New Fic: A Study in Doubles 2/?
Title: A Study in Doubles
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 5K this part. 35k+ so far and growing.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Winning. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing, maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
Previous: Part One
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Two
*
Simply watching the match turned out to be tougher than he had expected it to be. It was strange not to be taking part in any way and to know that he had given it all up had his stomach twisting more than he had expected.
That aside, though, the match was brilliant.
Leaning forward, he watched as Sherlock thundered the bright yellow ball back across the net with such speed and precision that it was no surprise to anyone watching that the American defending champion Sam Querrey had no chance of returning it
“Fifteen - Forty.”
The sun was bright, there was barely a cloud in the sky and Sherlock was quite simply on fire. It might have been the final, he might have been playing the crowd favourite, but neither the occasion nor his opponent appeared to be concerning him at all. If he had looked dangerous on the grass courts of Wimbledon, then he looked like an assassin on the blue, fast hard court of UCLA.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads four games to two. Holmes to serve.”
And unless something changed any time soon it was going to be a rather short match.
He had been following Sherlock’s progress while he had been in England being passed from pillar to post as everyone seemed to want to speak to, interview or meet the first Brit to win Wimbledon in over seventy years. It had started with the Wimbledon Champion’s party of course and had escalated from there; Radio 5 (twice), Radio 1, Radio 2, Capital FM, Day Break, The One Show, This Morning. He’d even been on Loose Women. As promised Clara had gotten him onto A Question of Sport where he had actually had so much fun that he had provisionally agreed to take part in the Wimbledon special the following year. Newspapers, magazines, sports journals, he had been interviewed for any and all. Radio 4 had asked him to be on Desert Island Discs, and he’d even filmed a short segment for Blue Peter, although that wouldn’t air until the show returned in the autumn.
All in all he had been kept busy, busy, busy, but Sherlock and his results had remained at the forefront of his mind, despite being over five thousand miles apart.
From what he could tell from the earlier rounds, Sherlock had more than put the semi-final defeat by Moriarty at Wimbledon behind him and was rising to the challenge of the faster, harder courts of the US Tour. Or not exactly rising but rather taking the challenge and beating it into submission with every careful flick of his racket head or powerful follow through.
With Andy Murray having pulled out due to his ankle injury (he would not feel guilty about that), Djokovic having also withdrawn with a sore shoulder and none of the other top ten to have entered, Sherlock had been by far the best player, and despite Sam Querrey, ranked world number twenty, being the next best, it was clear that there was simply no comparison.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads five games to two. Querrey to serve.”
And Sherlock did look good in his mid-blue with dark blue trim Lacoste polo shirt and white shorts, while his curls fell across the white sweatband on his forehead. He was doing what he loved to do and was doing it incredibly well. It was enough for him to look on with more interest than it perhaps warranted, but with his eyes shielding from both the bright Californian sun and from other people’s gazes by his oversized sunglasses he could admire as much as he liked. Well, provided he didn’t do it too blatantly. He was supposed to be there to watch the ball, not Sherlock’s arse. The arse he could see at a later date. He just had to be sensible. Sat amongst the six and a half thousand people who made up the crowd at the Straus Stadium Court, he was simply another face. This was L.A after all, there were plenty of people better known and higher revered than him. William Shatner for one. Who would care about some tennis Brit when Captain James T. Kirk himself was sat in the front row?
Forehand from Querrey, good backhand from Sherlock, returned down the line, and an excellent forehand from Sherlock, low, fast and deadly accurate, he could almost feel the shot, the force reverberating through the strings to the shoulder, the contracting of muscles, the air whistling through the racket head. The ball bounced with a thud just within the baseline.
“Fifteen - Thirty.”
The crowd was noticeably subdued, watching their boy get beaten by a Frenchman, but there was some appreciation of how well Sherlock was playing as well. It wasn’t often that they got a show like this and they were watching it with almost as much interest as he was.
The ball hit the net from Querrey’s backhand.
“Fifteen - Forty.”
It was match point, the first of two in Sherlock’s favour.
Querrey’s serve was good and he followed it up with a deep forehand that Sherlock was unable to do anything with.
“Thirty - Forty.”
That was one point saved by Querrey but it was surely only going to be a matter of time, if not in this game then in the next. Sherlock hadn’t dropped a service game all tournament.
Watching as Querrey collected the balls for his next serve he couldn’t help but wonder how he would fare against Sherlock. Would he be able to put up anything more than just the token defence? Would he be able to keep up with the power and speed in a competitive match? Would he be able to surprise Sherlock at all?
He jiggled his knee a little as Querrey served. Oh, alright, yes, he did miss it. Of course he missed it. Tennis had been such a huge part of his life for so long that of course he was going to miss it, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock should have signed them up for the doubles without talking to him first.
He rose to his feet as Sherlock’s smash raced past Querrey to take the point, the game, the set, the match and the tournament. 6-3, 6-2, Sherlock had won the LA Open and the Farmers Cup.
*
“Watson? John Watson?”
He turned at the sound of his name, waiting outside the stadium as he now was for Sherlock to finish with the usual interviews and post-match showers. The man looked slightly familiar but he couldn’t quite place him.
“James Allen, BBC,” the man said holding out his hand and flashing his press pass. “Don’t worry, not an official interview or anything, I’m sure you’re mighty sick of them by now, just a few questions. I’m just a little surprised to see you here. I thought you were in London.”
“I was,” he said offering a quick smile, “then the next thing I knew my agent was packing me off to Hollywood and I thought I’d catch up on something I actually know about while I’m here.”
It was a good enough excuse. Clara had mentioned something about Hollywood at some point and some producer who wanted to make a movie of his apparently epic win - although he suspected the real story would be stranger than fiction and given a rather high rating. Nothing more had come of it, thank goodness, but at least it gave the impression he wasn’t here solely to see Sherlock.
