Moran, who has already seen off some stiff competition to reach this far, including the top seed going into this competition, Rafael Nadal. We will of course be bringing you all the build-up as it happens, as well as the comments from our panel of experts and later the commentary itself.”
*
Confidence. Sherlock had said that his third weakness was a lack of confidence. Well, he couldn’t exactly do anything about his age or the physical weaknesses of his body, but he could wrestle with that confidence issue. He just had to remember that he could win.
He could win.
Stepping onto the treadmill he started his warm up.
He could win.
No, he would win.
*
“So, Tim, John, let’s talk about the first semi-final. Sebastian Moran against John Watson. Two very different players.”
“Absolutely, Ann. Watson’s a classic all-rounder who much prefers the baseline game. A precise, intelligent player who is able to use both fast and slow shots, while Moran is one of the last of the old school serve-and-volleyers.”
“Like you, Tim.”
“Yeah. He’s a big, powerful player who hits hard and has an excellent first serve. It’s going to be an interesting match.”
“Tim’s right, they’ve got two completely different styles. Moran has shot up the rankings in the past few months, while Watson, well, we already know that he’s literally come from nowhere to get here. It’s Moran’s first Wimbledon semi-final and Watson’s first semi in any competition since the accident which almost finished his career. That was what, five years ago now his injury?”
“Over six years.”
“And that’s a lifetime in tennis. Neither of them have ever been in the final of a Grand Slam, which means either way, whoever wins, it’s going to be a first. That’s gotta be playing on both of their minds.”
“So who’s going to win then? Tim?”
“It’s difficult, but I’m going to have to say Moran. Watson’s shown some great form here, but he got lucky against Murray while Moran took out Nadal fair and square. For me Moran’s the stronger player, even just taking into consideration this tournament, and Watson has never done well against a serve-and-volley player, even when he was at his peak. We used to joke about it whenever we played each other. So I’m going to have to go with Moran.”
“Okay. What about you, John? Watson or Moran.”
“Hey, I’m gonna stick my neck out on the line here and say I think Watson can do it. In terms of technique he’s probably the better player. His rank doesn’t say that but he’s found something here, something he hasn’t had since his injury. Somehow he’s been turned into a winner and he’s on a roll. It’s like by winning he’s remembered how to win. A switch has been hit and I think he’s going to fight for this one. I think he can do it.”
“Well, there you have it. We’re going to go to the travel report now, but we’ll be back here shortly. Don’t go away.”
*
Expect hard, fast serves. Play to his weaker backhand. Push him to the baselines. Don’t be afraid to come in to the net on occasion. Don’t be intimidated by his sheer size and figure. And whatever you do, keep fighting and don’t you dare give up.
He glanced at his mobile for what felt like the hundredth time. There was still no message from Sherlock, although that didn’t surprise him. He had had texts from a number of other people though; Clara, Sarah, Mike, Dimmock and of course Harry who said she would be watching her baby brother whether he liked it or not. It had at least brought a smile to his face.
But no Sherlock.
He sighed and went back to his stretches. He couldn’t afford to tense up now.
*
“And what’s it like up there on Henman Hill?”
“Ann, the atmosphere is electric. Everyone is anxiously waiting for the players to emerge. There are so many flags, one or two of them the green horizontal “Y” of South Africa, but by far the vast majority is either the British Union Flag or the red cross of Saint George.”
“And who do the fans think is going to win?”
“Most are unsurprisingly saying Watson, although it’s hard to tell if that’s a rational prediction or the emotional backing of the Brit. But either way, the Hill is all set ready to cheer Watson on.”
“Thanks, Ruth. So Henman Hill, Murray Mount, we don’t yet have a name for Watson. Any suggestions?”
“Uh, Watson Rise?”
“Tim?”
“I still like Henman Hill.”
“Well of course you do, but I’m sure you won’t mind sharing it for a short time at least. So Watson Rise, I’m sure we can do better than that. So, if any of you listeners out there have any suggestions as to what we can at least temporarily rename Henman Hill to, then why don’t you drop us a message or a text or a tweet.
“In the meantime, it’s two o’clock, the sun is shining and the players are emerging onto the court for their pre-match warm up. It’s Moran verses Watson in the first of the Men’s Semi-Finals here at Wimbledon. Get ready and stay tuned."
*
Centre Court again. That wasn’t something he had thought would happen to him again, to be playing on Centre Court twice in the same competition. Hell, he had given up on dreams of playing on Centre Court at all years ago. It had been a bitter blow to have gone from being a name to watch to realising that he was never going to reach that level again after his injury. Now, though, he was back for the second time in a week, and this time all the British and English flags were there for him and him alone.
Oh god.
Right, ignore them, ignore Moran, just concentrate on you and your tennis and block everything else out. Towel, spare shirts, sweat bands for his wrists, cap for when he was playing into the sun, drinks bottles all carefully lined up to go in the chiller cabinet, rackets, trainers properly tied. Okay, he could do this.
Hard and fast. Moran will come at him hard and fast.
Racket in hand he got up to finish his warm up, practicing his forehand and backhand swing before moving onto his serve. The first one hit the net. Of course it did. The second one sailed over.
Concentrate and relax.
“Time.”
Right. This was it. Semi-final. Wimbledon. Come on, Watson.
*
“And it’s Moran to serve first and get this game underway… and his first serve is good, Watson barely managed to get a racket to it.”
“Fifteen - Love.”
“There’s that Moran fast first serve. Watson’s got to get to grips with that if he is to have any control in this match.”
“Moran lines up for his next serve… which goes into the net.”
"Moran's serve could well be the deciding factor during this match."
“Second serve… slower this time. Watson returns, Moran with the volley, Watson backhand but it’s into the net.”
“Thirty - Love.”
“Watson read it well, but he needed to do better with that backhand. It looks like he knows it as well.”
“Moran to serve… and it’s an ace.”
“Forty - Love.”
“A hundred and thirty-eight miles an hour. Moran really does have one of the fastest serves on the circuit at the moment. It hard to appreciate just how fast that ball is moving when you’re watching on telly, or even from the crowd, but trust me, when its coming towards you over that net you know about it.”
“Moran serves… Watson forehand, Moran volley, Watson down the line, Moran backhand but it’s out.”
“Forty - Fifteen.”
“Better play by Watson there but he’s got to do a lot more of that if he’s going to break Moran.”
“Moran serves and it’s straight into Watson’s body.”
“Oooh, that has got to have hurt.”
“It looked like Watson managed to get his racket between him and the ball striking at his stomach, but at that speed, that’s not pleasant.”
“Game, Moran.”
Watson doesn’t look happy about it, but he’s up and now it’s his turn to serve.”
*
Bloody hell those balls were fast, he could feel it in his wrists as he stroked them back. And the one to the kidneys, he had been lucky not have felt the full force of that one. Moran was not going to go lightly, but he had already known that.
*
“Game, Moran.”
“And there’s the break we’ve been expecting.”
“Moran leads five games to four. First set.”
“Watson’s struggling against Moran’s powerful returns, although he was unlucky in that game with that double fault and that one that was just long. He seemed to lose whatever momentum he had there. But he also isn’t finding his way through past Moran’s volley. It’s not that he’s playing badly, he’s just not quite playing well enough.”
*
“Game and set, Moran. Six games to four.”
Damn, blast and bugger it.
He wiped his wrist band across his forehead as he retreated back to his chair, taking refuge under the shade of the umbrella that had been brought out by one of the ball boys.
One set gone and he was losing. The dropping of his last service game had shaken him, but he needed to pull himself together. If he wanted to win this then he had to go out there and fight. What was it Sherlock had said, that Moran would go in and attempt to overwhelm him with power and strength, he just had to weather that and then make Moran play the sort of game he wanted to play rather than have the game plan thrust on him.
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.
“Time.”
Tennis court or boxing ring, he was going to fight.
“Second set. Watson to serve. Moran leads one set to love.”
*
“And it’s in. Moran can’t believe it, but it was definitely in.”
“Deuce.”
“Watson has never had a better chance in this match to take that crucial break, and you can hear the crowd behind him, cheering him on.”
“Quiet, please.”
“Moran serves and it’s just a touch wide.”
“He almost seems shaken, Moran. After pummelling Watson with hard, fast balls in the first set with very little reply, he’s come out here to do the same again but Watson is standing firm. In fact, Watson has come out in the second set knowing exactly what was going to happen but this time rather than being passive and dealing with what is thrown at him, is actively hunting down the cracks in Moran’s armour rather than waiting for the South African to make a mistake.”
“Serve goes in from Moran. Watson forehand, Moran backhand volley, Watson drives it crosscourt, Moran forehand, but Watson is there at the net with a cheeky little volley that Moran had no chance of getting to.”
“Advantage, Watson.”
“He’s definitely taking the game to Moran now. A lot of players would have withered under Moran’s relent bombardment, but Watson is holding firm, showing that never say die attitude he’s been playing with all tournament.”
“Moran serves, Watson returns, Moran with the volley, Watson forehand but it clips the net and goes out.”
“Deuce.”
“Watson’s got to be careful not to give points away, especially crucial ones like that. He’s not going to get too many opportunities, but he needs to make sure he gets all his returns in. Get them over the net, get them in and then worry about the next ball.”
“Moran serves, down the centre, Watson with the forehand which he pushes away from Moran, just out of his reach and bounces….”
“In.”
“Brilliant shot there by Watson, but Moran is querying it.”
“It was certainly a close one.”
“He’s calling for Hawkeye.”
“I’m sure it was in.”
“Well the replay is just coming up on the screen now and, oh, that was close but it was definitely in.”
“A matter of millimetres, but definitely in, Ann. Excellent call from the line judge.”
“Advantage, Watson. Moran has one challenge remaining.”
