New Fic: A Study in Winning (10/10) part 1 of 2
Title: A Study in Winning
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 12.5K 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 Eight Nine
*
A Study in Winning
Part Ten
*
He could hear the crowd, muffled but obviously a roar.
“Ready for a pounding?”
He refused to turn as Moriarty stopped beside him. He could hear it in the smooth, almost sing-song voice that the man was relaxed and in good spirits, the complete opposite of him.
“Still feeling down after being dumped?” Moriarty continued. “He’s not worth it, you know.”
He tightened his hand into a fist, remembering what it had been like to land one on that smug, arrogant face. He had never really been a violent person, although he had a temper on him, but right now he wished he could smash his fist into Moriarty’s jaw.
“By the way, how’s the weak shoulder?”
“It’s fine,” he bit back. “How’s the ego?”
And then they were off and walking down the long corridor towards the light and the sound. Both struck with an intensity he hadn’t quite been expecting. Even after two previous matches here he still could not get used to the sights that greeted them - the flags with his name on it - to the sounds - the roar that went up as they exited - or the adrenaline that shot round his body as the atmosphere and the reality of the situation struck home. The final of Wimbledon.
He bowed to the royal box, almost afraid to look up and find out which royals were there. The Queen was of course, splendid in sunshine yellow, but the others, well, it hardly mattered.
He looked at his player’s box. There he could see Harry and Clara, Sarah and Dimmock, Mike, Mrs Hudson in purple, but no Sherlock. Well of course not. He hadn’t really been expecting Sherlock to be there, had he? Okay, maybe not expecting, hope, desperately hoping perhaps, but no, apparently that was not to be.
He lost the toss. He wasn’t surprised, he suspected it was going to be that sort of a day. Moriarty of course chose to serve first.
He went to his seat, pulling out his drinks to go through his final preparations. It was warm, but a muggy sort of heat rather than the clean crisp heat of earlier in the week. He would have to remember to drink more in this humidity and he was really going to sweat. The forecast said overcast with showers expected later but in the early evening, the final break in the unusually good weather they had been having recently. Made sense really. Good weather, good play. Poor weather… he decided not to finish that thought.
Stripping off his jacket he unzipped his racket bag and pulled out the first of his match rackets. The large W of Wilson looked back at him from the racket head. Wilson. Watson. Wimbledon. Winner.
Okay, Watson, screw this up and you’ll regret so much of this fortnight for the rest of your life. At least go out there and play like you know you can play. Do that at least.
He got to his feet.
*
“How do you think they look?”
“Well, Ann, Moriarty certainly looks cool and composed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone come out here looking quite so confident. While Watson looks the opposite in all honesty. He looks nervous and tight.”
“Tim’s really hit it there. Watson looks like he knows he’s about to undertake the most gruelling challenge of his career. His head is down. He’s not looking at the crowds. He’s only looked at his player’s box once, so he’s not trying to get any support from them either. While Moriarty, well, just look at how easy he’s flowing just with those practice serves. Not a care in the world. He could be warming up for a casual knock about in the park for the way he’s acting. Overconfident? Maybe. That can be just as much a killer as under confidence, but of the two of them, I think Watson’s the one in trouble.”
“It’s practically time now. The players have finished their warm up and we’re now about to start this Championship match. It’s Jim Moriarty verses John Watson, and it’s the Wimbledon Men’s Singles Final. Come on, John.”
*
Okay, keep calm, Watson. It’s a tennis match. It’s just another tennis match.
He barely saw the ball as it whistled over the net.
“Fifteen - Love.”
Right. Not the start you were hoping for, but what were you expecting? This is Moriarty, he’s not going to make it easy on you. Just keep your eye on that ball and remember, you earned your right to be here. You can do this.
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads one game to love.”
“A good, solid start from Moriarty there. He hardly gave Watson a look in.”
“From that first serve it was obvious that Moriarty has come out here meaning business. He’s thrown down the challenge, now it’s time to see if Watson is up to facing that.”
“Watson to serve. First serve but it’s into the net.”
“First service match in a game like this is always important. He can’t let his nerves get the better of him.”
“Watson bouncing the ball, preparing himself for his next serve… it’s good. Moriarty forehand, Watson backhand down the line, but it’s just wide.”
“Love - Fifteen.”
“Unlucky there from Watson. Moriarty really blasted that ball back to him, but he has to do better in situations like that. It really needed to bounce in. He can’t afford to give away easy points like that.”
“Watson bouncing the ball and composing himself. He serves, Moriarty returns, Watson crosscourt forehand, Moriarty with the slice, but it’s into the net.”
“Fifteen all.”
“Better play from Watson, driving the ball back fast and deep. He’s going to have to keep playing balls like that if he’s going to win.”
“Watson serves, down the centre, Moriarty with the forehand, Watson pushes deep, Moriarty backhand, Watson crosscourt, Moriarty pushes long.”
“Out!”
“That was a close call.”
“Thirty - Fifteen
“Another deep drive by Watson but Moriarty read it well.”
“Moriarty was perhaps a little unfortunate with that return but Watson took the point.”
“Watson serves, but it’s called long.”
“Watson has to make sure to get those first serves in, he can’t afford to give Moriarty any advantages.”
“Watson’s bouncing the ball and his serve is in. Moriarty thuds it back, Watson crosscourt forehand, Moriarty backhand, Watson returns, Moriarty down the line, Watson forehand, Moriarty backhand, but Watson is there for the winner.”
“Forty - Fifteen.”
“Excellent play from Watson but he has to do a lot more of that now.”
“Moriarty doesn’t appear to be bothered at all. He’s still casual and loose.”
“You’ve got to be wondering what’s going through each of their minds.”
“Watson serves and a brilliant return from Moriarty to take the point.”
“Forty - Thirty.”
“There’s that sharp turn of speed that Moriarty can employ and has done to devastating effect in the past. When he reads the serve inch perfect most of the time you don’t stand a chance.”
“Watson’s got to hold on. He needs this point and then maybe he will be able to relax a little.”
“Watson serves, Moriarty backhand, but Watson’s there with a volley.”
“Game, Watson. One game all.”
