New Fic: A Study in Winning (2/10) part 1 of 2
Title: A Study in Winning
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 10K this part. 100K+ total
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: None for Season 2.
Previous Parts: One
*
A Study in Winning
Part Two
*
The day was dry but typical British overcast. He, however, barely even noticed. To him it could have been the brightest, loveliest early summer day for the way he was feeling and acting.
He had awoken relaxed and refreshed, feeling more alive than he had done in a long time. He had a long shower and a light leisurely breakfast where he even checked out the sports pages of the newspaper. Obviously, despite his announcement the day before, he had only managed to get seven lines at the end of the main tennis report, but at least the seven lines had included details of his victory.
In comparison, Sherlock managed to get seven paragraphs. Well, short paragraphs, but seven none the less.
Smiling slightly he shook his head and turned over to find out what else was happening in the world.
“Well, you certainly look happy.”
Midmorning and he had made it down to the club for a cursory appointment with Mike just to check that everything was still working properly with his body.
“Who was the lucky lady? Anyone I know?”
“Hmmm?” he asked and then reddened slightly when he realised what Mike was referring to. Apparently he still had some light scratches across his back.
“You know I don’t kiss and tell,” he joked before slipping his polo shirt back on. “So how am I? How’s the shoulder?”
“You tell me. How do you feel?”
How did he feel? He swung his arms and twisted at the waist.
“Good,” he said. “Pretty good, actually.” And he did, surprisingly.
“Excellent then,” Mike said with a broad smile. “She had must been good for you. She doesn’t happen to have a sister does she?”
He laughed. “Sorry, mate,” he said although it did then occur to him that he actually had no idea, but no sisters had ever been mentioned.
“Pity.”
He took lunch at the club, keeping one eye out for whoever was milling around. He was not, he told himself, hoping to see a particular tall Frenchman, and he was certainly not disappointed when he failed to show. He did end up talking to Hilton Soames, an old acquaintance and player he had trained with in the past, but then his friend had to go prepare for his first round match. He was just contemplating going to maybe watch when his phone chimed.
Practice Court 5 the text message said. Come at once if convenient. SH.
He stared at it in surprise. How had Sherlock managed to get hold of his mobile number? When had Sherlock gotten hold of it? Why was he even thinking such questions considering what had happened in the past forty-eight hours? Should he even be surprised?
The phone bleeped again.
If inconvenient, it said, come anyway. SH.
Right. Demanding then.
The phone bleeped a third time.
Bring your rackets. SH.
It took him less than ten minutes to retrieve his spare rackets from his locker and head over to the practice courts. Wimbledon was, as expected, bustling with afternoon activity and he knew the practice courts would be busy with those warming up and those like him getting in a little play on their day off.
He found Sherlock talking rather animatedly to the man he had seen yesterday. Lestrade wasn’t it? Sherlock was dressed in a smart, undoubtedly specially designed mid-blue and white tracksuit top and bottoms, while Lestrade was in a black jacket and white shirt looking rather harassed. They were also talking in rapid French, quite passionately it appeared.
John hesitated, not wanting to interrupt. Rather he did the British thing of hovering and waiting to either be discovered or taken pity on. After a few moments, some rather sharp words - Sherlock - and some agitated arm in the air throwing - Lestrade - it became clear their conversation was over and Sherlock was turning to him.
“Arrête!” Lestrade said catching Sherlock’s elbow. “C’est qui?”
Even having forgotten the best part of five years of secondary school French, John could figure out that Lestrade was asking about him.
Sherlock’s response of, “Il est avec moi,” was harder to understand but he got the general gist.
“Mais, comment sais-tu qu’il n’est pas..?” Lestrade said.
“Parce que je sais,” Sherlock said. “Bonjour, Jean.“
“Bonjour,“ John said automatically much to Sherlock’s obvious amusement.
“Sherlock!”
“Au revoir, Lestrade,” Sherlock then called back.
Lestrade huffed and threw back some rapid French that John had no chance of getting but which caused Sherlock to respond with, “Oui, oui,” and a dismissive wave of his hands. Clearly realising he was on a losing streak, Lestrade gave up, muttered something that sounded vaguely rude and then stormed away.
“What was that all about?” John asked mildly.
“Usual disagreements,” Sherlock said switching easily to perfect English. “Nothing important.”
There was a pause, Sherlock’s gaze drifting to the nearest practice court where two male players were knocking the ball between them. He seemed to watch them with interest, his gaze primarily on the closer of the two, or more accurately on the man’s arse and legs.
John awkwardly cleared his throat, not sure that Sherlock was even aware of what he was doing or how obvious he was being. He knew he had no right to feel jealous or anything, but really, did it have to be here and now?
“Well,” he said, “you asked me to come. I’m assuming it wasn’t to watch you stare at another chap’s arse.”
“Oh… what?” Sherlock said finally tearing his eyes away to look at him.
John motioned to the other player. “You were checking him out,” he said pursing his lips together.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “His shoes. I was looking at his shoes.”
“His shoes?” John didn’t bother to hide his disbelief.
“Of course. You can learn a lot from a player’s shoes. Despite them being only a few months old his are noticeably more worn on the front left which means he’s often running into the net for a backhand. See.”
They both watched as the player did exactly that.
“Obviously a weakness in his game and one that can be exploited.”
“His shoes, right,” John said. “Not something else then?”
“Of course not. Why would you… oh.”
He watched as the Frenchman’s eyes widened, his mouth forming a near perfect ‘o’. “You thought I was… John Watson, were you jealous?”
No. God, no. Absolutely not, no.
“Of course not.”
Sherlock smirked at him clearly not believing for one moment. John wasn’t surprised, he wasn’t sure he would have believed either if he’d been in that situation.
“So,” he said, “why am I here?”
“I thought you could partner me for a bit of a knock around. Nothing too strenuous. No point in jeopardising your shoulder after all.”
“You just want me to be your practice partner?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Problem?”
“No, no, well,” he said. “I have only just had lunch you know.”
“Not a problem. The court is booked from two anyway. Plenty of time.”
He glanced at his watch. It was ten past one. “You said to come at once in your text,” he said. “I thought it was urgent. Why didn’t you just tell me the time as well?”
“Because it was urgent,” Sherlock said. “It gave me the perfect excuse to escape the clutches of my minders. You just saw Lestrade. I’ve had to put up with him and his demands all morning. It’s enough to drive anyone to violence or in my case some rather underhand dealings. And besides, it’s not as if you have anything more interesting to do.”
Unfortunately Sherlock had a point.
“Fine,” John found himself saying. “But I would have thought a player like you, you know, of your level, would have a coach or practice partner already.”
Sherlock looked at him. “I’m a rude, abrupt, arrogant Frenchman known for my sharp tongue and even sharper forehand. What man would ever put up with me?”
What man indeed.
“Point taken,” John admitted. “So what do you propose we do while we wait?”
*
Two o’clock exactly and Sherlock was striding across to practice court five. They had spent the time before dissecting the skills and weaknesses of the other players around. In all that time John continued to be amazed by how correct Sherlock was, the Frenchman having drawn his conclusions from little more than shoes, or the wear of a tennis racket handle, or the colour of a t-shirt.
Now he found himself tagging along partly out of curiosity, partly because he actually found himself wanting to spend more time with the man. That alone was quite a surprise. In the past he had gained a reputation - well one of his reputations - for being somewhat of a loner. Especially more recently. Trust issues his therapist had said. Well, considering how burnt he had been in the past how could he not?
Mary’s kiss and tell story sold to The Sun had taken care of that. It was hard to trust anyone after the one person you had most loved and confided in had sought to make money out of you. At least with Sherlock he wasn’t about to run that risk. The Frenchman stood to lose as much, if not more, from whatever it was that had happened last night.