“Moran has got to put that behind him now and play on.”
“Moran has returned to the baseline, preparing himself for his next serve… which goes long.”
“That wasn’t anywhere close to being a good serve. He really needs to compose himself. This could be a very crucial point.”
“His second serve is good. Watson backhand trying to find a way past Moran’s volley, Watson forehand, Moran down the line, driving return by Watson, Moran returns hard, but it bounces wide and finally Watson has the break he’s been looking for.”
“Game, Watson. Watson leads four games to three, second set. Watson to serve.”
*
“Set, Watson. Six games to four. One set all.”
Yes! Okay, concentrate. No need to get overly excited. There’s still a long way to go yet. But come on, Watson, you did it, you broke him. You broke Moran which means you can do it again.
Confidence, it’s all about confidence and hanging in there. You hung in there and now you’re back level. You can do this!
*
“While the players stop for a bathroom break we’re going to go across to Henman Hill. Ruth, what’s it like out there?”
“Deafening, Ann. You should have heard the cheer that went up when Watson got the break and the second cheer when he took the set. There is definitely an air of excitement here. An Englishman in the final of Wimbledon? Well, there’s a long way to go before that, but if cheering is going to help him then most of the people here would willingly scream their loudest.”
“Thanks, Ruth. Now, what do we think so far? One set all, who do you think has the upper hand? John?”
“Watson, definitely. After that first set he’s kept his head and he’s come back with his racket swinging with absolute purpose. If he keeps playing like that then the match is his.”
“Tim, you’re shaking your head. You disagree then.”
“I think it’s still too early to say. This is the third match now where Watson has gone a set down, but in all those matches he’s come back to win both the second and the third sets. Against Trevor he seemed to step up a gear. Against Murray he practically got handed the set due to the ankle injury Murray picked up. He’s certainly found something here again, but I think the next set is key. If he can win that then I’d say the match is his. If he doesn’t, then I’m not sure he’ll be able to come back again.”
“So there you have it. Ultimately it all rests on the next set. Now keep sending in your suggestions as to what we could rename Henman Hill. So far suggestions include Watson Rise, Watson Ridge, Hamish Heath, playing on Watson’s lesser known middle name there. Watson’s Folly. Breakback Watson, a clever play on the film Brokeback Mountain.”
“Breakback Mountain might work.”
“And when the players come back it’ll be the start of the third set, with Moran to serve first.”
*
Remember that Moran is now going to come back at you with everything he has. Hang in there, force him to move around the court. Sure he’s a big guy, but that also makes him heavy. Play to his backhand if possible, don’t let him dominate you. And remember, you can do this.
*
“…And it’s Watson with the forehand. Moran tries to lob and the smash from Watson into the empty court and you can just hear the crowd roar. They know that Watson is just two points away from going a break up and with that probably a set up as well.”
“Fifteen - Thirty.”
“He’s so close, Ann. He’s been slowly chipping away at Moran’s serve, snatching points here and there, but this has been the best chance so far. If he could break him now he just has to hold his serve and the set is his.”
“Moran serves. Watson drives it back, Moran with the volley, Watson forehand, Moran volley, but he’s off balance and Watson gives him no chance.”
“Fifteen - Forty.”
“Such a simple forehand there from Watson, but that’s often what the game is all about.”
“Oh, absolutely. It’s about making those simple all important shots and getting the points, and that’s what Watson is doing here. Nothing fancy, just well played standard tennis.”
“Moran serves, and it’s so fast Watson barely had a chance to reach for it.”
“Thirty - Forty.”
“Another example of Moran’s power. Watson had no chance, but it does mean that Moran always has the ability to throw one in like that, to claw his way back into the game.”
“Moran serves, but it’s called out.”
“That was another fast one, or it would have been had it been in, but it gives Watson a chance now. Moran has got to get this next serve in.”
“Moran serves, Watson backhand away from Moran who volleys, Watson forehand crosscourt, Moran chases, Watson with the slice, Moran forehand, Watson down the line, Moran and it’s wide. The forehand from Moran goes just inches wide, but it gives Watson that all important point and we finally have the breakthrough in this third set and it goes to the Englishman.”
“Game, Watson. Watson leads six games to five. Watson to serve.”
“Excellent play from Watson there, not particularly flash or exciting, but he pushed and pushed until Moran made the mistake and just listen to that crowd.”
“The crowd are cheering, they know that we could be finally seeing an Englishman get through to the final of Wimbledon. Incidentally, Watson’s box is virtually empty. What do you make of that? Semi-finals of Wimbledon and there’s only one person in his box. Girlfriend perhaps?”
“Agent I’d say. She looks familiar.”
“So no family at all then?”
“Doesn’t look like it, although that’s probably personal choice. There are some players who travel with the minimum of an entourage, or maybe Watson just doesn’t want them there. He was hardly expecting to reach this stage anyway.”
“And it’s now Watson’s turn to serve. You’ve got to be wondering what’s going through his mind at this point.”
*
You’ve broken him. Yeah, it took six attempts to do so, but you’ve done it. Just don’t screw it up now. Don’t think about the final, just think about your serve. Get your serve in. Play each point one at a time. Don’t try anything flash and for god’s sake don’t panic.
*
“Thirty all.”
“Watson’s got to be kicking himself after that one. A high short ball like that is a gift to someone like Moran.”
*
Don’t panic. For all things sacred, don’t panic, Watson.
He bounced the ball to steady himself.
Serve the ball. Stop bouncing it and serve the goddamn ball, and when Moran hits it back don’t do anything flash. One point at a time.
*
“Good serve by Watson, Moran returns, Watson forehand to Moran’s backhand but Watson reads it well and knocks it into the far corner for the winner.”
“Forty - Thirty.”
*
See, you can do it. Just get the next point and then you can go and sit down. You’ll be able to grab a drink again and try and cool down. Yes, it’s hot, but come on, you’ve played in hotter than this. Remember Dubai. Yes, but you got your arse kicked in Dubai. Okay, not helpful. One more point, sit down and imagine Sherlock massaging your shoulders.
The ball flew up, his body twisted and his arm raised and fell.
*
“Game and set, Watson. Seven games to five. Watson leads two sets to one.”
“Good serve by Watson in that last set. For a moment he looked like he was going to choke and I’ve seen better players than him do just that. Moran was in there for a moment, but then two solid points and Watson’s taken the set.”
“Tim, what do you say? Was Watson in danger there or was it just the usual ups and downs of tennis?”
“I think he was close and he knew it. He stopped and composed himself at thirty-all. He knew he was just two points away from being broken back. Bouncing the ball like that, not his usual move but it obviously worked. He’s on top now. Let’s hope he can stay like that.”
“So we could be just one set away from a Brit in the final of Wimbledon, or two sets from a crushing upset. We’ll know very shortly.”
*
He didn’t need to hear the groan from the crowd to know that that ball had bounced out.
“Game, Moran. Moran leads three games to one, fourth set. Moran to serve.”
Stupid. He should have known that Moran wouldn’t give up that easily. One stupid little mistake and now look where he was. Moran was all over him, choosing the balls to go for, making him chase every point and taking advantage of the fact he was tiring.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
*
“Game and set, Moran. Six games to three. Two sets all. Fifth and final set. Watson to serve.”
“Well, what can we say about that then? Loss of concentration? Tiredness? Or something else? Tim, John, what happened?”
“He choked, pure and simple, Ann. Watson had it, knew it was within his grasp and then he choked.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to agree with John. Watson has never coped well under pressure. Even at his peak, something would happen.”
“You mean like the French Open in what was it, 2003? Two sets up in the semi-final and then he lost it.”
“Absolutely, Ann. This tournament we’ve seen a completely new side to Watson, but the pressure is still the same and a match can tip on the smallest thing, like a line call or an unforced error or even a stray thought.”
“So what does he have to do then? Can he come back from this?”
“Can he come back from this? Sure. The real question is will he, and I don’t know, Ann. I’m starting to agree with Tim. Watson’s never been known to be able to do it when it really mattered and this is the biggest match of his career. This is the final of Wimbledon on the line. He would be the first Englishman in over seventy years to get that far. That’s got to be playing on his mind.”
“Well, we’ll be back in with the action as soon as the players return from their break. It’s certainly been a rollercoaster ride so far and it’s two sets all with everything to play for in the last and deciding set. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, we’ll be following with the second of our Men’s Semi-Final draw where third seed Sherlock Holmes takes on the second seed Jim Moriarty, where the winner will not only book their place into the final, but regardless of who wins the final will, come Monday, find themselves as the new World Number One. If you’re planning on going out, don’t, because this is one afternoon you will not want to miss.”
*
“Game, Moran. Two games all, final set.”
He was exhausted. Exhausted and drained and his shirt was practically sticking to him. Come on, Watson. Keep your serve and keep hitting those balls back. You have got to do this, then you and Sherlock can joke about which of you is going to win the final, and then you can laugh and kiss and… just come on.
*
“Game, Moran. Four games all, final set.”
“Gotta say this, Watson hasn’t simply rolled over. He’s still there, still fighting. It’s already been a long match and he’s no doubt feeling every single minute of it, but he’s still in there.”
“Moran’s refusing to simply give in either though, but neither can find that little something else that’s going to break this stalemate.”
*
“Game, Moran. Six games all, final set.”
Six games all and no tie break in the final set. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Would this never end?
You just have to break him. You’re serving first so all you have to do is hold your serve and then break him and then it’s all over.
Just don’t choke. You can’t lose it now. You just can’t. Remember those dreams you had as a kid? Wimbledon. You’re so close to the final. First Englishman in the final since 1938. It’s right there, don’t throw it away now. Sherlock would never let you live it down. Think about winning. You want it. Keep focused. Keep playing. For god sake put the bottle down before you drop it. You’re shaking. You’re actually god damn literally shaking.