“Something a little bit different from Watson there and it paid off, but he’s going to need more of that if he’s going to challenge at all.”
*
Right, he held his serve. That was good, but it was his service game, he was supposed to hold his serve. No, he shouldn’t think like that. He was in this game and it was still a young game. This was the final, he wasn’t about to lose without a fight.
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads two games to one.”
“Excellent play there from the World Number One. He’s looking strong and untouchable out there.”
*
“Game, Watson. Two games all.”
“Watson did well to take that point but Moriarty’s not making it easy for him.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads three games to two.”
“He pushed Watson wide and then smashed that ball into the empty court. Excellent play there from Moriarty. He’s really starting to show the class difference between these two players.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads four games to two.”
“And there’s the break.”
“And there’s the simply outstanding play that Moriarty is known for. He’s stepped up a gear and he’s now dominating this match. He’s played some brilliant, easy flowing tennis that Watson just can’t respond to, and now he’s taken the break.”
“Watson was perhaps a little unlucky there, but when Moriarty is on form there are few who can stop him.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads five games to two.”
“Watson never really got close to challenging at all there. Moriarty had complete control. He never even gave Watson a look in.”
*
“Game, Watson. Moriarty leads five games to three.”
“Good fight back from Watson there to stay in the set but Moriarty was all over him.”
“Watson’s played some brilliant tennis to get this far, but he’s looking more than a little overwhelmed today.”
“This isn’t the Watson who struggled to get through the first round of competitions but it also isn’t the Watson who beat Moran or took advantage of Murray’s injury. Whatever he had in those matches, the fight, the sharpness, the determination, he’s just not finding it here and Moriarty is going to take full advantage of that.”
*
“Game and set Moriarty. Six games to three. Moriarty leads one set to love.”
Oh god, this wasn’t good.
Reaching his seat, he collapsed, grabbing a towel to throw over his head. Moriarty was toying with him, he could feel it. Even the small smirky smiles said it. This was just some sort of warm up before Moriarty unleashed the full power of his ability. Oh god, that was going to be horrible. It was already perfectly plain how much better Moriarty was than him. He was faster, sharper, harder, deeper and cleaner than he could ever hope to be. But what had he expected? Moriarty was the best in the world for a reason. Even Sherlock hadn’t been able to beat him.
And thinking of Sherlock, maybe it was a good thing that he wasn’t here to witness him losing. They were only one set down and he could already feel the beginnings of the dull ache across his shoulder and back. Moriarty certainly knew what his weaknesses were and how to play to them. It wasn’t going to be a particularly long match, was it? Moriarty would see to that.
“Time.”
Oh, god, time to face to the music.
*
“Watson really needs to come out here fighting if he’s going to have any chance of salvaging anything from this match.”
“He’s looking over at his player’s box again. He doesn’t have a coach here so he’s not getting any support from there. Have we established who is in his box? Before this match he hasn’t had many people.”
“It looks like Sarah Sawyer and D.I. Dimmock, are there, old friends of his from the circuit. That young lady to the right appears to be his sister, there’s a strong family resemblance. The older lady, maybe another relative perhaps?”
“Well let’s hope that Watson finds whatever he’s looking for from them and it’s his turn to serve first in this set.”
*
“Game, Watson. Watson leads one game to love.”
Yes! He had held his serve and gotten points on the board. Now to see what Moriarty was going to throw at him this time.
*
“Game, Moriarty. One game all.”
“Come on, Tim.”
“The crowd are desperate to lift Watson but he’s still really struggling against Moriarty’s first serves.”
“He’s certainly not the only player to come up short when faced with Moriarty’s first serves, but that’s the difference between a good player and a truly great one. A truly great one will always be able to dig deep and find something extra, find that sixth gear. Watson has proved this tournament that he’s a good player, a much better player than we all believed, but I don’t think he has anything more to give.”
*
“Game, Watson. Watson leads two games to one.”
“Well, Watson managed to cling on there. For a moment it really did look like Moriarty was going to take it from him.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Two games all.”
“Lovely ace to close the game. Watson could only watch it fly past.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads three games to two.”
“And there’s the break.”
“It really was just a matter of time before Moriarty smashed through Watson’s defences and that was it. Watson doesn’t even look surprised to find that he’s been broken. Look at his shoulders. He knew it was only a matter of time.”
“Do you think there is any chance of Watson coming back from this?”
“No. He’s a good player but Moriarty is the best in the world, there is no one better. Watson came out here to give it a go but his body language already says that he’s beaten and he knows it. Unless he’s really got something special hidden away, then no, I think, like everyone else who faces Moriarty, he’ll have to settle for second best.”
“Well, the breeze out there certainly isn’t helping, but it’s Moriarty to serve.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads four games to two.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads five games to two.”
“The lack of sound from the home crowd really says it all now. We could be witnessing the near total collapse of a player’s game here. After good start to this set, Watson now looks lost and confused out there as nothing he has tried has challenged Moriarty in any way. The crowd are nearly silent. They can’t believe what they are witnessing.”
“It was always going to be a tough match for Watson but Moriarty is stamping his domination across the game with every stroke he plays. He’s reading Watson like a book before driving home his shots with power and class. Moriarty is so much in command that Watson only managed two points in that service game and he was the one serving. Moriarty is actually starting to look even more casual about the whole thing.”
“It’s almost as if Moriarty is toying with him he looks so relaxed and confident. I really would hate to be Watson’s shoes right now.”
*
“Game and set, Moriarty, six games to two. Moriarty leads two sets to love.”
Christ, was it over yet? Please let it be over.
Sat back on his chair, he stared blankly up at the sky. It was so dark now, the clouds racing across in shades of grey and black. It was so different from the beautiful clear blue sky he had stared at while lying on that grass just over there having just beaten Moran. Was that just two days ago? Had so many things changed in such a short length of time?
This was just embarrassing now. He shouldn’t be here. It should have been someone good, someone who could have actually challenged Moriarty. Not him. Not someone who has spent his career simply being good at his best and no better, the person who had always rolled over when it most mattered, the person who had basically managed to screw up every aspect of his life from professional to personal.
This was his last professional tennis match and he honestly couldn’t wait for it to end.