There were two players on the court when they got there, one man, one lady, probably a mixed doubles pair. They looked familiar but he didn’t know them.
Walking to the side of the net, Sherlock stood silently and watched until an undercut forehand slammed into the net.
“Oh great, it’s the freaky frog,” the woman said her words cutting. “What you doing here, freak?”
“Ah have a booking,” Sherlock said in his French accent. “And ah beleeeve you are on ma court.”
“Well, you know what I think, don’t you?”
“Ov course, Sally. Ah even know you’re going to looose your first round metch. Straight sets.”
“How could you… you here on your own then? Can’t even get someone to play with you?”
“Au contraire, ah am not as repulsive as you beleeeve. Ma tennis is after all rather good. This is John Watson. Watson, Sally Donovan and her doubles partner, Anderson.”
John nodded politely to Sally who looked at him with a mixed expression of surprise and pity.
“What did he do? Threaten you or something?” she asked as they were joined by Anderson who glared at Sherlock as if he was some kind of French demon.
“Thought I made it clear you were to stay away from us,” Anderson said.
“Ah would,” Sherlock said, “except you’re on ma court.”
“Your court?” Anderson said. “Typical frog, think you own everything. Just because you’ve won a few tournaments. Just remember, you haven’t won here. Come on, Sally.”
Enough said, John watched as they grabbed their bags and equipment and left the court.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Oh, just some old friends,” Sherlock said reverting back to his usual English accent now they were alone again.
“They don’t seem to like you very much.”
“No. Well, I may have helped break up Anderson’s marriage.”
“Really?” John raised his eyebrows then frowned. “You don’t seem like the sort to sleep with someone’s wife.”
Sherlock snorted. “Hardly,” he said, “but I may have drawn some attention to the extra off court practice he and Sally had been getting up to.”
“Oh god.”
“Not my finest hour, I admit, but they were hardly discreet.”
“No wonder you’ve got such a reputation,” John said.
“Believe it or not,” Sherlock said unzipping his top to reveal a pale blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt, “only some of it isn’t warranted. Come on.”
After a warm up they played some gentle rallying and John quickly came to realise why Sherlock was rated the third in the world. He could be positively lethal, combining natural talent with an uncanny ability to play a precise strategy. By the time they called it a day John was sweating while Sherlock barely looked ruffled.
“You play far too safe, John,” Sherlock said, tossing him a new unopened bottle of water. “You should trust your instincts more.”
Funnily enough Sherlock wasn’t the first person to have told him such a thing. He nodded but decided not to comment on it.
“Dinner, tonight?” he asked instead. “I can’t offer you candle lit Italian, but I may be able to stretch to fish and chips.”
Sherlock zipped up his racket bag. “No,” he said simply but firmly, “I told you, not before a match.”
“Oh, right,” John said wondering if he should mention that he was fine with just dinner and nothing more, but something stopped him. “Well,” he said instead, “I guess this is goodbye then. Good luck with your match tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said still fiddling with his bags.
“Thanks for the practice.” He turned to go.
“John.”
He turned back at the sound of his name. He found Sherlock standing again, looking almost uncharacteristically awkward. It was a strange but almost endearing look. “Yes,” he said.
Sherlock seemed to frown then. “You’re a better player than you believe,” he finally said. “You made this practice tolerable.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Thanks, I think,” he said.
Sherlock scowled. “There is no reason why you should not proceed to the third round,” he said and then he was lifting his bags onto this shoulder and walking away.
That, John realised, was probably the closest Sherlock Holmes got to giving a compliment. He laughed slightly and shook his head. He supposed it wasn’t all bad then.
*
“Welcome to day three of Wimbledon where this morning’s light showers have cleared leaving a fresh but hopefully dry afternoon.
“Today sees the start of the second round matches for the Men’s and Ladies’ Singles, and the first round of the Men’s and Ladies’ Doubles. So far we haven’t had any great upsets with all the top seeds making it safely through. Andy Murray will be playing on Court Number One later this afternoon, while Centre Court will see action from Roger Federer, Sherlock Holmes and Jelena Jankovic.
“Other Brits in action include veteran John Watson, retiring after these championships, but first taking on Italian Alessandro Giordano currently ranked fifty-second in the world on court number nine.”
John found that he felt unbelievably good. He had gotten a good night’s rest and was contented and remarkably relaxed. Any residual stiffness disappeared with a hot shower and a brief warm up. He match wasn’t going to be easy, but for the first time in longer than he could remember he felt as if he could win it. No, that he would win it.
They were due second on the court which meant not quite so long to wait and get nervous in. Running through his pre-match preparations he made sure he had everything and was ready, then closing his eyes leant back and took deep breaths.
He felt rather than heard his phone go off. Half expecting it to be from his sister he glanced at the screen only to realise that it definitely wasn’t.
‘His backhand is weak,’ the message said, ‘and he tends to favour playing down the line. SH.’
He blinked in surprise then huffed with amusement, replacing his phone in his jacket pocket before returning to his pre-match meditations.
Twenty minutes later he was walking onto court nine to the polite applause of the crowd. He acknowledged his opponent and the umpire before taking his seat and retrieving his racket. A poor backhand, he thought swinging his arms. Interesting.
He’d won the toss and had the opening serve.
Blocking out all the sounds, all his anxieties and all his distracting thoughts, he bounced the ball twice before thundering it across the net. His opponent’s return ended up in the net giving him the first points of the match.
Fifteen - Love.
He moved to the other side. A weak backhand? He hammered the ball right by the edge of the middle line. The ball was returned but not well placed needing just a deep ball down the line for him to take the point.
Thirty - Love.
His next serve clipped the net and rolled back, but he still managed to take the point from the rally that ensued following his second serve.
Forty - Love.
He lost the next point to a brilliant forehand, but for once he was unconcerned.
Forty - Fifteen.
Twisting his body he put power and speed into this next serve. His opponent had little chance.
He took the first game.
The second game his opponent held onto but John was a touch amused to realise that Sherlock had been completely right. His opponent’s weakness was the backhand and he seemed to favour the down the line shot rather than cross court.
With that in mind he held his serve in the third game and then took his chance to break in the fourth before holding his serve once more in the fifth. His opponent held the serve in the sixth, and due to a lapse in concentration almost broke him back to take the seventh, the game going to deuce before John managed to pull it back. His opponent kept serve on the eighth, but it was of no issue, all he had to do was retain his serve on the ninth. Which he did.
“First set Watson, six games to three.”
Right, he was so doing this.
*
The resulting press conference was unsurprisingly busier than before, the sight alone making him feel a little giddy. He was already a little bubbly from the match as it was. It was almost like his birthday. He had forgotten what it was like to have the backing of the crowd, limited although it had been, and then to come away winning. Oh it was better than a birthday, it was like his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.
“Don’t expect you thought you’d be seeing me at another one of these,” he said fighting to keep his grin down to an acceptable level as he took his seat.
The reporters laughed all ready to start asking questions. He recognised a few of them as being from the BBC, ITV, a few of the newspapers but he couldn’t remember the last time the majority had been in the same room as him at the same time.
“That was a good win over someone over eighty places better than you,” one started, “how does that feel?”
“Good,” he said and leant back with a smile. “Very good. It’s always a pleasant feeling to walk off a court the winner. Even better when you beat someone apparently much better than you.”
“I suppose that’s not a feeling you’ve had many times in the past few years,” another voice asked.
“No,” he said, “no, it’s not, so if you don’t mind I plan on enjoying it while it lasts.”
“Was your decision to announce your retirement brought on by your previous inability to win, and if so will you reconsider your plans should you progress further in this competition?”