Just four points taken from his serve.
Just four.
Deep breathes. Relax. It’s your serve first. Just hold your serve and then we’ll see. One point at a time.
Why won’t your hand stop shaking?
“Time.”
Don’t screw this up, Watson. For Christ sake, don’t screw it up. And don’t think about France 04. Oh god. Stop it! Get up, get your racket, get the balls. You can do this. Of course you can do this.
Four points.
Deep breathes.
*
“So we’re entering into what is essentially sudden death for these two players. Since there’s no tie-break in the final set they have to keep battling on until one breaks the other. As Watson is serving first, if he’s the first to break Moran then the match is all over. If Moran breaks Watson first then he will still have to hold his own serve in the next game in order to win. The pressure is well and truly on now.
“So, Watson to serve. He’s bouncing the ball… four… five… six times and now, good serve, Moran returns but Watson knocks it down court for the winner.”
“Fifteen - Love, Watson.”
“Good start from Watson there. He’s got to have so much going through his head right now, but that was a solid serve with a good forehand. He’ll be happy to have got the points on the board.”
*
“Game Watson. Watson leads seven games to six.”
Excellent. Good work. Keep it up. You held your serve and now it’s Moran’s turn.
He scrubbed the towel across his face. Even the towel felt damp. He really needed to change his shirt but he didn’t have the time to.
Come on, Watson, concentrate. Don’t throw it away now.
*
“And an excellent ace from Moran there.”
“Forty - Fifteen.”
“The computer is saying a hundred and thirty-five miles an hour, but Watson’s not responding, just shakes himself slightly and calmly moves to the other side of the court to receive the next serve… and he gets a racket to it this time, but it bounces just wide.”
“Game, Moran. Seven games all, final set.”
“Moran’s going for power. He’s got to know that Watson scored more points than him this match, so he can’t afford to drop his serve.”
“There’s just nothing between them at the moment. Are we going to see another Isner and Mahut?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Why do you say that, John?”
“Because Watson’s going to run out of strength and energy well before then. It’s been a long, hard tournament for him already. I doubt he’s gotten more than a few more games in those legs of his.”
“So Moran’s going to win this then?”
“I didn’t say that. Either Moran will power his way through or Watson may just steal it with some brilliant stroke play. Either way, it’ll all be over before we get into double figures.”
“Well, we’re now back with Watson’s serve. He bounced the ball again, serves, but it’s long.”
“Second serve, Watson.”
“He’s calming himself again and… the serve is good. Moran forehand crosscourt, Watson down the line, Moran backhand, Watson down the line again, Moran pushes Watson wide then comes in, volley’s Watson’s return but Watson read it well and gets the winner.”
“Fifteen - Love.”
“You can hear the crowd, they’re as nervous as the rest of us, literally on the edge of their seats.”
“They know that this could literally go either way.”
“Watson lines up for his next serve, which he nails, Moran backhand, but Watson’s in at the net for a surprising volley that leaves Moran floundering.”
“Thirty - Love.”
“He’s mixing it up a bit, but he knows Moran’s weakest with his backhand, he’s been playing to it all match with good results.”
“Well Watson’s doing okay here so far, but there is still some way to go.”
*
“Game, Watson. Watson leads, eight games to seven.”
Oh that had been close. Thirty-love up and then he’d allowed Moran to come back at him. How had he done that? Why had he done that?
Come on, Watson, you can’t fall apart now.
Please don’t fall apart.
Please.
*
“Game, Moran. Eight games all.”
“Moran just powered his way through that game. Watson barely got a look in.”
“Twice Watson hit the net with his return of serve. He really needs to start getting those returns in or he won’t be able to win. It’s not easy of course, but he really needs to do a little better.”
“He needs to hold his serve first though.”
“That he does.”
*
“Deuce.”
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Take a deep breath, Watson, take a deep breath.
Blowing out the breath he signalled for the balls and caught two on his racket head.
Concentrate, Watson. Don’t you dare throw it away now. You’re so close. So very, very close. What would Sherlock say if you took it this far and then let Moran beat you. You can’t let Moran beat you. You just can’t.
Walking back to the baseline and prepared himself for his next serve.
*
“And a brilliant serve there from Watson, where Moran couldn’t do a thing with it.”
“Advantage, Watson.”
“For a moment there I seriously thought we were about to watch Watson throw it all away, but somehow he’s managed to pull himself together.”
“He’s in his own little world down there, not paying attention to anything, not the crowd, not Moran, nothing.”
“Watson preparing to serve… and down the centre, Moran with the return, Watson pushing long, Moran crosscourt, Watson down the line, Moran backhand, Watson backhand, Moran… and it’s just wide. The ball has gone wide and you can just see the relief on Watson’s face.”
“Game, Watson. Watson leads, nine games to eight.”
“He came so close to being broken in that game, but somehow he managed to pull it out of the bag, took those crucial points and he’s back to being a game up and now it’s Moran’s turn to reply.”
*
You did it, Watson. Somehow you bloody well managed to hold onto your serve. Now you need to go out there and fight for ever point, the way you know you can. You can win this.
You can.
*
“Moran serves, Watson forehand, Moran with the volley, Watson counters, another volley from Moran, forehand from Watson, and it’s in.”
“Love - Fifteen.”
“Excellent play there from Watson, Ann. He read it well and pulled it off with the sort of steady precision shot he was once known for.”
“You can hear the crowd as Watson takes the all-important first point in this game. They’re screaming at Watson that he can do it. He needs to hold his nerve and come out and attack Moran’s serves just like that.”
“His nerve’s going to be the key thing.”
“Quiet please.”
“Moran’s at the baseline bouncing the ball. Complete silence now here on Centre Court. Every breath being held. Moran serves…it’s good. Watson returns, Moran with the volley,
Watson whips it crosscourt, Moran returns, Watson with the slice, Moran forehand, but it’s into the net. Watson takes the point and the crowd cheers.”
“Love - Thirty.”
“Watson was lucky there. Some nice play but he left himself open at the end. He can’t rely on Moran making an error next time. But there may not need to be a next time. Just listen to that crowd. They know that this is Watson’s best chance of the set so far.”
“Moran composing himself as he prepares to serves… and it’s an ace.”
“Fifteen - Thirty.”
“Brilliant ace from Moran there to finally get a point in this all important game.”
“That’s the thing about Moran, you can never totally write him off because he does have that utterly soul-destroying first serve.”
“After a brilliant opening to this game Watson’s head has almost dropped a little. He knows that this is where it could all go so horribly wrong. He’s so close. The crowd are shouting at him, desperately cheering him on.”
”Quiet please.”
“Moran serves. Watson gets a racket to it. Moran volley, Watson with a desperate lunge, Moran with the backhand, Watson volleys, Moran with the lob, Watson’s tracking back but it’s behind him and a brilliant over the shoulder strike by Watson that whistles past a surprised Moran into the back of the empty court and listen to that crowd roar.”
“Fifteen - Forty.”
“Henman Hill are on their feet, the crowd here are on their feet, and Watson has two match points, but is the only person not on his feet.”
“It looks like it was the twist of that shot.”
“Could be his shoulder or his back. Both have given him considerable trouble in the past. He could have pulled something.”
“The tournament doctor is now courtside, but Watson’s waving him away and slowly getting to his feet. He’s picking up his racket and giving it a swing.”
“You’ve got to be wondering what’s going through his head. He’s one point away from a Wimbledon final, his first ever Grand Slam final, or just a few points away from throwing it all away.”
“Moran is getting ready to serve.”
“Come on, John.”
“Quiet please!”
“Shout from the crowd there. At least they’re not calling him Tim. Watson settles while Moran bounces the ball, gets ready… and he serves, it’s good, but Watson’s return hits square into the net.”
“Thirty - Forty.”
“Watson’s still got one match point, but he’s grimacing. Probably from pain but that was a poor attempt. What must he be thinking?”
*
Oh god.
Ohgodohgodohgod.
It hurt. It hurt so much. It would just happen to be his shoulder, wouldn’t it. Damn his shoulder, and his back, and his aching legs. One point, that’s all he needs. One point, this point and it will all be over.
He twisted the racket in his hand as he bent down into the receiving position, even that simple movement sending shooting pain through his back and shoulder. It hurt. God it was agony, his shoulder actually felt as if it was on fire.
One point. One point and you’ll be through and you can see Sherlock, and….
The ball raced at him over the net.
*
“The serve is good by Moran. Watson powers it back, Moran with the volley, Watson plays safe, Moran with the backhand, Watson crosscourt, Moran returns, Watson backhand, Moran volleys at the net, Watson drives it back, Moran volleys but… Watson forehand and it’s good. The ball flies past Moran and bounces in at the far corner and the stadium has erupted! Watson drops his racket and falls to his knees, rolling onto the grass and onto his back. He’s covering his face but he’s done it. John Watson, the unlikeliest of British hopes, has just booked his place in the Wimbledon final after a match that was truly astonishing in its ups and downs. Five sets played, nearly four hours of tennis and John Watson has won; 4-6, 6-4, 7-5, 3-6, 10-8.
“We have a Brit in the final.”
*
The sky was clear blue. His shoulder was killing him, he was shaking, he was sure he was shaking, and his hearing was all strangely muffled, but the sky was beautiful and blue, clear, deep and with barely a hint of cloud.
He stared at it for a moment, lost in its depths, but then everything came crashing back. Tennis. Wimbledon. Semi-final. Moran. Winning. God winning. He had won hadn’t he? He had actually done it. They had announced it and everything.
Match, Watson - 4-6, 6-4, 7-5, 3-6, 10-8.