He wondered if Harry would come and hit the bar with him afterwards. Probably. She would be in as much need of a drink as he would be. Well, of course unless she and Clara were going to spend some alcohol free time together.
Christ, what was his life coming to?
He pressed the bottle lips to his mouth and closed his eyes. It was all going to be over soon.
“Time.”
Right, third and unless a miracle happened, the final set. Come on, Watson, at least go out with some sort of a bang.
*
“And we’re about to start the third set with Watson once more to serve. So, what’s the best that we can hope for?”
“That it’s not completely one sided.”
“Moriarty’s dominance has grown so much during this match it’s hard to see how Watson can salvage anything, but for Watson and you Brits it would be good if he could find at least a little something extra, some of that never say die, Dunkirk spirit you’re always going on about.”
“Our ability to turn defeat into victory you mean?”
“Well, victory might be a bit too much to hope for here. Maybe just not a massacre. Although you Brits are also certainly more than used to that on the sporting front.”
“Let’s hope Watson can feel inspired.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads one game to love.”
Well, Watson, start as you mean to go on, why don’t you. Just look at him. It’s not enough for him to win, he wants to humiliate you as well.
*
“Was that thunder we just heard?”
“Sounded like it.”
“It looks like that storm is coming early, but perhaps not early enough to save this match from the most likely outcome.”
“Moriarty to serve, Watson forehand, Moriarty thuds it back crosscourt. Watson down the line, but it’s out.”
“Fifteen - Love.”
“That forehand really looked tired. Watson’s dying out there, bit by bit.”
“He really does look as if he’s got nothing more to give. He’s tried everything and nothing has worked. He’s probably hoping to get to the end of the match in one piece.”
“Well, the end of the match might not come as soon as he might want because it looks like the rain will get here first. But before that it is Moriarty to serve, but it’s gone into the net.”
“That was definitely more thunder and yup, there’s the rain.”
“The sky has opened here and the covers are quickly being pulled across the court. This isn’t so much of a problem now because of the roof, but it’s still going to take ten minutes to get the roof on and another ten minutes to acclimatise the court. The players have retreated down the corridor to their separate changing rooms. It looks like the match is going to go on just that little bit longer.”
*
He didn’t really see the need to run. He was already drenched with sweat, a little bit of rain was hardly going to make a difference. The day couldn’t exactly get much worse. He just wanted to curl up and for it all to be over.
Sighing, he pushed open the door to the changing room and then he froze as a tall, achingly familiar figure turned to face him.
“Sherlock?”
*
No, it really couldn’t be Sherlock, and yet there was no one else that it could be, not with that hair or those eyes or those still absolutely gorgeous cheekbones.
“Hello, John.”
And that voice. He closed his eyes briefly. That was Sherlock’s voice. He hadn’t realised just how much he had missed it, or him, or all of it.
“What?” he asked snapping his eyes open again and then swallowing because that had come out sharper than he had been aiming for. “What are you doing here?”
“I got your message.”
His mind went blank. Message? What message? Then he noticed the mobile in Sherlock’s hand. Oh, that message.
“Oh, right, good.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, but it seemed as if he wasn’t the one who needed to talk.
“I believe,” Sherlock said slowly, “that I owe you an apology. No, I do owe you an apology, so here I am to say that I’m sorry. The last time we met I said some things that were purposefully cruel, completely uncalled for and decidedly untrue.”
He stared blankly. Sherlock was actually apologising? He hadn’t exactly known the man very long - although it felt longer - but he was pretty certain that Sherlock was not the sort of person who apologised, ever, and yet here he was actually saying the words, ‘I’m sorry’.
“I was angry,” Sherlock continued his left hand twitching slightly, “after my defeat. I was angry at everyone; at myself, at Moriarty and at you. You’d won, you were through to the final while I… I let Moriarty get to me. He used you against me, or more accurately, he used my feelings for you against me and then I lost because of it.”
He continued to stare suddenly completely unable to react, utterly certain that his exhausted, deluded mind had either made up a whole lot of sentences and put them into Sherlock’s mouth, or he had completely misheard what had been said.
“Could you, uh, could you just repeat that last bit for me?”
Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together. “I lost because of it?” he repeated.
John quickly shook his head. “No, the bit just before that.”
“That Moriarty used you against me? Oh,” Sherlock’s expression cleared, “you mean that he used my feelings for you against me.”
Oh god, he hadn’t misheard, or if he had then this was all one big hallucination and he was actually probably still out there on Centre Court having his arse kicked by a smug American.
“You have feelings for me?” he questioned, because he really, really had to make sure.
Sherlock’s expression deepened back into a frown. “I would have thought that perfectly obvious,” he said. “No one else has ever been to Baker Street. No one else has ever shared my bed to sleep in. I thought you knew that. Mycroft said….”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes.”
“Shut up.”
Sherlock’s mouth closed with a click.
He rubbed his thumb against the damp skin on his temple desperately trying to process everything he had just been told without either collapsing or sinking into a fit of hysterical giggles.
“You do return my feelings then,” he managed because as it went that appeared to be the most key point here.
“I am uncertain as to the precise nature of your feelings for me or even of mine for you, but yes, I believe in essence that what you feel for me, I am feeling back for you.”
Oh god. “So not just shagging then?”
“No, not just shagging.”
“Right,” he said biting back the giggles, “uh how? What? When?”
“John.”
“Yeah, hmmm?”
“If I may, I thought that this might explain things better than I can do verbally. I am not used to expressing such emotions out loud.”
He watched as Sherlock drew something out of his pocket. No, not something, a notebook, the notebook, the one with his name across it.
“This should tell you everything that you need to know.”
He took it, holding it in his hand for a moment, tracing his fingers across the front before he dared to open it. It was very much like those other notebooks he had seen, but at the same time it was decidedly not, because this one was about him, it was all about him; observations, analysis, drawings, some the perfect replica of the scar on his shoulder, one a sketch of him using his laptop, one of him, well, asleep, nude. He tried not to blush at that.
Like the other notebooks it was written in a mixture of French and English. The words, bisexual, James Bond, gorgeous sprung out at him. Also the word, why?, on one page repeated over and over again. Later pages didn’t just contain information about him, but also people connected to him; Harry, Clara, Mike, Dimmock, Sarah, Molly, ah, so that was why Sherlock had known all about her, he had already looked her up.