“Holmes is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
Between the events of Wimbledon and the fact Sherlock had sat in his player’s box during the second half of the final, their friendship could not exactly be denied. Not that he had reason to deny it, but they wanted to be careful. Their relationship was too new for them to be anything but careful.
He held the smile. “I like to think so,” he joked.
“Fantastic win for him here,” Allen continued. “He seems to have gotten over his semi-final defeat at Wimbledon.”
Well that was both an understatement and at the same time quite untrue. In terms of playing, perhaps, but when it came to Moriarty, he suspected that Sherlock was still far from over that.
“Well, that’s not surprising, he’s very much on form tennis wise and he’s a player who tends to prefer looking forward rather than back. I’m sure he’s now got his eye firmly on Canada and then of course New York for the Open.” Where he was desperate to walk away as champion, and if he had to beat Moriarty to do it then Sherlock was just going to give the smug American the rematch of the year.
“I thought he doesn’t normally play here, but he pulled out of Atlanta,” Allen said. “Some claim it was because he didn’t want to run the risk of playing Moriarty again so soon. You know him, any weight to those rumours?”
As if he would actually say if there was.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “You’d have to ask him about the change, but I think there may have been a scheduling issue or something. Whatever the reason though I’m sure it had nothing to do with Moriarty.” Which was, if nothing else, completely true. “In fact I don’t think Moriarty was down to play there anyway.” Which was probably true.
“You’re currently rated, what, eighth in the world?”
“Ninth,” he corrected although he still got a warm feeling when he thought about it. Top ten. It was… incredible. The pinnacle of his career.
“With your record, surely the only way is up. Are we ever going to see you with a racket in your hand again?”
He laughed but averted his eyes. “We’ll have to see.”
Fudging some sort of excuse, he managed to extract himself and started walking. Now even reporters were asking if he was going to play again. Damn it, he’d made up his mind and now he wasn’t so sure. Why was life so bloody complicated? Or was it just Sherlock? Maybe it was just Sherlock making it more complicated.
He stopped as he felt his phone vibrate against his thigh.
‘Meet you at the car out front in 5. SH.’
He smiled slightly and shook his head. Complicated, yes, but all relationships are complicated, and with Sherlock he wouldn’t have it any other way.
*
The large sunken bath was as luxurious as it looked, more than big enough to hold the pair of them in a pleasant cocoon of warm water, bubbles and jet spray. Closing his eyes, he sank down further as Sherlock relaxed totally in his grasp, leaning back on him so they were chest to back with their legs entwined.
The post-match celebrations had involved a much overdue round of enthusiastic shagging, followed by a lovely quiet meal out where they had been able to enjoy the first-rate food and each other’s company. Now, accompanied by a glass of wine, they were taking advantage of the rest of the time they had.
“So, what happens now?” he asked as he idly ran his hands across Sherlock’s chest and abdomen. It never ceased to surprise him how muscular his lover actually was despite the far from baggy clothing he wore away from the court. His lean body shape meant he was deceptively strong, his muscle tone dense but compact, a perfect meld of pure power and understated stamina. It still felt strange that he was actually allowed to do this, that he, John Watson, had permission to hold, touch and caress the most gorgeous man he had ever known, and one of the most aloof players on the circuit. If he so desired and bothered to put his mind to it, Sherlock could be more than just charming and would be able to have virtually anyone he wanted, at least for a while. For some reason though, the person Sherlock most wanted was him.
Bending his head, he pressed his lips to the soft skin on the nearest shoulder, smiling at the freckles he could see hiding under the tan, and momentarily tightened his hold around his lover.
“Right now,” Sherlock said in that deep, relaxed burr of his, “I fully intend for us to stay like this for as long as I can persuade you too, but I suspect you’re speaking in more general terms. I can tell you this, what I’m not going to do is to fly to Washington for the Legg Mason 500.”
He snorted slightly. “You surprise me,” he said wryly.
He could feel Sherlock smiling as he continued. “Of course what that does mean is that now that this Open is over and done with…”
“And the trophy added to your very shiny and rapidly growing collection.”
“…we have a week before Toronto.”
“Hmmm,” he said, running a thumb over a somewhat tempting nipple. “I don’t think spending a week in here is an option somehow.”
“No?” Sherlock said twisting his head to offer his lips for a gentle, leisurely kiss. “Pity. But what do you say to spending a few more days here before venturing up to the wilds of Canada?”
He recognised that far too innocent tone of voice. “Okay,” he said sitting a touch further back, “hit me with it. I know that look and that sound, you have some kind of a plan.”
“California, John. Los Angeles. We could stay, take in some sights, relax and enjoy ourselves. No one knows us here; no one cares who we are. We could catch some court practice in the mornings and explore in the afternoons, with dinner in the evenings overlooking the great blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean.”
He had to admit that that did sound good. More than good really. They certainly hadn’t had a chance to do anything as a couple so far. In London they had been careful about what they were seen doing together, especially following directly on after Wimbledon. There had been a brief discussion about retiring to Sherlock’s family estate in the Dordogne, but that had quickly been made impossible by John’s ever expanding appearance commitments. He had never really done LA before, not in detail, and had never really had anyone to do these sorts of places with either. It was always so much more fun with someone else to share the experience with.
“How long have you been working this out?” he asked, “and what’s the catch?” Because Sherlock really was trying a little too hard. His brilliant mind rarely worked on one level so there had to be something else and he hadn’t forgotten about the Dior boxes in the main room.
Sherlock’s body tensed for a moment before relaxing as John ran his hands down his lover’s arms.
“I had a text from an old friend,” Sherlock said, his shoulders sinking.
Ah, so that sound had come from Sherlock’s phone. He hadn’t just been imagining it. “So I noticed,” he said dryly. It hadn’t been just one text either.
“She congratulated me on the tournament and asked if I would be around long enough for us to meet for dinner. She was suggesting the day after tomorrow.”
So he was right. There was something. It was nice to see he was getting to know his lover reasonably well, even after their relatively short time of being together. “And you want to say yes,” he said.