He covered his face, his hearing snapping back in with the roar of the crowd. His name. They were saying his name. He was shaking, he was laughing, he was crying. He was also lying on his back on Centre Court while the world watched on. Is Sherlock watching? No, he’d be getting ready for his own match, here, in just a few minutes. Oh Christ he should move.
Time, sense, pain all reasserting themselves, he sat up and then scrambled to his feet trying not to wince. God his shoulder. What was he supposed to do now? Oh yes, shake hands with his opponent, wave to the crowd, talk to the camera and the watching world.
The final of Wimbledon, oh it was all he could do not to giggle. Mustn’t laugh, it’s an interview. Leave laughing for later.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he said to the lady with the microphone but finally they let him go with a hearty congratulation and another roar from the crowd. He waved, they cheered, and then it was time to leave. He signed autographs as he went until security moved both him and the crowds on. More slaps on the back, more congratulations, more aching shoulders.
“John, excellent match.”
Ah, of course, Clara, and she was already on her phone.
“Get yourself sorted. Doctor, shower, press conference. Go.”
He went. He was too tired, too elated to argue.
“It’s just a strain,” Mike said looking at his shoulder. “Nothing torn or ruptured. You probably could have told me that though. How about the rest of you? Any problems with your back, well the rest of your back?”
His back hurt. Well of course it hurt, he had just put it through a stupidly long and intense work out. Five sets. Five sets! He told Mike as much and let himself be checked over thoroughly, wincing at some of the prods and pokes, his back first and then his legs. He appeared to be fine - well apart from being tired, aching and old. Mike gave him something for the shoulder and then it was time for a shower, a long, hot relaxing shower.
He was through to the final of Wimbledon. Wimbledon final, him. Bloody hell. Bloody, sodding, bastard hell.
By the time he emerged the painkillers were kicking in and his skin was starting to go all wrinkly. He also found Clara waiting for him in the changing rooms, mobile by her ear.
“Really sure you’re not supposed to be in here,” he said mildly, crossing over to his bag and clothing.
Of course she wasn’t supposed to be in there, but this was Clara, she somehow got away with not following the rules of normal convention. She was a bit like Sherlock in that respects.
Shit, Sherlock.
“What’s the score?” he asked as he grabbed a spare shirt to pull on. He really needed to find a telly or something. “Clara! Holmes-Moriarty, what’s happening?”
“Just a moment,” she said into the phone before turning to him. “For god’s sake, John, you’ve got a press conference in a moment. By the way, you’re still happy with Wilson for your racket, right?”
Wilson? Racket? That wasn’t what he wanted to know.
“Clara,” he all but growled.
“Wilson, John,” she replied firmly.
“Yes, fine,” he said sharply. “They’re fine, all fine. The score, please.”
“Two games all, second set. Moriarty took the first set after breaking Holmes in his first service game.”
Shit. Not good, very much not good.
“Press conference, John. Worry about Sherlock later, or let him worry about himself. He’s big enough, smart enough and arrogant enough to do so. He’s got a job to do, so have you, so do it and then you can see the rest of the match.”
Okay, Clara had a point. Come on, Sherlock.
He finished dressing and went to compose himself. Another press conference. He hated press conferences.
Exiting the changing rooms he was besieged by paper, flags and pens being waved in his face. Blimey, was this what it was like to be a pop star or something? He grinned, waved, laughed and signed, and with the help of security eventually managed to get through.
“Remember you’re ecstatic,” Clara said when they reached the room. “You’ll do your best to win the final. No, you’re going to do more than that, because the country deserves a new champion. You don’t mind who your opponent will be. They’re both brilliant players. Also, Holmes has just gone a break up. Now go.”
He went and from what he could tell the press conference went really well. The room was absolutely heaving. An Englishman in the final of Wimbledon. Oh god, he really was through, wasn’t he?
Clara was of course the first person he met when he was finally allowed out. “Score?” he asked automatically.
“One set all, about to go into a tie-break in the third. Very tight match. How’s your shoulder?”
“Still there. Look, is there anything else I need to do or can I go and watch the match?”
She let him go. He ended up in the players and members’ area, grabbing the first drink he could that wasn’t bloody Pimms and tried to find somewhere unobtrusive where he could watch the match.
Sherlock lost the tie-break. Damn. Moriarty was now leading two sets to one. Sherlock didn’t look happy. No, he looked unsettled, there was a subtle difference. Wait, when had he become adept at reading Sherlock’s expressions?
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. Come on, Sherlock.
The fourth set was another nail biter, although the tennis itself was excellent. There was little sign of Sherlock’s anxieties or concerns as he fought Moriarty for every single point. From a neutral viewer’s point of view it was an outstanding match. From his point of view, not so much.
Two games all.
Sherlock served, Moriarty forehand, backhand chip return, Moriarty crosscourt forehand, forehand down the line, Moriarty return, backhand from Sherlock, Moriarty forehand, returned forehand, sliced backhand, smashed forehand on the bounce from Sherlock for the winner.
Three games all.
Ace from Moriarty. Once hundred and thirty miles an hour.
Four games all.
Brilliant twisting shot from Sherlock to pluck the ball out of the air and send it into the far corner.
Five games all.
A fourteen shot rally that had the crowd breathless and finally, finally gave Sherlock the set break, and then the volley at the net that gave him the point, the game and the set.
Yes!
“Game and set, Holmes, seven games to five. Two sets all. Fifth and final set.”
His phone rang… again. He ignored it as he had gone the last two times it had rung. Whatever it was it wasn’t important. The match was the most important thing at the moment.
“For god’s sake, John, answer your blood phone will you. I’ve been trying to get you.”
Ah, of course, Clara. He barely glanced across when she appeared beside him.
“Look, unless you can offer me a better view of the match,” he said, “I’m not interested.” Sherlock was going to be serving first for this last, final and deciding set. He couldn’t remember feeling even close to this nervous before about a match he wasn’t even playing in.
“Can do better than that,” she said, a triumphant look on her face, “I’ve got you in.”
Eight minutes later he was in the stands and making his way to a seat by the Royal Box, hoping against hope that everyone would be so enthralled in the match they wouldn’t recognise him.
“Congrats on earlier,” the guy next to him said.
“Thanks,” he nodded. Wait, wasn’t he a famous stand-up comedian or something?
“Which one would you prefer to go through?”
Ace by Moriarty to hold his serve.
“Holmes,” he said automatically.
“Game, Moriarty. One game all.”
The comedian laughed. “Why? Think you have a better chance beating him?”
No, because then he had a better chance of getting to share his bed again. He refrained from replying.
Sherlock held his serve.
“Game, Holmes.”
The players changed ends, passing each other closely and then Sherlock was at the end facing him and he could see more clearly how tight he looked.
John frowned and leant forward. Moriarty’s serve snapped across the net and the game continued.
Moriarty held his serve.
“Game, Moriarty. Two games all.”
Sherlock served. It went wide. He served again. It clipped the net. Double fault. That wasn’t like him.
“Love - Fifteen.”
Sherlock turned away to collect the balls for his next serve, bouncing one of them as he moved back to the service line. He held his serve… just.
They changed ends again.
Moriarty pulled out some fantastic shots to keep his serve and then it happened, Sherlock faltered and Moriarty broke him. It went to deuce but Moriarty broke him. The ball bounced out and Sherlock swore.
”Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads four games to three, final set.”
John couldn’t watch.
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads five games to three, final set.”
This was it. Forehand. Backhand. Chip. Slice. Volley. Smash. Sherlock held his serve but he looked tight, very tight.
“Game, Holmes. Moriarty leads five games to four, final set.”
Come on, Sherlock, break him back. You know you can.
It was a fight, an honest to god old fashioned dog fight, Sherlock and Moriarty squaring off against each other like racket wielding gunslingers. A fight to the death.
It came down to a brilliant forehand that blistered across the court, low, fast and deadly. It took the point and with it John’s heart.
”Game, set and match, Moriarty. 6-3, 4-6, 7-6, 5-7, 6-4.”
Shit.
*
End Part Eight
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 8.5K 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 Seven
*
A Study in Winning
Part Eight
*
Sherlock was still asleep when John pulled his jeans back on. Sprawled on his front, Sherlock was already unconsciously stretching into the warm spot that John had only recently vacated. His curly hair obscured much of his face, but he looked so relaxed and peaceful that John found himself wishing that he could stay and watch him, but knew beyond certainly that for so many reasons that would not be a good idea. Nor would it be good thing to give in to his urge to lean over and press a kiss to Sherlock’s head.
Buttoning his shirt, he took one last look - please don’t let this be the last time he would ever see such a sight - before making his way out.
It was early but not that early. London was already wide awake and busy with activity, but 221B wasn’t yet stirring. That was hardly a surprise. Sherlock had the later match and needed as much sleep as he could get and Lestrade was probably taking advantage of the respite. He, though, had to get back to his hotel to shower and shave before starting his own pre-match preparations.
“Good morning, John.”
Oh god, not again.
He tried not to jump as once again he found Mycroft sat comfortably in the main room, fully dressed in a white pinstriped dark blue three piece suit, although his jacket lay across the back of the other chair, this time flicking through one of Sherlock’s many notebooks rather than a newspaper.
“Mycroft,” he said as he retrieved his trainers. “Uh, been here long?”
Mycroft’s lips twitched his eyes flicking briefly to the stairs behind him before he replied. “I’m an early riser.”
Tying his laces, John didn’t bother asking what that meant or wonder if he was missing something. If it involved Sherlock’s brother then he was probably better off not knowing.
“Oh, right, well, I’d best be off then.”
“Mmm,” Mycroft said as if in agreement before rising to his feet. “Yes, a rather important day today. I believe a twofold congratulation is in order.”
“Thanks,” he said then frowned. “Twofold?”