He turned back to the earlier pages, his fingers tracing over the phrase that occurred a few times. He was sure he recognised it, he just….
“What does this mean?” he asked.
Sherlock glanced at it before quickly averting his gaze. “Que m’as-tu fait?” he said. “What do you do to me?”
Oh. He swallowed. “Was that… was that when you realised, you know, that it wasn’t just about the sex?”
“Approximately,” Sherlock said. “I believe my first inkling was when you punched Moriarty.” His lips twitched in a small smile. “The second was shortly after, when you first asked me to take you and then when I refused you shagged me through the mattress.”
He remembered. He had felt disappointed when Sherlock had said no, but their resulting coupling that night had been so intense.
“You left,” he said with a slight frown as he ran through what happened afterwards. “You walked out and left me there.”
Sherlock shifted awkwardly, scratching at his left arm. “I was… overwhelmed. No-one has ever affected me like you have. I had to retreat, to clear my head, but I found that while I felt overwhelmed while near you, I also couldn’t bear for you to leave.”
He nodded because he had felt something similar. “You seem pretty clear in your thoughts, your feelings.”
“I’ve had… time to assess them.”
“And now?” he asked. “What have you concluded?”
“Now I want… that is if you will still have me, I would like the opportunity to explore it further. I was all ready to leave and then I realised that I couldn’t, not without finding out if there was even the slightest chance that you might, that you would….”
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, John?”
“You idiot.” And then he fisted his hands into that far too expensive shirt and tugged him forward, reaching up onto tip toes to press his lips against the other man’s. There was a moment of hesitation, but then the hands came up to hold him and the lips parted into a smile that let the kiss go deeper. He smiled back, the tightness that had taken residence in his chest loosening with every second, replaced by a light giddiness that threatened to engulf him.
They finished with their foreheads pressed together, grinning, holding each other, neither wanting to let go.
He drew away first, his legs forcing him to sit down. “Oh god, we’re both idiots,” he said running his hand across his eyes. “So what now?”
“Right now you’ve got a tennis match to finish.”
He groaned. In the heat of the new and frankly amazing revelations he had completely forgotten that he was in the midst of getting his arse kicked.
“Oh god, I’ve got to go out there and finish being humiliated.”
“Not necessarily,” Sherlock said sinking to sit on the bench beside him. “You might be losing the battle but the war isn’t over yet.”
“It is for me.”
“Nonsense.”
He bit back a laugh. “You may not have noticed, but I’m two sets down.”
“But not yet beaten.”
“He’s all over me.”
“Only because you’re letting him.”
“Trust me, it’s not my idea.”
“None the less, you’re still letting him control the game.”
“My shoulder’s killing me, my legs are like lead, I’m exhausted.”
“You need to play through the pain, find a second wind. You need to go out there and fight, John. Fight like you did against Murray, against Moran.”
He shook his head. “Those were different. Moriarty’s so much better than me and he doesn’t have any weaknesses for me to exploit. I only beat Murray and Moran and Trevor because you were helping me. You told me how to beat them. I only fought as hard as I did because I was so desperate to extend my time with you. I didn’t want to go out because I wanted to keep seeing you.”
There he had said it.
“Is that what you think?”
He glanced across to find Sherlock looking at him with an expressing trapped between a frown and a look as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
He shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said getting to his feet and pacing. “You, John Watson, are something else completely. You have no idea, do you? No idea just how good you really are.”
He ignored the comment as his eyes drew in on Sherlock’s sleeve on his left arm, the one he was still rubbing.
“Sherlock, what have you got on your arm?”
“What? Oh, no, it’s nothing.”
It was obviously not nothing. Getting to his feet he grabbed Sherlock’s arm and yanked up the sleeve. He eyes boggled.
“Sherlock, is that, is that three patches?”
“You’re a three patch problem,” Sherlock said pulling his arm away.
“Oh for god’s sake, get those off you. No wonder you’re pacing.”
“I’m pacing, John, because I can’t believe how much of an idiot you are.”
“Me? I’m an idiot? I’m not the one overdosing on nicotine.”
“No, you’re the one who despite all the evidence hasn’t yet realised that you’re a brilliant tennis player.”
He scoffed. “No, I’m not. I’m middle of the road at best, but for the most part I can’t even manage that.”
“No, you’re better than that, far better, you’ve just forgotten how to win.”
“I think I know how to win, Sherlock.”
“And that’s your problem, right there, because thinking and actually winning are two completely different things. Think about it, John, you beat Trevor, Murray, Moran because you had the ability in you to do it. It doesn’t matter what I told you because without the ability to take advantage of their weaknesses it doesn’t mean anything. There are three things that are needed to beat players like those; strategy, drive but most of all the ability to play the shots, to push them back, to put the game plan into action. I may have told you how to do it but you’re the only one who had to do it. You’re the one who fought tooth and nail to win those matches. You’re the one who battled through the pain, who kept on again and again. You’re the one who beat them, not me, and you did it for you, because you could.”
“Sherlock.”
“No, don’t Sherlock me. I know what I’m talking about. Here.”
He watched as Sherlock grabbed the notebook, the one with his name across it, waving it between in them.
“It’s all in here. You can beat Moriarty, but you’ve got to believe that you can.”
He could beat Moriarty?
His gaze wandered to the notebook and he pressed his lips together. Sherlock was still looking at him with an expression that could only be described as desperate earnestness. As much as he wanted to deny it, Sherlock did have a point; knowledge of a player’s weakness didn’t necessarily mean you were good enough to take advantage of it. Was he good enough though, really good enough? There was a time when he had believed so, but that felt such a long time ago now, and yet it had been him out on those courts this week. He was the one who had fought to the last ball. He may have found something to fight for but still he was the one who had fought.
He scrubbed his hands over his face.
His back hurt, his shoulder hurt, his right thigh was aching for no apparent reason, he was tired and losing, and yet this was the Wimbledon final. This would never happen again. It was now or never.
“Okay,” he said pulling himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders. “Okay. What do I do?”
