New Fic: A Study in Doubles 4/?
Title: A Study in Doubles
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 5.5K 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 Part Two Part Three
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Four
*
Tournament Two: Toronto
*
The journey to Toronto went remarkably smoothly considering that it consisted of luggage for four grown men - “My personal bodyguard, John,” Sherlock had said when John had asked about the gentleman in the black suit who seemed to loiter in the background at certain times, incidentally the same gentleman who had picked him up from LAX in the first place - plus tennis equipment for two professional players.
“Hang on,” John said because he still wasn’t too clear over the bodyguard issue. “If he’s been here all the time, why haven’t I noticed him more?”
The look Sherlock gave him suggested that perhaps he was missing something. “He’s very good,” Sherlock said and that seemed to be that. Further enquiry revealed that yes, Sherlock did usually have more security - as he had done at Wimbledon - but since Moriarty wasn’t playing in Los Angeles they hadn’t been needed. Yes, there would be more of them again in Toronto, and no there was no need to worry.
“Standard practice,” Sherlock had said dismissively. “If nothing else they stop me from getting molested by over enthusiastic fans.”
Oh, okay then, John had thought. If it stopped unwanted molesting by someone who wasn’t himself then that was to be greatly encouraged. Not that his molesting of Sherlock seemed to be ever unwanted.
They were met at Toronto Pearson by the new security/bodyguards/chauffeurs and after a brief debate over whether they should arrive in separate cars - “We’re playing doubles together, John, people are going to expect some familiarity between us. Just because we share a car and a court does not mean that they’re immediate going to suspect that we share a bed as well.”
Well, no, John agreed, but a bed was the least of what they shared if you were going to put it like that.
They shared one car, while Lestrade and the original security guard went in the second with the majority of their non-tennis luggage.
Home for the tournament was the Hilton Hotel and John had been assured that Lestrade had taken care of the room bookings, although he wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had had a hand in that too.
“Look, should I be expecting to add something to whatever it is you pay him?” he had asked Sherlock when it had dawned on him just how much Lestrade was now running his life on top of everyone else’s.
“Who? Lestrade?” Sherlock had said in that offhand way that he had. “Of course not. It’s his job.”
“What, to look after me as well?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock threw back. “It’s to look after my needs and the needs of my entourage.”
“Your… I’m not even going to comment on that.”
He did check with Lestrade though who pretty quickly reassured him that it was part of his job description and even if it wasn’t, the payoff for having to book an extra room or seat on a plane, or organise two cars rather than one was more than offset by Sherlock acting more like a decent human being and being far less difficult than before.
“In all honesty,” Lestrade had said frankly, “you could double my work load and it would still be easier with you around than not. A good man he may not yet be, but an easier man in many ways, absolutely. I should be thanking you, mate.”
John wasn’t sure what he should make of that, so let it drop. It was certainly nice though not to have to worry about any of the minor details.
They checked into the hotel separately, him at one desk, Sherlock at another. Travel bag and rackets on his shoulder, room swipecard in his hand, he moved to find out what stage Sherlock was at only to find him having a rather in-depth discussion with the check-in girl in rapid French. Not only that but he was smiling and the check-in girl was blushing slightly and looking at him with a shyer than expected expression. Whatever Sherlock was saying to her seemed to be spot on as she seemed almost over eager to help him. It wasn’t often that he got to see Sherlock being charming, but when he did it was a sight to behold.
“Damn, Watson, it is you.”
He turned to find Dimmock grinning at him. With everything that had been going on he had completely forgotten that there would be other players here. Players he knew and who knew him, people he counted as friends. It was ridiculous really, to be surprised to see his friend. This was Canada after all, Dimmock’s home turf. He was expected to be here.
“Guess the rumours were true then. You’re back to play. Got bored with retirement and endless TV appearances then?”
“Something like that,” he admitted.
“Doubles though, from what I hear. With Holmes of all people. I would ask if you were feeling alright, but you’ve always liked a challenge. How did you persuade him to do that? Would be offended that you didn’t ask me, but we all know who the better player is.”
“I didn’t persuade him,” he said, “believe it or not it was his idea. I had very little to do with it.”
“Persuasive is he?”
“You have no idea.”
Dimmock grinned at him. “Should catch up while you’re here. I’ll text you. Gotta run now though. Local paper wants my opinion on who to watch out for. Holmes doesn’t have any injuries does he? Niggly shoulder? Strained knee?”
“Not that I know of,” he said with a grin. “Ask him yourself.”
“Wouldn’t take the risk, mate”
Dimmock disappearing, he turned back to where Sherlock had been only to find that the Frenchman too had vanished. That was just plain typical.
Huffing slightly, he pushed his bags back onto his shoulders and made his way to the lifts. At least this time there was no Moriarty hanging around for him to accidentally knock into, which was a good point, because he didn’t even know if Moriarty was playing here. He presumed he was. Moriarty was still World Number One after all. That said he hadn’t played at either Atlanta or Washington either, but then again, none of the top players had, so perhaps that wasn’t so much of a surprise.
Their paths were almost guaranteed to cross at some point, and then… well they would just have to face it when it happened, he supposed.
His room was nice but nothing ostentatious, and his bags had already been brought up, except, he realised when he took a closer look, they weren’t his bags, although they did have his luggage labels attached to them.
Somehow he wasn’t surprised when his mobile vibrated with an incoming text.
Ontario Suite, it said followed by the floor number.
A suite, of course.
Oddly enough the suite wasn’t hard to find, helped by the lurking gentleman in the suit who he knew as one of the bodyguards.
The suite itself was as nice as any he had seen, not that he had any decent amount of first-hand knowledge. Sleek, modern, with a sitting area, flat screen television and a Sherlock already sprawled across the dark orange sectioned sofa flicking through some paperwork with an ease that suggest he was right at home and virtually part of the furniture. Then again he did spend up to half of a year moving from one such hotel room to another.
“Another change of room then?” he asked mildly while putting down his bags and having a quick nosy around. He wasn’t surprised at all to find his bags in the first of the two - two? - bedrooms, with of course Lestrade’s luggage labels attached.
“What? Oh,” Sherlock said looking up briefly as he turned the pages. “Seemed like the obvious solution and Lestrade does get so tedious at times.”
The second bedroom contained Sherlock’s clothing and a Lestrade who was patiently unpacking them and hanging up jackets, trousers and shirts.
“I’m sure he’d say the same thing about you,” he replied before sticking his nose into the very modern looking bathroom, complete with plasma telly on the wall. Nice. He then wandered back out to shove Sherlock up so they could share the incredibly comfortable sofa. Having removed his shoeless feet from the seat temporarily, Sherlock resumed his previous position, this time with his lower legs across John’s lap.
“I take it I’m Lestrade for the week then, and he’s me.”