“Of course,” Mycroft said placing down the notebook which remarkably - and surprisingly - had John Watson scrawled messily across it in Sherlock’s distinctive handwriting.
Wait, Sherlock had a notebook on him? Why? They hadn’t played against each other in over eight years. He had been a non-entity up until a week ago. He had only gotten into the competition on a wild card anyway. So why would Sherlock have started a notebook about him, unless, oh, the final. Sherlock was making preparations for the final, taking apart his game, figuring out the best way of beating him just as he had done with everyone else. In the end the tennis was the most important thing. He supposed he should have been flattered. Sherlock at least did honestly think that he could beat Moran.
“Rather fascinating read, I must admit,” Mycroft said obviously following his gaze to the notebook. “But separate from what I was referring to. A twofold congratulation as I said, firstly on reaching this stage of the competition and secondly on being the only person to have ever shared my brother’s bed without the incentive of intercourse.”
Without the incentive of… oh, right, uh, he really wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that.
“You are a rather remarkable man.”
And also one who was having a discussion about his sex life, or lack there was, with the brother of the man whose bed he had just platonically left.
“I’ve, uh, got to go. Nice seeing you again.”
“You too, John. And good luck.”
Yes, well, it sounded as if he needed it.
Making sure he had everything, he bolted for the door and down the stairs. He had a hotel to walk back to and a match to prepare for.
*
“Welcome back to a bright and sunny Wimbledon. It’s Men’s Semi-Finals day and the place is packed with tennis fans from all over, but clearly dominated by the white and red of the Saint George’s Cross, out in force as in less than one hour, John Watson, the unlikeliest of British hopes, bids to become the first British player to reach a Wimbledon final since Bunny Austin in 1938. The man looking to stop him is of course Sebastian Moran, who has already seen off some stiff competition to reach this far, including the top seed going into this competition, Rafael Nadal. We will of course be bringing you all the build-up as it happens, as well as the comments from our panel of experts and later the commentary itself.”
*
Confidence. Sherlock had said that his third weakness was a lack of confidence. Well, he couldn’t exactly do anything about his age or the physical weaknesses of his body, but he could wrestle with that confidence issue. He just had to remember that he could win.
He could win.
Stepping onto the treadmill he started his warm up.
He could win.
No, he would win.
*
“So, Tim, John, let’s talk about the first semi-final. Sebastian Moran against John Watson. Two very different players.”
“Absolutely, Ann. Watson’s a classic all-rounder who much prefers the baseline game. A precise, intelligent player who is able to use both fast and slow shots, while Moran is one of the last of the old school serve-and-volleyers.”
“Like you, Tim.”
“Yeah. He’s a big, powerful player who hits hard and has an excellent first serve. It’s going to be an interesting match.”
“Tim’s right, they’ve got two completely different styles. Moran has shot up the rankings in the past few months, while Watson, well, we already know that he’s literally come from nowhere to get here. It’s Moran’s first Wimbledon semi-final and Watson’s first semi in any competition since the accident which almost finished his career. That was what, five years ago now his injury?”
“Over six years.”
“And that’s a lifetime in tennis. Neither of them have ever been in the final of a Grand Slam, which means either way, whoever wins, it’s going to be a first. That’s gotta be playing on both of their minds.”
“So who’s going to win then? Tim?”
“It’s difficult, but I’m going to have to say Moran. Watson’s shown some great form here, but he got lucky against Murray while Moran took out Nadal fair and square. For me Moran’s the stronger player, even just taking into consideration this tournament, and Watson has never done well against a serve-and-volley player, even when he was at his peak. We used to joke about it whenever we played each other. So I’m going to have to go with Moran.”
“Okay. What about you, John? Watson or Moran.”
“Hey, I’m gonna stick my neck out on the line here and say I think Watson can do it. In terms of technique he’s probably the better player. His rank doesn’t say that but he’s found something here, something he hasn’t had since his injury. Somehow he’s been turned into a winner and he’s on a roll. It’s like by winning he’s remembered how to win. A switch has been hit and I think he’s going to fight for this one. I think he can do it.”
“Well, there you have it. We’re going to go to the travel report now, but we’ll be back here shortly. Don’t go away.”
*
Expect hard, fast serves. Play to his weaker backhand. Push him to the baselines. Don’t be afraid to come in to the net on occasion. Don’t be intimidated by his sheer size and figure. And whatever you do, keep fighting and don’t you dare give up.
He glanced at his mobile for what felt like the hundredth time. There was still no message from Sherlock, although that didn’t surprise him. He had had texts from a number of other people though; Clara, Sarah, Mike, Dimmock and of course Harry who said she would be watching her baby brother whether he liked it or not. It had at least brought a smile to his face.
But no Sherlock.
He sighed and went back to his stretches. He couldn’t afford to tense up now.
*
“And what’s it like up there on Henman Hill?”
“Ann, the atmosphere is electric. Everyone is anxiously waiting for the players to emerge. There are so many flags, one or two of them the green horizontal “Y” of South Africa, but by far the vast majority is either the British Union Flag or the red cross of Saint George.”
“And who do the fans think is going to win?”
“Most are unsurprisingly saying Watson, although it’s hard to tell if that’s a rational prediction or the emotional backing of the Brit. But either way, the Hill is all set ready to cheer Watson on.”
“Thanks, Ruth. So Henman Hill, Murray Mount, we don’t yet have a name for Watson. Any suggestions?”
“Uh, Watson Rise?”
“Tim?”
“I still like Henman Hill.”
“Well of course you do, but I’m sure you won’t mind sharing it for a short time at least. So Watson Rise, I’m sure we can do better than that. So, if any of you listeners out there have any suggestions as to what we can at least temporarily rename Henman Hill to, then why don’t you drop us a message or a text or a tweet.
“In the meantime, it’s two o’clock, the sun is shining and the players are emerging onto the court for their pre-match warm up. It’s Moran verses Watson in the first of the Men’s Semi-Finals here at Wimbledon. Get ready and stay tuned."
*
Centre Court again. That wasn’t something he had thought would happen to him again, to be playing on Centre Court twice in the same competition. Hell, he had given up on dreams of playing on Centre Court at all years ago. It had been a bitter blow to have gone from being a name to watch to realising that he was never going to reach that level again after his injury. Now, though, he was back for the second time in a week, and this time all the British and English flags were there for him and him alone.
Oh god.
Right, ignore them, ignore Moran, just concentrate on you and your tennis and block everything else out. Towel, spare shirts, sweat bands for his wrists, cap for when he was playing into the sun, drinks bottles all carefully lined up to go in the chiller cabinet, rackets, trainers properly tied. Okay, he could do this.
Hard and fast. Moran will come at him hard and fast.
Racket in hand he got up to finish his warm up, practicing his forehand and backhand swing before moving onto his serve. The first one hit the net. Of course it did. The second one sailed over.
Concentrate and relax.
“Time.”
Right. This was it. Semi-final. Wimbledon. Come on, Watson.
*
“And it’s Moran to serve first and get this game underway… and his first serve is good, Watson barely managed to get a racket to it.”
“Fifteen - Love.”
“There’s that Moran fast first serve. Watson’s got to get to grips with that if he is to have any control in this match.”
“Moran lines up for his next serve… which goes into the net.”
"Moran's serve could well be the deciding factor during this match."
“Second serve… slower this time. Watson returns, Moran with the volley, Watson backhand but it’s into the net.”
“Thirty - Love.”
“Watson read it well, but he needed to do better with that backhand. It looks like he knows it as well.”
“Moran to serve… and it’s an ace.”
“Forty - Love.”
“A hundred and thirty-eight miles an hour. Moran really does have one of the fastest serves on the circuit at the moment. It hard to appreciate just how fast that ball is moving when you’re watching on telly, or even from the crowd, but trust me, when its coming towards you over that net you know about it.”
“Moran serves… Watson forehand, Moran volley, Watson down the line, Moran backhand but it’s out.”
“Forty - Fifteen.”
“Better play by Watson there but he’s got to do a lot more of that if he’s going to break Moran.”
“Moran serves and it’s straight into Watson’s body.”
“Oooh, that has got to have hurt.”
“It looked like Watson managed to get his racket between him and the ball striking at his stomach, but at that speed, that’s not pleasant.”
“Game, Moran.”
Watson doesn’t look happy about it, but he’s up and now it’s his turn to serve.”
*
Bloody hell those balls were fast, he could feel it in his wrists as he stroked them back. And the one to the kidneys, he had been lucky not have felt the full force of that one. Moran was not going to go lightly, but he had already known that.
*
“Game, Moran.”
“And there’s the break we’ve been expecting.”
“Moran leads five games to four. First set.”
“Watson’s struggling against Moran’s powerful returns, although he was unlucky in that game with that double fault and that one that was just long. He seemed to lose whatever momentum he had there. But he also isn’t finding his way through past Moran’s volley. It’s not that he’s playing badly, he’s just not quite playing well enough.”
*
“Game and set, Moran. Six games to four.”
Damn, blast and bugger it.
He wiped his wrist band across his forehead as he retreated back to his chair, taking refuge under the shade of the umbrella that had been brought out by one of the ball boys.
One set gone and he was losing. The dropping of his last service game had shaken him, but he needed to pull himself together. If he wanted to win this then he had to go out there and fight. What was it Sherlock had said, that Moran would go in and attempt to overwhelm him with power and strength, he just had to weather that and then make Moran play the sort of game he wanted to play rather than have the game plan thrust on him.
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.
“Time.”
Tennis court or boxing ring, he was going to fight.
“Second set. Watson to serve. Moran leads one set to love.”
*
“And it’s in. Moran can’t believe it, but it was definitely in.”
“Deuce.”
“Watson has never had a better chance in this match to take that crucial break, and you can hear the crowd behind him, cheering him on.”