Leaning forward he crossed his arms on the table in front of him. “I would be lying,” he said, “if I claimed that my decision to retire wasn’t at least partly motivated by my recent match history, but if that was the whole story I would have retired years ago.”
He let them laugh.
“Win or lose, I just feel that now is the right time to finally hang up the racket. I’m getting on in tennis years as my body frequently reminds me, but that’s not to say that I don’t want to first go out with a bang.”
“What do you think of your chances of getting through the next round are?”
He flashed a smile. “Depends on who I’ve got.”
“You don’t know?” the reporter said almost surprised.
“I’ve been a bit busy,” he admitted. “Haven’t had a chance to check, but I’ve got a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“It’s your old training partner,” the reporter replied, “D. I. Dimmock.”
Oh. Right.
*
Daniel Ian Dimmock, or D.I. as he liked to be called, had been his training partner for a few years until they went their separate ways once it became painfully clear that Dimmock was on his way up while he had been on his way down. He hadn’t blamed Dimmock for their parting, the young man had needed someone better than him, or at least someone who wanted it more than he did. That had always been part of the problem he knew, after the accident, despite what he had gone through with the physiotherapy and retraining, he just hadn’t wanted it as much anymore.
“Hey mate, I hear we’ve been drawn against each other in the next round.”
“Yeah,” he said tearing his eyes away from the screen to offer Dimmock the spare seat. He didn’t look that much different from the last time he had met the Canadian, although that wasn’t too surprising as it had only been a few months since they had last bumped into each other.
“Congratulations on your win earlier,” he continued, “I hear you knocked out a seed.”
“Yeah,” Dimmock said stretching out his legs, “twenty-third seed and he’d had a long first round match, but a seed none the less.”
“Still,” John said, “good result. What rating are you at the moment?”
“Forty-third,” Dimmock said. “You?”
John made some sort of vague noise. “I’ve lost track.”
Dimmock flashed him a smile. “That good then.”
“Hmmm,” John said his eyes flickering back to the screen where a very familiar Frenchman was collecting balls from a ball girl.
“Who’s on?” Dimmock asked following his gaze.
“Gregson - Holmes,” John said watching as Sherlock’s serve thudded across the net for his fifteenth ace of the match clocking in at an impressive hundred and thirty-two miles an hour.
“Blimey,” Dimmock said. “Holmes winning then?”
“Yeah,” John said. “One game all, third set. 6-3, 6-4 to Holmes in the first two.”
“Sounds like his then. Not surprising, but Gregson’s going to be annoyed. When we played in Australia he told me he was hoping to at least make it to the third round here. Probably didn’t expect to pull Holmes in the second round though. That man…” he made a noise of admiration. “You ever played against either of them?”
“Gregson,” John admitted. “Knocked me out first round of the US last year. Won the first set, crashed out on the rest. You?”
“Both,” Dimmock said. “Played Gregson about nine times now. He’s winning six matches to three unfortunately. Holmes, I’ve only played him once. French Open, this year, the one he almost won. Got him in the second round. He literally sliced through my game like a warm knife through butter. Slippery fellow, virtually impossible to break down. His game and style changes with every person he plays. Makes it hard to find his habits or weak spots. Can’t believe he lost that final though, in front of his home crowd and all. One hell of a match though. Smart money’s on a Holmes - Nadal final here. If so, wouldn’t want to call that.”
“No,” John agreed watching as Sherlock broke Gregson’s serve to take the score to three - one in the third.
“How’s your shoulder?” Dimmock asked shooting him a slightly wry grin.
“Good,” he said. “How’s your knee?”
“Better than ever,” Dimmock said, “thanks for asking.”
“Excellent.” He glanced back at the screen and they watched for a bit. It looked like Sherlock was about to take the fifth game, and he did, finishing the point with a well-placed forehand drive that Gregson had no hope of getting.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Dimmock said getting to his feet. “See you Friday then. Don’t be late.”
He rolled his eyes but went back to watching the game. Gregson was on serve again but it was clear the fight had gone out of his game, Sherlock returning the serve cross court then coming in to volley the return taking the score to fifteen all.
Gregson’s next serve went wide, his second serve was slower and gave Sherlock plenty of time to back hand the winner down the line. Gregson pulled it together to offer a serve that Sherlock could only net taking the score to thirty all, but it was clear he knew it was almost over.
The game went to deuce, but a double fault gave Sherlock the advantage and a neat little drop shot gave him the game taking it to five games to one, third set, Holmes to serve.
He did so quickly and efficiently, twice literally into Gregson’s body, once to his backhand before closing the match with another ace. Game, set, match Holmes, 6-3, 6-4, 6-1.
John nodded in acknowledgement of a match very well played. Gregson looked drained and weary as he shook hands with Sherlock over the net. John didn’t need to imagine what that felt like, he had experienced losing in such situations many, many times before. Knowing Gregson he would either hide himself away to lick his wounds or drink himself into oblivion.
“Freaky frog won again?”
He turned at the sound of the female voice and found himself facing the woman he had met on the practice courts the day before.
“If you’re referring to Holmes,” he said as mildly as he could, “then yes, he has.”
She looked at him, a frown on her face. “You’re not his friend,” she said bluntly. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”
Who was he? Well, he couldn’t exactly admit that he had been the one balls deep inside the Frenchman less than forty-eight hours before, and anyway, what did that even mean?
“I’m… I’m nobody,” he said basically truthfully. “I just met him.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie either.
“Okay,” she said moving a little closer, “bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy.”
He frowned, tipping his head slightly. “Why?” he asked.
“You know why he’s disliked? It’s because he uses people. He gets to know you, finds out your weaknesses and then bang, drops you just like that. And you know what, he gets off on it. The closer he gets to someone the more he enjoys it. He’ll make you think one thing then once he’s got what he wants he’ll turn on you fast as anything.”
“Why would he do that?” he asked with a frown.
“Because he gets bored. He doesn’t care about anyone but tennis and himself.”
“Sally!”
She looked up as her name was called.
“Coming,” she shouted back before giving him a sharp look. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she said, then she left.
He sat there for a moment, his mind churning over what she had said. Sherlock cared about nothing and no-one except tennis. Well, yes, he could believe that, especially from what he had seen of his interviews or reports in the press, but then again he had also seen another side to Sherlock Holmes. The side where he had warmly greeted a man who had once tried to nick his possessions. The side where he had shed his anonymity to prove a young girl right and save the blushes of a virtual stranger.
Yes, so their whole not a date night out had ended up with them playing tonsil tennis, but that probably would have happened regardless of whether Sherlock had stuck his neck out or not. He hadn’t asked him to and he certainly hadn’t expected it, and the Frenchman had clearly known that.
So was Sally right? Was he just being used and would be dropped again as soon as? Well that was always the possibility, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t also gotten something out of it. If nothing else it had been the best shag he’d had in a long time, and who knew, maybe the Frenchman would be up for a little second round celebration tonight.
He looked at the screen where Sherlock was now being interviewed by a BBC presenter. His face was a touch flushed, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. It was a good look for him.
Stay away from Sherlock Holmes he thought with a small smile. Not tonight. Tonight he planned on getting incredibly close to the controversial Frenchman.
*
“Hi, Sherlock, it’s John. Just thought I’d call to congratulate you on your win. Pretty impressive. I believe I offered fish and chips, and you know, whatever comes with that. Call me. Or text if you’d prefer. Either way you have my number. Bye.”
Bye? He pressed the call end button and frowned. What was he, a twelve year old school girl with a first crush? This was embarrassing, but needs must. He was already eager just from replaying scenes from the other night. Maybe this time he’d have the chance to do more exploring. There were still plenty of places on the Frenchman’s body that he hadn’t had the chance to become fully acquainted with yet.