“Something like that,” Sherlock said absently wiggling his toes. “He’ll have your official room and you can have his. Or share mine. The bed’s certainly big enough.”
“Good to know,” he said, “and not all that far to the second bedroom if I finally decide I can’t take another night of your snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” Sherlock protested, digging a heel into his thigh.
John shot him an amused grin. “Of course not,” he said. “Is that the playing schedule?”
Sherlock gave him one last look of almost wounded pride before returning his attention to the document at hand. “Murray’s pulled out completely,” he said. “Having already pulled out of the doubles he’s now out of the singles as well.”
John frowned. “I didn’t think his ankle was that bad?”
“No, but it might not be his ankle. With him it’s just as likely to be his shoulder or his back or his groin.”
“Oh right. So when’s your first match and who’s the unlucky fellow?”
“My first match,” Sherlock said, “is Tuesday, Centre Court, 7:30 in the evening against either Melas or Dancevic. I get a bye into the second round, remember.”
That was something that slipped John’s mind, not having ever been ranked or seeded high enough in such a competition to have been rewarded with one of those.
“Our first match is Monday,” Sherlock said. “Court Number 3. Matches start at 11:00 and we’re the third match on, so your guess is as good as mine. After lunch certainly.”
Yeah, that would be about right. Lunch, final preparations, warm-up and strategy discussion and then the match.
“Who’ve we got?”
“Kohlschreiber and Monfils.”
John pulled a face. “They’re quite good, aren’t they,” he said. “You know, in doubles.”
“Reasonably,” Sherlock said, “but then we are here on a wild card. We could have been drawn against Djokovic and Nadal.”
“Some small mercies then,” John said.
Sherlock made a disagreeing noise in the back of his throat. “It’s not about ability,” Sherlock said, “it’s about teamwork. With the right teamwork anyone can be beaten.”
“Know that for a fact do you?” John said, his hand automatically tracing up Sherlock’s leg.
“I know that until now I have never had someone I really wanted to play doubles with.”
“Even Victor Trevor?” John said softly.
“Even him,” Sherlock said with a note of finality.
That was perhaps as close as he’d ever heard Sherlock come to giving voice to whatever they had here. Not that he had been any better. One declaration in the changing rooms at Wimbledon and a lot of unspoken words.
“So what happens now?” he asked clearing his throat.
“Whatever you like,” Sherlock said. “Tomorrow I would suggest popping to the courts for a practice and we need to run through the tactics I’ve been developing.”
“Ah, so that’s what you were doing on the plane. I thought you were rather quiet.”
“There was a lot to formulate.”
“Of course.” He patted Sherlock’s leg affectionately. “What about this evening? We should probably think about food. We could go out, or stay here, order in and sit at that table over there. There’s probably some film we could find to watch afterwards, or we could get our laptops out. So.”
He stopped when he realised that Sherlock was watching him with an expression of open affection, a small smile on his lips.
“Sounds perfect,” he said before looking away. “A night in, food and a movie.”
“Sounds like a date,” he offered with a reasonably blank face.
Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I have no idea what you mean.”
*
Sunday 8th August.
It’s been a while since I’ve updated but at least I have a bloody good excuse. Life has been rather hectic and it’s about to get that bit crazier again. Somehow I’ve been talked into picking up a tennis racket again. I’m insane, totally insane, that’s the only possible explanation. Now I understand how Steve Redgrave got back in that boat after his fourth gold.
So now I’m in Toronto, Canada, and about to play in my first tournament since Wimbledon. Not only that, but my first doubles tournament since, well, I can’t honestly remember. I have no defence do I? Then again, who would turn down the opportunity of partnering Sherlock Holmes? He is the World Number Three for singles after all. Apparently not me. It’ll probably all end with broken tennis rackets and French swear words, but I’ve never backed away from a challenge.
I’m due on the practice courts in an hour. Don’t think Holmes will be happy if I’m late. Better get a move on.
*
Broken rackets and French swear words weren’t too far from the truth.
By the time the second string went on one of Sherlock’s practice rackets more than a couple of heated exchanges had passed between Sherlock and Lestrade. In French of course. Sherlock seemed to like doing his ranting in French, which made Lestrade the easy target.
More than once John found himself sharing a look from Lestrade which basically translated as; see what I have to put up with when you’re not around. Fully experienced and somewhat desensitised to Sherlock’s tirades, Lestrade had given back as good as he had gotten, refusing to be cowed by whatever Sherlock was frustrated about.
Admittedly, Sherlock did have some right to be frustrated. The day had so far not gone as smoothly as they might have hoped. A problem at the practice courts had led them to being delayed and then once they were warmed up and finally going one of the strings had gone on Sherlock’s first racket.
After some rallying between them, they switched to the same side of the net and had Lestrade feed them balls to play back across the net. There were some communication problems of course and then Sherlock seemed to take issue with everything else as well - the speed of the balls, the placement, height, force, the bounce. That led to harsh words between him and Lestrade and John wondered just what exactly was going on.
“Enough,” he snapped. “This is ridiculous. We’re not getting anywhere. Sherlock, you can continue practicing if you’d like, but I’m going for a run and possibly to the gym. I’ll see you later back at the hotel.”
Not bothering to wait for an answer, he packed away his rackets and slung his bags over his shoulder. By the time he faced Sherlock again the Frenchman had stopped arguing and was showing an expression of mild displeasure.
“No, I don’t want to hear it, okay,” John said holding up his hand to stop whatever it was Sherlock had been about to say. “Later, when we’ve all calmed down.”
He ended up in the gym on one of the treadmills. He preferred road running normally, but he didn’t want to take the risk of getting lost on the streets or woods of Toronto. While his fitness wasn’t as good as it had been, it was certainly better than it had been a week earlier and it felt good to stretch his legs and clear his mind. He hadn’t really had a time solely to himself since he had arrived in Los Angeles and the break would probably do both him and Sherlock good. It wasn’t like London, he wasn’t being rushed from one publicity event to another, snatching kisses and more when given the chance. He just hoped that Sherlock didn’t continue to take it out on Lestrade, although he wasn’t going to hold his breath over that one.
Run completed he decided it wasn’t worth pushing his body any further and headed for the saunas. A massage would have been nice but currently not available, so a sauna would do followed by a long refreshing shower.
He, apparently, wasn’t the only one to think so, reaching the sauna room as a tall familiar figure emerged. Sebastian Moran was just as large, as powerful and as muscular as he remembered. Their eyes met briefly before Moran walked away in the opposite direction.
Well, that was… interesting. Of course Moran would be competing, just like Moriarty was. It looked like the South African hadn’t yet gotten over that semi-final defeat.
The sauna was wonderful and his shower equally refreshing. Calm and relaxed, he got a cab back to the hotel checking his phone along the way. A couple of texts - none from Sherlock - and one missed call - also not from Sherlock. The missed call turned out to be from Harry who demanded to know why the hell he hadn’t told her he was playing doubles with Sherlock and did she always have to find out these things via his blog?