“Quiet, please.”
“Moran serves and it’s just a touch wide.”
“He almost seems shaken, Moran. After pummelling Watson with hard, fast balls in the first set with very little reply, he’s come out here to do the same again but Watson is standing firm. In fact, Watson has come out in the second set knowing exactly what was going to happen but this time rather than being passive and dealing with what is thrown at him, is actively hunting down the cracks in Moran’s armour rather than waiting for the South African to make a mistake.”
“Serve goes in from Moran. Watson forehand, Moran backhand volley, Watson drives it crosscourt, Moran forehand, but Watson is there at the net with a cheeky little volley that Moran had no chance of getting to.”
“Advantage, Watson.”
“He’s definitely taking the game to Moran now. A lot of players would have withered under Moran’s relent bombardment, but Watson is holding firm, showing that never say die attitude he’s been playing with all tournament.”
“Moran serves, Watson returns, Moran with the volley, Watson forehand but it clips the net and goes out.”
“Deuce.”
“Watson’s got to be careful not to give points away, especially crucial ones like that. He’s not going to get too many opportunities, but he needs to make sure he gets all his returns in. Get them over the net, get them in and then worry about the next ball.”
“Moran serves, down the centre, Watson with the forehand which he pushes away from Moran, just out of his reach and bounces….”
“In.”
“Brilliant shot there by Watson, but Moran is querying it.”
“It was certainly a close one.”
“He’s calling for Hawkeye.”
“I’m sure it was in.”
“Well the replay is just coming up on the screen now and, oh, that was close but it was definitely in.”
“A matter of millimetres, but definitely in, Ann. Excellent call from the line judge.”
“Advantage, Watson. Moran has one challenge remaining.”
“Moran has got to put that behind him now and play on.”
“Moran has returned to the baseline, preparing himself for his next serve… which goes long.”
“That wasn’t anywhere close to being a good serve. He really needs to compose himself. This could be a very crucial point.”
“His second serve is good. Watson backhand trying to find a way past Moran’s volley, Watson forehand, Moran down the line, driving return by Watson, Moran returns hard, but it bounces wide and finally Watson has the break he’s been looking for.”
“Game, Watson. Watson leads four games to three, second set. Watson to serve.”
*
“Set, Watson. Six games to four. One set all.”
Yes! Okay, concentrate. No need to get overly excited. There’s still a long way to go yet. But come on, Watson, you did it, you broke him. You broke Moran which means you can do it again.
Confidence, it’s all about confidence and hanging in there. You hung in there and now you’re back level. You can do this!
*
“While the players stop for a bathroom break we’re going to go across to Henman Hill. Ruth, what’s it like out there?”
“Deafening, Ann. You should have heard the cheer that went up when Watson got the break and the second cheer when he took the set. There is definitely an air of excitement here. An Englishman in the final of Wimbledon? Well, there’s a long way to go before that, but if cheering is going to help him then most of the people here would willingly scream their loudest.”
“Thanks, Ruth. Now, what do we think so far? One set all, who do you think has the upper hand? John?”
“Watson, definitely. After that first set he’s kept his head and he’s come back with his racket swinging with absolute purpose. If he keeps playing like that then the match is his.”
“Tim, you’re shaking your head. You disagree then.”
“I think it’s still too early to say. This is the third match now where Watson has gone a set down, but in all those matches he’s come back to win both the second and the third sets. Against Trevor he seemed to step up a gear. Against Murray he practically got handed the set due to the ankle injury Murray picked up. He’s certainly found something here again, but I think the next set is key. If he can win that then I’d say the match is his. If he doesn’t, then I’m not sure he’ll be able to come back again.”
“So there you have it. Ultimately it all rests on the next set. Now keep sending in your suggestions as to what we could rename Henman Hill. So far suggestions include Watson Rise, Watson Ridge, Hamish Heath, playing on Watson’s lesser known middle name there. Watson’s Folly. Breakback Watson, a clever play on the film Brokeback Mountain.”
“Breakback Mountain might work.”
“And when the players come back it’ll be the start of the third set, with Moran to serve first.”
*
Remember that Moran is now going to come back at you with everything he has. Hang in there, force him to move around the court. Sure he’s a big guy, but that also makes him heavy. Play to his backhand if possible, don’t let him dominate you. And remember, you can do this.
*
“…And it’s Watson with the forehand. Moran tries to lob and the smash from Watson into the empty court and you can just hear the crowd roar. They know that Watson is just two points away from going a break up and with that probably a set up as well.”
“Fifteen - Thirty.”
“He’s so close, Ann. He’s been slowly chipping away at Moran’s serve, snatching points here and there, but this has been the best chance so far. If he could break him now he just has to hold his serve and the set is his.”
“Moran serves. Watson drives it back, Moran with the volley, Watson forehand, Moran volley, but he’s off balance and Watson gives him no chance.”
“Fifteen - Forty.”
“Such a simple forehand there from Watson, but that’s often what the game is all about.”
“Oh, absolutely. It’s about making those simple all important shots and getting the points, and that’s what Watson is doing here. Nothing fancy, just well played standard tennis.”
“Moran serves, and it’s so fast Watson barely had a chance to reach for it.”
“Thirty - Forty.”
“Another example of Moran’s power. Watson had no chance, but it does mean that Moran always has the ability to throw one in like that, to claw his way back into the game.”
“Moran serves, but it’s called out.”
“That was another fast one, or it would have been had it been in, but it gives Watson a chance now. Moran has got to get this next serve in.”
“Moran serves, Watson backhand away from Moran who volleys, Watson forehand crosscourt, Moran chases, Watson with the slice, Moran forehand, Watson down the line, Moran and it’s wide. The forehand from Moran goes just inches wide, but it gives Watson that all important point and we finally have the breakthrough in this third set and it goes to the Englishman.”
“Game, Watson. Watson leads six games to five. Watson to serve.”
“Excellent play from Watson there, not particularly flash or exciting, but he pushed and pushed until Moran made the mistake and just listen to that crowd.”
“The crowd are cheering, they know that we could be finally seeing an Englishman get through to the final of Wimbledon. Incidentally, Watson’s box is virtually empty. What do you make of that? Semi-finals of Wimbledon and there’s only one person in his box. Girlfriend perhaps?”
“Agent I’d say. She looks familiar.”
“So no family at all then?”
“Doesn’t look like it, although that’s probably personal choice. There are some players who travel with the minimum of an entourage, or maybe Watson just doesn’t want them there. He was hardly expecting to reach this stage anyway.”
“And it’s now Watson’s turn to serve. You’ve got to be wondering what’s going through his mind at this point.”
*
You’ve broken him. Yeah, it took six attempts to do so, but you’ve done it. Just don’t screw it up now. Don’t think about the final, just think about your serve. Get your serve in. Play each point one at a time. Don’t try anything flash and for god’s sake don’t panic.
*
“Thirty all.”
“Watson’s got to be kicking himself after that one. A high short ball like that is a gift to someone like Moran.”
*
Don’t panic. For all things sacred, don’t panic, Watson.
He bounced the ball to steady himself.
Serve the ball. Stop bouncing it and serve the goddamn ball, and when Moran hits it back don’t do anything flash. One point at a time.
*
“Good serve by Watson, Moran returns, Watson forehand to Moran’s backhand but Watson reads it well and knocks it into the far corner for the winner.”
“Forty - Thirty.”
*
See, you can do it. Just get the next point and then you can go and sit down. You’ll be able to grab a drink again and try and cool down. Yes, it’s hot, but come on, you’ve played in hotter than this. Remember Dubai. Yes, but you got your arse kicked in Dubai. Okay, not helpful. One more point, sit down and imagine Sherlock massaging your shoulders.
The ball flew up, his body twisted and his arm raised and fell.
*
“Game and set, Watson. Seven games to five. Watson leads two sets to one.”
“Good serve by Watson in that last set. For a moment he looked like he was going to choke and I’ve seen better players than him do just that. Moran was in there for a moment, but then two solid points and Watson’s taken the set.”
“Tim, what do you say? Was Watson in danger there or was it just the usual ups and downs of tennis?”
“I think he was close and he knew it. He stopped and composed himself at thirty-all. He knew he was just two points away from being broken back. Bouncing the ball like that, not his usual move but it obviously worked. He’s on top now. Let’s hope he can stay like that.”
“So we could be just one set away from a Brit in the final of Wimbledon, or two sets from a crushing upset. We’ll know very shortly.”
*
He didn’t need to hear the groan from the crowd to know that that ball had bounced out.
“Game, Moran. Moran leads three games to one, fourth set. Moran to serve.”
Stupid. He should have known that Moran wouldn’t give up that easily. One stupid little mistake and now look where he was. Moran was all over him, choosing the balls to go for, making him chase every point and taking advantage of the fact he was tiring.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
*
“Game and set, Moran. Six games to three. Two sets all. Fifth and final set. Watson to serve.”
“Well, what can we say about that then? Loss of concentration? Tiredness? Or something else? Tim, John, what happened?”
“He choked, pure and simple, Ann. Watson had it, knew it was within his grasp and then he choked.”
“I’m sorry, but I have to agree with John. Watson has never coped well under pressure. Even at his peak, something would happen.”
“You mean like the French Open in what was it, 2003? Two sets up in the semi-final and then he lost it.”
“Absolutely, Ann. This tournament we’ve seen a completely new side to Watson, but the pressure is still the same and a match can tip on the smallest thing, like a line call or an unforced error or even a stray thought.”
“So what does he have to do then? Can he come back from this?”
“Can he come back from this? Sure. The real question is will he, and I don’t know, Ann. I’m starting to agree with Tim. Watson’s never been known to be able to do it when it really mattered and this is the biggest match of his career. This is the final of Wimbledon on the line. He would be the first Englishman in over seventy years to get that far. That’s got to be playing on his mind.”