There was a pause as if this was a surprisingly hard thing for Sherlock to admit to, that he might actually wish to have an evening out with someone he considered a friend. Did he really have so few friends that he considered this sort of occurrence to be unusual and warrant a stroll around the houses before getting to the real issue?
“Very much so,” Sherlock said.
He shook his head slightly because it seemed so absurd. In everything else Sherlock was forward and demanding, but here he seemed almost hesitant, almost apologetic.
“Well of course we can stay for longer,” he said tightening his grasp to show that it really was alright. “You don’t need to try and sell it to me, you idiot. You’re allowed to want to meet up with other people. It sounds like a lovely idea and I’m sure I can keep myself more than occupied while you catch up with your friend.”
“No.” Turning, Sherlock caught his hand and twisted his body round until they were face to face, the water threatening to splash over the side. “No,” he repeated. “You’re to come too. I want to introduce you to her.”
Sherlock wanted to introduce him as, what? As his boyfriend, partner, lover, or whatever the best word for what they currently were was? But technical words aside, it was quite the step. So far they had told no one outside of their intimate circle, this would almost be like making if official. They would be official, if only still to a small and select number of people.
“Of course,” he said reaching up a hand to press to Sherlock’s cheek. “Yes. Certainly. If that’s what you want, then I’m more than happy to join you and your friend.”
Sherlock’s smile was brilliant and then they were kissing again, Sherlock pressing him back and against the bath side, their hands sliding over bath gelled bodies.
“Thank you.”
“Hey,” he said running his hands through Sherlock’s damp curls, “if it’s important to you then it’s important to me. So, this friend of yours, does she work here, or is she here for something else? Anyone I might know?”
Turning back, Sherlock settled comfortably once more in his arms.
“She has a place here, yes, although it’s not her main place of residence. She’s here filming of course.”
“So she’s an actress then?”
“Amongst other things. To be considered solely an actress would be an insult to her.”
“Oh god.” He sank back with a groan, because there was only one person that could possibly be. One person he knew who was connected to Sherlock. “Irene Adler,” he said as if the name contained all the answers to the universe. “You’re taking me to meet Irene Adler.” Bloody hell.
“Excellent, John. While hardly the toughest deduction you got there rather quickly. Yes, Irene’s in town and I would very much like for the pair of you to meet.”
Right. He licked his lips. “I didn’t realise the two of you were still good friends.”
“That’s because it’s not something I’ve splashed across my Wikipedia page. That said, despite what people believe we have only ever been good friends.”
“Yes, you told me. So you still obviously keep in touch.”
“When we can, although it has been some time since we last met up.”
John sighed as Sherlock ran his hand smoothly up his leg.
“I suspect we will have much to talk about,” Sherlock added.
“Have you told her about me?”
“I was going to tell her that I wanted to bring someone. She should be able to work out who from that if she doesn’t already know about us. I have always found her to be a rather astute young lady. I will guarantee that Hollywood has no idea what they have there. Of course, she’ll probably not come alone, just to balance the numbers.”
“Oh, is she dating at the moment?”
“No, but I doubt that will stop her.” Sherlock’s smile said there was more but he wasn’t going to say.
“Hmmm, well, she got you easily enough.” He would not be jealous of how well Irene and Sherlock had looked together, all dark hair and cheekbones. Even if it had all been in the past and had all been pretend, he still didn’t like to be reminded of it.
“I read the pair of you could barely keep your hands off each other,” he continued. “In fact, weren’t you caught with her leg around your hip and your hand up her dress in the lift of the Paris Hilton?” He wasn’t sure it was the done thing to admit to googling the gossip rags for old stories about your current partner.
“She is remarkably flexible and it’s amazing what you can do with some lipstick and heavy breathing when you know a photographer is waiting when the doors open. Like I said, she’s a remarkably fine actress.”
“Hmmm,” he said, “for someone who prefers men over women you looked rather into her in the photos.”
“Jealous?”
Yes! “Should I be?” he asked mildly, or at least as mildly as he could.
“From a closeted bisexual with a history of shagging men but dating women, I would say not.”
“I’m dating you,” he said pressing his lips between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.
“And shagging me I hope.”
“Oh god, yeah.” He smiled, burying his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder and tightened his arms around Sherlock’s body. “So if I’m a closeted bisexual, what does that make you?”
Sherlock had never confirmed what sexuality actually was. To the world he was straight, no doubt a joke to many of the blokes who knew for certain otherwise. Hell, he himself was considered to be straight and he currently had his arms and legs wrapped around someone who was most definitely not female. Sherlock also had the reputation of being a shag ‘em and leave ‘em sort of guy, but it was hard to say how much of that was real and how much was a craftily constructed fabrication. By his own admission Sherlock had said he had found solace in sex rather than turning to drugs, and neither Lestrade nor Mycroft had seemed surprised when he had ended up in Sherlock’s bed, rather more surprised that he had remained there. Victor Trevor he knew about, and a fateful almost experience with Jim Moriarty, and Sherlock himself had confirmed a flexibility that tended towards men, but he had never put a label to it.
“I have never felt it worth trying to define my sexuality. It is what it is, nothing more and nothing less. I have sought lovers of both genders, some of it I enjoyed, some of it I didn’t so much. Some of it I’ve come to regret. Does that bother you?”
That other people had had their hands across this body, well, that was part of the course, but knowing there were people out there who had had him and let him go, or worse had had him and hurt him, that was something else entirely.
“No,” he said softly. “No, you are who you are.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, “but you should also know that if I were forced to choose a preference for one gender than I would lean towards men, and if I were forced to pick, to have just one of all the people I have ever been with, then as of this moment, nothing would change”
From Sherlock that was… that was…. John wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but raising a hand to Sherlock’s face, he ran wet fingers across the cheekbones and tightened his other hand, pulling those lips back to his where they belonged.
*
“When you said go for a ride and take in the sights, this wasn’t exactly what I had been expecting.”