He took advantage of the half hour journey to give her a call back, to apologise and then - if she would let him - to explain. It certainly helped matters that she was still sober and he had a limited time frame to speak in. Then again, they had reached a new understanding after Wimbledon, their sibling relationship better now than it had been in years.
Conversation and journey both over, he paid the cabby and made his way to the suite only to find it empty, much to his surprise. It was obvious that Sherlock had been back. Training equipment had been dumped, clothes tossed around and the violin case lay open, the instrument obviously having been played. There was no suggestion, however, as to where Sherlock was now.
Storing his bags in the second bedroom that they weren’t actually using, he pulled a soft drink from the fridge and settled himself in the armchair wondering what he should do now. He considered texting Sherlock but didn’t want to sound like some sort of nagging housewife. If Sherlock wanted his own space as well then he was more than happy to give him that.
Grabbing his laptop he decided to busy himself with catching up with the news from the rest of the world and maybe a game or two of some mindless computer game followed by some equally mindless YouTube videos.
It was another hour before Sherlock came back, changed from his practice gear into jeans and a dark green shirt that somehow made him look younger than normal.
“John,” he said his eyebrows momentarily pulling together. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
“Where else would I be?” he said. “Been somewhere good?” There were no bodyguards or Lestrade trailing after him which suggested that wherever he had been he’d managed to slip the minders first.
“I went for a walk,” he said. “Down to the quay and along.” He paused then licked his lips. “John, about my behaviour at the practice today, it was inexcusable and I regret if I may have caused you any additional pain or stress because of it.”
John frowned. “You didn’t cause me any pain or stress. You were under pressure and you took it out on Lestrade. It’s him you should be apologising to, not me, and it’s hardly anything new with you. Things don’t go to plan, you resort to French insults. It could be worse. We all have our ways of coping. No biggy.”
Sherlock looked at him for an extended moment, before his shoulders seemed to drop and his face started to relax.
“You thought I was going to shout at you,” he realised.
“It was a distinct possibility,” Sherlock admitted slowly.
“And then what?” he asked.
Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled closer together.
“Then what did you think I would do after shouting at you?” John clarified.
“I hadn’t gotten that far,” Sherlock said. “There were other variables involved.”
“Like?” John said.
Sherlock didn’t respond, and recognising the look John felt it wasn’t worth pushing him.
“Alright,” he said, “you can stop thinking about it now. I’m here, I’m not going to shout at you and it’s Sunday evening. How about we order in tonight and you can run me through the rest of the tactics you’ve been developing, then later, I dunno, a film, a walk, a shag, whatever you need to switch that big brain of yours off for a while. How does that sound?”
There was a moment and then there was a small smile on Sherlock’s face. “I have a pack of cards,” he offered.
John licked his lips. “Poker?”
“Of course.”
“Strip?”
“Naturally.”
He grinned remembering what had happened the last time they had played. “Sounds like a very good plan,” he said.
*
“A good morning from your BBC team here in Toronto, or if you’re listening over the internet live stream or by digital back in the UK, a good afternoon.
“The first day of the Rogers Cup is about to start and we have a full day of tennis for you. While the top eight seeded players get a bye for the first round of the singles, we’ll be following the progress of Andy Roddick and Canada’s number one, D.I. Dimmock, while in the doubles, Nadal and Djokovic are teaming up, but more importantly for us Brits, after the disappointing withdrawal of Andy Murray in the singles, current Wimbledon Champion, John Watson, has surprised us all by teaming up with World Number Three, Sherlock Holmes, despite having announced his retirement from the game. They’ll be playing doubles later today, but first we’re going over to Court One for the first match of this tournament.”
*
Sherlock had of course done his homework on their opponents. The German Philipp Kohlschreiber they had both met at different times, while Frenchman Gaël Monfils had been a contemporary and rival of Sherlock’s from a young age. He was very familiar with Monfil’s athletic defensive counter-punching. The match, John had a feeling, would be far from easy.
*
“So, what should we expect here, Tim?”
“Well, we could be in for anything here. Kohlschreiber and Monfils have played doubles together before and done reasonably well in tournaments like this. Normally I would expect players of their quality to reach the quarter finals, possibly better, but then again I wouldn’t normally expect to see them against a wild card pair like this in the first round.”
“Let’s talk about Holmes and Watson then. A bit of a surprise?”
“In some ways, yes. In other ways, not so much.”
“Neither of them are known as doubles players, so why here, why now?”
“Well, Holmes doesn’t exactly have a good reputation for getting on with other people, but he and Watson did seem to strike up some sort of working partnership while at Wimbledon and Holmes is not exactly the only top player here completing in both the singles and the doubles. Nadal and Djokovic are teaming up and Murray was initially down for both singles and doubles.”
“What about Watson? We all thought he was retired from the game.”
“True, but sometimes it’s a lot harder to give up than you thought it would be. A number of players have announced their retirement at one point and reappeared not too long later. Doubles is a smart choice for him. Even if players are less competitive in the singles in their early thirties they can still continue competitively in doubles. Just look at John McEnroe, Martina Navratilova, the right partner and you can win doubles titles when you’re in your forties even.”
“Ever considered going back out there then?”
“For competitive matches like that, no chance. I’ll stick to the Legends, thanks.”
“So predictions for the match then. Go out on a limb, who’s going to win?”
“Well, I have to say that it’s most likely to be Kohlschreiber and Monfils. Holmes and Watson may technically be better players, but doubles is far more than having the ability to hit a ball back over the net.”
“Well there you have it. Kohlschreiber and Monfils are indeed the favourites to win here on Court Three, but there have been surprises before. The players are now courtside, starting their warm-ups. Stay with us as we bring you all the action and the updates from the other matches.”
*
The racket felt good, his new outfit from Fred Perry looked good, the tennis however was not good.
The smash from Monfils had no chance of being returned by either him or Sherlock… again. This was not going well. In fact it was going positively badly.
“Forty - Fifteen.”
Clenching his jaw he looked across at Sherlock, but the other man’s expression was as blank as he had ever seen it. That was not good either.
Moving backwards to the back line, he twirled his racket in his hands before getting ready for the next serve. It came deep and fast, down the centre to his back hand. He returned it down the centre and then with just three more shot it was all over.
“Game and set, Kohlschreiber Monfils; six games to two. Kohlschreiber Monfils lead, one set to love.”
Sherlock was tense, horribly tense, but more than that he was detrimentally tense. It was like this was a Grand Slam final in front of fifteen thousand people and the nerves were getting the best of him, rather than being the opening round of a doubles tournament where in the big scheme of things it didn’t exactly matter whether they won or lost. If he didn’t know better he would think their opponent was Moriarty and head games were being played.