He passed some more time wondering around the players’ and members’ area waiting for his mobile to buzz. It did once but that was just his sister. Dutifully he answered this time, although he had his responses ready to hand. Yes, he was fine. Yes, that included his shoulder. Yes, he was into the third round. No, he wasn’t going to get her tickets. No, calling him a lousy brother was not going to help her case. No, he hadn’t seen Clara. Yes, he was busy thank you very much, so no, he wasn’t about to go hunt down her ex just because she asked him to. Yes, he probably did need to get laid more but that wasn’t the point, and talking to her was hardly going to help his case. Yes, he was going to hang up now. Really, yes, goodbye.
He hung up. Somehow talking to his sister always took more out of him than playing a game of tennis. He needed a drink but he knew he shouldn’t. He might not have a match tomorrow, but he preferred to stay clear headed for everything and anything that might happen tonight.
Half an hour later and there was still no response or any sign of Sherlock. Seeing a face he knew, he made a beeline over.
“Sarah,” he said greeting her with a smile. “How are you?”
“John,” she said returning the smile and allowing him to give her a quick hug. “Wondered if I would see you here. You’re looking well and from what I’ve seen and heard you’re playing well too.”
He nodded and thanked her, spending a few minutes talking about his matches and then her own. Apparently she had unfortunately lost her ladies’ singles second round match that afternoon but was due to be playing in the ladies’ doubles first round the next day. He wished her good luck with that, glad that she had found a suitable doubles partner after the disaster of the time they had tried to be a doubles partnership. Of course their disaster on the court had been matched by their disaster off it. Their almost relationship had sparked briefly into life before spluttering to a damp end when it became clear they were far better off as friends. So friends they still were. Well, sort of. At least she was one of the closest friends he had on the circuit, so that certainly counted for something.
Eventually he found the opportunity to ask his question.
“You haven’t, uh, happened to have seen Sherlock Holmes around, have you?” he said.
“Sherlock Holmes?” she said although with less surprise and more curiosity than he might have expected, especially from her. “I thought I heard rumours that the two of you had been seen together,” she said watching him closely. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”
For a brief moment he wondered how she might have known; about Angelo’s, about the shagging, about what he was hoping for tonight. Then he briefly panicked regarding who else might know before realising that she knew nothing about that and that her question was rather more innocent.
“It was just a knock around practice,” he said correctly realising that she was referring to their time on the practice courts the day before. “Neither of us have practice partners here, so it made sense. That’s all.”
“And now?” she asked raising her eyebrows.
He gave her what he hoped appeared to be a reassuring but somewhat innocent smile. “Thought I’d congratulate him on his win and ask if he wanted to do the same tomorrow since we’re both through and both have days off.”
She looked at him closely but finally seemed satisfied. “You just missed him,” she said. “I saw him leave in a black car about half an hour ago.”
Half an hour ago? Damn.
He rose to his feet.
“John.”
“Hmm?” he said stopping.
“Be careful,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re thinking or planning to do, but be careful with him. I’ve heard things, things that aren’t necessarily good. I wouldn’t want you to be the latest to fall prey to his ways.”
He frowned slightly but nodded, patting her on the hand. “You know me,” he said. “You really think I’m going to fall for any of his crap?”
She smiled but let him go without another word on the matter, wishing him luck on his next round draw.
Exiting the club he returned to the Dorchester, but there was no sign of Sherlock anywhere, nor had there been any messages or texts to his phone. Damnit.
He hovered in the foyer for a few minutes pondering his next move. There was a thin line between polite interest and stalking he knew, and he had no plans to be on the wrong side of it. On the other hand he didn’t even know if Sherlock had gotten his message. Then again he could well have done but was ignoring him… it. Damn again. The problem was he didn’t even know where Sherlock was staying. He recalled mention of a suite but not of the name or number. If he knew that then maybe he could….
He spotted the main reception desk. Maybe he could just ask he realised.
Plan in hand he walked up to the desk and put on his best polite smile.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Probably,” he said brightly. “I was hoping you could tell me in which room Sherlock Holmes is staying.”
Her smile seemed to falter slightly but then she was turning away and tapping something into her computer.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said looking back up, “but there does not appear to be anyone staying here under that name.”
What? He frowned. “Are you sure?” he asked. “He has a suite. Could you check again, please.”
“Certainly, sir.” She resumed her tapping and then returned with her apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Really?” he said. “Frenchman, about six foot tall, dark curly hair, blue eyes, wears either sports gear or a suit.”
She shook her head. “Maybe he’s staying somewhere else,” she said, “but we haven’t had any bookings under that name.”
He was about to ask about any other names that might be similar, or even under that other gentleman’s name - Lestrade wasn’t it - when he became aware of an imposing black suited figure beside him.
“Is there a problem here, sir?” a gruff voice said very firmly.
He turned to find himself eye to chest with one of the security personnel, an imposing figure whose neck seemed about the same width as John’s thigh.
“Ah, no,” he said quickly taking a step back. “I was just going. Thank you for your time,” he said shooting a smile to the receptionist before backing away.
Well that was… unexpected. He frowned trying to figure out just what had happened and what was really going on. Was Sherlock really not staying here, or was there something more?
Looking up he suddenly saw a familiar figure not too far from the lifts who was also looking at him with a strange expression. The man turned away when their eyes met, but John wasn’t about to let him go that easily.
“Lestrade,” he called darting across the foyer. “Wait.”
It was with great reluctance that the other man stopped and turned back to him, jaw tightening.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I’m looking for Sherlock but they’re telling me that he’s not staying here. Do you know where he is?”
The other man looked at him blankly before replying, “Désolé, Monsieur, mais je ne parle pas anglais.”
John rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that,” he said, “we both know that’s not true. You spoke English perfectly well the first time I saw you when you were shouting at Sherlock on the practice courts, and I know for a fact you’re just as French as he is.”
Lestrade pulled a face but seemed to take the effort to check to see who else was around before lowering his voice and pulling him to one side.
“Okay, fine,” he said in perfect English with a faint trace of a West Country accent. “But I’m not about to tell you where he’s staying. Trust me, that’s more than my job’s worth. But I will say this, for your own good I would advise you not getting involved with him. Or at least not more involved than you already are.”
He opened his mouth to say something but was quickly cut off.
“No, don’t give me any BS. I know what the pair of you have been getting up to and I really don’t care about that. You’re both grown men. But you seem like a decent chap, I wouldn’t want you to get burnt over this. Sherlock Holmes is a great tennis player, but as a man he isn’t so good. So for god’s sake, forget about him and just concentrate on your tennis, because god knows if it comes down to a choice between anything or the tennis, and I literally mean anything, he’ll pick the tennis every time. Got that?”
He nodded unable to even think of anything to say against that.
“Good,” Lestrade said. “And I’m sorry, I really am, but it’ll be better that way. You’ll see.”
“Right,” he said and swallowed dryly. Lestrade nodded and clapped him once on the upper arm and then left him there.
If there was one thing he had heard over and over again it was to leave Sherlock Holmes well and truly alone. Shit, he really wished he had known that before all of this had started because he had a funny sinking feeling in his stomach that it was already almost too late.
Damn it to hell!
He took the lift up to his room, his mind whirling. Maybe it was just the sex he thought. Maybe that was simply it. The sex had been good - no bloody brilliant - so of course he would want more. But even as he thought that he knew it wasn’t totally true. In truth he had enjoyed himself when he had been with Sherlock. He had laughed and relaxed and felt better than he had in a long time.
Christ this was a mess.
Reaching his room he fumbled for his key-card before opening the door.
There was no one in there.