In truth he hadn’t given it a great deal of thought, but what thoughts that had passed through his mind had not included a band new Triumph Bonneville 865cc 2010 black and chrome motorbike. Despite that, the rather impressive machine stood gleaming, somehow managing to capture all the natural sunlight available in the hotel’s underground car park. He didn’t know a great deal about bikes, but even he had to admire the sleek power of the beast.
“You look surprised,” Sherlock said with a barely suppressed grin as he stood beside the machine. “No better way of seeing the sights.”
“Yes, but,” he managed, “I hadn’t expected you to be the bike sort of person. You do have a licence, don’t you?” he added with a slight frown. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to be somewhat hard and fast with those rules, although he doubted Lestrade would have so easily tossed him the keys if he wasn’t legal to ride. Still it was better to check these things first.
“Of course,” Sherlock said looking the bike over and running a hand across the leather seats. “I’m French, remember. I’ve been riding since I used to sneak out with my brother’s moped for a spin around my grand-mere’s estate when I was eight. Mind you that wasn’t exactly legal then. First moped at fourteen, first bike at sixteen bought using some of my tournament winnings, and I’ve been riding ever since. I assure you I’m more than competent.”
Competent, sure, but was he safe? The bike was certainly a beauty and he licked his lips as Sherlock moved to straddle it, his jeans stretching across his thighs. God, he had never thought of bikes as sexy before, but in Sherlock’s hands, or more accurately between his legs, he was really starting to see the appeal.
“Problem?”
Sherlock was looking at him with that smirk he had, the smirk that suggested that he knew exactly what was going through his mind.
“Uh, no,” he replied before clearing his throat. “No problem at all.”
“Good.”
He caught the helmet that was tossed to him, an opened faced helmet in a dark plum, while Sherlock slipped on a pair of sunglasses and the matching black helmet. He looked as at ease with it as he did with a crosscourt forehand strike.
“So, is this your bike?”
Even with the helmet and shades he could recognise the ‘don’t be ridiculous expression’.
“It’s a hire,” Sherlock said doing something with the bike, although what wasn’t particularly clear, probably something to do with his wallet or something.
Then Sherlock was looking at him. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
He recognised a challenge when he heard one and tugging on the helmet he carefully slung his leg across the back behind Sherlock and got on.
“Have you pulled your helmet strap as tight as you can get it?”
“Yes,” he said but checked again anyway.
“In that case, keep your feet on the foot pedals at all times. You can either hold me round the waist or hold onto the grab rails behind you. Don’t try to hold only my arms or shoulders or both of our careers will come to an untimely end. Don’t shift too much and try to mimic my position, especially when it comes to corners. Look over my right shoulder if we’re going right and my left if we’re turning left. And most importantly… enjoy yourself.”
The engine came to life with a powerful burr.
“Ready?”
He moved his feet to the foot pedals and his hands to Sherlock’s jacketed waist. “Always,” he said and then they were off. It was exhilarating and it wasn’t hard to see why Sherlock loved it so much. The hot Californian sun beat down on them from the clear blue sky while a cool breeze blew over them.
He hadn’t asked where they were going, but Sherlock seemed to know and he recognised the majority of the street names. Sunset Boulevard, Rodeo Drive, Wiltshire Boulevard. Sherlock was right, it was a brilliant way of seeing the sights.
They ended up driving by the ocean, a vast brilliant blue that seemed to stretch on forever. Parking the bike they explored on foot, laughing and jostling each other and being themselves, like tourists on holiday, like any new couple.
“Relax,” Sherlock had chided as he bent his head to steal a kiss. “It’s Los Angeles.”
Los Angeles indeed and Sherlock was right. Between the hipsters, the in-line skaters, the surfers, the artists, the colourful street performers, the tourists and the rest of the crowds, who was going to notice them? They were just two Brits out enjoying the sun and each other, indistinguishable from all the other sunglasses clad people. So if they touched each other more than usual, or their hands met to clasp or hold, or the odd quick kiss was exchanged then it was of no matter.
After a stop in a café for food further shops and boutiques were sampled and browsed through, John laughing when Sherlock attempted to get him to try on some different hats before moving onto sunglasses. For some reason Sherlock seemed intent on finding him some new clothing, although the amount of money Sherlock was willing to spend on a shirt left him wincing while his lover simply handed over one credit card or another with barely a bat of the eyelid.
“Prize money, sponsorship, inheritance,” Sherlock said. “Got to do something with it. God knows eating, drinking and snorting it away is out of the question.”
Then again Sherlock had just earned himself a hundred and twenty thousand dollars for just four matches and less than seven hours of tennis and that was just a 250 tournament, the winning amount considered low compared to others on the US Tour which culminated in the US Open at Flushing Meadows where the winner was due to receive a good one point seven million dollars. Not even Mycroft would apparently deny Sherlock the opportunity to treat himself now and again, but having had so little money up until a few weeks before, John couldn’t help but notice the price of things. Then again, easy come, easy go.
They ate dinner at a quiet out of the way restaurant where the only disagreement they had was over who would pick up the bill.
The ride back was leisurely but more direct, and by the time they returned to their suite John’s biggest desire was for a shower and perhaps a cuddle in front of the huge telly. The cuddle turned into kissing, the kissing into French words whispered in his ear as Sherlock slid into his body over and over again.
Tired and sated they slipped under the covers and lay facing each other on their sides.
“Good day?” Sherlock asked.
He smiled warmly. “You have to ask?” he said.
“No, but sometimes it’s nice to hear it.”
There were times when he forgot how sensitive Sherlock could be under all his bravado and arrogance. Reaching out a hand, he stroked it down his lover’s face, over those gorgeous cheekbones. “I had,” he said, “a truly wonderful day. Thank you.”
Sherlock beamed, catching his hand to press a kiss to it. “I’m glad,” he said. “So did I.”
*
End of Part Two
*
The bike:
Part Three
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 5K this part. 35k+ so far and growing.