They had started alright. Not brilliantly, but they had held their own. Sherlock had held the opening serve which had been important, then he had held his own two games later to take it to two games to one in their favour with Monfils to serve. Then Sherlock’s serve had fallen apart. Well, not fallen apart so to speak, but his first serve error rate had increased and then suddenly they were on the back foot defending in their own service game, taken to deuce and then losing the game to a brilliant shot from Kohlschreiber which had sliced them open leaving neither of them able to return.
After that, well between good teamwork from their opponents and their own unforced errors in an attempt to snatch points back the game had slid from their grasp faster than a Pete Sampras ace.
He then lost his own service game which left their opponents needing only to hold their own serve and then the set was over; six games to two. Broken twice.
Retiring to his seat, he grabbed his towel and drink and waited for Sherlock to join him. “So, uh,” he said lightly with a forced smile, “not quite what we had been going for.”
Sherlock didn’t smile, he barely even acknowledged the comment with a faint grimace. His jaw looked tight and he stared blankly off towards the court. John recognised self-blame when he saw it and it was radiating off Sherlock like steam off boiling water.
“Sherlock.” He leant across. “Damnit, Sherlock, look at me. Stop blaming yourself and stop trying so hard. You don’t have to win this alone. Just, trust me, alright, and for god’s sake stop acting like it’s the end of the world if we lose. You don’t have to do it all by yourself, you know. Nothing changes, yeah.”
What he really wanted to do was to reach out and cover Sherlock’s hand with his own, but that really wouldn’t be appropriate considering how many people were watching. He just hoped that Sherlock understood.
“Time,” the umpire called for the start of the next set.
Rising to his feet, he did the next best thing and held his arm out. Sherlock looked at it for a moment, a touch bewildered before grasping the lower arm and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
“Together, yeah,” John said with a smile. “Your serve, Maestro.”
*
“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead, two games to one.”
“Well that’s certainly better and more confident play from Holmes and Watson in this set than they finished with last set. Whatever Watson said to Holmes between the set seems to have worked. Tim, your thoughts?”
“They certainly seem, if still not quite like themselves, far better than they were. Holmes was looking incredibly tense during that first set, making errors I just wouldn’t expect from a player of his calibre. Holding his serve in the opening game of this set was incredibly crucial, and he handled it and the pressure well.”
“A quick look at his first serves in that game suggests that he’s actually slowed them down a little.”
“Absolutely, he went for the big powerful ones before, looking for the ace, but more often than not finding that they just weren’t landing within the service box. Now, a touch slower means they’re more likely to be returned, but also more likely to land in, giving Watson at the net every opportunity to bury the winner.
“Well it’s Monfils to serve now and he’s just lining up ready to go.”
*
He wiped his brow before bouncing the ball. Serve wide but make sure it’s safe, second serve and all that.
Come on Watson.
Tossing the ball up he relished in the feel of the racket head striking cleanly, the ball flying over the net. Excellent, now remember the point plan. Sherlock’s going to drive it back down the line and then… two handed he drove at the backhand and watched in satisfaction as it shot between the opposition and stole the point.
“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead six games to five.”
Yes!
He looked across at Sherlock who gave a small nod of acknowledgement and a slightly larger smile, his largest of the match so far. Looseness had come back into his shoulders and a quiet ease back into his serving. That and the new trust between them had done wonders to their game.
“Same again?” he asked as they met to quickly discuss tactics, referring to how they would deal with Monfil’s serves.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed for a moment before his lips curved up into a smile. “I have an idea,” he said.
*
“Backhand by Kohlschreiber, closed down by Watson, Monfils trying to find a way through, Watson down the line, Monfil to Holmes, Kohlschreiber with the forehand but Watson’s there with a well-read smash and unbelievably we’re going to three sets.”
“Game and set Holmes Watson; seven games to five, one set all. Third and final set.”
“Just look at the expressions on Holmes and Watson’s faces. They had to dig deep for that one but after their collapse in the first set they’ve come out here and really taken it to Kohlschreiber and Monfils and it’s given them the set. Tim?”
“Good play from Holmes and Watson there. A little risky but with little to lose. Either they would take the set or it would go to a tie break. They got the set and good play by them. Holmes has managed to find some of the form he had last week in LA and Watson certainly doesn’t look like the weak link. This could be a fascinating last set.”
“Holmes to serve first again in the next set. Can Kohlschreiber and Monfils pull it back? We’ll find out shortly.”
*
“Better?” John asked as they returned to their seats.
Sherlock didn’t reply but he at least smiled around the rim of his bottle of water as he drank.
“Good call on that last set,” John continued. “Looks like we might have shaken them. Bit more of that and we could actually win this. That’ll be a turn up for the books.”
“John….”
He looked across as he recognised that tone.
“About the first set….”
“Oh no,” he quickly cut off, “that’s behind us. What I want to know is whether or not that same trick might work on Kohlschreiber’s serve as well. Monfils’ definitely strongest when at the back of the court, what do you say to dragging them both closer to the net and then hitting them low and fast?”
Sherlock was looking at him with a barely suppressed smile, his lips twitching.
“What?” he asked.
“Would never have taken you for the ruthless type.”
“It’s the easy going English persona complete with woollen jumpers,” he quipped as the umpire once again called for the start of the next and this time final set. “Anyway, you know what they say.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he got to his feet. “Enlighten me,” he said.
“All’s fair in love and tennis.”
*
“And a cracking shot there from Holmes. Kohlschreiber really had no chance and was in fact lucky that he even got a racket to it.”
“Thirty - Love.”
“Kohlschreiber and Monfils have never really recovered from the second game of this set when Holmes and Watson’s choice of shorter, wider returns pulled both Kohlschreiber and Monfils in at the net only to then be pummelled by the harder shots.”
“Absolutely, Tim, and now Holmes is ready to serve and it’s good. Kohlschreiber returns, Watson with the volley at the net, Monfils gets a racket to it but Watson just had to pick his spot and it’s four match points to Holmes and Watson.”
“Forty - Love.”
“Holmes and Watson are conferring again, what do you think they’re going to go for?”
“At this point, does it matter? Three match points. They could try nearly anything and the way they’re now playing that might just work.”
Holmes is back at the baseline settling himself up for the serve… and it’s a killer. They end the match with an ace and a thumbs up from Watson.”
“Game, set and match, Holmes Watson; 2-6, 7-5, 6-3.”
*
End Part Four
And more visuals.
The Hilton Hotel is the official hotel of the tournament and the Ontario suite is one of their exclusive signature suites. And yes, it does appear to be orange.
Fanart animation:
If you haven't already seen it, you have to go and check out this animation by radiolocked. http://radiolocked.tumblr.com/post/20508113732/a-study-in-winning I could watch it for hours. And perfect for the chapter where John returns to professional tennis again.
More next week.