“Well, we’ll be back in with the action as soon as the players return from their break. It’s certainly been a rollercoaster ride so far and it’s two sets all with everything to play for in the last and deciding set. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, we’ll be following with the second of our Men’s Semi-Final draw where third seed Sherlock Holmes takes on the second seed Jim Moriarty, where the winner will not only book their place into the final, but regardless of who wins the final will, come Monday, find themselves as the new World Number One. If you’re planning on going out, don’t, because this is one afternoon you will not want to miss.”
*
“Game, Moran. Two games all, final set.”
He was exhausted. Exhausted and drained and his shirt was practically sticking to him. Come on, Watson. Keep your serve and keep hitting those balls back. You have got to do this, then you and Sherlock can joke about which of you is going to win the final, and then you can laugh and kiss and… just come on.
*
“Game, Moran. Four games all, final set.”
“Gotta say this, Watson hasn’t simply rolled over. He’s still there, still fighting. It’s already been a long match and he’s no doubt feeling every single minute of it, but he’s still in there.”
“Moran’s refusing to simply give in either though, but neither can find that little something else that’s going to break this stalemate.”
*
“Game, Moran. Six games all, final set.”
Six games all and no tie break in the final set. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Would this never end?
You just have to break him. You’re serving first so all you have to do is hold your serve and then break him and then it’s all over.
Just don’t choke. You can’t lose it now. You just can’t. Remember those dreams you had as a kid? Wimbledon. You’re so close to the final. First Englishman in the final since 1938. It’s right there, don’t throw it away now. Sherlock would never let you live it down. Think about winning. You want it. Keep focused. Keep playing. For god sake put the bottle down before you drop it. You’re shaking. You’re actually god damn literally shaking.
Just four points taken from his serve.
Just four.
Deep breathes. Relax. It’s your serve first. Just hold your serve and then we’ll see. One point at a time.
Why won’t your hand stop shaking?
“Time.”
Don’t screw this up, Watson. For Christ sake, don’t screw it up. And don’t think about France 04. Oh god. Stop it! Get up, get your racket, get the balls. You can do this. Of course you can do this.
Four points.
Deep breathes.
*
“So we’re entering into what is essentially sudden death for these two players. Since there’s no tie-break in the final set they have to keep battling on until one breaks the other. As Watson is serving first, if he’s the first to break Moran then the match is all over. If Moran breaks Watson first then he will still have to hold his own serve in the next game in order to win. The pressure is well and truly on now.
“So, Watson to serve. He’s bouncing the ball… four… five… six times and now, good serve, Moran returns but Watson knocks it down court for the winner.”
“Fifteen - Love, Watson.”
“Good start from Watson there. He’s got to have so much going through his head right now, but that was a solid serve with a good forehand. He’ll be happy to have got the points on the board.”
*
“Game Watson. Watson leads seven games to six.”
Excellent. Good work. Keep it up. You held your serve and now it’s Moran’s turn.
He scrubbed the towel across his face. Even the towel felt damp. He really needed to change his shirt but he didn’t have the time to.
Come on, Watson, concentrate. Don’t throw it away now.
*
“And an excellent ace from Moran there.”
“Forty - Fifteen.”
“The computer is saying a hundred and thirty-five miles an hour, but Watson’s not responding, just shakes himself slightly and calmly moves to the other side of the court to receive the next serve… and he gets a racket to it this time, but it bounces just wide.”
“Game, Moran. Seven games all, final set.”
“Moran’s going for power. He’s got to know that Watson scored more points than him this match, so he can’t afford to drop his serve.”
“There’s just nothing between them at the moment. Are we going to see another Isner and Mahut?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Why do you say that, John?”
“Because Watson’s going to run out of strength and energy well before then. It’s been a long, hard tournament for him already. I doubt he’s gotten more than a few more games in those legs of his.”
“So Moran’s going to win this then?”
“I didn’t say that. Either Moran will power his way through or Watson may just steal it with some brilliant stroke play. Either way, it’ll all be over before we get into double figures.”
“Well, we’re now back with Watson’s serve. He bounced the ball again, serves, but it’s long.”
“Second serve, Watson.”
“He’s calming himself again and… the serve is good. Moran forehand crosscourt, Watson down the line, Moran backhand, Watson down the line again, Moran pushes Watson wide then comes in, volley’s Watson’s return but Watson read it well and gets the winner.”
“Fifteen - Love.”
“You can hear the crowd, they’re as nervous as the rest of us, literally on the edge of their seats.”
“They know that this could literally go either way.”
“Watson lines up for his next serve, which he nails, Moran backhand, but Watson’s in at the net for a surprising volley that leaves Moran floundering.”
“Thirty - Love.”
“He’s mixing it up a bit, but he knows Moran’s weakest with his backhand, he’s been playing to it all match with good results.”
“Well Watson’s doing okay here so far, but there is still some way to go.”
*
“Game, Watson. Watson leads, eight games to seven.”
Oh that had been close. Thirty-love up and then he’d allowed Moran to come back at him. How had he done that? Why had he done that?
Come on, Watson, you can’t fall apart now.
Please don’t fall apart.
Please.
*
“Game, Moran. Eight games all.”
“Moran just powered his way through that game. Watson barely got a look in.”
“Twice Watson hit the net with his return of serve. He really needs to start getting those returns in or he won’t be able to win. It’s not easy of course, but he really needs to do a little better.”
“He needs to hold his serve first though.”
“That he does.”
*
“Deuce.”
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Take a deep breath, Watson, take a deep breath.
Blowing out the breath he signalled for the balls and caught two on his racket head.
Concentrate, Watson. Don’t you dare throw it away now. You’re so close. So very, very close. What would Sherlock say if you took it this far and then let Moran beat you. You can’t let Moran beat you. You just can’t.
Walking back to the baseline and prepared himself for his next serve.
*
“And a brilliant serve there from Watson, where Moran couldn’t do a thing with it.”
“Advantage, Watson.”
“For a moment there I seriously thought we were about to watch Watson throw it all away, but somehow he’s managed to pull himself together.”
“He’s in his own little world down there, not paying attention to anything, not the crowd, not Moran, nothing.”
“Watson preparing to serve… and down the centre, Moran with the return, Watson pushing long, Moran crosscourt, Watson down the line, Moran backhand, Watson backhand, Moran… and it’s just wide. The ball has gone wide and you can just see the relief on Watson’s face.”
“Game, Watson. Watson leads, nine games to eight.”
“He came so close to being broken in that game, but somehow he managed to pull it out of the bag, took those crucial points and he’s back to being a game up and now it’s Moran’s turn to reply.”
*
You did it, Watson. Somehow you bloody well managed to hold onto your serve. Now you need to go out there and fight for ever point, the way you know you can. You can win this.
You can.
*
“Moran serves, Watson forehand, Moran with the volley, Watson counters, another volley from Moran, forehand from Watson, and it’s in.”
“Love - Fifteen.”
“Excellent play there from Watson, Ann. He read it well and pulled it off with the sort of steady precision shot he was once known for.”
“You can hear the crowd as Watson takes the all-important first point in this game. They’re screaming at Watson that he can do it. He needs to hold his nerve and come out and attack Moran’s serves just like that.”
“His nerve’s going to be the key thing.”
“Quiet please.”
“Moran’s at the baseline bouncing the ball. Complete silence now here on Centre Court. Every breath being held. Moran serves…it’s good. Watson returns, Moran with the volley,
Watson whips it crosscourt, Moran returns, Watson with the slice, Moran forehand, but it’s into the net. Watson takes the point and the crowd cheers.”
“Love - Thirty.”
“Watson was lucky there. Some nice play but he left himself open at the end. He can’t rely on Moran making an error next time. But there may not need to be a next time. Just listen to that crowd. They know that this is Watson’s best chance of the set so far.”
“Moran composing himself as he prepares to serves… and it’s an ace.”
“Fifteen - Thirty.”
“Brilliant ace from Moran there to finally get a point in this all important game.”
“That’s the thing about Moran, you can never totally write him off because he does have that utterly soul-destroying first serve.”
“After a brilliant opening to this game Watson’s head has almost dropped a little. He knows that this is where it could all go so horribly wrong. He’s so close. The crowd are shouting at him, desperately cheering him on.”
”Quiet please.”
“Moran serves. Watson gets a racket to it. Moran volley, Watson with a desperate lunge, Moran with the backhand, Watson volleys, Moran with the lob, Watson’s tracking back but it’s behind him and a brilliant over the shoulder strike by Watson that whistles past a surprised Moran into the back of the empty court and listen to that crowd roar.”
“Fifteen - Forty.”
“Henman Hill are on their feet, the crowd here are on their feet, and Watson has two match points, but is the only person not on his feet.”
“It looks like it was the twist of that shot.”
“Could be his shoulder or his back. Both have given him considerable trouble in the past. He could have pulled something.”
“The tournament doctor is now courtside, but Watson’s waving him away and slowly getting to his feet. He’s picking up his racket and giving it a swing.”
“You’ve got to be wondering what’s going through his head. He’s one point away from a Wimbledon final, his first ever Grand Slam final, or just a few points away from throwing it all away.”
“Moran is getting ready to serve.”
“Come on, John.”
“Quiet please!”
“Shout from the crowd there. At least they’re not calling him Tim. Watson settles while Moran bounces the ball, gets ready… and he serves, it’s good, but Watson’s return hits square into the net.”
“Thirty - Forty.”
“Watson’s still got one match point, but he’s grimacing. Probably from pain but that was a poor attempt. What must he be thinking?”
*
Oh god.
Ohgodohgodohgod.