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: Sequel to A Study in Winning. Because winning Wimbledon is one thing, maintaining a relationship is something else entirely.
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: Some for S2; mainly throwaway lines and some character appearances. No spoilers for S2 episode plots.
Previous: Part One
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Two
*
Simply watching the match turned out to be tougher than he had expected it to be. It was strange not to be taking part in any way and to know that he had given it all up had his stomach twisting more than he had expected.
That aside, though, the match was brilliant.
Leaning forward, he watched as Sherlock thundered the bright yellow ball back across the net with such speed and precision that it was no surprise to anyone watching that the American defending champion Sam Querrey had no chance of returning it
“Fifteen - Forty.”
The sun was bright, there was barely a cloud in the sky and Sherlock was quite simply on fire. It might have been the final, he might have been playing the crowd favourite, but neither the occasion nor his opponent appeared to be concerning him at all. If he had looked dangerous on the grass courts of Wimbledon, then he looked like an assassin on the blue, fast hard court of UCLA.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads four games to two. Holmes to serve.”
And unless something changed any time soon it was going to be a rather short match.
He had been following Sherlock’s progress while he had been in England being passed from pillar to post as everyone seemed to want to speak to, interview or meet the first Brit to win Wimbledon in over seventy years. It had started with the Wimbledon Champion’s party of course and had escalated from there; Radio 5 (twice), Radio 1, Radio 2, Capital FM, Day Break, The One Show, This Morning. He’d even been on Loose Women. As promised Clara had gotten him onto A Question of Sport where he had actually had so much fun that he had provisionally agreed to take part in the Wimbledon special the following year. Newspapers, magazines, sports journals, he had been interviewed for any and all. Radio 4 had asked him to be on Desert Island Discs, and he’d even filmed a short segment for Blue Peter, although that wouldn’t air until the show returned in the autumn.
All in all he had been kept busy, busy, busy, but Sherlock and his results had remained at the forefront of his mind, despite being over five thousand miles apart.
From what he could tell from the earlier rounds, Sherlock had more than put the semi-final defeat by Moriarty at Wimbledon behind him and was rising to the challenge of the faster, harder courts of the US Tour. Or not exactly rising but rather taking the challenge and beating it into submission with every careful flick of his racket head or powerful follow through.
With Andy Murray having pulled out due to his ankle injury (he would not feel guilty about that), Djokovic having also withdrawn with a sore shoulder and none of the other top ten to have entered, Sherlock had been by far the best player, and despite Sam Querrey, ranked world number twenty, being the next best, it was clear that there was simply no comparison.
“Game, Holmes. Holmes leads five games to two. Querrey to serve.”
And Sherlock did look good in his mid-blue with dark blue trim Lacoste polo shirt and white shorts, while his curls fell across the white sweatband on his forehead. He was doing what he loved to do and was doing it incredibly well. It was enough for him to look on with more interest than it perhaps warranted, but with his eyes shielding from both the bright Californian sun and from other people’s gazes by his oversized sunglasses he could admire as much as he liked. Well, provided he didn’t do it too blatantly. He was supposed to be there to watch the ball, not Sherlock’s arse. The arse he could see at a later date. He just had to be sensible. Sat amongst the six and a half thousand people who made up the crowd at the Straus Stadium Court, he was simply another face. This was L.A after all, there were plenty of people better known and higher revered than him. William Shatner for one. Who would care about some tennis Brit when Captain James T. Kirk himself was sat in the front row?
Forehand from Querrey, good backhand from Sherlock, returned down the line, and an excellent forehand from Sherlock, low, fast and deadly accurate, he could almost feel the shot, the force reverberating through the strings to the shoulder, the contracting of muscles, the air whistling through the racket head. The ball bounced with a thud just within the baseline.
“Fifteen - Thirty.”
The crowd was noticeably subdued, watching their boy get beaten by a Frenchman, but there was some appreciation of how well Sherlock was playing as well. It wasn’t often that they got a show like this and they were watching it with almost as much interest as he was.
The ball hit the net from Querrey’s backhand.
“Fifteen - Forty.”
It was match point, the first of two in Sherlock’s favour.
Querrey’s serve was good and he followed it up with a deep forehand that Sherlock was unable to do anything with.
“Thirty - Forty.”
That was one point saved by Querrey but it was surely only going to be a matter of time, if not in this game then in the next. Sherlock hadn’t dropped a service game all tournament.
Watching as Querrey collected the balls for his next serve he couldn’t help but wonder how he would fare against Sherlock. Would he be able to put up anything more than just the token defence? Would he be able to keep up with the power and speed in a competitive match? Would he be able to surprise Sherlock at all?
He jiggled his knee a little as Querrey served. Oh, alright, yes, he did miss it. Of course he missed it. Tennis had been such a huge part of his life for so long that of course he was going to miss it, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock should have signed them up for the doubles without talking to him first.
He rose to his feet as Sherlock’s smash raced past Querrey to take the point, the game, the set, the match and the tournament. 6-3, 6-2, Sherlock had won the LA Open and the Farmers Cup.
*
“Watson? John Watson?”
He turned at the sound of his name, waiting outside the stadium as he now was for Sherlock to finish with the usual interviews and post-match showers. The man looked slightly familiar but he couldn’t quite place him.
“James Allen, BBC,” the man said holding out his hand and flashing his press pass. “Don’t worry, not an official interview or anything, I’m sure you’re mighty sick of them by now, just a few questions. I’m just a little surprised to see you here. I thought you were in London.”
“I was,” he said offering a quick smile, “then the next thing I knew my agent was packing me off to Hollywood and I thought I’d catch up on something I actually know about while I’m here.”
It was a good enough excuse. Clara had mentioned something about Hollywood at some point and some producer who wanted to make a movie of his apparently epic win - although he suspected the real story would be stranger than fiction and given a rather high rating. Nothing more had come of it, thank goodness, but at least it gave the impression he wasn’t here solely to see Sherlock.