Part Five
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 5.5K 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 Part Two Part Three
*
A Study in Doubles
Part Four
*
Tournament Two: Toronto
*
The journey to Toronto went remarkably smoothly considering that it consisted of luggage for four grown men - “My personal bodyguard, John,” Sherlock had said when John had asked about the gentleman in the black suit who seemed to loiter in the background at certain times, incidentally the same gentleman who had picked him up from LAX in the first place - plus tennis equipment for two professional players.
“Hang on,” John said because he still wasn’t too clear over the bodyguard issue. “If he’s been here all the time, why haven’t I noticed him more?”
The look Sherlock gave him suggested that perhaps he was missing something. “He’s very good,” Sherlock said and that seemed to be that. Further enquiry revealed that yes, Sherlock did usually have more security - as he had done at Wimbledon - but since Moriarty wasn’t playing in Los Angeles they hadn’t been needed. Yes, there would be more of them again in Toronto, and no there was no need to worry.
“Standard practice,” Sherlock had said dismissively. “If nothing else they stop me from getting molested by over enthusiastic fans.”
Oh, okay then, John had thought. If it stopped unwanted molesting by someone who wasn’t himself then that was to be greatly encouraged. Not that his molesting of Sherlock seemed to be ever unwanted.
They were met at Toronto Pearson by the new security/bodyguards/chauffeurs and after a brief debate over whether they should arrive in separate cars - “We’re playing doubles together, John, people are going to expect some familiarity between us. Just because we share a car and a court does not mean that they’re immediate going to suspect that we share a bed as well.”
Well, no, John agreed, but a bed was the least of what they shared if you were going to put it like that.
They shared one car, while Lestrade and the original security guard went in the second with the majority of their non-tennis luggage.
Home for the tournament was the Hilton Hotel and John had been assured that Lestrade had taken care of the room bookings, although he wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had had a hand in that too.
“Look, should I be expecting to add something to whatever it is you pay him?” he had asked Sherlock when it had dawned on him just how much Lestrade was now running his life on top of everyone else’s.
“Who? Lestrade?” Sherlock had said in that offhand way that he had. “Of course not. It’s his job.”
“What, to look after me as well?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock threw back. “It’s to look after my needs and the needs of my entourage.”
“Your… I’m not even going to comment on that.”
He did check with Lestrade though who pretty quickly reassured him that it was part of his job description and even if it wasn’t, the payoff for having to book an extra room or seat on a plane, or organise two cars rather than one was more than offset by Sherlock acting more like a decent human being and being far less difficult than before.
“In all honesty,” Lestrade had said frankly, “you could double my work load and it would still be easier with you around than not. A good man he may not yet be, but an easier man in many ways, absolutely. I should be thanking you, mate.”
John wasn’t sure what he should make of that, so let it drop. It was certainly nice though not to have to worry about any of the minor details.
They checked into the hotel separately, him at one desk, Sherlock at another. Travel bag and rackets on his shoulder, room swipecard in his hand, he moved to find out what stage Sherlock was at only to find him having a rather in-depth discussion with the check-in girl in rapid French. Not only that but he was smiling and the check-in girl was blushing slightly and looking at him with a shyer than expected expression. Whatever Sherlock was saying to her seemed to be spot on as she seemed almost over eager to help him. It wasn’t often that he got to see Sherlock being charming, but when he did it was a sight to behold.
“Damn, Watson, it is you.”
He turned to find Dimmock grinning at him. With everything that had been going on he had completely forgotten that there would be other players here. Players he knew and who knew him, people he counted as friends. It was ridiculous really, to be surprised to see his friend. This was Canada after all, Dimmock’s home turf. He was expected to be here.
“Guess the rumours were true then. You’re back to play. Got bored with retirement and endless TV appearances then?”
“Something like that,” he admitted.
“Doubles though, from what I hear. With Holmes of all people. I would ask if you were feeling alright, but you’ve always liked a challenge. How did you persuade him to do that? Would be offended that you didn’t ask me, but we all know who the better player is.”
“I didn’t persuade him,” he said, “believe it or not it was his idea. I had very little to do with it.”
“Persuasive is he?”
“You have no idea.”
Dimmock grinned at him. “Should catch up while you’re here. I’ll text you. Gotta run now though. Local paper wants my opinion on who to watch out for. Holmes doesn’t have any injuries does he? Niggly shoulder? Strained knee?”
“Not that I know of,” he said with a grin. “Ask him yourself.”
“Wouldn’t take the risk, mate”
Dimmock disappearing, he turned back to where Sherlock had been only to find that the Frenchman too had vanished. That was just plain typical.
Huffing slightly, he pushed his bags back onto his shoulders and made his way to the lifts. At least this time there was no Moriarty hanging around for him to accidentally knock into, which was a good point, because he didn’t even know if Moriarty was playing here. He presumed he was. Moriarty was still World Number One after all. That said he hadn’t played at either Atlanta or Washington either, but then again, none of the top players had, so perhaps that wasn’t so much of a surprise.
Their paths were almost guaranteed to cross at some point, and then… well they would just have to face it when it happened, he supposed.
His room was nice but nothing ostentatious, and his bags had already been brought up, except, he realised when he took a closer look, they weren’t his bags, although they did have his luggage labels attached to them.
Somehow he wasn’t surprised when his mobile vibrated with an incoming text.
Ontario Suite, it said followed by the floor number.
A suite, of course.
Oddly enough the suite wasn’t hard to find, helped by the lurking gentleman in the suit who he knew as one of the bodyguards.
The suite itself was as nice as any he had seen, not that he had any decent amount of first-hand knowledge. Sleek, modern, with a sitting area, flat screen television and a Sherlock already sprawled across the dark orange sectioned sofa flicking through some paperwork with an ease that suggest he was right at home and virtually part of the furniture. Then again he did spend up to half of a year moving from one such hotel room to another.
“Another change of room then?” he asked mildly while putting down his bags and having a quick nosy around. He wasn’t surprised at all to find his bags in the first of the two - two? - bedrooms, with of course Lestrade’s luggage labels attached.
“What? Oh,” Sherlock said looking up briefly as he turned the pages. “Seemed like the obvious solution and Lestrade does get so tedious at times.”
The second bedroom contained Sherlock’s clothing and a Lestrade who was patiently unpacking them and hanging up jackets, trousers and shirts.
“I’m sure he’d say the same thing about you,” he replied before sticking his nose into the very modern looking bathroom, complete with plasma telly on the wall. Nice. He then wandered back out to shove Sherlock up so they could share the incredibly comfortable sofa. Having removed his shoeless feet from the seat temporarily, Sherlock resumed his previous position, this time with his lower legs across John’s lap.
“I take it I’m Lestrade for the week then, and he’s me.”
“Something like that,” Sherlock said absently wiggling his toes. “He’ll have your official room and you can have his. Or share mine. The bed’s certainly big enough.”