*
Continue
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 12.5K 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 Eight Nine
*
A Study in Winning
Part Ten
*
He could hear the crowd, muffled but obviously a roar.
“Ready for a pounding?”
He refused to turn as Moriarty stopped beside him. He could hear it in the smooth, almost sing-song voice that the man was relaxed and in good spirits, the complete opposite of him.
“Still feeling down after being dumped?” Moriarty continued. “He’s not worth it, you know.”
He tightened his hand into a fist, remembering what it had been like to land one on that smug, arrogant face. He had never really been a violent person, although he had a temper on him, but right now he wished he could smash his fist into Moriarty’s jaw.
“By the way, how’s the weak shoulder?”
“It’s fine,” he bit back. “How’s the ego?”
And then they were off and walking down the long corridor towards the light and the sound. Both struck with an intensity he hadn’t quite been expecting. Even after two previous matches here he still could not get used to the sights that greeted them - the flags with his name on it - to the sounds - the roar that went up as they exited - or the adrenaline that shot round his body as the atmosphere and the reality of the situation struck home. The final of Wimbledon.
He bowed to the royal box, almost afraid to look up and find out which royals were there. The Queen was of course, splendid in sunshine yellow, but the others, well, it hardly mattered.
He looked at his player’s box. There he could see Harry and Clara, Sarah and Dimmock, Mike, Mrs Hudson in purple, but no Sherlock. Well of course not. He hadn’t really been expecting Sherlock to be there, had he? Okay, maybe not expecting, hope, desperately hoping perhaps, but no, apparently that was not to be.
He lost the toss. He wasn’t surprised, he suspected it was going to be that sort of a day. Moriarty of course chose to serve first.
He went to his seat, pulling out his drinks to go through his final preparations. It was warm, but a muggy sort of heat rather than the clean crisp heat of earlier in the week. He would have to remember to drink more in this humidity and he was really going to sweat. The forecast said overcast with showers expected later but in the early evening, the final break in the unusually good weather they had been having recently. Made sense really. Good weather, good play. Poor weather… he decided not to finish that thought.
Stripping off his jacket he unzipped his racket bag and pulled out the first of his match rackets. The large W of Wilson looked back at him from the racket head. Wilson. Watson. Wimbledon. Winner.
Okay, Watson, screw this up and you’ll regret so much of this fortnight for the rest of your life. At least go out there and play like you know you can play. Do that at least.
He got to his feet.
*
“How do you think they look?”
“Well, Ann, Moriarty certainly looks cool and composed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone come out here looking quite so confident. While Watson looks the opposite in all honesty. He looks nervous and tight.”
“Tim’s really hit it there. Watson looks like he knows he’s about to undertake the most gruelling challenge of his career. His head is down. He’s not looking at the crowds. He’s only looked at his player’s box once, so he’s not trying to get any support from them either. While Moriarty, well, just look at how easy he’s flowing just with those practice serves. Not a care in the world. He could be warming up for a casual knock about in the park for the way he’s acting. Overconfident? Maybe. That can be just as much a killer as under confidence, but of the two of them, I think Watson’s the one in trouble.”
“It’s practically time now. The players have finished their warm up and we’re now about to start this Championship match. It’s Jim Moriarty verses John Watson, and it’s the Wimbledon Men’s Singles Final. Come on, John.”
*
Okay, keep calm, Watson. It’s a tennis match. It’s just another tennis match.
He barely saw the ball as it whistled over the net.
“Fifteen - Love.”
Right. Not the start you were hoping for, but what were you expecting? This is Moriarty, he’s not going to make it easy on you. Just keep your eye on that ball and remember, you earned your right to be here. You can do this.
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads one game to love.”
“A good, solid start from Moriarty there. He hardly gave Watson a look in.”
“From that first serve it was obvious that Moriarty has come out here meaning business. He’s thrown down the challenge, now it’s time to see if Watson is up to facing that.”
“Watson to serve. First serve but it’s into the net.”
“First service match in a game like this is always important. He can’t let his nerves get the better of him.”
“Watson bouncing the ball, preparing himself for his next serve… it’s good. Moriarty forehand, Watson backhand down the line, but it’s just wide.”
“Love - Fifteen.”
“Unlucky there from Watson. Moriarty really blasted that ball back to him, but he has to do better in situations like that. It really needed to bounce in. He can’t afford to give away easy points like that.”
“Watson bouncing the ball and composing himself. He serves, Moriarty returns, Watson crosscourt forehand, Moriarty with the slice, but it’s into the net.”
“Fifteen all.”
“Better play from Watson, driving the ball back fast and deep. He’s going to have to keep playing balls like that if he’s going to win.”
“Watson serves, down the centre, Moriarty with the forehand, Watson pushes deep, Moriarty backhand, Watson crosscourt, Moriarty pushes long.”
“Out!”
“That was a close call.”
“Thirty - Fifteen
“Another deep drive by Watson but Moriarty read it well.”
“Moriarty was perhaps a little unfortunate with that return but Watson took the point.”
“Watson serves, but it’s called long.”
“Watson has to make sure to get those first serves in, he can’t afford to give Moriarty any advantages.”
“Watson’s bouncing the ball and his serve is in. Moriarty thuds it back, Watson crosscourt forehand, Moriarty backhand, Watson returns, Moriarty down the line, Watson forehand, Moriarty backhand, but Watson is there for the winner.”
“Forty - Fifteen.”
“Excellent play from Watson but he has to do a lot more of that now.”
“Moriarty doesn’t appear to be bothered at all. He’s still casual and loose.”
“You’ve got to be wondering what’s going through each of their minds.”
“Watson serves and a brilliant return from Moriarty to take the point.”
“Forty - Thirty.”
“There’s that sharp turn of speed that Moriarty can employ and has done to devastating effect in the past. When he reads the serve inch perfect most of the time you don’t stand a chance.”
“Watson’s got to hold on. He needs this point and then maybe he will be able to relax a little.”
“Watson serves, Moriarty backhand, but Watson’s there with a volley.”
“Game, Watson. One game all.”
“Something a little bit different from Watson there and it paid off, but he’s going to need more of that if he’s going to challenge at all.”