“Holmes is a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
Between the events of Wimbledon and the fact Sherlock had sat in his player’s box during the second half of the final, their friendship could not exactly be denied. Not that he had reason to deny it, but they wanted to be careful. Their relationship was too new for them to be anything but careful.
He held the smile. “I like to think so,” he joked.
“Fantastic win for him here,” Allen continued. “He seems to have gotten over his semi-final defeat at Wimbledon.”
Well that was both an understatement and at the same time quite untrue. In terms of playing, perhaps, but when it came to Moriarty, he suspected that Sherlock was still far from over that.
“Well, that’s not surprising, he’s very much on form tennis wise and he’s a player who tends to prefer looking forward rather than back. I’m sure he’s now got his eye firmly on Canada and then of course New York for the Open.” Where he was desperate to walk away as champion, and if he had to beat Moriarty to do it then Sherlock was just going to give the smug American the rematch of the year.
“I thought he doesn’t normally play here, but he pulled out of Atlanta,” Allen said. “Some claim it was because he didn’t want to run the risk of playing Moriarty again so soon. You know him, any weight to those rumours?”
As if he would actually say if there was.
“Absolutely not,” he said. “You’d have to ask him about the change, but I think there may have been a scheduling issue or something. Whatever the reason though I’m sure it had nothing to do with Moriarty.” Which was, if nothing else, completely true. “In fact I don’t think Moriarty was down to play there anyway.” Which was probably true.
“You’re currently rated, what, eighth in the world?”
“Ninth,” he corrected although he still got a warm feeling when he thought about it. Top ten. It was… incredible. The pinnacle of his career.
“With your record, surely the only way is up. Are we ever going to see you with a racket in your hand again?”
He laughed but averted his eyes. “We’ll have to see.”
Fudging some sort of excuse, he managed to extract himself and started walking. Now even reporters were asking if he was going to play again. Damn it, he’d made up his mind and now he wasn’t so sure. Why was life so bloody complicated? Or was it just Sherlock? Maybe it was just Sherlock making it more complicated.
He stopped as he felt his phone vibrate against his thigh.
‘Meet you at the car out front in 5. SH.’
He smiled slightly and shook his head. Complicated, yes, but all relationships are complicated, and with Sherlock he wouldn’t have it any other way.
*
The large sunken bath was as luxurious as it looked, more than big enough to hold the pair of them in a pleasant cocoon of warm water, bubbles and jet spray. Closing his eyes, he sank down further as Sherlock relaxed totally in his grasp, leaning back on him so they were chest to back with their legs entwined.
The post-match celebrations had involved a much overdue round of enthusiastic shagging, followed by a lovely quiet meal out where they had been able to enjoy the first-rate food and each other’s company. Now, accompanied by a glass of wine, they were taking advantage of the rest of the time they had.
“So, what happens now?” he asked as he idly ran his hands across Sherlock’s chest and abdomen. It never ceased to surprise him how muscular his lover actually was despite the far from baggy clothing he wore away from the court. His lean body shape meant he was deceptively strong, his muscle tone dense but compact, a perfect meld of pure power and understated stamina. It still felt strange that he was actually allowed to do this, that he, John Watson, had permission to hold, touch and caress the most gorgeous man he had ever known, and one of the most aloof players on the circuit. If he so desired and bothered to put his mind to it, Sherlock could be more than just charming and would be able to have virtually anyone he wanted, at least for a while. For some reason though, the person Sherlock most wanted was him.
Bending his head, he pressed his lips to the soft skin on the nearest shoulder, smiling at the freckles he could see hiding under the tan, and momentarily tightened his hold around his lover.
“Right now,” Sherlock said in that deep, relaxed burr of his, “I fully intend for us to stay like this for as long as I can persuade you too, but I suspect you’re speaking in more general terms. I can tell you this, what I’m not going to do is to fly to Washington for the Legg Mason 500.”
He snorted slightly. “You surprise me,” he said wryly.
He could feel Sherlock smiling as he continued. “Of course what that does mean is that now that this Open is over and done with…”
“And the trophy added to your very shiny and rapidly growing collection.”
“…we have a week before Toronto.”
“Hmmm,” he said, running a thumb over a somewhat tempting nipple. “I don’t think spending a week in here is an option somehow.”
“No?” Sherlock said twisting his head to offer his lips for a gentle, leisurely kiss. “Pity. But what do you say to spending a few more days here before venturing up to the wilds of Canada?”
He recognised that far too innocent tone of voice. “Okay,” he said sitting a touch further back, “hit me with it. I know that look and that sound, you have some kind of a plan.”
“California, John. Los Angeles. We could stay, take in some sights, relax and enjoy ourselves. No one knows us here; no one cares who we are. We could catch some court practice in the mornings and explore in the afternoons, with dinner in the evenings overlooking the great blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean.”
He had to admit that that did sound good. More than good really. They certainly hadn’t had a chance to do anything as a couple so far. In London they had been careful about what they were seen doing together, especially following directly on after Wimbledon. There had been a brief discussion about retiring to Sherlock’s family estate in the Dordogne, but that had quickly been made impossible by John’s ever expanding appearance commitments. He had never really done LA before, not in detail, and had never really had anyone to do these sorts of places with either. It was always so much more fun with someone else to share the experience with.
“How long have you been working this out?” he asked, “and what’s the catch?” Because Sherlock really was trying a little too hard. His brilliant mind rarely worked on one level so there had to be something else and he hadn’t forgotten about the Dior boxes in the main room.
Sherlock’s body tensed for a moment before relaxing as John ran his hands down his lover’s arms.
“I had a text from an old friend,” Sherlock said, his shoulders sinking.
Ah, so that sound had come from Sherlock’s phone. He hadn’t just been imagining it. “So I noticed,” he said dryly. It hadn’t been just one text either.
“She congratulated me on the tournament and asked if I would be around long enough for us to meet for dinner. She was suggesting the day after tomorrow.”
So he was right. There was something. It was nice to see he was getting to know his lover reasonably well, even after their relatively short time of being together. “And you want to say yes,” he said.