“Good to know,” he said, “and not all that far to the second bedroom if I finally decide I can’t take another night of your snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” Sherlock protested, digging a heel into his thigh.
John shot him an amused grin. “Of course not,” he said. “Is that the playing schedule?”
Sherlock gave him one last look of almost wounded pride before returning his attention to the document at hand. “Murray’s pulled out completely,” he said. “Having already pulled out of the doubles he’s now out of the singles as well.”
John frowned. “I didn’t think his ankle was that bad?”
“No, but it might not be his ankle. With him it’s just as likely to be his shoulder or his back or his groin.”
“Oh right. So when’s your first match and who’s the unlucky fellow?”
“My first match,” Sherlock said, “is Tuesday, Centre Court, 7:30 in the evening against either Melas or Dancevic. I get a bye into the second round, remember.”
That was something that slipped John’s mind, not having ever been ranked or seeded high enough in such a competition to have been rewarded with one of those.
“Our first match is Monday,” Sherlock said. “Court Number 3. Matches start at 11:00 and we’re the third match on, so your guess is as good as mine. After lunch certainly.”
Yeah, that would be about right. Lunch, final preparations, warm-up and strategy discussion and then the match.
“Who’ve we got?”
“Kohlschreiber and Monfils.”
John pulled a face. “They’re quite good, aren’t they,” he said. “You know, in doubles.”
“Reasonably,” Sherlock said, “but then we are here on a wild card. We could have been drawn against Djokovic and Nadal.”
“Some small mercies then,” John said.
Sherlock made a disagreeing noise in the back of his throat. “It’s not about ability,” Sherlock said, “it’s about teamwork. With the right teamwork anyone can be beaten.”
“Know that for a fact do you?” John said, his hand automatically tracing up Sherlock’s leg.
“I know that until now I have never had someone I really wanted to play doubles with.”
“Even Victor Trevor?” John said softly.
“Even him,” Sherlock said with a note of finality.
That was perhaps as close as he’d ever heard Sherlock come to giving voice to whatever they had here. Not that he had been any better. One declaration in the changing rooms at Wimbledon and a lot of unspoken words.
“So what happens now?” he asked clearing his throat.
“Whatever you like,” Sherlock said. “Tomorrow I would suggest popping to the courts for a practice and we need to run through the tactics I’ve been developing.”
“Ah, so that’s what you were doing on the plane. I thought you were rather quiet.”
“There was a lot to formulate.”
“Of course.” He patted Sherlock’s leg affectionately. “What about this evening? We should probably think about food. We could go out, or stay here, order in and sit at that table over there. There’s probably some film we could find to watch afterwards, or we could get our laptops out. So.”
He stopped when he realised that Sherlock was watching him with an expression of open affection, a small smile on his lips.
“Sounds perfect,” he said before looking away. “A night in, food and a movie.”
“Sounds like a date,” he offered with a reasonably blank face.
Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I have no idea what you mean.”
*
Sunday 8th August.
It’s been a while since I’ve updated but at least I have a bloody good excuse. Life has been rather hectic and it’s about to get that bit crazier again. Somehow I’ve been talked into picking up a tennis racket again. I’m insane, totally insane, that’s the only possible explanation. Now I understand how Steve Redgrave got back in that boat after his fourth gold.
So now I’m in Toronto, Canada, and about to play in my first tournament since Wimbledon. Not only that, but my first doubles tournament since, well, I can’t honestly remember. I have no defence do I? Then again, who would turn down the opportunity of partnering Sherlock Holmes? He is the World Number Three for singles after all. Apparently not me. It’ll probably all end with broken tennis rackets and French swear words, but I’ve never backed away from a challenge.
I’m due on the practice courts in an hour. Don’t think Holmes will be happy if I’m late. Better get a move on.
*
Broken rackets and French swear words weren’t too far from the truth.
By the time the second string went on one of Sherlock’s practice rackets more than a couple of heated exchanges had passed between Sherlock and Lestrade. In French of course. Sherlock seemed to like doing his ranting in French, which made Lestrade the easy target.
More than once John found himself sharing a look from Lestrade which basically translated as; see what I have to put up with when you’re not around. Fully experienced and somewhat desensitised to Sherlock’s tirades, Lestrade had given back as good as he had gotten, refusing to be cowed by whatever Sherlock was frustrated about.
Admittedly, Sherlock did have some right to be frustrated. The day had so far not gone as smoothly as they might have hoped. A problem at the practice courts had led them to being delayed and then once they were warmed up and finally going one of the strings had gone on Sherlock’s first racket.
After some rallying between them, they switched to the same side of the net and had Lestrade feed them balls to play back across the net. There were some communication problems of course and then Sherlock seemed to take issue with everything else as well - the speed of the balls, the placement, height, force, the bounce. That led to harsh words between him and Lestrade and John wondered just what exactly was going on.
“Enough,” he snapped. “This is ridiculous. We’re not getting anywhere. Sherlock, you can continue practicing if you’d like, but I’m going for a run and possibly to the gym. I’ll see you later back at the hotel.”
Not bothering to wait for an answer, he packed away his rackets and slung his bags over his shoulder. By the time he faced Sherlock again the Frenchman had stopped arguing and was showing an expression of mild displeasure.
“No, I don’t want to hear it, okay,” John said holding up his hand to stop whatever it was Sherlock had been about to say. “Later, when we’ve all calmed down.”
He ended up in the gym on one of the treadmills. He preferred road running normally, but he didn’t want to take the risk of getting lost on the streets or woods of Toronto. While his fitness wasn’t as good as it had been, it was certainly better than it had been a week earlier and it felt good to stretch his legs and clear his mind. He hadn’t really had a time solely to himself since he had arrived in Los Angeles and the break would probably do both him and Sherlock good. It wasn’t like London, he wasn’t being rushed from one publicity event to another, snatching kisses and more when given the chance. He just hoped that Sherlock didn’t continue to take it out on Lestrade, although he wasn’t going to hold his breath over that one.
Run completed he decided it wasn’t worth pushing his body any further and headed for the saunas. A massage would have been nice but currently not available, so a sauna would do followed by a long refreshing shower.
He, apparently, wasn’t the only one to think so, reaching the sauna room as a tall familiar figure emerged. Sebastian Moran was just as large, as powerful and as muscular as he remembered. Their eyes met briefly before Moran walked away in the opposite direction.
Well, that was… interesting. Of course Moran would be competing, just like Moriarty was. It looked like the South African hadn’t yet gotten over that semi-final defeat.
The sauna was wonderful and his shower equally refreshing. Calm and relaxed, he got a cab back to the hotel checking his phone along the way. A couple of texts - none from Sherlock - and one missed call - also not from Sherlock. The missed call turned out to be from Harry who demanded to know why the hell he hadn’t told her he was playing doubles with Sherlock and did she always have to find out these things via his blog?