*
Right, he held his serve. That was good, but it was his service game, he was supposed to hold his serve. No, he shouldn’t think like that. He was in this game and it was still a young game. This was the final, he wasn’t about to lose without a fight.
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads two games to one.”
“Excellent play there from the World Number One. He’s looking strong and untouchable out there.”
*
“Game, Watson. Two games all.”
“Watson did well to take that point but Moriarty’s not making it easy for him.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads three games to two.”
“He pushed Watson wide and then smashed that ball into the empty court. Excellent play there from Moriarty. He’s really starting to show the class difference between these two players.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads four games to two.”
“And there’s the break.”
“And there’s the simply outstanding play that Moriarty is known for. He’s stepped up a gear and he’s now dominating this match. He’s played some brilliant, easy flowing tennis that Watson just can’t respond to, and now he’s taken the break.”
“Watson was perhaps a little unlucky there, but when Moriarty is on form there are few who can stop him.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads five games to two.”
“Watson never really got close to challenging at all there. Moriarty had complete control. He never even gave Watson a look in.”
*
“Game, Watson. Moriarty leads five games to three.”
“Good fight back from Watson there to stay in the set but Moriarty was all over him.”
“Watson’s played some brilliant tennis to get this far, but he’s looking more than a little overwhelmed today.”
“This isn’t the Watson who struggled to get through the first round of competitions but it also isn’t the Watson who beat Moran or took advantage of Murray’s injury. Whatever he had in those matches, the fight, the sharpness, the determination, he’s just not finding it here and Moriarty is going to take full advantage of that.”
*
“Game and set Moriarty. Six games to three. Moriarty leads one set to love.”
Oh god, this wasn’t good.
Reaching his seat, he collapsed, grabbing a towel to throw over his head. Moriarty was toying with him, he could feel it. Even the small smirky smiles said it. This was just some sort of warm up before Moriarty unleashed the full power of his ability. Oh god, that was going to be horrible. It was already perfectly plain how much better Moriarty was than him. He was faster, sharper, harder, deeper and cleaner than he could ever hope to be. But what had he expected? Moriarty was the best in the world for a reason. Even Sherlock hadn’t been able to beat him.
And thinking of Sherlock, maybe it was a good thing that he wasn’t here to witness him losing. They were only one set down and he could already feel the beginnings of the dull ache across his shoulder and back. Moriarty certainly knew what his weaknesses were and how to play to them. It wasn’t going to be a particularly long match, was it? Moriarty would see to that.
“Time.”
Oh, god, time to face to the music.
*
“Watson really needs to come out here fighting if he’s going to have any chance of salvaging anything from this match.”
“He’s looking over at his player’s box again. He doesn’t have a coach here so he’s not getting any support from there. Have we established who is in his box? Before this match he hasn’t had many people.”
“It looks like Sarah Sawyer and D.I. Dimmock, are there, old friends of his from the circuit. That young lady to the right appears to be his sister, there’s a strong family resemblance. The older lady, maybe another relative perhaps?”
“Well let’s hope that Watson finds whatever he’s looking for from them and it’s his turn to serve first in this set.”
*
“Game, Watson. Watson leads one game to love.”
Yes! He had held his serve and gotten points on the board. Now to see what Moriarty was going to throw at him this time.
*
“Game, Moriarty. One game all.”
“Come on, Tim.”
“The crowd are desperate to lift Watson but he’s still really struggling against Moriarty’s first serves.”
“He’s certainly not the only player to come up short when faced with Moriarty’s first serves, but that’s the difference between a good player and a truly great one. A truly great one will always be able to dig deep and find something extra, find that sixth gear. Watson has proved this tournament that he’s a good player, a much better player than we all believed, but I don’t think he has anything more to give.”
*
“Game, Watson. Watson leads two games to one.”
“Well, Watson managed to cling on there. For a moment it really did look like Moriarty was going to take it from him.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Two games all.”
“Lovely ace to close the game. Watson could only watch it fly past.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads three games to two.”
“And there’s the break.”
“It really was just a matter of time before Moriarty smashed through Watson’s defences and that was it. Watson doesn’t even look surprised to find that he’s been broken. Look at his shoulders. He knew it was only a matter of time.”
“Do you think there is any chance of Watson coming back from this?”
“No. He’s a good player but Moriarty is the best in the world, there is no one better. Watson came out here to give it a go but his body language already says that he’s beaten and he knows it. Unless he’s really got something special hidden away, then no, I think, like everyone else who faces Moriarty, he’ll have to settle for second best.”
“Well, the breeze out there certainly isn’t helping, but it’s Moriarty to serve.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads four games to two.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads five games to two.”
“The lack of sound from the home crowd really says it all now. We could be witnessing the near total collapse of a player’s game here. After good start to this set, Watson now looks lost and confused out there as nothing he has tried has challenged Moriarty in any way. The crowd are nearly silent. They can’t believe what they are witnessing.”
“It was always going to be a tough match for Watson but Moriarty is stamping his domination across the game with every stroke he plays. He’s reading Watson like a book before driving home his shots with power and class. Moriarty is so much in command that Watson only managed two points in that service game and he was the one serving. Moriarty is actually starting to look even more casual about the whole thing.”
“It’s almost as if Moriarty is toying with him he looks so relaxed and confident. I really would hate to be Watson’s shoes right now.”
*
“Game and set, Moriarty, six games to two. Moriarty leads two sets to love.”
Christ, was it over yet? Please let it be over.
Sat back on his chair, he stared blankly up at the sky. It was so dark now, the clouds racing across in shades of grey and black. It was so different from the beautiful clear blue sky he had stared at while lying on that grass just over there having just beaten Moran. Was that just two days ago? Had so many things changed in such a short length of time?
This was just embarrassing now. He shouldn’t be here. It should have been someone good, someone who could have actually challenged Moriarty. Not him. Not someone who has spent his career simply being good at his best and no better, the person who had always rolled over when it most mattered, the person who had basically managed to screw up every aspect of his life from professional to personal.
This was his last professional tennis match and he honestly couldn’t wait for it to end.
He wondered if Harry would come and hit the bar with him afterwards. Probably. She would be in as much need of a drink as he would be. Well, of course unless she and Clara were going to spend some alcohol free time together.