*
Continue
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: NC17
Beta: trillsabells
Word Count: 10K this part. 100K+ total
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by ACD, Sherlock owned by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Summary: John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?
Warnings: Graphic sex, swearing, French.
Spoilers: None for Season 2.
Previous Parts: One
*
A Study in Winning
Part Two
*
The day was dry but typical British overcast. He, however, barely even noticed. To him it could have been the brightest, loveliest early summer day for the way he was feeling and acting.
He had awoken relaxed and refreshed, feeling more alive than he had done in a long time. He had a long shower and a light leisurely breakfast where he even checked out the sports pages of the newspaper. Obviously, despite his announcement the day before, he had only managed to get seven lines at the end of the main tennis report, but at least the seven lines had included details of his victory.
In comparison, Sherlock managed to get seven paragraphs. Well, short paragraphs, but seven none the less.
Smiling slightly he shook his head and turned over to find out what else was happening in the world.
“Well, you certainly look happy.”
Midmorning and he had made it down to the club for a cursory appointment with Mike just to check that everything was still working properly with his body.
“Who was the lucky lady? Anyone I know?”
“Hmmm?” he asked and then reddened slightly when he realised what Mike was referring to. Apparently he still had some light scratches across his back.
“You know I don’t kiss and tell,” he joked before slipping his polo shirt back on. “So how am I? How’s the shoulder?”
“You tell me. How do you feel?”
How did he feel? He swung his arms and twisted at the waist.
“Good,” he said. “Pretty good, actually.” And he did, surprisingly.
“Excellent then,” Mike said with a broad smile. “She had must been good for you. She doesn’t happen to have a sister does she?”
He laughed. “Sorry, mate,” he said although it did then occur to him that he actually had no idea, but no sisters had ever been mentioned.
“Pity.”
He took lunch at the club, keeping one eye out for whoever was milling around. He was not, he told himself, hoping to see a particular tall Frenchman, and he was certainly not disappointed when he failed to show. He did end up talking to Hilton Soames, an old acquaintance and player he had trained with in the past, but then his friend had to go prepare for his first round match. He was just contemplating going to maybe watch when his phone chimed.
Practice Court 5 the text message said. Come at once if convenient. SH.
He stared at it in surprise. How had Sherlock managed to get hold of his mobile number? When had Sherlock gotten hold of it? Why was he even thinking such questions considering what had happened in the past forty-eight hours? Should he even be surprised?
The phone bleeped again.
If inconvenient, it said, come anyway. SH.
Right. Demanding then.
The phone bleeped a third time.
Bring your rackets. SH.
It took him less than ten minutes to retrieve his spare rackets from his locker and head over to the practice courts. Wimbledon was, as expected, bustling with afternoon activity and he knew the practice courts would be busy with those warming up and those like him getting in a little play on their day off.
He found Sherlock talking rather animatedly to the man he had seen yesterday. Lestrade wasn’t it? Sherlock was dressed in a smart, undoubtedly specially designed mid-blue and white tracksuit top and bottoms, while Lestrade was in a black jacket and white shirt looking rather harassed. They were also talking in rapid French, quite passionately it appeared.
John hesitated, not wanting to interrupt. Rather he did the British thing of hovering and waiting to either be discovered or taken pity on. After a few moments, some rather sharp words - Sherlock - and some agitated arm in the air throwing - Lestrade - it became clear their conversation was over and Sherlock was turning to him.
“Arrête!” Lestrade said catching Sherlock’s elbow. “C’est qui?”
Even having forgotten the best part of five years of secondary school French, John could figure out that Lestrade was asking about him.
Sherlock’s response of, “Il est avec moi,” was harder to understand but he got the general gist.
“Mais, comment sais-tu qu’il n’est pas..?” Lestrade said.
“Parce que je sais,” Sherlock said. “Bonjour, Jean.“
“Bonjour,“ John said automatically much to Sherlock’s obvious amusement.
“Sherlock!”
“Au revoir, Lestrade,” Sherlock then called back.
Lestrade huffed and threw back some rapid French that John had no chance of getting but which caused Sherlock to respond with, “Oui, oui,” and a dismissive wave of his hands. Clearly realising he was on a losing streak, Lestrade gave up, muttered something that sounded vaguely rude and then stormed away.
“What was that all about?” John asked mildly.
“Usual disagreements,” Sherlock said switching easily to perfect English. “Nothing important.”
There was a pause, Sherlock’s gaze drifting to the nearest practice court where two male players were knocking the ball between them. He seemed to watch them with interest, his gaze primarily on the closer of the two, or more accurately on the man’s arse and legs.
John awkwardly cleared his throat, not sure that Sherlock was even aware of what he was doing or how obvious he was being. He knew he had no right to feel jealous or anything, but really, did it have to be here and now?
“Well,” he said, “you asked me to come. I’m assuming it wasn’t to watch you stare at another chap’s arse.”
“Oh… what?” Sherlock said finally tearing his eyes away to look at him.
John motioned to the other player. “You were checking him out,” he said pursing his lips together.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “His shoes. I was looking at his shoes.”
“His shoes?” John didn’t bother to hide his disbelief.
“Of course. You can learn a lot from a player’s shoes. Despite them being only a few months old his are noticeably more worn on the front left which means he’s often running into the net for a backhand. See.”
They both watched as the player did exactly that.
“Obviously a weakness in his game and one that can be exploited.”
“His shoes, right,” John said. “Not something else then?”
“Of course not. Why would you… oh.”
He watched as the Frenchman’s eyes widened, his mouth forming a near perfect ‘o’. “You thought I was… John Watson, were you jealous?”
No. God, no. Absolutely not, no.
“Of course not.”
Sherlock smirked at him clearly not believing for one moment. John wasn’t surprised, he wasn’t sure he would have believed either if he’d been in that situation.
“So,” he said, “why am I here?”
“I thought you could partner me for a bit of a knock around. Nothing too strenuous. No point in jeopardising your shoulder after all.”
“You just want me to be your practice partner?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Problem?”
“No, no, well,” he said. “I have only just had lunch you know.”
“Not a problem. The court is booked from two anyway. Plenty of time.”
He glanced at his watch. It was ten past one. “You said to come at once in your text,” he said. “I thought it was urgent. Why didn’t you just tell me the time as well?”
“Because it was urgent,” Sherlock said. “It gave me the perfect excuse to escape the clutches of my minders. You just saw Lestrade. I’ve had to put up with him and his demands all morning. It’s enough to drive anyone to violence or in my case some rather underhand dealings. And besides, it’s not as if you have anything more interesting to do.”
Unfortunately Sherlock had a point.
“Fine,” John found himself saying. “But I would have thought a player like you, you know, of your level, would have a coach or practice partner already.”
Sherlock looked at him. “I’m a rude, abrupt, arrogant Frenchman known for my sharp tongue and even sharper forehand. What man would ever put up with me?”
What man indeed.
“Point taken,” John admitted. “So what do you propose we do while we wait?”
*
Two o’clock exactly and Sherlock was striding across to practice court five. They had spent the time before dissecting the skills and weaknesses of the other players around. In all that time John continued to be amazed by how correct Sherlock was, the Frenchman having drawn his conclusions from little more than shoes, or the wear of a tennis racket handle, or the colour of a t-shirt.
Now he found himself tagging along partly out of curiosity, partly because he actually found himself wanting to spend more time with the man. That alone was quite a surprise. In the past he had gained a reputation - well one of his reputations - for being somewhat of a loner. Especially more recently. Trust issues his therapist had said. Well, considering how burnt he had been in the past how could he not?
Mary’s kiss and tell story sold to The Sun had taken care of that. It was hard to trust anyone after the one person you had most loved and confided in had sought to make money out of you. At least with Sherlock he wasn’t about to run that risk. The Frenchman stood to lose as much, if not more, from whatever it was that had happened last night.