He took advantage of the half hour journey to give her a call back, to apologise and then - if she would let him - to explain. It certainly helped matters that she was still sober and he had a limited time frame to speak in. Then again, they had reached a new understanding after Wimbledon, their sibling relationship better now than it had been in years.
Conversation and journey both over, he paid the cabby and made his way to the suite only to find it empty, much to his surprise. It was obvious that Sherlock had been back. Training equipment had been dumped, clothes tossed around and the violin case lay open, the instrument obviously having been played. There was no suggestion, however, as to where Sherlock was now.
Storing his bags in the second bedroom that they weren’t actually using, he pulled a soft drink from the fridge and settled himself in the armchair wondering what he should do now. He considered texting Sherlock but didn’t want to sound like some sort of nagging housewife. If Sherlock wanted his own space as well then he was more than happy to give him that.
Grabbing his laptop he decided to busy himself with catching up with the news from the rest of the world and maybe a game or two of some mindless computer game followed by some equally mindless YouTube videos.
It was another hour before Sherlock came back, changed from his practice gear into jeans and a dark green shirt that somehow made him look younger than normal.
“John,” he said his eyebrows momentarily pulling together. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”
“Where else would I be?” he said. “Been somewhere good?” There were no bodyguards or Lestrade trailing after him which suggested that wherever he had been he’d managed to slip the minders first.
“I went for a walk,” he said. “Down to the quay and along.” He paused then licked his lips. “John, about my behaviour at the practice today, it was inexcusable and I regret if I may have caused you any additional pain or stress because of it.”
John frowned. “You didn’t cause me any pain or stress. You were under pressure and you took it out on Lestrade. It’s him you should be apologising to, not me, and it’s hardly anything new with you. Things don’t go to plan, you resort to French insults. It could be worse. We all have our ways of coping. No biggy.”
Sherlock looked at him for an extended moment, before his shoulders seemed to drop and his face started to relax.
“You thought I was going to shout at you,” he realised.
“It was a distinct possibility,” Sherlock admitted slowly.
“And then what?” he asked.
Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled closer together.
“Then what did you think I would do after shouting at you?” John clarified.
“I hadn’t gotten that far,” Sherlock said. “There were other variables involved.”
“Like?” John said.
Sherlock didn’t respond, and recognising the look John felt it wasn’t worth pushing him.
“Alright,” he said, “you can stop thinking about it now. I’m here, I’m not going to shout at you and it’s Sunday evening. How about we order in tonight and you can run me through the rest of the tactics you’ve been developing, then later, I dunno, a film, a walk, a shag, whatever you need to switch that big brain of yours off for a while. How does that sound?”
There was a moment and then there was a small smile on Sherlock’s face. “I have a pack of cards,” he offered.
John licked his lips. “Poker?”
“Of course.”
“Strip?”
“Naturally.”
He grinned remembering what had happened the last time they had played. “Sounds like a very good plan,” he said.
*
“A good morning from your BBC team here in Toronto, or if you’re listening over the internet live stream or by digital back in the UK, a good afternoon.
“The first day of the Rogers Cup is about to start and we have a full day of tennis for you. While the top eight seeded players get a bye for the first round of the singles, we’ll be following the progress of Andy Roddick and Canada’s number one, D.I. Dimmock, while in the doubles, Nadal and Djokovic are teaming up, but more importantly for us Brits, after the disappointing withdrawal of Andy Murray in the singles, current Wimbledon Champion, John Watson, has surprised us all by teaming up with World Number Three, Sherlock Holmes, despite having announced his retirement from the game. They’ll be playing doubles later today, but first we’re going over to Court One for the first match of this tournament.”
*
Sherlock had of course done his homework on their opponents. The German Philipp Kohlschreiber they had both met at different times, while Frenchman Gaël Monfils had been a contemporary and rival of Sherlock’s from a young age. He was very familiar with Monfil’s athletic defensive counter-punching. The match, John had a feeling, would be far from easy.
*
“So, what should we expect here, Tim?”
“Well, we could be in for anything here. Kohlschreiber and Monfils have played doubles together before and done reasonably well in tournaments like this. Normally I would expect players of their quality to reach the quarter finals, possibly better, but then again I wouldn’t normally expect to see them against a wild card pair like this in the first round.”
“Let’s talk about Holmes and Watson then. A bit of a surprise?”
“In some ways, yes. In other ways, not so much.”
“Neither of them are known as doubles players, so why here, why now?”
“Well, Holmes doesn’t exactly have a good reputation for getting on with other people, but he and Watson did seem to strike up some sort of working partnership while at Wimbledon and Holmes is not exactly the only top player here completing in both the singles and the doubles. Nadal and Djokovic are teaming up and Murray was initially down for both singles and doubles.”
“What about Watson? We all thought he was retired from the game.”
“True, but sometimes it’s a lot harder to give up than you thought it would be. A number of players have announced their retirement at one point and reappeared not too long later. Doubles is a smart choice for him. Even if players are less competitive in the singles in their early thirties they can still continue competitively in doubles. Just look at John McEnroe, Martina Navratilova, the right partner and you can win doubles titles when you’re in your forties even.”
“Ever considered going back out there then?”
“For competitive matches like that, no chance. I’ll stick to the Legends, thanks.”
“So predictions for the match then. Go out on a limb, who’s going to win?”
“Well, I have to say that it’s most likely to be Kohlschreiber and Monfils. Holmes and Watson may technically be better players, but doubles is far more than having the ability to hit a ball back over the net.”
“Well there you have it. Kohlschreiber and Monfils are indeed the favourites to win here on Court Three, but there have been surprises before. The players are now courtside, starting their warm-ups. Stay with us as we bring you all the action and the updates from the other matches.”
*
The racket felt good, his new outfit from Fred Perry looked good, the tennis however was not good.
The smash from Monfils had no chance of being returned by either him or Sherlock… again. This was not going well. In fact it was going positively badly.
“Forty - Fifteen.”
Clenching his jaw he looked across at Sherlock, but the other man’s expression was as blank as he had ever seen it. That was not good either.
Moving backwards to the back line, he twirled his racket in his hands before getting ready for the next serve. It came deep and fast, down the centre to his back hand. He returned it down the centre and then with just three more shot it was all over.
“Game and set, Kohlschreiber Monfils; six games to two. Kohlschreiber Monfils lead, one set to love.”
Sherlock was tense, horribly tense, but more than that he was detrimentally tense. It was like this was a Grand Slam final in front of fifteen thousand people and the nerves were getting the best of him, rather than being the opening round of a doubles tournament where in the big scheme of things it didn’t exactly matter whether they won or lost. If he didn’t know better he would think their opponent was Moriarty and head games were being played.