There was a pause as if this was a surprisingly hard thing for Sherlock to admit to, that he might actually wish to have an evening out with someone he considered a friend. Did he really have so few friends that he considered this sort of occurrence to be unusual and warrant a stroll around the houses before getting to the real issue?
“Very much so,” Sherlock said.
He shook his head slightly because it seemed so absurd. In everything else Sherlock was forward and demanding, but here he seemed almost hesitant, almost apologetic.
“Well of course we can stay for longer,” he said tightening his grasp to show that it really was alright. “You don’t need to try and sell it to me, you idiot. You’re allowed to want to meet up with other people. It sounds like a lovely idea and I’m sure I can keep myself more than occupied while you catch up with your friend.”
“No.” Turning, Sherlock caught his hand and twisted his body round until they were face to face, the water threatening to splash over the side. “No,” he repeated. “You’re to come too. I want to introduce you to her.”
Sherlock wanted to introduce him as, what? As his boyfriend, partner, lover, or whatever the best word for what they currently were was? But technical words aside, it was quite the step. So far they had told no one outside of their intimate circle, this would almost be like making if official. They would be official, if only still to a small and select number of people.
“Of course,” he said reaching up a hand to press to Sherlock’s cheek. “Yes. Certainly. If that’s what you want, then I’m more than happy to join you and your friend.”
Sherlock’s smile was brilliant and then they were kissing again, Sherlock pressing him back and against the bath side, their hands sliding over bath gelled bodies.
“Thank you.”
“Hey,” he said running his hands through Sherlock’s damp curls, “if it’s important to you then it’s important to me. So, this friend of yours, does she work here, or is she here for something else? Anyone I might know?”
Turning back, Sherlock settled comfortably once more in his arms.
“She has a place here, yes, although it’s not her main place of residence. She’s here filming of course.”
“So she’s an actress then?”
“Amongst other things. To be considered solely an actress would be an insult to her.”
“Oh god.” He sank back with a groan, because there was only one person that could possibly be. One person he knew who was connected to Sherlock. “Irene Adler,” he said as if the name contained all the answers to the universe. “You’re taking me to meet Irene Adler.” Bloody hell.
“Excellent, John. While hardly the toughest deduction you got there rather quickly. Yes, Irene’s in town and I would very much like for the pair of you to meet.”
Right. He licked his lips. “I didn’t realise the two of you were still good friends.”
“That’s because it’s not something I’ve splashed across my Wikipedia page. That said, despite what people believe we have only ever been good friends.”
“Yes, you told me. So you still obviously keep in touch.”
“When we can, although it has been some time since we last met up.”
John sighed as Sherlock ran his hand smoothly up his leg.
“I suspect we will have much to talk about,” Sherlock added.
“Have you told her about me?”
“I was going to tell her that I wanted to bring someone. She should be able to work out who from that if she doesn’t already know about us. I have always found her to be a rather astute young lady. I will guarantee that Hollywood has no idea what they have there. Of course, she’ll probably not come alone, just to balance the numbers.”
“Oh, is she dating at the moment?”
“No, but I doubt that will stop her.” Sherlock’s smile said there was more but he wasn’t going to say.
“Hmmm, well, she got you easily enough.” He would not be jealous of how well Irene and Sherlock had looked together, all dark hair and cheekbones. Even if it had all been in the past and had all been pretend, he still didn’t like to be reminded of it.
“I read the pair of you could barely keep your hands off each other,” he continued. “In fact, weren’t you caught with her leg around your hip and your hand up her dress in the lift of the Paris Hilton?” He wasn’t sure it was the done thing to admit to googling the gossip rags for old stories about your current partner.
“She is remarkably flexible and it’s amazing what you can do with some lipstick and heavy breathing when you know a photographer is waiting when the doors open. Like I said, she’s a remarkably fine actress.”
“Hmmm,” he said, “for someone who prefers men over women you looked rather into her in the photos.”
“Jealous?”
Yes! “Should I be?” he asked mildly, or at least as mildly as he could.
“From a closeted bisexual with a history of shagging men but dating women, I would say not.”
“I’m dating you,” he said pressing his lips between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.
“And shagging me I hope.”
“Oh god, yeah.” He smiled, burying his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder and tightened his arms around Sherlock’s body. “So if I’m a closeted bisexual, what does that make you?”
Sherlock had never confirmed what sexuality actually was. To the world he was straight, no doubt a joke to many of the blokes who knew for certain otherwise. Hell, he himself was considered to be straight and he currently had his arms and legs wrapped around someone who was most definitely not female. Sherlock also had the reputation of being a shag ‘em and leave ‘em sort of guy, but it was hard to say how much of that was real and how much was a craftily constructed fabrication. By his own admission Sherlock had said he had found solace in sex rather than turning to drugs, and neither Lestrade nor Mycroft had seemed surprised when he had ended up in Sherlock’s bed, rather more surprised that he had remained there. Victor Trevor he knew about, and a fateful almost experience with Jim Moriarty, and Sherlock himself had confirmed a flexibility that tended towards men, but he had never put a label to it.
“I have never felt it worth trying to define my sexuality. It is what it is, nothing more and nothing less. I have sought lovers of both genders, some of it I enjoyed, some of it I didn’t so much. Some of it I’ve come to regret. Does that bother you?”
That other people had had their hands across this body, well, that was part of the course, but knowing there were people out there who had had him and let him go, or worse had had him and hurt him, that was something else entirely.
“No,” he said softly. “No, you are who you are.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, “but you should also know that if I were forced to choose a preference for one gender than I would lean towards men, and if I were forced to pick, to have just one of all the people I have ever been with, then as of this moment, nothing would change”
From Sherlock that was… that was…. John wasn’t entirely sure what that was, but raising a hand to Sherlock’s face, he ran wet fingers across the cheekbones and tightened his other hand, pulling those lips back to his where they belonged.