Christ, what was his life coming to?
He pressed the bottle lips to his mouth and closed his eyes. It was all going to be over soon.
“Time.”
Right, third and unless a miracle happened, the final set. Come on, Watson, at least go out with some sort of a bang.
*
“And we’re about to start the third set with Watson once more to serve. So, what’s the best that we can hope for?”
“That it’s not completely one sided.”
“Moriarty’s dominance has grown so much during this match it’s hard to see how Watson can salvage anything, but for Watson and you Brits it would be good if he could find at least a little something extra, some of that never say die, Dunkirk spirit you’re always going on about.”
“Our ability to turn defeat into victory you mean?”
“Well, victory might be a bit too much to hope for here. Maybe just not a massacre. Although you Brits are also certainly more than used to that on the sporting front.”
“Let’s hope Watson can feel inspired.”
*
“Game, Moriarty. Moriarty leads one game to love.”
Well, Watson, start as you mean to go on, why don’t you. Just look at him. It’s not enough for him to win, he wants to humiliate you as well.
*
“Was that thunder we just heard?”
“Sounded like it.”
“It looks like that storm is coming early, but perhaps not early enough to save this match from the most likely outcome.”
“Moriarty to serve, Watson forehand, Moriarty thuds it back crosscourt. Watson down the line, but it’s out.”
“Fifteen - Love.”
“That forehand really looked tired. Watson’s dying out there, bit by bit.”
“He really does look as if he’s got nothing more to give. He’s tried everything and nothing has worked. He’s probably hoping to get to the end of the match in one piece.”
“Well, the end of the match might not come as soon as he might want because it looks like the rain will get here first. But before that it is Moriarty to serve, but it’s gone into the net.”
“That was definitely more thunder and yup, there’s the rain.”
“The sky has opened here and the covers are quickly being pulled across the court. This isn’t so much of a problem now because of the roof, but it’s still going to take ten minutes to get the roof on and another ten minutes to acclimatise the court. The players have retreated down the corridor to their separate changing rooms. It looks like the match is going to go on just that little bit longer.”
*
He didn’t really see the need to run. He was already drenched with sweat, a little bit of rain was hardly going to make a difference. The day couldn’t exactly get much worse. He just wanted to curl up and for it all to be over.
Sighing, he pushed open the door to the changing room and then he froze as a tall, achingly familiar figure turned to face him.
“Sherlock?”
*
No, it really couldn’t be Sherlock, and yet there was no one else that it could be, not with that hair or those eyes or those still absolutely gorgeous cheekbones.
“Hello, John.”
And that voice. He closed his eyes briefly. That was Sherlock’s voice. He hadn’t realised just how much he had missed it, or him, or all of it.
“What?” he asked snapping his eyes open again and then swallowing because that had come out sharper than he had been aiming for. “What are you doing here?”
“I got your message.”
His mind went blank. Message? What message? Then he noticed the mobile in Sherlock’s hand. Oh, that message.
“Oh, right, good.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, but it seemed as if he wasn’t the one who needed to talk.
“I believe,” Sherlock said slowly, “that I owe you an apology. No, I do owe you an apology, so here I am to say that I’m sorry. The last time we met I said some things that were purposefully cruel, completely uncalled for and decidedly untrue.”
He stared blankly. Sherlock was actually apologising? He hadn’t exactly known the man very long - although it felt longer - but he was pretty certain that Sherlock was not the sort of person who apologised, ever, and yet here he was actually saying the words, ‘I’m sorry’.
“I was angry,” Sherlock continued his left hand twitching slightly, “after my defeat. I was angry at everyone; at myself, at Moriarty and at you. You’d won, you were through to the final while I… I let Moriarty get to me. He used you against me, or more accurately, he used my feelings for you against me and then I lost because of it.”
He continued to stare suddenly completely unable to react, utterly certain that his exhausted, deluded mind had either made up a whole lot of sentences and put them into Sherlock’s mouth, or he had completely misheard what had been said.
“Could you, uh, could you just repeat that last bit for me?”
Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together. “I lost because of it?” he repeated.
John quickly shook his head. “No, the bit just before that.”
“That Moriarty used you against me? Oh,” Sherlock’s expression cleared, “you mean that he used my feelings for you against me.”
Oh god, he hadn’t misheard, or if he had then this was all one big hallucination and he was actually probably still out there on Centre Court having his arse kicked by a smug American.
“You have feelings for me?” he questioned, because he really, really had to make sure.
Sherlock’s expression deepened back into a frown. “I would have thought that perfectly obvious,” he said. “No one else has ever been to Baker Street. No one else has ever shared my bed to sleep in. I thought you knew that. Mycroft said….”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes.”
“Shut up.”
Sherlock’s mouth closed with a click.
He rubbed his thumb against the damp skin on his temple desperately trying to process everything he had just been told without either collapsing or sinking into a fit of hysterical giggles.
“You do return my feelings then,” he managed because as it went that appeared to be the most key point here.
“I am uncertain as to the precise nature of your feelings for me or even of mine for you, but yes, I believe in essence that what you feel for me, I am feeling back for you.”
Oh god. “So not just shagging then?”
“No, not just shagging.”
“Right,” he said biting back the giggles, “uh how? What? When?”
“John.”
“Yeah, hmmm?”
“If I may, I thought that this might explain things better than I can do verbally. I am not used to expressing such emotions out loud.”
He watched as Sherlock drew something out of his pocket. No, not something, a notebook, the notebook, the one with his name across it.
“This should tell you everything that you need to know.”
He took it, holding it in his hand for a moment, tracing his fingers across the front before he dared to open it. It was very much like those other notebooks he had seen, but at the same time it was decidedly not, because this one was about him, it was all about him; observations, analysis, drawings, some the perfect replica of the scar on his shoulder, one a sketch of him using his laptop, one of him, well, asleep, nude. He tried not to blush at that.
Like the other notebooks it was written in a mixture of French and English. The words, bisexual, James Bond, gorgeous sprung out at him. Also the word, why?, on one page repeated over and over again. Later pages didn’t just contain information about him, but also people connected to him; Harry, Clara, Mike, Dimmock, Sarah, Molly, ah, so that was why Sherlock had known all about her, he had already looked her up.