There were two players on the court when they got there, one man, one lady, probably a mixed doubles pair. They looked familiar but he didn’t know them.
Walking to the side of the net, Sherlock stood silently and watched until an undercut forehand slammed into the net.
“Oh great, it’s the freaky frog,” the woman said her words cutting. “What you doing here, freak?”
“Ah have a booking,” Sherlock said in his French accent. “And ah beleeeve you are on ma court.”
“Well, you know what I think, don’t you?”
“Ov course, Sally. Ah even know you’re going to looose your first round metch. Straight sets.”
“How could you… you here on your own then? Can’t even get someone to play with you?”
“Au contraire, ah am not as repulsive as you beleeeve. Ma tennis is after all rather good. This is John Watson. Watson, Sally Donovan and her doubles partner, Anderson.”
John nodded politely to Sally who looked at him with a mixed expression of surprise and pity.
“What did he do? Threaten you or something?” she asked as they were joined by Anderson who glared at Sherlock as if he was some kind of French demon.
“Thought I made it clear you were to stay away from us,” Anderson said.
“Ah would,” Sherlock said, “except you’re on ma court.”
“Your court?” Anderson said. “Typical frog, think you own everything. Just because you’ve won a few tournaments. Just remember, you haven’t won here. Come on, Sally.”
Enough said, John watched as they grabbed their bags and equipment and left the court.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Oh, just some old friends,” Sherlock said reverting back to his usual English accent now they were alone again.
“They don’t seem to like you very much.”
“No. Well, I may have helped break up Anderson’s marriage.”
“Really?” John raised his eyebrows then frowned. “You don’t seem like the sort to sleep with someone’s wife.”
Sherlock snorted. “Hardly,” he said, “but I may have drawn some attention to the extra off court practice he and Sally had been getting up to.”
“Oh god.”
“Not my finest hour, I admit, but they were hardly discreet.”
“No wonder you’ve got such a reputation,” John said.
“Believe it or not,” Sherlock said unzipping his top to reveal a pale blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt, “only some of it isn’t warranted. Come on.”
After a warm up they played some gentle rallying and John quickly came to realise why Sherlock was rated the third in the world. He could be positively lethal, combining natural talent with an uncanny ability to play a precise strategy. By the time they called it a day John was sweating while Sherlock barely looked ruffled.
“You play far too safe, John,” Sherlock said, tossing him a new unopened bottle of water. “You should trust your instincts more.”
Funnily enough Sherlock wasn’t the first person to have told him such a thing. He nodded but decided not to comment on it.
“Dinner, tonight?” he asked instead. “I can’t offer you candle lit Italian, but I may be able to stretch to fish and chips.”
Sherlock zipped up his racket bag. “No,” he said simply but firmly, “I told you, not before a match.”
“Oh, right,” John said wondering if he should mention that he was fine with just dinner and nothing more, but something stopped him. “Well,” he said instead, “I guess this is goodbye then. Good luck with your match tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said still fiddling with his bags.
“Thanks for the practice.” He turned to go.
“John.”
He turned back at the sound of his name. He found Sherlock standing again, looking almost uncharacteristically awkward. It was a strange but almost endearing look. “Yes,” he said.
Sherlock seemed to frown then. “You’re a better player than you believe,” he finally said. “You made this practice tolerable.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Thanks, I think,” he said.
Sherlock scowled. “There is no reason why you should not proceed to the third round,” he said and then he was lifting his bags onto this shoulder and walking away.
That, John realised, was probably the closest Sherlock Holmes got to giving a compliment. He laughed slightly and shook his head. He supposed it wasn’t all bad then.
*
“Welcome to day three of Wimbledon where this morning’s light showers have cleared leaving a fresh but hopefully dry afternoon.
“Today sees the start of the second round matches for the Men’s and Ladies’ Singles, and the first round of the Men’s and Ladies’ Doubles. So far we haven’t had any great upsets with all the top seeds making it safely through. Andy Murray will be playing on Court Number One later this afternoon, while Centre Court will see action from Roger Federer, Sherlock Holmes and Jelena Jankovic.
“Other Brits in action include veteran John Watson, retiring after these championships, but first taking on Italian Alessandro Giordano currently ranked fifty-second in the world on court number nine.”
John found that he felt unbelievably good. He had gotten a good night’s rest and was contented and remarkably relaxed. Any residual stiffness disappeared with a hot shower and a brief warm up. He match wasn’t going to be easy, but for the first time in longer than he could remember he felt as if he could win it. No, that he would win it.
They were due second on the court which meant not quite so long to wait and get nervous in. Running through his pre-match preparations he made sure he had everything and was ready, then closing his eyes leant back and took deep breaths.
He felt rather than heard his phone go off. Half expecting it to be from his sister he glanced at the screen only to realise that it definitely wasn’t.
‘His backhand is weak,’ the message said, ‘and he tends to favour playing down the line. SH.’
He blinked in surprise then huffed with amusement, replacing his phone in his jacket pocket before returning to his pre-match meditations.
Twenty minutes later he was walking onto court nine to the polite applause of the crowd. He acknowledged his opponent and the umpire before taking his seat and retrieving his racket. A poor backhand, he thought swinging his arms. Interesting.
He’d won the toss and had the opening serve.
Blocking out all the sounds, all his anxieties and all his distracting thoughts, he bounced the ball twice before thundering it across the net. His opponent’s return ended up in the net giving him the first points of the match.
Fifteen - Love.
He moved to the other side. A weak backhand? He hammered the ball right by the edge of the middle line. The ball was returned but not well placed needing just a deep ball down the line for him to take the point.
Thirty - Love.
His next serve clipped the net and rolled back, but he still managed to take the point from the rally that ensued following his second serve.
Forty - Love.
He lost the next point to a brilliant forehand, but for once he was unconcerned.
Forty - Fifteen.
Twisting his body he put power and speed into this next serve. His opponent had little chance.
He took the first game.
The second game his opponent held onto but John was a touch amused to realise that Sherlock had been completely right. His opponent’s weakness was the backhand and he seemed to favour the down the line shot rather than cross court.
With that in mind he held his serve in the third game and then took his chance to break in the fourth before holding his serve once more in the fifth. His opponent held the serve in the sixth, and due to a lapse in concentration almost broke him back to take the seventh, the game going to deuce before John managed to pull it back. His opponent kept serve on the eighth, but it was of no issue, all he had to do was retain his serve on the ninth. Which he did.
“First set Watson, six games to three.”
Right, he was so doing this.
*
The resulting press conference was unsurprisingly busier than before, the sight alone making him feel a little giddy. He was already a little bubbly from the match as it was. It was almost like his birthday. He had forgotten what it was like to have the backing of the crowd, limited although it had been, and then to come away winning. Oh it was better than a birthday, it was like his birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.
“Don’t expect you thought you’d be seeing me at another one of these,” he said fighting to keep his grin down to an acceptable level as he took his seat.
The reporters laughed all ready to start asking questions. He recognised a few of them as being from the BBC, ITV, a few of the newspapers but he couldn’t remember the last time the majority had been in the same room as him at the same time.
“That was a good win over someone over eighty places better than you,” one started, “how does that feel?”
“Good,” he said and leant back with a smile. “Very good. It’s always a pleasant feeling to walk off a court the winner. Even better when you beat someone apparently much better than you.”
“I suppose that’s not a feeling you’ve had many times in the past few years,” another voice asked.
“No,” he said, “no, it’s not, so if you don’t mind I plan on enjoying it while it lasts.”
“Was your decision to announce your retirement brought on by your previous inability to win, and if so will you reconsider your plans should you progress further in this competition?”