They had started alright. Not brilliantly, but they had held their own. Sherlock had held the opening serve which had been important, then he had held his own two games later to take it to two games to one in their favour with Monfils to serve. Then Sherlock’s serve had fallen apart. Well, not fallen apart so to speak, but his first serve error rate had increased and then suddenly they were on the back foot defending in their own service game, taken to deuce and then losing the game to a brilliant shot from Kohlschreiber which had sliced them open leaving neither of them able to return.
After that, well between good teamwork from their opponents and their own unforced errors in an attempt to snatch points back the game had slid from their grasp faster than a Pete Sampras ace.
He then lost his own service game which left their opponents needing only to hold their own serve and then the set was over; six games to two. Broken twice.
Retiring to his seat, he grabbed his towel and drink and waited for Sherlock to join him. “So, uh,” he said lightly with a forced smile, “not quite what we had been going for.”
Sherlock didn’t smile, he barely even acknowledged the comment with a faint grimace. His jaw looked tight and he stared blankly off towards the court. John recognised self-blame when he saw it and it was radiating off Sherlock like steam off boiling water.
“Sherlock.” He leant across. “Damnit, Sherlock, look at me. Stop blaming yourself and stop trying so hard. You don’t have to win this alone. Just, trust me, alright, and for god’s sake stop acting like it’s the end of the world if we lose. You don’t have to do it all by yourself, you know. Nothing changes, yeah.”
What he really wanted to do was to reach out and cover Sherlock’s hand with his own, but that really wouldn’t be appropriate considering how many people were watching. He just hoped that Sherlock understood.
“Time,” the umpire called for the start of the next set.
Rising to his feet, he did the next best thing and held his arm out. Sherlock looked at it for a moment, a touch bewildered before grasping the lower arm and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
“Together, yeah,” John said with a smile. “Your serve, Maestro.”
*
“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead, two games to one.”
“Well that’s certainly better and more confident play from Holmes and Watson in this set than they finished with last set. Whatever Watson said to Holmes between the set seems to have worked. Tim, your thoughts?”
“They certainly seem, if still not quite like themselves, far better than they were. Holmes was looking incredibly tense during that first set, making errors I just wouldn’t expect from a player of his calibre. Holding his serve in the opening game of this set was incredibly crucial, and he handled it and the pressure well.”
“A quick look at his first serves in that game suggests that he’s actually slowed them down a little.”
“Absolutely, he went for the big powerful ones before, looking for the ace, but more often than not finding that they just weren’t landing within the service box. Now, a touch slower means they’re more likely to be returned, but also more likely to land in, giving Watson at the net every opportunity to bury the winner.
“Well it’s Monfils to serve now and he’s just lining up ready to go.”
*
He wiped his brow before bouncing the ball. Serve wide but make sure it’s safe, second serve and all that.
Come on Watson.
Tossing the ball up he relished in the feel of the racket head striking cleanly, the ball flying over the net. Excellent, now remember the point plan. Sherlock’s going to drive it back down the line and then… two handed he drove at the backhand and watched in satisfaction as it shot between the opposition and stole the point.
“Game, Holmes Watson. Holmes Watson lead six games to five.”
Yes!
He looked across at Sherlock who gave a small nod of acknowledgement and a slightly larger smile, his largest of the match so far. Looseness had come back into his shoulders and a quiet ease back into his serving. That and the new trust between them had done wonders to their game.
“Same again?” he asked as they met to quickly discuss tactics, referring to how they would deal with Monfil’s serves.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed for a moment before his lips curved up into a smile. “I have an idea,” he said.
*
“Backhand by Kohlschreiber, closed down by Watson, Monfils trying to find a way through, Watson down the line, Monfil to Holmes, Kohlschreiber with the forehand but Watson’s there with a well-read smash and unbelievably we’re going to three sets.”
“Game and set Holmes Watson; seven games to five, one set all. Third and final set.”
“Just look at the expressions on Holmes and Watson’s faces. They had to dig deep for that one but after their collapse in the first set they’ve come out here and really taken it to Kohlschreiber and Monfils and it’s given them the set. Tim?”
“Good play from Holmes and Watson there. A little risky but with little to lose. Either they would take the set or it would go to a tie break. They got the set and good play by them. Holmes has managed to find some of the form he had last week in LA and Watson certainly doesn’t look like the weak link. This could be a fascinating last set.”
“Holmes to serve first again in the next set. Can Kohlschreiber and Monfils pull it back? We’ll find out shortly.”
*
“Better?” John asked as they returned to their seats.
Sherlock didn’t reply but he at least smiled around the rim of his bottle of water as he drank.
“Good call on that last set,” John continued. “Looks like we might have shaken them. Bit more of that and we could actually win this. That’ll be a turn up for the books.”
“John….”
He looked across as he recognised that tone.
“About the first set….”
“Oh no,” he quickly cut off, “that’s behind us. What I want to know is whether or not that same trick might work on Kohlschreiber’s serve as well. Monfils’ definitely strongest when at the back of the court, what do you say to dragging them both closer to the net and then hitting them low and fast?”
Sherlock was looking at him with a barely suppressed smile, his lips twitching.
“What?” he asked.
“Would never have taken you for the ruthless type.”
“It’s the easy going English persona complete with woollen jumpers,” he quipped as the umpire once again called for the start of the next and this time final set. “Anyway, you know what they say.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he got to his feet. “Enlighten me,” he said.
“All’s fair in love and tennis.”
*
“And a cracking shot there from Holmes. Kohlschreiber really had no chance and was in fact lucky that he even got a racket to it.”
“Thirty - Love.”
“Kohlschreiber and Monfils have never really recovered from the second game of this set when Holmes and Watson’s choice of shorter, wider returns pulled both Kohlschreiber and Monfils in at the net only to then be pummelled by the harder shots.”
“Absolutely, Tim, and now Holmes is ready to serve and it’s good. Kohlschreiber returns, Watson with the volley at the net, Monfils gets a racket to it but Watson just had to pick his spot and it’s four match points to Holmes and Watson.”
“Forty - Love.”
“Holmes and Watson are conferring again, what do you think they’re going to go for?”
“At this point, does it matter? Three match points. They could try nearly anything and the way they’re now playing that might just work.”
Holmes is back at the baseline settling himself up for the serve… and it’s a killer. They end the match with an ace and a thumbs up from Watson.”
“Game, set and match, Holmes Watson; 2-6, 7-5, 6-3.”
*
End Part Four
And more visuals.
The Hilton Hotel is the official hotel of the tournament and the Ontario suite is one of their exclusive signature suites. And yes, it does appear to be orange.
Fanart animation:
If you haven't already seen it, you have to go and check out this animation by radiolocked. http://radiolocked.tumblr.com/post/20508113732/a-study-in-winning I could watch it for hours. And perfect for the chapter where John returns to professional tennis again.
More next week.
Part Five