He turned back to the earlier pages, his fingers tracing over the phrase that occurred a few times. He was sure he recognised it, he just….
“What does this mean?” he asked.
Sherlock glanced at it before quickly averting his gaze. “Que m’as-tu fait?” he said. “What do you do to me?”
Oh. He swallowed. “Was that… was that when you realised, you know, that it wasn’t just about the sex?”
“Approximately,” Sherlock said. “I believe my first inkling was when you punched Moriarty.” His lips twitched in a small smile. “The second was shortly after, when you first asked me to take you and then when I refused you shagged me through the mattress.”
He remembered. He had felt disappointed when Sherlock had said no, but their resulting coupling that night had been so intense.
“You left,” he said with a slight frown as he ran through what happened afterwards. “You walked out and left me there.”
Sherlock shifted awkwardly, scratching at his left arm. “I was… overwhelmed. No-one has ever affected me like you have. I had to retreat, to clear my head, but I found that while I felt overwhelmed while near you, I also couldn’t bear for you to leave.”
He nodded because he had felt something similar. “You seem pretty clear in your thoughts, your feelings.”
“I’ve had… time to assess them.”
“And now?” he asked. “What have you concluded?”
“Now I want… that is if you will still have me, I would like the opportunity to explore it further. I was all ready to leave and then I realised that I couldn’t, not without finding out if there was even the slightest chance that you might, that you would….”
“Sherlock?”
“Yes, John?”
“You idiot.” And then he fisted his hands into that far too expensive shirt and tugged him forward, reaching up onto tip toes to press his lips against the other man’s. There was a moment of hesitation, but then the hands came up to hold him and the lips parted into a smile that let the kiss go deeper. He smiled back, the tightness that had taken residence in his chest loosening with every second, replaced by a light giddiness that threatened to engulf him.
They finished with their foreheads pressed together, grinning, holding each other, neither wanting to let go.
He drew away first, his legs forcing him to sit down. “Oh god, we’re both idiots,” he said running his hand across his eyes. “So what now?”
“Right now you’ve got a tennis match to finish.”
He groaned. In the heat of the new and frankly amazing revelations he had completely forgotten that he was in the midst of getting his arse kicked.
“Oh god, I’ve got to go out there and finish being humiliated.”
“Not necessarily,” Sherlock said sinking to sit on the bench beside him. “You might be losing the battle but the war isn’t over yet.”
“It is for me.”
“Nonsense.”
He bit back a laugh. “You may not have noticed, but I’m two sets down.”
“But not yet beaten.”
“He’s all over me.”
“Only because you’re letting him.”
“Trust me, it’s not my idea.”
“None the less, you’re still letting him control the game.”
“My shoulder’s killing me, my legs are like lead, I’m exhausted.”
“You need to play through the pain, find a second wind. You need to go out there and fight, John. Fight like you did against Murray, against Moran.”
He shook his head. “Those were different. Moriarty’s so much better than me and he doesn’t have any weaknesses for me to exploit. I only beat Murray and Moran and Trevor because you were helping me. You told me how to beat them. I only fought as hard as I did because I was so desperate to extend my time with you. I didn’t want to go out because I wanted to keep seeing you.”
There he had said it.
“Is that what you think?”
He glanced across to find Sherlock looking at him with an expressing trapped between a frown and a look as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
He shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said getting to his feet and pacing. “You, John Watson, are something else completely. You have no idea, do you? No idea just how good you really are.”
He ignored the comment as his eyes drew in on Sherlock’s sleeve on his left arm, the one he was still rubbing.
“Sherlock, what have you got on your arm?”
“What? Oh, no, it’s nothing.”
It was obviously not nothing. Getting to his feet he grabbed Sherlock’s arm and yanked up the sleeve. He eyes boggled.
“Sherlock, is that, is that three patches?”
“You’re a three patch problem,” Sherlock said pulling his arm away.
“Oh for god’s sake, get those off you. No wonder you’re pacing.”
“I’m pacing, John, because I can’t believe how much of an idiot you are.”
“Me? I’m an idiot? I’m not the one overdosing on nicotine.”
“No, you’re the one who despite all the evidence hasn’t yet realised that you’re a brilliant tennis player.”
He scoffed. “No, I’m not. I’m middle of the road at best, but for the most part I can’t even manage that.”
“No, you’re better than that, far better, you’ve just forgotten how to win.”
“I think I know how to win, Sherlock.”
“And that’s your problem, right there, because thinking and actually winning are two completely different things. Think about it, John, you beat Trevor, Murray, Moran because you had the ability in you to do it. It doesn’t matter what I told you because without the ability to take advantage of their weaknesses it doesn’t mean anything. There are three things that are needed to beat players like those; strategy, drive but most of all the ability to play the shots, to push them back, to put the game plan into action. I may have told you how to do it but you’re the only one who had to do it. You’re the one who fought tooth and nail to win those matches. You’re the one who battled through the pain, who kept on again and again. You’re the one who beat them, not me, and you did it for you, because you could.”
“Sherlock.”
“No, don’t Sherlock me. I know what I’m talking about. Here.”
He watched as Sherlock grabbed the notebook, the one with his name across it, waving it between in them.
“It’s all in here. You can beat Moriarty, but you’ve got to believe that you can.”
He could beat Moriarty?
His gaze wandered to the notebook and he pressed his lips together. Sherlock was still looking at him with an expression that could only be described as desperate earnestness. As much as he wanted to deny it, Sherlock did have a point; knowledge of a player’s weakness didn’t necessarily mean you were good enough to take advantage of it. Was he good enough though, really good enough? There was a time when he had believed so, but that felt such a long time ago now, and yet it had been him out on those courts this week. He was the one who had fought to the last ball. He may have found something to fight for but still he was the one who had fought.
He scrubbed his hands over his face.
His back hurt, his shoulder hurt, his right thigh was aching for no apparent reason, he was tired and losing, and yet this was the Wimbledon final. This would never happen again. It was now or never.
“Okay,” he said pulling himself up to his full height and squaring his shoulders. “Okay. What do I do?”
*
Continue