*
“When you said go for a ride and take in the sights, this wasn’t exactly what I had been expecting.”
In truth he hadn’t given it a great deal of thought, but what thoughts that had passed through his mind had not included a band new Triumph Bonneville 865cc 2010 black and chrome motorbike. Despite that, the rather impressive machine stood gleaming, somehow managing to capture all the natural sunlight available in the hotel’s underground car park. He didn’t know a great deal about bikes, but even he had to admire the sleek power of the beast.
“You look surprised,” Sherlock said with a barely suppressed grin as he stood beside the machine. “No better way of seeing the sights.”
“Yes, but,” he managed, “I hadn’t expected you to be the bike sort of person. You do have a licence, don’t you?” he added with a slight frown. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to be somewhat hard and fast with those rules, although he doubted Lestrade would have so easily tossed him the keys if he wasn’t legal to ride. Still it was better to check these things first.
“Of course,” Sherlock said looking the bike over and running a hand across the leather seats. “I’m French, remember. I’ve been riding since I used to sneak out with my brother’s moped for a spin around my grand-mere’s estate when I was eight. Mind you that wasn’t exactly legal then. First moped at fourteen, first bike at sixteen bought using some of my tournament winnings, and I’ve been riding ever since. I assure you I’m more than competent.”
Competent, sure, but was he safe? The bike was certainly a beauty and he licked his lips as Sherlock moved to straddle it, his jeans stretching across his thighs. God, he had never thought of bikes as sexy before, but in Sherlock’s hands, or more accurately between his legs, he was really starting to see the appeal.
“Problem?”
Sherlock was looking at him with that smirk he had, the smirk that suggested that he knew exactly what was going through his mind.
“Uh, no,” he replied before clearing his throat. “No problem at all.”
“Good.”
He caught the helmet that was tossed to him, an opened faced helmet in a dark plum, while Sherlock slipped on a pair of sunglasses and the matching black helmet. He looked as at ease with it as he did with a crosscourt forehand strike.
“So, is this your bike?”
Even with the helmet and shades he could recognise the ‘don’t be ridiculous expression’.
“It’s a hire,” Sherlock said doing something with the bike, although what wasn’t particularly clear, probably something to do with his wallet or something.
Then Sherlock was looking at him. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
He recognised a challenge when he heard one and tugging on the helmet he carefully slung his leg across the back behind Sherlock and got on.
“Have you pulled your helmet strap as tight as you can get it?”
“Yes,” he said but checked again anyway.
“In that case, keep your feet on the foot pedals at all times. You can either hold me round the waist or hold onto the grab rails behind you. Don’t try to hold only my arms or shoulders or both of our careers will come to an untimely end. Don’t shift too much and try to mimic my position, especially when it comes to corners. Look over my right shoulder if we’re going right and my left if we’re turning left. And most importantly… enjoy yourself.”
The engine came to life with a powerful burr.
“Ready?”
He moved his feet to the foot pedals and his hands to Sherlock’s jacketed waist. “Always,” he said and then they were off. It was exhilarating and it wasn’t hard to see why Sherlock loved it so much. The hot Californian sun beat down on them from the clear blue sky while a cool breeze blew over them.
He hadn’t asked where they were going, but Sherlock seemed to know and he recognised the majority of the street names. Sunset Boulevard, Rodeo Drive, Wiltshire Boulevard. Sherlock was right, it was a brilliant way of seeing the sights.
They ended up driving by the ocean, a vast brilliant blue that seemed to stretch on forever. Parking the bike they explored on foot, laughing and jostling each other and being themselves, like tourists on holiday, like any new couple.
“Relax,” Sherlock had chided as he bent his head to steal a kiss. “It’s Los Angeles.”
Los Angeles indeed and Sherlock was right. Between the hipsters, the in-line skaters, the surfers, the artists, the colourful street performers, the tourists and the rest of the crowds, who was going to notice them? They were just two Brits out enjoying the sun and each other, indistinguishable from all the other sunglasses clad people. So if they touched each other more than usual, or their hands met to clasp or hold, or the odd quick kiss was exchanged then it was of no matter.
After a stop in a café for food further shops and boutiques were sampled and browsed through, John laughing when Sherlock attempted to get him to try on some different hats before moving onto sunglasses. For some reason Sherlock seemed intent on finding him some new clothing, although the amount of money Sherlock was willing to spend on a shirt left him wincing while his lover simply handed over one credit card or another with barely a bat of the eyelid.
“Prize money, sponsorship, inheritance,” Sherlock said. “Got to do something with it. God knows eating, drinking and snorting it away is out of the question.”
Then again Sherlock had just earned himself a hundred and twenty thousand dollars for just four matches and less than seven hours of tennis and that was just a 250 tournament, the winning amount considered low compared to others on the US Tour which culminated in the US Open at Flushing Meadows where the winner was due to receive a good one point seven million dollars. Not even Mycroft would apparently deny Sherlock the opportunity to treat himself now and again, but having had so little money up until a few weeks before, John couldn’t help but notice the price of things. Then again, easy come, easy go.
They ate dinner at a quiet out of the way restaurant where the only disagreement they had was over who would pick up the bill.
The ride back was leisurely but more direct, and by the time they returned to their suite John’s biggest desire was for a shower and perhaps a cuddle in front of the huge telly. The cuddle turned into kissing, the kissing into French words whispered in his ear as Sherlock slid into his body over and over again.
Tired and sated they slipped under the covers and lay facing each other on their sides.
“Good day?” Sherlock asked.
He smiled warmly. “You have to ask?” he said.
“No, but sometimes it’s nice to hear it.”
There were times when he forgot how sensitive Sherlock could be under all his bravado and arrogance. Reaching out a hand, he stroked it down his lover’s face, over those gorgeous cheekbones. “I had,” he said, “a truly wonderful day. Thank you.”
Sherlock beamed, catching his hand to press a kiss to it. “I’m glad,” he said. “So did I.”
*
End of Part Two
*
The bike:
Part Three