Leaning forward he crossed his arms on the table in front of him. “I would be lying,” he said, “if I claimed that my decision to retire wasn’t at least partly motivated by my recent match history, but if that was the whole story I would have retired years ago.”
He let them laugh.
“Win or lose, I just feel that now is the right time to finally hang up the racket. I’m getting on in tennis years as my body frequently reminds me, but that’s not to say that I don’t want to first go out with a bang.”
“What do you think of your chances of getting through the next round are?”
He flashed a smile. “Depends on who I’ve got.”
“You don’t know?” the reporter said almost surprised.
“I’ve been a bit busy,” he admitted. “Haven’t had a chance to check, but I’ve got a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“It’s your old training partner,” the reporter replied, “D. I. Dimmock.”
Oh. Right.
*
Daniel Ian Dimmock, or D.I. as he liked to be called, had been his training partner for a few years until they went their separate ways once it became painfully clear that Dimmock was on his way up while he had been on his way down. He hadn’t blamed Dimmock for their parting, the young man had needed someone better than him, or at least someone who wanted it more than he did. That had always been part of the problem he knew, after the accident, despite what he had gone through with the physiotherapy and retraining, he just hadn’t wanted it as much anymore.
“Hey mate, I hear we’ve been drawn against each other in the next round.”
“Yeah,” he said tearing his eyes away from the screen to offer Dimmock the spare seat. He didn’t look that much different from the last time he had met the Canadian, although that wasn’t too surprising as it had only been a few months since they had last bumped into each other.
“Congratulations on your win earlier,” he continued, “I hear you knocked out a seed.”
“Yeah,” Dimmock said stretching out his legs, “twenty-third seed and he’d had a long first round match, but a seed none the less.”
“Still,” John said, “good result. What rating are you at the moment?”
“Forty-third,” Dimmock said. “You?”
John made some sort of vague noise. “I’ve lost track.”
Dimmock flashed him a smile. “That good then.”
“Hmmm,” John said his eyes flickering back to the screen where a very familiar Frenchman was collecting balls from a ball girl.
“Who’s on?” Dimmock asked following his gaze.
“Gregson - Holmes,” John said watching as Sherlock’s serve thudded across the net for his fifteenth ace of the match clocking in at an impressive hundred and thirty-two miles an hour.
“Blimey,” Dimmock said. “Holmes winning then?”
“Yeah,” John said. “One game all, third set. 6-3, 6-4 to Holmes in the first two.”
“Sounds like his then. Not surprising, but Gregson’s going to be annoyed. When we played in Australia he told me he was hoping to at least make it to the third round here. Probably didn’t expect to pull Holmes in the second round though. That man…” he made a noise of admiration. “You ever played against either of them?”
“Gregson,” John admitted. “Knocked me out first round of the US last year. Won the first set, crashed out on the rest. You?”
“Both,” Dimmock said. “Played Gregson about nine times now. He’s winning six matches to three unfortunately. Holmes, I’ve only played him once. French Open, this year, the one he almost won. Got him in the second round. He literally sliced through my game like a warm knife through butter. Slippery fellow, virtually impossible to break down. His game and style changes with every person he plays. Makes it hard to find his habits or weak spots. Can’t believe he lost that final though, in front of his home crowd and all. One hell of a match though. Smart money’s on a Holmes - Nadal final here. If so, wouldn’t want to call that.”
“No,” John agreed watching as Sherlock broke Gregson’s serve to take the score to three - one in the third.
“How’s your shoulder?” Dimmock asked shooting him a slightly wry grin.
“Good,” he said. “How’s your knee?”
“Better than ever,” Dimmock said, “thanks for asking.”
“Excellent.” He glanced back at the screen and they watched for a bit. It looked like Sherlock was about to take the fifth game, and he did, finishing the point with a well-placed forehand drive that Gregson had no hope of getting.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Dimmock said getting to his feet. “See you Friday then. Don’t be late.”
He rolled his eyes but went back to watching the game. Gregson was on serve again but it was clear the fight had gone out of his game, Sherlock returning the serve cross court then coming in to volley the return taking the score to fifteen all.
Gregson’s next serve went wide, his second serve was slower and gave Sherlock plenty of time to back hand the winner down the line. Gregson pulled it together to offer a serve that Sherlock could only net taking the score to thirty all, but it was clear he knew it was almost over.
The game went to deuce, but a double fault gave Sherlock the advantage and a neat little drop shot gave him the game taking it to five games to one, third set, Holmes to serve.
He did so quickly and efficiently, twice literally into Gregson’s body, once to his backhand before closing the match with another ace. Game, set, match Holmes, 6-3, 6-4, 6-1.
John nodded in acknowledgement of a match very well played. Gregson looked drained and weary as he shook hands with Sherlock over the net. John didn’t need to imagine what that felt like, he had experienced losing in such situations many, many times before. Knowing Gregson he would either hide himself away to lick his wounds or drink himself into oblivion.
“Freaky frog won again?”
He turned at the sound of the female voice and found himself facing the woman he had met on the practice courts the day before.
“If you’re referring to Holmes,” he said as mildly as he could, “then yes, he has.”
She looked at him, a frown on her face. “You’re not his friend,” she said bluntly. “He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?”
Who was he? Well, he couldn’t exactly admit that he had been the one balls deep inside the Frenchman less than forty-eight hours before, and anyway, what did that even mean?
“I’m… I’m nobody,” he said basically truthfully. “I just met him.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie either.
“Okay,” she said moving a little closer, “bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy.”
He frowned, tipping his head slightly. “Why?” he asked.
“You know why he’s disliked? It’s because he uses people. He gets to know you, finds out your weaknesses and then bang, drops you just like that. And you know what, he gets off on it. The closer he gets to someone the more he enjoys it. He’ll make you think one thing then once he’s got what he wants he’ll turn on you fast as anything.”
“Why would he do that?” he asked with a frown.
“Because he gets bored. He doesn’t care about anyone but tennis and himself.”
“Sally!”
She looked up as her name was called.
“Coming,” she shouted back before giving him a sharp look. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she said, then she left.
He sat there for a moment, his mind churning over what she had said. Sherlock cared about nothing and no-one except tennis. Well, yes, he could believe that, especially from what he had seen of his interviews or reports in the press, but then again he had also seen another side to Sherlock Holmes. The side where he had warmly greeted a man who had once tried to nick his possessions. The side where he had shed his anonymity to prove a young girl right and save the blushes of a virtual stranger.
Yes, so their whole not a date night out had ended up with them playing tonsil tennis, but that probably would have happened regardless of whether Sherlock had stuck his neck out or not. He hadn’t asked him to and he certainly hadn’t expected it, and the Frenchman had clearly known that.
So was Sally right? Was he just being used and would be dropped again as soon as? Well that was always the possibility, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t also gotten something out of it. If nothing else it had been the best shag he’d had in a long time, and who knew, maybe the Frenchman would be up for a little second round celebration tonight.
He looked at the screen where Sherlock was now being interviewed by a BBC presenter. His face was a touch flushed, his dark curls sticking to his forehead. It was a good look for him.
Stay away from Sherlock Holmes he thought with a small smile. Not tonight. Tonight he planned on getting incredibly close to the controversial Frenchman.
*
“Hi, Sherlock, it’s John. Just thought I’d call to congratulate you on your win. Pretty impressive. I believe I offered fish and chips, and you know, whatever comes with that. Call me. Or text if you’d prefer. Either way you have my number. Bye.”
Bye? He pressed the call end button and frowned. What was he, a twelve year old school girl with a first crush? This was embarrassing, but needs must. He was already eager just from replaying scenes from the other night. Maybe this time he’d have the chance to do more exploring. There were still plenty of places on the Frenchman’s body that he hadn’t had the chance to become fully acquainted with yet.