It hurt. It hurt so much. It would just happen to be his shoulder, wouldn’t it. Damn his shoulder, and his back, and his aching legs. One point, that’s all he needs. One point, this point and it will all be over.
He twisted the racket in his hand as he bent down into the receiving position, even that simple movement sending shooting pain through his back and shoulder. It hurt. God it was agony, his shoulder actually felt as if it was on fire.
One point. One point and you’ll be through and you can see Sherlock, and….
The ball raced at him over the net.
*
“The serve is good by Moran. Watson powers it back, Moran with the volley, Watson plays safe, Moran with the backhand, Watson crosscourt, Moran returns, Watson backhand, Moran volleys at the net, Watson drives it back, Moran volleys but… Watson forehand and it’s good. The ball flies past Moran and bounces in at the far corner and the stadium has erupted! Watson drops his racket and falls to his knees, rolling onto the grass and onto his back. He’s covering his face but he’s done it. John Watson, the unlikeliest of British hopes, has just booked his place in the Wimbledon final after a match that was truly astonishing in its ups and downs. Five sets played, nearly four hours of tennis and John Watson has won; 4-6, 6-4, 7-5, 3-6, 10-8.
“We have a Brit in the final.”
*
The sky was clear blue. His shoulder was killing him, he was shaking, he was sure he was shaking, and his hearing was all strangely muffled, but the sky was beautiful and blue, clear, deep and with barely a hint of cloud.
He stared at it for a moment, lost in its depths, but then everything came crashing back. Tennis. Wimbledon. Semi-final. Moran. Winning. God winning. He had won hadn’t he? He had actually done it. They had announced it and everything.
Match, Watson - 4-6, 6-4, 7-5, 3-6, 10-8.
He covered his face, his hearing snapping back in with the roar of the crowd. His name. They were saying his name. He was shaking, he was laughing, he was crying. He was also lying on his back on Centre Court while the world watched on. Is Sherlock watching? No, he’d be getting ready for his own match, here, in just a few minutes. Oh Christ he should move.
Time, sense, pain all reasserting themselves, he sat up and then scrambled to his feet trying not to wince. God his shoulder. What was he supposed to do now? Oh yes, shake hands with his opponent, wave to the crowd, talk to the camera and the watching world.
The final of Wimbledon, oh it was all he could do not to giggle. Mustn’t laugh, it’s an interview. Leave laughing for later.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he said to the lady with the microphone but finally they let him go with a hearty congratulation and another roar from the crowd. He waved, they cheered, and then it was time to leave. He signed autographs as he went until security moved both him and the crowds on. More slaps on the back, more congratulations, more aching shoulders.
“John, excellent match.”
Ah, of course, Clara, and she was already on her phone.
“Get yourself sorted. Doctor, shower, press conference. Go.”
He went. He was too tired, too elated to argue.
“It’s just a strain,” Mike said looking at his shoulder. “Nothing torn or ruptured. You probably could have told me that though. How about the rest of you? Any problems with your back, well the rest of your back?”
His back hurt. Well of course it hurt, he had just put it through a stupidly long and intense work out. Five sets. Five sets! He told Mike as much and let himself be checked over thoroughly, wincing at some of the prods and pokes, his back first and then his legs. He appeared to be fine - well apart from being tired, aching and old. Mike gave him something for the shoulder and then it was time for a shower, a long, hot relaxing shower.
He was through to the final of Wimbledon. Wimbledon final, him. Bloody hell. Bloody, sodding, bastard hell.
By the time he emerged the painkillers were kicking in and his skin was starting to go all wrinkly. He also found Clara waiting for him in the changing rooms, mobile by her ear.
“Really sure you’re not supposed to be in here,” he said mildly, crossing over to his bag and clothing.
Of course she wasn’t supposed to be in there, but this was Clara, she somehow got away with not following the rules of normal convention. She was a bit like Sherlock in that respects.
Shit, Sherlock.
“What’s the score?” he asked as he grabbed a spare shirt to pull on. He really needed to find a telly or something. “Clara! Holmes-Moriarty, what’s happening?”
“Just a moment,” she said into the phone before turning to him. “For god’s sake, John, you’ve got a press conference in a moment. By the way, you’re still happy with Wilson for your racket, right?”
Wilson? Racket? That wasn’t what he wanted to know.
“Clara,” he all but growled.
“Wilson, John,” she replied firmly.
“Yes, fine,” he said sharply. “They’re fine, all fine. The score, please.”
“Two games all, second set. Moriarty took the first set after breaking Holmes in his first service game.”
Shit. Not good, very much not good.
“Press conference, John. Worry about Sherlock later, or let him worry about himself. He’s big enough, smart enough and arrogant enough to do so. He’s got a job to do, so have you, so do it and then you can see the rest of the match.”
Okay, Clara had a point. Come on, Sherlock.
He finished dressing and went to compose himself. Another press conference. He hated press conferences.
Exiting the changing rooms he was besieged by paper, flags and pens being waved in his face. Blimey, was this what it was like to be a pop star or something? He grinned, waved, laughed and signed, and with the help of security eventually managed to get through.
“Remember you’re ecstatic,” Clara said when they reached the room. “You’ll do your best to win the final. No, you’re going to do more than that, because the country deserves a new champion. You don’t mind who your opponent will be. They’re both brilliant players. Also, Holmes has just gone a break up. Now go.”
He went and from what he could tell the press conference went really well. The room was absolutely heaving. An Englishman in the final of Wimbledon. Oh god, he really was through, wasn’t he?
Clara was of course the first person he met when he was finally allowed out. “Score?” he asked automatically.
“One set all, about to go into a tie-break in the third. Very tight match. How’s your shoulder?”
“Still there. Look, is there anything else I need to do or can I go and watch the match?”
She let him go. He ended up in the players and members’ area, grabbing the first drink he could that wasn’t bloody Pimms and tried to find somewhere unobtrusive where he could watch the match.
Sherlock lost the tie-break. Damn. Moriarty was now leading two sets to one. Sherlock didn’t look happy. No, he looked unsettled, there was a subtle difference. Wait, when had he become adept at reading Sherlock’s expressions?
“Come on,” he muttered under his breath. Come on, Sherlock.
The fourth set was another nail biter, although the tennis itself was excellent. There was little sign of Sherlock’s anxieties or concerns as he fought Moriarty for every single point. From a neutral viewer’s point of view it was an outstanding match. From his point of view, not so much.
Two games all.
Sherlock served, Moriarty forehand, backhand chip return, Moriarty crosscourt forehand, forehand down the line, Moriarty return, backhand from Sherlock, Moriarty forehand, returned forehand, sliced backhand, smashed forehand on the bounce from Sherlock for the winner.
Three games all.
Ace from Moriarty. Once hundred and thirty miles an hour.
Four games all.
Brilliant twisting shot from Sherlock to pluck the ball out of the air and send it into the far corner.
Five games all.
A fourteen shot rally that had the crowd breathless and finally, finally gave Sherlock the set break, and then the volley at the net that gave him the point, the game and the set.
Yes!
“Game and set, Holmes, seven games to five. Two sets all. Fifth and final set.”
His phone rang… again. He ignored it as he had gone the last two times it had rung. Whatever it was it wasn’t important. The match was the most important thing at the moment.
“For god’s sake, John, answer your blood phone will you. I’ve been trying to get you.”
Ah, of course, Clara. He barely glanced across when she appeared beside him.
“Look, unless you can offer me a better view of the match,” he said, “I’m not interested.” Sherlock was going to be serving first for this last, final and deciding set. He couldn’t remember feeling even close to this nervous before about a match he wasn’t even playing in.
“Can do better than that,” she said, a triumphant look on her face, “I’ve got you in.”
Eight minutes later he was in the stands and making his way to a seat by the Royal Box, hoping against hope that everyone would be so enthralled in the match they wouldn’t recognise him.
“Congrats on earlier,” the guy next to him said.
“Thanks,” he nodded. Wait, wasn’t he a famous stand-up comedian or something?
“Which one would you prefer to go through?”
Ace by Moriarty to hold his serve.
“Holmes,” he said automatically.
“Game, Moriarty. One game all.”
The comedian laughed. “Why? Think you have a better chance beating him?”
No, because then he had a better chance of getting to share his bed again. He refrained from replying.
Sherlock held his serve.
“Game, Holmes.”
The players changed ends, passing each other closely and then Sherlock was at the end facing him and he could see more clearly how tight he looked.
John frowned and leant forward. Moriarty’s serve snapped across the net and the game continued.
Moriarty held his serve.
“Game, Moriarty. Two games all.”
Sherlock served. It went wide. He served again. It clipped the net. Double fault. That wasn’t like him.
“Love - Fifteen.”
Sherlock turned away to collect the balls for his next serve, bouncing one of them as he moved back to the service line. He held his serve… just.
They changed ends again.
Moriarty pulled out some fantastic shots to keep his serve and then it happened, Sherlock faltered and Moriarty broke him. It went to deuce but Moriarty broke him. The ball bounced out and Sherlock swore.
”Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads four games to three, final set.”
John couldn’t watch.
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads five games to three, final set.”
This was it. Forehand. Backhand. Chip. Slice. Volley. Smash. Sherlock held his serve but he looked tight, very tight.
“Game, Holmes. Moriarty leads five games to four, final set.”
Come on, Sherlock, break him back. You know you can.
It was a fight, an honest to god old fashioned dog fight, Sherlock and Moriarty squaring off against each other like racket wielding gunslingers. A fight to the death.
It came down to a brilliant forehand that blistered across the court, low, fast and deadly. It took the point and with it John’s heart.
”Game, set and match, Moriarty. 6-3, 4-6, 7-6, 5-7, 6-4.”
Shit.
*
End Part Eight