He passed some more time wondering around the players’ and members’ area waiting for his mobile to buzz. It did once but that was just his sister. Dutifully he answered this time, although he had his responses ready to hand. Yes, he was fine. Yes, that included his shoulder. Yes, he was into the third round. No, he wasn’t going to get her tickets. No, calling him a lousy brother was not going to help her case. No, he hadn’t seen Clara. Yes, he was busy thank you very much, so no, he wasn’t about to go hunt down her ex just because she asked him to. Yes, he probably did need to get laid more but that wasn’t the point, and talking to her was hardly going to help his case. Yes, he was going to hang up now. Really, yes, goodbye.
He hung up. Somehow talking to his sister always took more out of him than playing a game of tennis. He needed a drink but he knew he shouldn’t. He might not have a match tomorrow, but he preferred to stay clear headed for everything and anything that might happen tonight.
Half an hour later and there was still no response or any sign of Sherlock. Seeing a face he knew, he made a beeline over.
“Sarah,” he said greeting her with a smile. “How are you?”
“John,” she said returning the smile and allowing him to give her a quick hug. “Wondered if I would see you here. You’re looking well and from what I’ve seen and heard you’re playing well too.”
He nodded and thanked her, spending a few minutes talking about his matches and then her own. Apparently she had unfortunately lost her ladies’ singles second round match that afternoon but was due to be playing in the ladies’ doubles first round the next day. He wished her good luck with that, glad that she had found a suitable doubles partner after the disaster of the time they had tried to be a doubles partnership. Of course their disaster on the court had been matched by their disaster off it. Their almost relationship had sparked briefly into life before spluttering to a damp end when it became clear they were far better off as friends. So friends they still were. Well, sort of. At least she was one of the closest friends he had on the circuit, so that certainly counted for something.
Eventually he found the opportunity to ask his question.
“You haven’t, uh, happened to have seen Sherlock Holmes around, have you?” he said.
“Sherlock Holmes?” she said although with less surprise and more curiosity than he might have expected, especially from her. “I thought I heard rumours that the two of you had been seen together,” she said watching him closely. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”
For a brief moment he wondered how she might have known; about Angelo’s, about the shagging, about what he was hoping for tonight. Then he briefly panicked regarding who else might know before realising that she knew nothing about that and that her question was rather more innocent.
“It was just a knock around practice,” he said correctly realising that she was referring to their time on the practice courts the day before. “Neither of us have practice partners here, so it made sense. That’s all.”
“And now?” she asked raising her eyebrows.
He gave her what he hoped appeared to be a reassuring but somewhat innocent smile. “Thought I’d congratulate him on his win and ask if he wanted to do the same tomorrow since we’re both through and both have days off.”
She looked at him closely but finally seemed satisfied. “You just missed him,” she said. “I saw him leave in a black car about half an hour ago.”
Half an hour ago? Damn.
He rose to his feet.
“John.”
“Hmm?” he said stopping.
“Be careful,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re thinking or planning to do, but be careful with him. I’ve heard things, things that aren’t necessarily good. I wouldn’t want you to be the latest to fall prey to his ways.”
He frowned slightly but nodded, patting her on the hand. “You know me,” he said. “You really think I’m going to fall for any of his crap?”
She smiled but let him go without another word on the matter, wishing him luck on his next round draw.
Exiting the club he returned to the Dorchester, but there was no sign of Sherlock anywhere, nor had there been any messages or texts to his phone. Damnit.
He hovered in the foyer for a few minutes pondering his next move. There was a thin line between polite interest and stalking he knew, and he had no plans to be on the wrong side of it. On the other hand he didn’t even know if Sherlock had gotten his message. Then again he could well have done but was ignoring him… it. Damn again. The problem was he didn’t even know where Sherlock was staying. He recalled mention of a suite but not of the name or number. If he knew that then maybe he could….
He spotted the main reception desk. Maybe he could just ask he realised.
Plan in hand he walked up to the desk and put on his best polite smile.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Probably,” he said brightly. “I was hoping you could tell me in which room Sherlock Holmes is staying.”
Her smile seemed to falter slightly but then she was turning away and tapping something into her computer.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said looking back up, “but there does not appear to be anyone staying here under that name.”
What? He frowned. “Are you sure?” he asked. “He has a suite. Could you check again, please.”
“Certainly, sir.” She resumed her tapping and then returned with her apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Really?” he said. “Frenchman, about six foot tall, dark curly hair, blue eyes, wears either sports gear or a suit.”
She shook her head. “Maybe he’s staying somewhere else,” she said, “but we haven’t had any bookings under that name.”
He was about to ask about any other names that might be similar, or even under that other gentleman’s name - Lestrade wasn’t it - when he became aware of an imposing black suited figure beside him.
“Is there a problem here, sir?” a gruff voice said very firmly.
He turned to find himself eye to chest with one of the security personnel, an imposing figure whose neck seemed about the same width as John’s thigh.
“Ah, no,” he said quickly taking a step back. “I was just going. Thank you for your time,” he said shooting a smile to the receptionist before backing away.
Well that was… unexpected. He frowned trying to figure out just what had happened and what was really going on. Was Sherlock really not staying here, or was there something more?
Looking up he suddenly saw a familiar figure not too far from the lifts who was also looking at him with a strange expression. The man turned away when their eyes met, but John wasn’t about to let him go that easily.
“Lestrade,” he called darting across the foyer. “Wait.”
It was with great reluctance that the other man stopped and turned back to him, jaw tightening.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I’m looking for Sherlock but they’re telling me that he’s not staying here. Do you know where he is?”
The other man looked at him blankly before replying, “Désolé, Monsieur, mais je ne parle pas anglais.”
John rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that,” he said, “we both know that’s not true. You spoke English perfectly well the first time I saw you when you were shouting at Sherlock on the practice courts, and I know for a fact you’re just as French as he is.”
Lestrade pulled a face but seemed to take the effort to check to see who else was around before lowering his voice and pulling him to one side.
“Okay, fine,” he said in perfect English with a faint trace of a West Country accent. “But I’m not about to tell you where he’s staying. Trust me, that’s more than my job’s worth. But I will say this, for your own good I would advise you not getting involved with him. Or at least not more involved than you already are.”
He opened his mouth to say something but was quickly cut off.
“No, don’t give me any BS. I know what the pair of you have been getting up to and I really don’t care about that. You’re both grown men. But you seem like a decent chap, I wouldn’t want you to get burnt over this. Sherlock Holmes is a great tennis player, but as a man he isn’t so good. So for god’s sake, forget about him and just concentrate on your tennis, because god knows if it comes down to a choice between anything or the tennis, and I literally mean anything, he’ll pick the tennis every time. Got that?”
He nodded unable to even think of anything to say against that.
“Good,” Lestrade said. “And I’m sorry, I really am, but it’ll be better that way. You’ll see.”
“Right,” he said and swallowed dryly. Lestrade nodded and clapped him once on the upper arm and then left him there.
If there was one thing he had heard over and over again it was to leave Sherlock Holmes well and truly alone. Shit, he really wished he had known that before all of this had started because he had a funny sinking feeling in his stomach that it was already almost too late.
Damn it to hell!
He took the lift up to his room, his mind whirling. Maybe it was just the sex he thought. Maybe that was simply it. The sex had been good - no bloody brilliant - so of course he would want more. But even as he thought that he knew it wasn’t totally true. In truth he had enjoyed himself when he had been with Sherlock. He had laughed and relaxed and felt better than he had in a long time.
Christ this was a mess.
Reaching his room he fumbled for his key-card before opening the door.
There was no one in there.
*
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